They dressed, enjoyed a quick coffee and a leisurely walk, and slipped into the church just before eleven o’clock. After collecting bunches of walnut branches from a table in the narthex, they entered the nave and settled into the stasidia at the base of an arch. Daphne turned toward her left and had a good look at the ornate carved pulpit and its mahogany staircase, which wound tightly around a green faux-marble column. At the column’s base a tall man in a russet suit stood with legs spread and one hand clasping the opposite wrist. Every so often he pulled his shoulders backward. Could it be? Daphne lowered her prescription sunglasses from the top of her head. Yes, it was Kosmas Xenidis, the mama’s boy baker, looking surprisingly . . . hot. Before Daphne could take her eyes off him, he nodded in her direction like a tanguero delivering a subtle invitation to dance. She nodded back, then tried to refocus on the liturgy. Mr. Fanis had a deep, melodious voice. He drew out single syllables through various notes, as if he wanted to express a full range of human emotion: sadness, despair, hope, joy. What a relief from the cold, untraditional choirs and funereal-sounding organs that had become fashionable back home.
Gavriela dropped her bunch of walnut branches on the marble floor, spread a handkerchief over them, and knelt on top. Everyone else in the church did the same. The first set of Pentecostal prayers was only mildly uncomfortable, but by the second set, the veins of the walnut leaves were digging into Daphne’s bare knees. During the third and final set of kneeling supplications, the bishop began choking up. “Because, Lord,” the bishop prayed, “the dead will not glorify You and those who live in Hades dare not acknowledge You, but we the living praise and entreat You.”
Daphne looked to her aunt, who was also weeping with closed eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The damn incense,” said Gavriela, wiping her nose. “It always makes my eyes tear.”
“You’re weeping, Auntie, not tearing.”
Gavriela sniffled. “It’s the dead. They’ve become too many. And we don’t have any children to replace them.”
“You have me.”
“Do I?”
Daphne squeezed her aunt’s hand but said nothing.
At the close of the service, the bishop delivered a short sermon about the survival of the Rum community: “When Leonidas, King of the Spartans, went forth to battle the Persians at Thermopylae with a force of only three hundred men, someone asked how he planned to defeat an enemy so numerous with so few. Leonidas replied, ‘If you think I am going to fight by numbers, then the whole of Greece would be insufficient to match the Persians, but if I am going to fight by courage, then even this number is sufficient.’”
“You see?” said Daphne to her aunt. “Even this number is sufficient.”
“Time will tell,” said Gavriela.
The bishop gave the dismissal. The congregation lined up at the foot of his throne to receive the blessed antidoron bread. Kosmas joined Daphne at the back of the line. “I wanted to apologize for my mother’s bad behavior yesterday,” he said. The sleeve of his silky suit jacket brushed against Daphne’s wrist as they shook hands. “She also wanted to apologize, but—”
“Seriously?” said Daphne. She took a good look at Kosmas. His right eyebrow was raised, almost as if he was teasing her—or, worse, making fun. She’d noticed that expression at Neighbor’s House but hadn’t taken it personally. Now it puzzled her. Gavriela poked her in the back. Daphne changed the subject: “Mr. Fanis is a fabulous cantor, isn’t he?”
Kosmas nodded yes and made a polite gesture for Daphne to precede him. “Ladies first,” he said. But as soon as they’d received their antidoron, he resumed his apologies: “Mama’s knees were hurting her. That’s why she couldn’t make it today. She sends her regards.”
Daphne stopped chewing her dry, tasteless bread square, raised her own eyebrows, and said, “Hmm. Likewise.”
A short blond in a hat waved a white glove. “Good morning, Kosmaki! What a fine suit!” The blond hobbled toward them as fast as she could and stood on tiptoe to kiss Kosmas. “And who have we here?”
“Daphne,” said Kosmas. “From America, but one of ours.”
The pale woman slipped one arm through the crook of Daphne’s elbow and took Kosmas’s forearm with her other hand. “I’m Rita Tereza. The bishop told me not to let you get away.” Rita Tereza whisked Daphne and Kosmas across the courtyard as quickly as her unmatched legs would take her. Along the way, she rattled: “Daphne, did you know that Kosmas and I are great friends? I’m sure we’ll become great friends too. One of the ladies told me you’re a teacher. I’m a speech therapist! Which gives us lots to talk about.” She ushered Daphne to a free chair in the tea room, next to Mr. Dimitris the journalist, and pulled her own chair close to Daphne’s.
So. Kosmas had a girlfriend. That was why he had given Daphne the business card and not asked for her phone number. He’d only meant to be polite. And perhaps to gain a new customer.
“Have you two known each other for a long time?” said Daphne.
“Oh, yes,” said Rita Tereza.
“Not quite,” said Kosmas. He pulled out a chair near the head of the table. “Daphne will be cramped there in the corner. She’d better come over here.”
“She’s fine where she is. Come sit with us, Kosmaki.” Rita Tereza patted the empty seat on her left. “Are you on Facebook, Daphne? If you are, look me up. There’s a darling photo of me and Kosmas from last Sunday.”
Kosmas leaned over the table and picked up Daphne’s tea. “The bishop always wants guests to sit close to him,” he said.
Was this a troubled relationship?
“If that’s what the bishop wants,” said
