A Recipe for Daphne

navy is also a classy color, but, in my opinion, the brown suits you better.”
Kosmas rotated one shoulder forward, then the other.
“Definitely the navy,” said Fanis, knowing that it would make Kosmas look like an obelisk.
“The beaver brown plaid,” said Kosmas.
Disobedient worm, thought Fanis. How dare he disregard my opinion?
“Right,” said Hüsnü. “Brown plaid it is. Now for the shirts.”
“I like the one you’re wearing,” said Kosmas. “Blue with a white collar and cuffs. What do you think, Mr. Fanis, would it go?”
“I suppose. But you must have a good all-white.”
“And the price?” asked Kosmas.
“Shall I call for more tea?” asked the tailor.
“It’s a quarter past seven,” said Kosmas. “I think we’d better—”
“Thank you, we’d be happy to take another glass,” said Fanis.
The tailor punched a few numbers into his calculator, wrote a figure on a piece of paper, and spun it toward his client. Kosmas took a sharp breath and said, “It’s a lot.”
“Did I tell you that Kosmas is my nephew?” said Fanis. A little white lie always facilitated negotiations.
The tailor immediately crossed out the first figure and wrote a new, significantly reduced number. “I’ll add a couple of pocket squares on the house. I always recommend them for tall men.”
Kosmas capitulated. “If I get the girl, it will be worth it.”
“I’ll have it ready by Saturday,” said Hüsnü. “You can wear it to church on Sunday. It will be like you stepped back in time to the days when ladies went about in hats and pearls and men wouldn’t dare be seen in the Grand Avenue if they weren’t wearing their best suits and ties. I’m telling you, this suit will seduce any woman. Now, Mr. Fanis, are we making something for you as well?”
“Yes, two shirts. One for the courtship and one for my wedding. Nobody knows it yet, but I’m going to be married.” Fanis turned to Kosmas, who was staring in surprise, and added in Greek, “You must keep it a secret, son, and not ask any questions.”
By the time they left Hüsnü’s shop, it was going on eight. Even if Daphne had gone to Neighbor’s House, she would be leaving soon. Just to make sure that the boy missed her, he said, “Now for an important detail. The ties.”
They headed toward the Galatasaray Lycée and ducked into a shop with a vitrine full of large silk scarves portraying Ottoman palace and market scenes. Fanis marched straight to the men’s tie counter, put on his most charming smile for the well-dressed woman who offered to assist them, and displayed his index finger, around which he had tied a number of brown, white, and blue threads.
“May I have your advice, miss?” he said. “This is the color of the young man’s suit, and these are the colors of our shirts. We just ordered them, tailor-made. I always take threads with me. It helps me match the ties.”
“What an ingenious trick, sir. And what a discerning eye for color. Such a rich brown, such a beautiful gray-blue.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got. How about that one in the cabinet behind you? The brown on brown stripe high up in the corner?”
Fanis took a good look at the clerk’s backside while she stretched to reach the tie. He decided that he would need to see a lot of ties from the upper cabinet, one by one.
After the thirteenth, Kosmas pointed to the clock and said, “Mr. Fanis, it’s getting late.”
“Young people,” said Fanis. “Always in such a hurry. They don’t realize that the finer things in life take time. Now, how about those over there—”
“Mr. Fanis, if you want to stay, perhaps I should pay for my ties.”
A killjoy if ever there was one, Fanis thought. There’s no way he’ll get the girl.
Fanis turned to the saleswoman, smiled, and said, “I’ve tired you enough, miss. You’ve been most helpful. Let’s wrap up those four. I don’t want to be impolite by keeping my friend waiting.”
They left the silk shop with two new ties each, shook hands, and separated. Kosmas proceeded up the Grand Avenue. Fanis turned down Yeni Çarşı Street and stopped abruptly when he spotted a mustachioed man of roughly his own age sitting on a stool and scattering seed for his three chickens and one rooster. Fanis plastered himself against the corner building and peered round into the byway. The man wore mirrored glasses and a smart hat with the brim turned up at the back. Fanis observed the way he slouched, his legs spread wide and his belly hanging between them. The abrupt motion of the wrist was familiar. The Panama hat with a blue band was familiar. The man looked over his shoulder and called through the open door in Turkish, “Çay hazır mı?” Is the tea ready? At that moment, Fanis was certain he had found the man responsible for his fiancée Kalypso’s rape during the 1955 pogrom.
As soon as the troubles had started on September 6, 1955, Tasos Petridis, Kalypso’s father, had ordered his employees to close the winehouse. He then went to the local police station to ask for protection. He was sure he would receive it because Captain Tayyip Aydın was one of his most regular customers. Furthermore, the Petridis Winehouse waiters had standing instructions never to allow him to pay.
But Aydın replied, “Tonight I’m not a policeman. Tonight I am a Turk. We have orders.”
As soon as Petridis left the station, he was beaten senseless by a gang of thugs. His wife and daughters, who were visiting his mother on the other side of the Golden Horn, were thereby left without protection.
When the story about Captain Aydın reached Fanis’s ears—about a week after the Petridis family immigrated to Canada—he said, “What kind of person could do that? Live with us, eat with us, drink with us, and then, overnight, become somebody else?”
The question obsessed him for decades. He had always considered his Turkish neighbors to be compassionate, honorable people. He didn’t want to allow the pogrom to overturn