Still, he had trouble paying attention during the twenty-minute conversation, which was regularly interrupted by phone calls from the groom’s work, as well as by photo-taking and Facebook-posting on the part of the bride. Moreover, Kosmas couldn’t stop thinking how much he’d rather be doing something meaningful, like reading Hamdi’s books and experimenting with the Balkanik. Perhaps he’d even translate the volumes into modern Turkish so that the work of Uncle Mustafa’s grandfather would be preserved for future generations.
“So what do you think?” said the bride.
Kosmas pulled himself out of his reverie and made a creative pitch based more on the couple’s appearance than on what they had said: “From what I’ve gathered, you’re bold, no-nonsense, future-oriented people. So I’d like to propose five square tiers: square is more edgy than round. I’m thinking all white, with each tier sealed by black sugar ribbons. Calla lilies at the base and crown.”
“Mmm,” said the fiancée. She slurped the rest of her detox juice through the straw.
Just as the attorney was about to give his opinion, Kosmas’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen: it was Mr. Dimitris, who very rarely called. Could something have happened to Rea? A fall? A sudden illness?
“Excuse me,” said Kosmas. “It might be an emergency.” He raised the phone to his ear. “Mr. Dimitris? Is everything okay?”
“Of course. I was just wondering if you could come by and help me change a few light bulbs.”
“Light bulbs?”
Mr. Dimitris had never asked him over before. In fact, nobody, not even Kosmas’s mother, had ever set foot in the old journalist’s apartment. People said he must have someone buried in there. Kosmas bit his lip and looked at his watch. He had at least ten minutes to go with this couple—maybe more—and another consultation in one hour. He’d be cutting it close. Then again, some exercise would probably help him burn off the excess energy he was feeling after that glorious Sunday outing with Daphne, and Dimitris’s building wasn’t far away.
“I’ll try,” he said.
He ended the call and refocused his attention on the attorney. “I’m terribly sorry. Now, getting back to the cake—”
The attorney ostentatiously rattled his Rolex. “How much?”
Kosmas was about to give his standard price, but a sudden instinct told him to double it. “Four thousand six hundred liras.”
“Rather expensive,” said the attorney.
“He’s one of the best,” said the fiancée.
“A little discount would help,” said the attorney.
“I don’t usually do this,” said Kosmas, “especially for something on short notice, but you’re such a charming couple. I’ll take off fifteen percent.”
“Thanks.” The attorney stood, shook Kosmas’s hand, and nodded to his fiancée, who picked up her Hermès purse and toddled off. As soon as the couple was out of sight, Kosmas paid the bill, dashed across the Grand Avenue, and cut through an old arcade, whose Christian and Jewish haberdasheries had been replaced by liberal booksellers, lingerie shops, and coffeehouses. He glanced at the long-haired students playing backgammon, smoking, discussing, snacking, checking text messages, and flirting. Thank God Daphne wasn’t one of those. Kosmas loved how she had given him her full attention the day before, both in the phaeton and then on the ferry trip back from the island. Daphne had an old-fashioned calmness about her. Kosmas hoped it was because she was falling in love.
As he ducked beneath a dingy archway, hurried past the British consulate, and crossed a busy avenue into Tarlabaşı, he scrolled through his phone calendar. He’d left things open with Daphne when they said goodbye on Kabataş Quay, saying he’d call her on Monday. Now he realized just how busy he was that week: five more consultations, one anniversary, two circumcisions, an Armenian baptism, and four weddings, in addition to his everyday duties. But he would call. That evening, at the latest.
Upon arrival at Dimitris’s ramshackle building, Kosmas rang the bell and was buzzed inside.
“Let’s do the bedroom first, son,” said Dimitris, standing in his apartment doorway. “And then we’ll have a lemonade.”
Kosmas was obliged to duck beneath the hand-washed boxer shorts and undershirts drying in the long corridor, which was decorated with faded prints of pashas and harem girls. He passed a small, windowless dining room containing a child’s bed, eight Empire-style chairs, and a formal mahogany table covered with newspapers, dirty coffee cups, and leftovers from last night’s dinner.
“Mr. Dimitris,” he said, “I thought you’d never been married. If you don’t mind me asking, why do you have a child’s bed in here?”
“Mine, of course.” Dimitris ushered him into the bedroom and opened the balcony door.
In the daylight Kosmas saw that the bedroom, too, was filled beyond capacity with furniture. On the walls were icons, a wooden cross, and a framed photo of a 1950s football team. By the balcony door, Dimitris’s suitcase lay half unpacked.
“Planning a trip?” said Kosmas.
“Oh, no,” said Dimitris, waving his hand dismissively. “Just haven’t unpacked since my last jaunt to Athens to see my sister.”
“When was that?”
“About six months ago.”
Kosmas loosened his collar. “That big carved bed doesn’t seem your style.”
“Mother’s,” said Dimitris. “Haven’t changed a thing since she left us.”
For a second Kosmas wondered if he, too, would end up living in a time-warped pigpen after his mother died. His heart began to race. He had a choking sensation in his throat. İdare, he told himself. Management. Control. It was his favorite Turkish word, the one he had whispered during the Pfeifenberger competition. He still repeated it whenever he was building a difficult cake on deadline and afraid that the creation wouldn’t hold. İdare.
“Are you all right?” asked Dimitris.
Without waiting for a reply,
