A Recipe for Daphne

herb. Why would you want to buy pickled when you can get fresh?”
“So true,” said Fanis. “But cleaning fresh sea herb is a woman’s job.”
“You don’t have a wife?”
“No. Do you know anybody who might be interested?”
The girl stared at him for a moment, then put the jar of sea herb in a blue plastic bag, rang up the purchase, and wished him a good day. Fanis stepped out into Ağa Hamamı Street grinning: the girl was far from attractive, but it had been fun to tease her a little. He looked this way and that, but the dark woman had disappeared. His little flirtation in the pickle shop had cost him the chase. Oh, well. He probably ought to return to the pharmacy, anyway. Fanis continued on his way, now in such a good mood that he forgot to avert his eyes when he passed the cul-de-sac where Kalypso, his lost fiancée, had lived. As much as Fanis loved his neighborhood, he hated the hill leading to that dead end of deserted and now reoccupied houses. Especially the one that had belonged to Kalypso. For a second he thought he heard the Roza Eskenazi record that Kalypso used to play when her mother wasn’t home. Fanis stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. No, he hadn’t heard Roza. The music was just something similar coming from the barbershop. He took another few steps toward the pharmacy and stopped again, this time grasping a streetlamp for support. He wondered why he should prolong his life with pills when Kalypso was—perhaps—waiting for him in the next world. Besides, he couldn’t come to terms with having to buy one of those plastic pill boxes with a separate compartment for each day of the week, and he was sure that all doctors were liars. Thinking things over for just one more day couldn’t possibly cause any harm.
He did an about-face and walked straight to the trendy bakery and tea garden that had recently reopened, after an extensive renovation, behind Firuzağa Mosque. He went inside and scanned the glass cases of lira-sized cookies in dozens of flavors—apple, coffee-filled-chocolate, pistachio, cherry-jam surprise, almond, fig-and-walnut, apricot-and-hazelnut, and orange-vanilla. The decision was easy. Cherry jam had always been his favorite. While waiting in line, he examined the tea garden’s décor. Its walls were done in tastefully modern white brick. Its counters, tables, and signs were faced in a material that resembled golden oak or pine. He applauded the decorator: there was hardly any plastic in sight.
Having placed his order, Fanis collected his tray of tea and cookies, stepped onto the patio that stretched between the north wall of the bakery and an abandoned Ottoman cemetery, and settled down at a small wooden table shaded by a great linden tree and an awning with the shop’s name—Neighbor’s House—printed in whimsical brown letters.
While nibbling a cherry-jam surprise, Fanis overheard a woman’s voice speaking the pure City Greek of the mid-twentieth century. He took a short breath of the linden-flower-scented air. Could it be her? He looked toward the other side of the crowded patio. The woman with curly hair was nowhere in sight. Again he heard Greek, this time coming from a balding, stubble-faced fellow in a pocketed fishing vest. Fanis felt the visceral attraction of a foreigner to his own kind and to a home that had vanished despite his never having left it.
The fellow in the fishing vest was his friend Julien Chevalier, of course, a retired music teacher descended from one of the old French Levantine families. Beside him sat Aliki Marouli, a sweet but unsightly Rum widow, whom Fanis had known forever. He waved.
“Come join us,” Julien shouted. “Unless you’re waiting for a lady friend, that is.”
Fanis picked up his tray and set out for the other side of the patio. On the way, a gray cat tangled itself within his legs and caused him to trip on the slate pavement. He caught himself, but his tea spilled all over the tray.
“Damn cat,” said Julien. “Someday it’s going to kill someone.”
“Ungrateful beast,” said Aliki. She pressed the knuckle of her index finger to the bottom of her nose so that the rest of her hand covered her mouth—a nervous vestige from the days when one could be reprimanded for speaking Greek in the street. “That cat’s already made me trip twice. Next time I’ll probably end up in the hospital.”
“Speaking of hospitals,” said Julien, “how did it go?”
“Not so well,” said Fanis. “I had a little episode while I was there.”
“Episode?”
“I blacked out. Briefly.”
“Is something wrong?” asked Aliki.
“No, the tests were fine. It was just nerves. The doctor says I’m as healthy as can be.”
Aliki scrunched both eyes into a joyous double wink. “You always were.”
“Anyway,” said Fanis, momentarily disturbed by the crinkle of the prescriptions in his pocket, “the doctor gave me another good twenty years at least.”
“More tea?” asked a waitress.
“Yes, please, Emine,” said Julien. When the young lady had gone back inside, he said, “See her? Another girl gone religious. The baseball cap is only for work: she’ll leave here in a headscarf.”
“As if the secular girls were dressed any better,” said Fanis. “Look at them in their rag-tag outfits, going about with mobile phones glued to their ears and speaking with the drawling accent that’s become fashionable lately. I hardly understand them.”
“Don’t say any more, brother. Have you seen the transvestites in Tarlabaşı?”
“At least their hair is nicely done. Remember when women used to go to the hairdresser twice a week and come out looking like movie stars? Just like our friend Aliki here.” Fanis patted Aliki’s arm. She blushed.
“Ach,” said Julien, “and the worst part is that even when a nice one comes along we’re too slow to catch her.”
“Don’t put so much stock in speed, friend,” said Fanis. “Skill has always been more important. We still have that. Apropos”—Fanis lowered his voice—“do you know a Greek-speaking woman who lives in the area, dark, attractive, full-figured,