In order to cut her aunt’s momentum, Daphne said, “Don’t tell me you didn’t see the way he raised his eyebrow sarcastically every time he spoke to me.”
“He fell off his bicycle when he was six and knocked his forehead. It’s a scar, not an expression.” Gavriela slapped a hand onto her crumpled antibacterial wipe before the wind took it. “And a gentleman is always attentive.”
“Fine,” said Daphne, rueful of her hasty judgment. “But he probably wouldn’t consider me a real Rum.”
“Because you’re American?” said Selin.
Daphne had slipped. She remembered her mother’s warnings: Don’t tell Gavriela’s friends that your father is Turkish. They won’t trust you. For a second she considered telling the truth: after all, Selin was Jewish and wouldn’t care that Daphne wasn’t a thoroughbred Rum. But then Selin might tell the others, and that would create a strange situation. Gavriela’s friends would wonder why Daphne hadn’t been up-front from the start.
“Boş ver,” said Gavriela, covering for Daphne in her moment of hesitation. Give empty. This was one of her—and Daphne’s—favorite Turkish phrases, meaning something like, “Never mind, drop it.”
“Well,” said Selin. “The Lily makes the very best baton salé. And when a man knows what he’s doing in the kitchen, he usually knows what he’s doing elsewhere. I’d go for Kosmas myself if he were five years older, but I’ve never been into younger men.”
“Did you hear that, little mama?” said Gavriela. “Or are you listening with your ass?”
“Yes, Auntie, I heard. And by the way, you forgot to hide your cross.”
Gavriela looked down at her chest and dropped her gold crucifix inside her blouse.
“On second thought,” said Selin, “getting involved with Kosmas would probably be a bad idea. He’s never leaving the City, at least not while his mother’s alive, and you’d be crazy to leave America and come here.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Daphne. Seeing her aunt’s expression brighten, she clarified: “I didn’t mean that in relation to your friend’s son, Auntie. I just meant that things aren’t as perfect in America as you might think.”
“How so?” said Selin.
“For one, I’m a language teacher, and Americans don’t care about learning languages.”
“All the more reason for you to move here,” said Gavriela, raising her voice above the sea-like sound of the wind blowing through the leaves.
“How about some toasted sandwiches?” said Daphne.
“Cheese and sausage?” said Gavriela.
Selin put her hand over her heart in polite refusal. “I’m fine with the tea.”
“Cheese only for me,” said Daphne.
“No sausage?” said Gavriela.
This again? Why did her aunt refuse to remember that she didn’t eat meat?
“Just cheese, please.”
Gavriela flagged the waiter, who was already carrying a heavy tray of used glasses and plates. “Three mixed cheese and sausage sandwiches,” she said. “With plenty of butter. We don’t like them dry.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the waiter.
“And could you take this dirty ashtray?”
“I’ll be back for it in a minute, ma’am.”
Gavriela clicked her tongue in disapproval. “He’s going to forget.”
Just then a strong burst of wind scattered more dirty ashes over the table. Gavriela took out another wipe.
“What’s Miami like?” asked Selin.
“Colorful, fun, and predictable,” said Daphne, shielding her eyes from the sun escaping through the tree leaves. “You can easily make your life there, but there’s little history and no decay, no domes and minarets, no craziness, no secrets. In Istanbul you never know what’s around the next corner.”
“It could be a policeman in riot gear, or a teargas canister, or a bombed synagogue or bank,” said Selin.
“At least people aren’t walking into primary schools with guns here. Terrorism is everywhere. I don’t get why people think Turkey’s more dangerous than anywhere else.”
“Prejudice,” said Selin.
“Still,” said Gavriela, “you have to admit that America is easy. Nice roads, automatic bills, systems that work, space, parks, no smoking. Not that I’m trying to convince you to stay.”
“Sure it’s nice,” said Daphne. “But it’s lined with cotton wool. I don’t know if I want to live in such an insulated place. I don’t know if it’s the home of my soul.”
The wind picked up and rattled the almost empty tea tulips. Selin steadied hers. “Of course, if you’re thinking about moving here, you also have to think about how much you value free speech. If you talk about the Armenian matter, for example—”
“Hush, girls!” said Gavriela. “That’s not a good subject.”
Daphne tried to take a deep breath of the acacia-scented air, but she inhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke instead. She looked to her left: the men at a neighboring table had just lit up. Aunt Gavriela was right about America’s no-smoking policies. She turned to Selin and said, “Why did you come back?”
“Because of my parents—I want to be near them during their last years. And because Istanbul’s home. The place I grew up. No bombs—”
“Girls!” Gavriela made a zipper motion over her mouth. “Enough of the B-word. Half the people in this park are plainclothes cops. They might think you’re terrorists.”
Daphne watched her aunt fidget with the pack of bacterial wipes, opening the sticky flap and closing it again, opening and closing. Everything was always hush-hush with Gavriela. It was as if she were stuck in the oppressive atmosphere of the fifties and sixties.
“This isn’t talk for the park.” Gavriela nodded toward the children skipping around the stone fountain. “When I was sixteen, we went to the Sunday buffet they used to have just over there. One evening, a young man asked Grandma for permission to dance a waltz with me—”
“Uncle Andonis?”
“No. Kostas. My first husband. I fell in love with him for his dancing.”
“Your first husband?” Daphne had never heard anything about a Kostas.
“So you’re divorced, too?” said Selin.
“Yes, dear,” said Gavriela, speaking offhandedly to Selin about a topic that she had kept secret from Daphne for decades. “It’s not a pleasant thing to go through, but sometimes you’ve just got
