“What about the tune?” said Kosmas.
She closed her eyes again and hummed, but only a few words came. She sang out loud: “Dance … fairytales …” She felt his hand on hers. Finally. She opened her eyes and turned her palm to meet his. It was softer than she had expected, given his profession. Holding it both excited her and gave her a feeling of security, as if nothing could go wrong while he was nearby. If only she could hold on forever. . . .
“Ι know which one you mean,” he said.
The host leaned the meze tray against their table. The portions were bigger than they had been at the first restaurant, and they included something that looked like—and was soon confirmed to be—calf brain. After naming each plate, the waiter looked to Kosmas.
“It’s the lady’s choice tonight.”
“But you know the restaurant,” said Daphne.
Kosmas squeezed her hand and let go. “When men decide, you eat to bursting.”
“And when women decide, you go hungry,” said Daphne.
“Let’s decide together, then.”
They chose stuffed grape leaves, salted mackerel, fried eggplant mixed with garlic and yogurt, and broad beans in a tomato, carrot, and celery-leaf sauce. The waiter took their selections directly from the tray and set them on the table. Unlike the Balık Pazarı restaurant, the meze at Madame Kyveli’s was not plastic-wrap-covered samples, but ready-to-go appetizers.
“And a plate of muska cheese pies,” said Kosmas.
The waiter nodded and left them.
Kosmas served Daphne a heaping portion of broad beans. “Try this first. It’s the house specialty. I hope you like fried cheese pies? The triangular ones?”
“Anything fried is good with me.”
“They’re called muska because they resemble the Muslim prayer amulets of the same name.”
Daphne smiled at Kosmas. “I’m crazy about cultural details like that.”
Kosmas’s cheeks dimpled. “Eat so that you’ll grow up strong!”
The beans were soft but not mushy. The tomato-and-onion sauce was lightly seasoned with fresh garlic, clove, and celery. “Just like my mom’s,” said Daphne.
“Home-cooked food without the mothers,” said Kosmas. “That’s why I like it here.”
“So . . . your mother gets on your nerves sometimes?”
“Gets on my nerves? Busts my balls is more like it.”
Daphne giggled. This was a new side of Kosmas. “Speaking of your mom,” she said, “I ran into Mr. Dimitris in the street today.”
Kosmas took a sip of water. “What did he have to say?”
The time had come. Just as Daphne had suspected, Dimitris did indeed remember Ilyas Badem. As they walked in the Grand Avenue, the old journalist had promised that the secret was safe with him. But that, in fact, was the problem: Daphne didn’t want to keep any secrets.
“He said you helped him change a few light bulbs yesterday,” she said.
Kosmas cleared his throat loudly, as if trying to suppress a cough.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine, fine. Something went down the wrong way.”
A group of musicians filed in, sat down beneath the ivy tendrils swaying in the evening breeze, and began tuning their instruments.
“Mr. Dimitris also said he never forgets a name.” Daphne scanned Kosmas’s face. He had stopped chewing. His jaw was clenched and his torso was stiff, as if he were wearing a corset. She said, “He remembered my father. Did he talk to you about that?”
“I don’t know. It’s a bit of a blur.”
“What is?”
Kosmas wiped his mouth. “Mr. Dimitris asked permission to marry my mother.”
“How romantic! I thought something was going on with those two. They’re always smiling at each other.”
The musicians began playing “Reverberating Melodies,” a lively Zeki Müren song that always made Daphne’s father weep. Kosmas stabbed one of the muska pies just delivered by the waiter. “The problem,” he said, “is that my mother has no intention of getting married.”
“She said so?”
“No, but I know her.”
“How would you feel about her remarrying?”
“Mr. Dimitris is part of the family.” Kosmas chased a slippery broad bean with his fork. “But I think it would be uncomfortable if he were actually living with us. And it would be strange to see someone in my father’s place.”
“They couldn’t move into his apartment?”
“You’d need a bulldozer to clean it out. My mother would faint if she saw it. That’s probably why he doesn’t invite her.”
“You’ve never had a place of your own?”
“Only in Vienna.”
“It might be good for you, too, if your mother got married. It’s about time you weaned, don’t you think?”
“I’m there for her. Not for me.”
“Typical Mediterranean son.”
“Typical Freudian bullshit,” said Kosmas, with an impish smirk. He swirled the water in his glass, staring at it as if he wished it were something else. “I guess I couldn’t ask a woman to consider moving in with us. Living with a mother-in-law is awful, isn’t it?”
Daphne put down her fork and turned her attention to the musicians. “Hell would probably be a better word for it.”
*
Kosmas raised his hand to a passing waiter. “A grilled sea bass, please!” He couldn’t believe that Daphne would say such a thing about his mother. Hell? He was offended. Rea wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t a demon.
By that time the musicians had stirred up the restaurant. A couple of male customers were singing along. A tipsy party of women were seductively turning their wrists to the melody. At a break between songs, Kosmas put a bill into the bağlama player’s pocket and asked for “Bournovalia,” the optimistic Smyrniot dancing song that he’d recognized instantly when Daphne had sung a few words. As soon as the rocking rhythm began, she said, “That’s it! The one my father used to request for my mother.”
With the satisfaction of a knight who had managed to ride his horse a few meters closer to the castle, Kosmas said, “It’s always been one of my favorites.”
She coquettishly pushed one shoulder forward. “Mom danced it for Baba. On their twentieth wedding anniversary. I never saw him so happy.”
Daphne looked toward the musicians. Kosmas noticed the violinist glancing furtively at her. The bağlama player was practically drooling. The accordion player was transfixed by her breasts. The guitarist-singer had turned
