“Amen,” he replied. “How could God refuse the wish of such a beautiful lady?”
Daphne wondered if non-flirtatious Turkish men existed. Her dad had charmed every woman in Little Havana, including their toothless ninety-three-year-old neighbor Josefina and her tattooed lesbian great-granddaughter.
“Is Kosmas here?” Daphne asked.
The old man winked playfully, passed halfway into the kitchen, and called, “Lady wants you.”
Through the swinging door, Daphne glimpsed Kosmas whipping something by hand in a wooden bowl. He looked up from his work and said a few words to the old man, who then returned to the shop floor, allowing the door to swing back into place. “He needs a minute to finish up. I’m Mustafa, by the way. Taught him everything he knows. Correction. Everything he knew before he went off to Vienna and became a hotshot.”
“He speaks of you fondly.”
“None of my kids is interested in pastry-making,” said Mustafa. “It’s a passion I share only with Kosmas, which makes him like a son to me.”
Daphne reached over the counter. “I’m—”
“Daphne.” Mustafa shook her hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Now go out the door, turn right, and follow the building around to the kitchen entrance.”
Kosmas was waiting out back, wearing his white chef’s coat with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “June’s always like this,” he said. “Super-busy.” He held out a small box with an elaborate gold and lavender bow. “I made you something.”
Daphne stepped into the shade beneath the door’s awning. “It looks too pretty to open.”
“Don’t, then. Until you get home.”
“What are you making in there?”
“Uncle Mustafa finally found his grandfather’s book, but I haven’t had time yet to read through the minuscule Ottoman script. So right now I’m experimenting with Uncle Mustafa’s help.”
“Can I taste?” Daphne reached for the doorknob, wondering what this mystical Ottoman creation would look like. But she didn’t have a chance to see anything before Kosmas pulled the door shut.
“Sorry, but I’m as superstitious as a bride about her dress.”
“Not even a peek?”
“I’ve only been trying out different creams, which I’m going to pipe into a regular wedding cake. In any case, the cake is half finished, and I don’t let anyone but Uncle Mustafa see my stuff before delivery—”
“Please.”
Kosmas sighed. “Not one woman has ever been in the back room. . . . It might be bad luck to start now.”
“So it’s a sexist thing?”
“Not at all. Just the way it’s always been.”
“A little taste, then?”
Kosmas brushed Daphne’s cheek with cinnamon-scented fingers. “You’ve already got it. In that box.”
She closed her eyes and leaned her head into his hand. It was the first time he had really touched her.
“Can I take you out tomorrow tonight?” he asked. “Nine o’clock?”
She looked into his eyes, then at the endearing scar above his brow. “Perfect,” she said.
Later that afternoon, while Aunt Gavriela made tea, Daphne opened the box and found a small, snail-shaped pastry crowned by a single orchid. Her heart fluttered. She had never before seen such an artistic outpouring of love. She carefully lifted Kosmas’s creation from the box, cut it down the middle, and gave half to her aunt. The pastry was soft, fresh, and buttery. The creams were smooth and rich. The cardamom, cinnamon, and rose flavors transported Daphne to the Egyptian Bazaar as she imagined it would have been a hundred years before. This was the taste of Ottoman Istanbul.
“Lucky girl,” said Gavriela.
“You mean he got it?” said Daphne.
“No. It’s not what I remember. But he’s trying so hard. That’s what makes you a lucky girl.”
While finishing a wedding cake, Kosmas thought about where he would take Daphne the following night, whether they should go in a taxi or on his scooter, and how he could bring things to some sort of favorable conclusion before her scheduled departure on Sunday. He wanted to pick her up with his new Vespa, but he wouldn’t be able to wear a suit if he took the bike. Then he remembered how much his teenage sweetheart had loved their rides, and how he had felt so much less inhibited as he sped through Istanbul’s back streets and boulevards with her arms wrapped around him. So he dressed casually and rode the Vespa Super Sport over to Gavriela’s at half past eight on Tuesday evening.
Naphthalene-scented air wafted out of the apartment when Madame Gavriela opened the door. She was wearing an old-lady housedress and flat slippers that took away three inches of what Kosmas remembered as her natural height.
“Kosmaki,” she said. “What are you wearing?”
He looked down at his suede athletic shoes, his jeans, and the black shirt with double breast pockets that made him look as if he had been working out in the gym. “Is it so terrible?”
“No, not terrible.” Gavriela picked a piece of lint from his collar, pulled the flap straight, and brushed at something imaginary just above his heart. “But the suit was something else.”
“Is Daphne dressed?”
“Not yet.”
“Could you tell her to wear pants?”
Gavriela put her fists on her hips. “On a date?”
“We’re going on the Vespa.”
“Where?”
“Madame Kyveli’s. In Tatavla.”
Gavriela herded Kosmas toward the open living-room door. “Don’t stay on your feet. We need to talk.”
While making his way between the marble-topped sideboard, the Chippendale chairs, and the shelves covered with handmade lace, artificial flower arrangements, snow globes, plastic butterflies, and ceramic elephants, Kosmas knocked his shin on the coffee-table.
“I’ll bring ice,” Gavriela whispered, trying not to wake her husband, who was napping in his American-style recliner. Mr. Andonis’s snoring stopped, but he didn’t open his eyes.
Kosmas sat on the sofa and rubbed the sting in his shin. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing.”
“Sure?” said Gavriela.
Kosmas nodded.
“Listen, then.” Gavriela sat beside Kosmas. “It’s nice of you to want to take her to my old neighborhood. But on dates, ladies prefer—”
“Leave him alone,” said Andonis. “Don’t listen to a word she says, son.”
“But Tatavla is dangerous,” said Gavriela.
“Not really,” said Kosmas.
“It’s full of transsexual prostitutes, drug dealers, and—”
“Sus, woman!” said Andonis.
The
