A Recipe for Daphne

expected her to die as she had, without warning. He’d thought they had all the time in the world—a lifetime—to heal the wounds of that night. Wouldn’t running to her bedside have made her feel dishonored twice over? Wait until she’s up and about again, his mother had advised him. Wait and then tell her that none of it makes any difference.

7
Those Who Live in Hades
It was pentecost sunday, the day on which the souls of the dead, which had been released from Hades during the Easter Resurrection liturgy, would be obliged to return to the underworld. Fanis thought of the old-fashioned country housewives who said that one should never trim trees or vines between Easter and Pentecost because wandering souls liked to rest upon them. His own mother had never left laundry hanging out past sunset lest the souls wrap themselves in the forgotten linens and leave nasty stains. As a modernist, Fanis did not give much credence to visions of ghosts on bedsheets and tree branches, but he wondered whether Kalypso might be walking beside him that morning and enjoying the tranquil emptiness of the Grand Avenue just as much as he did. Suddenly he felt a light caress on the back of his hand. He looked to his right, but no one was there. Nothing even nearby. He really was losing it.
He arrived at the Panagia before everyone but the custodian. He lit a solitary candle in the narthex, looked up at the starry-sky ceiling, and took a deep breath of church air. If he were a parfumier, he’d try to market that scent. Heaven, he’d call it: an Oriental classic with a stale wood and mold base, top notes of apple and rosewater, and a spicy heart of myrrh and cinnamon. Supplies not expected to last more than twenty years. Heaven: get itwhile you can.
“Kalimera.” It was an ordinary Greek greeting—good morning—but since one hardly ever heard it in the street anymore, kalimera was balm to Fanis’s ears.
He turned and saw the bishop standing beside him in the narthex. “Good morning, Your Eminence. You’re here early.”
The bishop lit two candles and placed them tightly together in the sand, like inseparable lovers. “Couldn’t sleep. Probably from the fried zucchini I ate late last night. I should never, ever eat fried stuff at night, but what can I do? I’ve a weakness for it.” The bishop pulled open the heavy door to the nave and held it for Fanis. “Anyway, let’s not drag things out today. Pentecost liturgy is long enough as it is. Chant quickly and let’s be done by half past twelve.”
“I’ll try,” said Fanis, knowing he’d do just the opposite.
The bishop unbuttoned his suit jacket as they walked down the right aisle toward the sanctuary. “You’re looking gloomy,” he said.
“Just the usual stuff,” said Fanis. “I try to be optimistic, but sometimes I think about how we’ll all be gone soon, and how these churches will be deserted, and it gets me down.”
The bishop gave the Archangel Μichael’s door a little push. “Maybe the prognostications are right,” he said. “But, for some strange reason, I believe in resurrection.”
Fanis followed the bishop through the iconostasis door and into the sanctuary, which was lit only by the flame of a vigil lamp. Switching on the lights, he said, “You have to. You’re a bishop.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said the bishop. “I meant the resurrection of the community. I feel it today especially. Our young people are going to return.”
Fanis hung up his suit jacket and took his black, satin-edged polyester cantor’s robe—a gift from the Patriarch—from the closet. “Dream on,” he said, threading his arms through the sleeves. “My godson wouldn’t come back if you paid him.”
He returned to the nave and climbed the two creaky wooden steps to the first cantor’s stand. He reviewed the Byzantine music notation, which looked remarkably similar to Arabic script, and distributed his weight evenly on both legs: correct posture would help him avoid foot pain over the next few hours.
Matins began, followed by the Great Litany. A few old peacocks gathered on the left side of the church, opposite the first cantor’s stand. Fanis paid them no attention. Still, he couldn’t prevent his eyes from wandering when a shapely Greek tourist venerated an icon at the front of the church and performed not one, not two, but three full hand-to-floor bows. Fanis continued chanting mechanically, but his mind inevitably traveled straight up the woman’s skirt.
Kosmas entered just before the Holy Anaphora and settled into a stasidion opposite Fanis. As Fanis chanted his favorite part of the liturgy—“Holy, holy, holy, Lord Sabaoth, heaven and earth are filled with Your glory”—he couldn’t help noticing that Kosmas looked infuriatingly good in the new brown suit.
Soon it was so hot that Fanis was obliged to dab his forehead with a handkerchief every few seconds. Wondering where Daphne was, he furtively observed the church. Cantoring was so much more enjoyable when you knew that a beautiful woman was listening. Yet Daphne and Gavriela were nowhere to be seen.
As always, the Great Vespers of Pentecost were tacked on to the end of the liturgy. During that service, the bishop read a long series of poetic supplications while kneeling on a pillow in the Beautiful Gate. The parishioners kneeled on walnut branches, whose bitterness represented the grief of the souls who, at that moment, were being forced to walk the hair-thin bridge back to Hades. Fanis closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t see the sadness of the departing shades. After all, Kalypso was probably among them. When the bishop had finished the prayers, Fanis took a deep breath and let it all go. The souls had gone. They had taken their sorrow with them. The parishioners wiped their eyes and composed themselves. Fanis hid behind the cantor’s stand and discreetly blew his nose. He silently repeated one word, the most important of all: Resurrection. Perhaps the bishop was right. Perhaps it was coming.
“Don’t worry. Liturgy