“It’s so early,” whined Julien. “Stay a bit longer.”
“Do you have a rehearsal?” Fanis asked.
“No,” said Selin. “My family always eats dinner together on Friday nights.”
“Of course,” said Fanis. “Shabbat. From my visits to the synagogue, I know exactly how important it is.”
“We aren’t religious. It’s just a family tradition.” Selin took a business card from her wallet. Unable to believe his good fortune, Fanis raised his hand to take it, but Selin reached straight past him and gave the card to Daphne. “In case you’d like to have coffee sometime,” she said.
Fanis stood, grasped Selin’s fingertips, and kissed her knuckle beneath the daisy-shaped bijou ring on her middle finger. He sighed as she hurried off. If only he’d met her twenty years before, but now he couldn’t afford to be distracted. By the time he sat down again, Rea was already on to her favorite subject: the retirement stipends distributed to the Rums by the Greek Consulate in order to maintain the community and ensure the survival of the Ecumenical Patriarchate. Fanis couldn’t imagine a more boring subject.
“Plenty of people take advantage,” Rea said softly, in Greek. “Like the Bulgarians who immigrate to Turkey and obtain certificates from the Patriarchate saying that they’re Rum Orthodox so they can get a stipend—”
“I don’t get it,” said Daphne.
“Well,” said Rea, speaking more slowly, “the money should only go to real Rums—”
“What’s a real Rum?” said Daphne.
“Whatever do you mean?” said Rea. Her spit landed on Fanis’s hand.
Daphne pushed her movie-star sunglasses onto the top of her head, like a hairband. “I mean that in Byzantine and Ottoman times, the term was religious, not ethnic. So how can we make it the exclusive property of Greek speakers?”
“Because it is,” said Rea. “If you don’t speak Greek, you’re not Rum. Somebody enlighten her!”
“Mama,” said Kosmas quietly. “She’s right about Byzantium.”
Daphne sat tall in the sloping canvas chair. “Are Rums thoroughbred dogs? Do they have papers to prove it? Any Orthodox Christian is Rum, Madame Rea, regardless of his ethnicity.”
“Amen,” said Fanis, already fed up with the conversation. “Now let’s talk about Saturday—”
“Are you saying, Daphne,” Rea continued, “that the Antiochians and Bulgarians are Rums? If you are, you’re misinformed. They’re not part of the homogeneia.”
“I despise that word,” said Daphne. “Homogeneia—the same race. Which means it’s a racist word.”
“What’s she talking about?” said Rea, looking from one friend to the next. “Everybody says homogeneia.”
“I’ve always thought it was a dumb word,” grumbled Julien.
“You’re missing Rea’s point,” said Aliki. She planted both feet firmly on the ground.
“Madame Rea,” said Daphne. “The ancestors of the Antiochians were Byzantines. That’s what Rum means—Eastern Roman, Byzantine. And you’re saying that they’re not Rum because they speak Arabic instead of Greek. That’s racist.”
“Ritsa, she has a point,” said Dimitris, gently. He took a Tribune from his briefcase and fanned himself with it.
“I’m not having this conversation,” Rea huffed.
Kosmas caressed the back of his mother’s head. “Mama, please.”
Rea slapped her hand onto the table. The tea-garden cat bolted toward the cemetery. “You’re not from here, Daphne,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The argument was a better gift than Fanis could ever have hoped for. Kosmas certainly would not pursue Daphne now, and Daphne, judging from the way she clenched her jaw, had already begun to hate Rea.
“Come, come, Rea,” said Gavriela, nervously twisting a used antibacterial wipe. “Let’s settle down.”
“Daphne,” said Kosmas, in a pathetic peacemaking effort, “don’t you think there can be some good in preserving one’s community? Don’t you think that there can be good in wanting to keep together so that it’s not all diluted and lost?”
“Of course there is. But cultural heritage and religion don’t depend upon race.”
“So well put,” said Fanis. He clapped his hands. “She’s right, you know.”
“But I thought, Mr. Fanis,” said Kosmas, “that you, too, wanted to marry a Rum. I thought our community was important to you.”
“It is. But a Rum, as our lovely Daphne just said, is an Orthodox Christian, not a thoroughbred dog. Anyway, let’s not give her a hard time. She has her views, and they happen to be quite intelligent, just like her.”
The call to prayer resounded from the loudspeaker of the nearby mosque.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Fanis. “One doesn’t need to understand the call to prayer’s words in order to experience their meaning. Islamic chant also has a strong historical relationship with ours. We’re all linked in some way.”
Daphne smiled. Realizing that he had found her spot, Fanis pursued his advantage. “Which reminds me, the bishop will be at the Panagia church on Sunday—it’s Pentecost, you know—and he always has good stories. Why don’t you come, my dear Daphne?”
Daphne looked to her aunt.
“We’ll see,” said Gavriela, standing. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Daphne and I have to be going. You know how my husband hates a late dinner.”
After the others had left, Fanis and Julien ordered their last tea. Fanis hated nothing more than solitude at the close of the day, yet there was nothing more certain than solitude for the last of the Levantine Christians and Rums.
“Selin’s a good one,” Fanis said. “Her hair is a bit—what’s the word? Outrageous? But she’s attractive nonetheless. Fetching, really. You’re a lucky man.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Julien. “Selin is way out of my league. We’re too old for women like that.”
“Apropos, how old is she?”
“Forty-three.”
“That’s well within your range, Prof,” said Fanis. “You’re only twenty-nine years older.”
“Please. I’d be lucky if I could get Aliki.”
“Aliki?” Fanis wrinkled his nose. “You’ve set your sights a little low, don’t you think?”
“I’m not a crazy old bastard like you. I’m practical. If you want somebody to share your loneliness, you’re going to have to start thinking about women your own age. Or at least closer to it.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Fanis, rising. “I’m off. Goodnight.”
“Sweet and naughty dreams,” said Julien.
Fanis plodded
