There was no orchestral introduction. There was only Selin, jumping straight into a virtuosic passage with a discreet accompaniment from her peers. Half of her black curls were pinned to the crown of her head; the rest bounced and snapped with every movement. During a brief orchestral section, she let her violin and bow float down to her sides while she stared up at the ceiling, as if making some sort of tortured supplication to the gods. Then the piece became more playful, more tentative, and Fanis wondered if she was trying to tease him. Fireworks seemed to spring from the violin, and for a second Selin raised her head like a warrior. Fanis lost himself in the relentless exchange between light-hearted passages and savage intensity, and he realized, as Selin performed the finale, that he had hardly known anything about her until that evening. Selin Kerido was not just any line violinist, but a highly talented soloist. Fanis felt a swell of pride before a strong undercurrent of self-doubt nearly drowned him: she had to have dozens of admirers, which meant that she was even less attainablethan he had thought.
After the concert, Fanis waited for her at the stage door with the bouquet of orange snapdragons. When she came to meet him, he said, “Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor has just become my favorite piece of Romantic period music. You were majestic.”
She kissed him on the cheek, complimented his tuxedo and his original choice of flowers, and led him into the wings. There she introduced Fanis to a tall, fifty-something bassoonist with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. “Fanis,” she said, “I’d like you to meet my dear friend Orhan.”
Dear? Was this the guy who was giving her the hickeys?
The bassoonist, who had obviously not heard Selin well, said, “Pleased to meet you, sir. I absolutely adore your daughter.”
Selin cleared her voice. “He’s not my dad—”
“Oh, Uncle, excuse me,” said Orhan. “My ears are still ringing from the concert!”
Orhan patted Fanis on the back, held an imaginary phone to his ear—whatever that meant—sent Selin an air kiss, and rushed off. Other introductions followed. Like Orhan, the rest of Selin’s colleagues treated Fanis like a harmless old man, who could never aspire to possessing such a goddess. But he was proud just to be called a friend.
“Come,” said Selin to Fanis, at a pause in the tide of musicians. “I want to show you something.”
She led him onto the empty stage. The lights were still so bright and blinding that the seating areas of the theater disappeared into semi-darkness. Fanis had the impression, even though the place was probably still a quarter full, that he and Selin were alone.
She took him to the left side of the stage. “That’s my regular chair,” she said. “Yours for now.”
“Concertmaster?”
Selin gave one short, downward nod. “A guest soloist usually does the concertos, but I got a lucky break when the scheduled soloist cancelled.”
“I love a successful woman.” Fanis loosened his collar and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. Those damn lights were hot. Or was it the cerebral arteriosclerosis that was causing him to sweat?
“Now tell me all about that piece you just played,” he said.
“Only you would say that,” said Selin, her face illuminating from within. First she spoke of the piece’s cyclic form and the various plagiaries that ensued after its success. Then she lightly tapped his knee and said, “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Well before he began to compose, Mendelssohn wrote that a violin concerto was running through his head and that the beginning of it ‘gave him no peace.’”
“Sounds like vascular dementia,” said Fanis.
“Excuse me?”
How could he have let that slip?
“A bad joke,” he said. “A friend of mine has the disease. What I meant was that the concerto overwhelms, almost like an illness. I was completely absorbed while you were playing, but in an interior way, like I was traveling inside myself.”
Fanis snuck a peek at the hickey on Selin’s neck. It was as prominent as ever, perhaps even a little redder. Surely the bassoonist was the perpetrator. Annoyed, he said, “You must be exhausted. Let’s get you home.”
They took a taxi back to their neighborhood. When they finally pulled into Faik Paşa Street, Fanis stuffed a bill into the driver’s hand and trotted around to Selin’s side to open the door. Seeing the embarrassed expression on her face, he offered his hand in a brotherly manner and said—before she had a chance to tell him that she would invite him up if it weren’t for such-and-such—“Goodnight, dear girl. You were marvelous this evening.”
He rushed inside his building without a backward glance, leaned breathless against the painting of the goddess Athena, and said to Hermes, “You see? I finally have an attractive female friend. Not that I’d say no to her becoming more but . . . friendship is a big step for me. I hope you’re proud.”
18
Recognitions and a Tower
Just before dawn on wednesday morning, Kosmas delivered his beloved and her package of apple strudel to Gavriela’s door. After looking up and down the street to make sure that no one was watching, Kosmas backed Daphne against the building wall, grabbed her bottom, and lifted her to his height. He caressed her lips with his, nibbled her, and pulled her tongue into his mouth. It was almost as if they were making love again. But he knew he couldn’t keep her there for long. Indiscreet eyes were numerous, and even if they couldn’t cause a scandal in a secular neighborhood like Cihangir, gossip was never pleasant.
“I’ve got to go,” said Daphne. “If my aunt’s neighbors see . . .”
“Tomorrow night?”
She nodded yes and pulled away.
Kosmas returned to the Lily, where he found Uncle Mustafa
