“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was just wondering why wedding cakes would interest you.”
Kosmas gazed toward the antique wooden motor launch anchored just a few meters from the sea wall. It bobbed in the current, plunging down abruptly, almost violently, then slowly bobbing up, over and over. “At first it was the aesthetic,” he said. “The marriage of architecture and food. Later, when I started baking for real couples, I realized that cakes are also expressions of joy, a manifestation of the couple’s love for each other.”
“Most wedding cakes I’ve seen were nothing but generic sugar mounds with tacky plastic dolls on top,” said Daphne.
“That’s exactly what I don’t do. I never start by showing a catalogue. I talk to the couple, look at their invitations, decorations, and outfits. I try to understand who they are, how they met, what their dreams are. I want them to remember not only the appearance, but also the taste of the cake long after the wedding is over. Maybe that memory will help them through future bitterness. Or maybe it will be something they can tell their kids about.”
Daphne put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in the hammock of her interlaced fingers. “For example?”
“Yesterday I did a cake for a florist and his assistant. He proposed to her with a bouquet of orange blossoms—the marriage flower. So I did a narrow six-tier with side icing sculpted to look like satin ribbons. Each tier was separated by invisible ten-centimeter columns. I filled the open spaces with fresh purple freesia and orange blossoms. The cake itself was flavored with vanilla bean, but I added orange-blossom water to the icing as a subtle compliment to the groom’s proposal. People told me the bride was so happy with the cake that she cried.”
Daphne absentmindedly turned the cactus’s black pot. “What kind of cake would you make for me?”
Kosmas took another deep breath. Daphne wore no perfume, but he fancied that he caught the natural scent of her skin. He closed his eyes to assemble flavors and images. When the cake had come together in his mind, he said, “For you I’d do five round tiers delicately accented with green cardamom from the Egyptian Bazaar. Butter-cream icing, without coloring, because the natural cream is understated and elegant, like you.”
He paused. Car lights flashed from the rim of the bay, lighting up her face. She was smiling and looking directly at him now, as if no one else existed. He shook off the dizziness caused by her gaze and continued: “The decoration will be of the same cream color. Piped like embroidery, not stenciled. You’d never fit into a mold. The motifs will be Ottoman: foliage, tulips, carnations, hyacinths. From top to bottom, in an elegant curve, will stretch one stem of white orchids. The serving tray will be specially made to accommodate the orchid’s pot so you can keep the plant alive for the rest of your life.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bored-housewife cake,” she said.
Kosmas noticed how thin her fingers were. He wanted to kiss that hand and hold it to his forehead, like a student showing respect to his teacher, and then keep kissing, all the way up to her armpit . . .
“What will your wedding cake look like?” she asked.
“The same.”
Now he’d done it. He’d said too much. She would cut the evening short and never go out with him again. He scanned the restaurant, searching for the waiter. Where the hell was he?
“Are you getting tired?” he said. “Shall I ask for the check?”
“Not yet.” Daphne looked him in the eye for a second before transferring her attention back to the chocolate plate. She picked up one of the rectangles with swirly decorations ending in hearts and held it to her nose. “Coffee.”
“Cappuccino.”
She conceded with a coquettish side-nod. “You haven’t told me what you thought of the tango lesson.”
Would she ever give him a break?
“It was fun. By the way, what would your boyfriend think about you dancing with me?”
“He wouldn’t care.” Daphne slumped in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. “That’s how Paul and I met. Dancing.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but it seems to me that you and that guy have a strange relationship. What man would be indifferent to seeing you in the arms of other men?”
“Dance is art, not flirtation.”
“Come on. When a man and a woman snuggle up together in evening clothes, there’s always the possibility of a spark.”
“You don’t dance,” she said, looking like a benevolent schoolteacher again. “You wouldn’t know.”
“So you feel exactly the same with every partner?”
“No. Sometimes there’s more of a connection than other times.”
“Connection? Please. Does your boyfriend know you’re out with me tonight?”
Daphne pulled her hair over one shoulder and twisted it around her hand like a rope. “I told him I went dancing with one of my aunt’s friends. He didn’t care.”
“Because you wouldn’t let him dance with other women if you couldn’t dance with other men.”
“It’s called trust.” She turned her face toward the Bosporus. “He’s a fantastic dancer. I’m not. He’s needs to dance with women of his own level.”
“You looked good to me.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but you don’t dance, so you really can’t tell. I’m not good enough for Paul. With me he’s limited. Besides, he needs to dance with women his own height.”
“It’s seems to me that the dance should be more about the woman you’re with than her skill or height. And just how do his partners dress, anyway?”
“In evening wear, skirts, dresses. Quite a few have les seins à l’air, as the French say. Breasts in the open air.”
Kosmas clicked his tongue. “Wake up, Daphne. Gunpowder and fire don’t sit together for long.”
Daphne grabbed a napkin from the dispenser. “Can we talk about something else?”
Suddenly he understood why she had turned her face toward the water. “I’m
