A Recipe for Daphne

said Fanis, “that you take your diabetes meds regularly, just as the doctor prescribed?”
“Of course,” said Julien. “At our age, you’ve got to do what the doctors say. Otherwise you’re in big trouble.”
Presently Fanis heard the characteristic tic-tac of stilettos on cement. By instinct he knew that an exciting woman was approaching. He looked up. A pair of black eyes were fixed directly on him. Black curls bounced around the woman’s head, like the rubber Afros on the dolls in the nearby toy shop. Hips, breasts, and just the right amount of belly fat jiggled beneath an A-line dress.
Hermes, help me.
The woman quickly transferred her gaze to Julien, kissed him on the cheek, and said in Turkish peppered with French, “If you’d told me that parking was so difficult around here, Professeur, I’d have come by metro instead of borrowing my mom’s car. Mais vraiment, you know I’m not supposed to tire myself.”
“Ma pauvre,” said Julien, offering his chair. He switched to Turkish: “Don’t worry. I’m here now.”
The woman looked remarkably like the siren who had spoken a few words to Fanis outside the Çukurcuma Pharmacy. But, Fanis reasoned, if she knew Greek, Julien would surely have addressed her in that language: speaking Greek was a point of pride with the professeur de musique. Moreover, Fanis had guessed that the woman in the street was in her late thirties. This one seemed more like early forties.
Julien ordered tea and made introductions: “Selin, this is my old friend Fanis. Fanis, the lovely Selin, a former pupil from Saint-Benoit, a graduate of the Conservatoire de Paris, and now a professional violinist. She recently gave up her job at the Vienna Philharmonic to play with the Borusan.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Fanis, shaking Selin’s hand. “I knew that the Borusan Corporation imported BMWs, but I didn’t know that they also imported beautiful violinists.”
Selin smiled. “A pleasure. So you’ve heard of the Borusan Orchestra?”
“I go at least once or twice per season,” said Fanis. “I’ve always loved music. I’m a church cantor.”
Selin took a paper handkerchief from her oversized handbag and wiped the perspiration from her forehead, neck, and chest. On the left side of her neck, just beneath her jaw line, was a purplish discoloration—a hickey, perhaps? Fanis’s eyes wandered downward. On her left breast there was some sort of floral tattoo. Fanis felt his temperature rise: this one was definitely a fire sign. He realized he was staring, yet he couldn’t look away. So he said, “What an interesting design.”
“Oh, that. A lotus flower. I had it done when I was in college. I wish I could have it removed, but I’m afraid of the pain.”
The skinny tea-garden cat, as if on cue, rubbed itself against Fanis’s legs. He stood, pretended to shoo it away, and moved his chair a few inches closer to Selin’s. “What does it represent?” he asked.
“The lotus has its roots in the mud of the world and rises through the waters of experience to bloom in enlightenment. Kids’ stuff. My mother cried for days.”
“So you ran out and got another?”
“Two more,” said Selin, with a characteristic Turkish side-nod.
Fanis searched the exposed portion of her right breast, her supple arms, and the ankles around which dangled thin silver anklets. All bare. “Where are they?” he asked.
“Private,” said Selin.
Aman. Mercy. This one’s going to eat me, finish me off.
The bells of Saint Anthony of Padua began ringing for vespers. Aliki limped into the tea garden, piled her shopping bags on the table, and said in Greek, “At least there are still trees here, even if they aren’t cypresses.”
“You remember my pupil Selin, don’t you, Aliki?” said Julien in Turkish. “She’s looking for a place in the neighborhood. Is there anything for rent on your street?”
“Not that I know of,” said Aliki, smiling to show off her new dental implants. “Where do you live now?”
“With my parents,” said Selin. “In Levent.”
Single, thought Fanis. But that hickey probably means she has a boyfriend. He said, “I’ve always considered attention to one’s aging parents a great virtue. I lived with my mother and took care of her until she died.”
Selin brushed from her lap a fuzzy linden flower just fallen from the tree. “That’s admirable, Mr. Fanis, but I need my independence.”
“You know,” said Fanis, suddenly remembering having seen a For Rent sign in the building opposite his, “I think there’s a garret available in Faik Paşa Street. Number thirty-two. You might want to check it out.”
Selin noted the address on napkin. “Thanks for the tip.”
“In my opinion,” said Aliki, “you should stay with your parents until you marry. So men don’t take advantage of you.”
“I’ve already been married,” said Selin. “That’s the surest way to get a man to take advantage of you.”
Aliki chuckled.
Fanis nodded toward a yellow house that a building crew had been renovating for the past few months. It had rounded oriels, sculpted white molding, a black iron door, and bars on the ground-floor window. “What about that one?” he said. “If you lived there, you could drink tea with us every day.”
Julien clicked his tongue. “No way. The moans from the cemetery are terrible.”
“There he goes again,” said Fanis. “Those ghosts are a figment of your imagination, Professeur, stuff for superstitious old people. Nobody would even notice that tiny cemetery if you didn’t keep bringing it up.”
Once again Fanis heard tic-tacking on cement, but this time there was no emotional surge. He raised his gaze and beheld Rea trying out her sparkly new cane. Kosmas, wearing one of the low-end black Armanis they had seen during their shopping trip, was inching along beside her, like a faithful dog. At Rea’s other side was Dimitris Pavlidis, the old politics reporter from the Tribune and one of Fanis’s former schoolmates.
“That’s it, Ritsa,” Dimitris cooed in Greek. “Take it slowly.”
“Were you hoping she’d be here to notice?” said Fanis to Kosmas, as soon as the boy was close enough to hear.
Rea turned sharply to her son and examined him