A Recipe for Daphne

do is smile at a man and he’ll think you want to jump into bed with him.”
“Things have probably changed since 1969, Mom,” said Daphne. She grabbed the embroidered pillow with which her mother had propped open the living-room window.
Sultana snatched the pillow from Daphne and stuffed it back between the glass and the frame. “You’ve been with Paul for four years now. He’s gold. So polite, fixes everything in the house, encourages you to continue your studies. Don’t you love him?”
Daphne nodded.
“Then when are you getting married?”
“Mom, please. He’s all that you said but . . . he dances with other women.”
“He’d been dancing for years when you met him! If that was going to bother you, why did you take up with him in the first place? And how did you become such a jealous Easterner? You were born here. You should be more American, more open-minded.”
“He lied to me about that tango festival in Vegas. Why don’t you get that?”
“Seni taşımak kolay değil,” said Sultana, peppering the otherwise Greek conversation with a bit of Turkish.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Putting up with you isn’t easy. Look, Daphne, he went to a dance event. It doesn’t mean he slept with anyone. He shouldn’t have said it was a teacher’s conference, true, but maybe you shouldn’t be so possessive. . . . Yes, I’m going to say it: you shouldn’t be so Turkish!”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have married a Turk.”
Sultana scowled. “I’m just saying that American men don’t like our kind of jealousy. It’s insulting to them, not flattering. It shows a lack of trust.”
“But what if he did sleep with someone?” said Daphne. She’d believed Paul when he tearfully swore that he’d never been unfaithful. But the possibility later returned to torment her, cause her nightmares, and make her feel painfully insecure every time she and Paul went tangoing.
“Look, Daphne, you can’t prevent a man from going to another woman. All you can do is find one who respects you, treats you well, and fulfills his family duties. Paul is that sort of man.”
“I’m not even married yet and you’re saying I should put up with other women?”
“Allah, Allah!” said Sultana, in exasperation. “You’re missing the point.”
Daphne banged her cup onto the dining table. Coffee spilled onto the semi-transparent runner. Thank God her mother didn’t notice. “You know,” she said, “you can get windows that stay open by themselves.”
“That’s the way my grandmother kept the window open, and that’s the way I do it. And if you’re not going to follow my advice about Paul, you should at least listen to what I have to say about the City.” Sultana drew an arch from one corner of her mouth to the other. “This needs a zipper. Never ever talk politics.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dangerous. Always has been, always will be. Things might seem fine over there right now, but don’t be deceived: it’s just a period of calm before the storm. And don’t be too open with anyone about your personal life, including Gavriela’s friends. They mustn’t learn that your father isn’t Rum.”
“Is it so terrible?”
“If they find out your father’s Muslim, they won’t trust you. They won’t consider you one of their own.”
“Is that why you and Baba never took me there?”
“Maybe.” Sultana inhaled deeply on her cigarette and blew a white cloud out the window, well over the propping cushion. She smoked “like an Arab,” as Daphne’s father was fond of saying. Even so, Sultana had an intense distaste for cigarette stench. She only smoked outdoors and by the window so that the slipcovers and curtains she washed regularly and ironed with rosewater wouldn’t stink.
“Is that why Aunt Gavriela stopped visiting?” said Daphne.
“Listen, miss.” Sultana pulled up the strap of the last sundress she had made for herself before she retired from Flora’s Fabrics. “When Gavriela came here for your high-school graduation, she asked me to send you to college in Istanbul. As your godmother, she insisted, she had a right to see you more often.”
“And?”
“I knew what she was up to. She wanted you to move back there and marry a Rum. That way she could keep you all to herself. And that’s why I never let her visit again.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
“Your father and I didn’t work all our lives to send you back there. The City is a magic place, like no other, but remember: you can’t stay. There’s no future for the Rums there. Bitti.” It’s finished.
Daphne struggled not only with her mother’s domineering ways, but also with her pessimism. On Facebook, Aunt Gavriela was always posting photos of renovated churches, tea parties with Rum friends, and cultural events at the Greek Consulate. Gavriela also shared hopeful articles about the future of the Rum community and the return of confiscated Rum property. It seemed that the current government wanted to make amends, yet Sultana clung to the mess of the past.
Daphne removed the coffee cup and sugar bowl from the soiled runner.
“What . . . ?” said Sultana. “Coffee on my favorite piece? Oh, don’t bunch it up and make it worse. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m leaving,” said Daphne.
“One last thing. I don’t want you listening too much to my older sister while you’re staying with her. She’s always giving advice, like she’s better than everyone else.”
“And you never give advice, do you, Mom?”
“Üf!” said Sultana, jamming her half-smoked cigarette into the silver ashtray. “It’s an evil hour when you open your mouth! You’re just like your aunt.”
*
On Daphne’s first Sunday in Istanbul, three days after her arrival, she lazed in bed, looking through the window at the dark, flat clouds covering the sky. She thought of the Sunday brunches that Paul always prepared while she enjoyed her last hour of sleep: omelets and quiches, crêpes, coffee cake, cappuccino, fresh orange juice. . . . There was nothing he didn’t do. Perhaps going to Istanbul alone had been the wrong decision. Perhaps what they needed