The driver dropped them off just outside Aliki’s white clapboard cottage. Kosmas pressed the doorbell. It tweeted like a happy bird, but no one answered. “They probably can’t hear,” he said.
He led Daphne around the cottage, through a jungle-like alleyway that hosted a fig tree, a bright purple bougainvillea bush, a deserted fishing bark covered with torn netting, and a few renegade New Guinea impatiens. Just before they reached the gate, Daphne overheard Aliki saying: “—on the beach maybe, or beneath the pine trees, or in the phaeton?”
“Absolutely not,” said Rea. “He would have asked my permission first. And his grandparents’ rings are still in the safety-deposit box.”
“Who needs rings?” said Julien. “I proposed to my wife the night I met her. It wasn’t even a date, just a Bastille Day party, and there was no diamond, although I bought her one later. I was drunk, but never mind that.”
Daphne couldn’t believe her ears.
Kosmas called out: “We’re back!”
“We were just wondering when you’d be along,” said Julien, innocently.
Embarrassed, Daphne followed Kosmas through a maze of lavender, geranium, marigold, and hydrangea pots—some flourishing and some dried out, all with prickly weeds growing in between—to a white plastic tea table beneath a grapevine trellis.
“You must be starving,” said Aliki. She lifted mosquito tents from plates of sauced summer vegetables, fresh bread, feta cheese, cucumber salad, stuffed vine leaves, and celery root with lemon and dill.
While Aliki served, Julien asked, “How was the ride?”
“We did the whole tour,” said Daphne, “all the way to the end. We even went down to the beach and—”
“You had a good time,” said Julien.
“Yes, Professeur,” said Daphne. “A very good time.”
“I’m surprised you like phaetons, Daphne dear,” said Fanis. “Just last week there was another newspaper article about a horse that collapsed from exhaustion. And everybody knows that the drivers leave the sick ones to die in the forests.”
Daphne set down her fork. Her unwitting contribution to animal abuse had cut her appetite.
Fanis continued: “Some drivers even drown their old horses in the s—”
“Didn’t you say just an hour ago,” interrupted Julien, “how much you loved phaetons?”
“I do,” said Fanis. “But I know which drivers are good to their horses, and the one that Kosmas chose certainly isn’t.” Fanis turned to Daphne. “Next weekend, dear, we’ll go to Prinkipos Island and take a phaeton with a very good and humane driver. Then we’ll eat grilled lamb at the monastery restaurant.”
Aliki frowned. “She’s vegetarian. And, besides, you said you’d help me with the sale of my antiques next weekend.”
Had Aliki put Fanis in the eye? Daphne looked to Kosmas, wondering if he was thinking the same thing. But Kosmas wasn’t paying any attention to Aliki and Fanis: he was staring at Daphne’s waist and hair as she leaned forward to eat. Daphne felt a tingling in her chest, as if she had overdosed on caffeine.
“The antiques aren’t going anywhere,” said Fanis. “They’ve been in your family for over a century. Couldn’t they wait another few weeks?”
Aliki clicked her tongue. No.
Julien tugged on the open flaps of his fishing vest. “I’d be happy to help.”
Aliki clicked a second time. “Thanks, Teacher, but the antiques aren’t musical instruments. I need Fanis’s expertise.”
“Daphne, have you noticed the view?” Dimitris pointed a split yellow fingernail toward the corrugated polycarbonate roof panels upon which cats were taking their afternoon siesta. Just beyond them, Daphne could distinguish the green contours of another island, as well as the blond rocks at its base, disappearing into the sea. “The Halki Theological School is just there,” said Dimitris, “at the top of the hill. It’s mostly hidden by trees, but you can make out the roof.”
“She probably doesn’t know what the Halki Seminary is,” said Rea. “Maybe you should explain, Dimitraki.”
“Actually,” said Daphne, “I did a lesson on the Halki Seminary with my sixth-graders a couple of months ago. They wrote letters to the prime minister asking for its reopening.”
“İnşallah that will happen soon,” said Gavriela.
The word inşallah relayed around the table.
“That’s where we’ll go next weekend,” said Fanis. “Now, how about some music?”
He went inside the cottage. A few minutes later, the first piano chords of Louis Armstrong’s “Dancing Cheek To Cheek” sailed out. Fanis floated back down the stairs, stepping with the lightness of Fred Astaire and singing along. Daphne was surprised that, despite his not speaking English, Fanis knew all the words. In fact, his smooth bass was just as suited to American jazz as it was to Byzantine hymns. He stopped in front of Daphne. “Care to dance?”
Daphne stood and took Fanis’s hand. He danced well, with good time, agility, clear direction, and consideration. He didn’t hold Daphne too tightly, as Metin had on Friday night. He didn’t get frustrated if she didn’t follow a step or perform high boleos, as Paul did. And he wasn’t distracted by her proximity, as Kosmas had been at the lesson. After the final piano flourish, Fanis kissed Daphne’s hand. She kissed his cheek and took in a last breath of his citrusy cologne. Everyone applauded.
“Time for the children’s coffee,” Aliki said. She reached behind her for the blue camp burner sitting at the base of a dried-out date palm.
With a sudden desire to show off her new coffee-making skills, Daphne said, “Madame Aliki, you went to so much trouble over the food. Please allow me.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Aliki. “This is the first time you’ve been to my house.”
“I insist,” said Daphne. She placed the camp burner and copper pot before her on the plastic table. Julien handed her the coffee and sugar jars. Kosmas passed the cups, saucers, and spoons. As Daphne
