“I might be falling in love,” said Kosmas.
“Are congratulations in order?”
Kosmas hesitated. “Not yet.”
“Let me guess.” Uncle Mustafa leaned the broom against the counter and poured their morning tea into tulip glasses. “Rea can’t stand Daphne.”
“It’s more complicated than that. I’m ashamed to admit it . . .”
“Take the fava bean out of your mouth, son.”
“Her father’s Muslim. You know my mother’s not prejudiced, but if things got serious with Daphne, it would be a problem.”
“Of course,” said Uncle Mustafa. “And if it weren’t that, it would be that Daphne’s feet were too big or too small, or her hair too blond or too black.”
Kosmas stared at Uncle Mustafa: his expression was blank, as if he were discussing a supply order. But he had to be joking. Rea wasn’t that bad.
“The problem isn’t Mom,” said Kosmas. “Daphne’s got a fiancé in America, and she’s leaving on Sunday. So this is probably a temporary summer thing.”
Uncle Mustafa took a sip of tea. “Either that,” he said, “or you’d better get to work.”
“Meaning?”
“I mean that maybe you shouldn’t let this chance slip by.”
“The thing is . . . I always thought I’d marry a Rum, to keep our community and traditions alive.”
“That’s understandable, son. Anyway, it’s not always easy for a Muslim girl to marry a Christian boy. Just because it’s legally possible doesn’t mean that getting her family to accept you will be easy.”
“She’s Christian. Or at least so she says.”
“I see.” Uncle Mustafa switched into Greek, which he spoke reasonably well when he wanted to: “To vrikes, to thes kai ksyrismeno.” You’ve finally found a pussy and now you want it shaved.
“Excuse me?”
Uncle Mustafa reverted to Turkish: “Your father’s favorite saying. You got what you wanted, but now it’s not perfect enough.”
Kosmas was speechless. Such hard talk wasn’t like subtle Uncle Mustafa. And Kosmas had certainly never heard his father say that.
“Anyway”—Uncle Mustafa glanced at the apron still lying on the floor—“you’d better tie ribbons to the back door. In case I come to work early.”
“Good idea,” said Kosmas.
On Saturday morning, after yet another night of lovemaking at the Lily, Daphne snatched a few hours of sleep and awoke to the characteristic message alert of her Turkish cell phone. It had to be from Kosmas. Not yet ready to open her eyes, she pressed her face into the starched pillow and thought about the past three nights. On Wednesday, Kosmas had taken her on a Vespa ride to Rumelifeneri, a village on the shores of the Bosporus and the Black Sea; they had picnicked on fresh tomatoes, goat cheese, boiled eggs, and olives in the arch of a Byzantine castle while waves rushed against the rocks beneath them. On Thursday evening, they had gone for coffee at a chic café in Teşvikiye and lounged on couches while drinking latte macchiato, talking about their childhoods, and admiring the rose bushes surrounding the illuminated mosque. On Friday, they had gone to a rembetiko club, which led to Daphne’s second tsifteteli performance. The scene that had followed at the Lily was the reason she was having such a hard time getting out of bed now.
She reached over to the nightstand, grabbed her phone, and rubbed the sleepies out of her eyes. The message, however, was not from Kosmas. It was from Lidia, an Argentine friend in Miami. “Mira tu email, nena.” Check your email, girl.
Daphne pushed herself to a sitting position, slid her feet into her flip-flops, and stumbled into the kitchen, where her aunt was already busy peeling potatoes. “Coffee,” she said.
“Not yet,” said Gavriela. “You’ve been out with him until four a.m. every night since Tuesday. I want to know: is he that good?”
Daphne scrunched both eyes shut for a second and smiled.
Gavriela paused mid-peel and grinned mischievously. “Who’d have guessed?”
“I’m thinking about breaking up with Paul. I can’t keep cheating on him like this. I feel guilty.”
“Paul’s been cheating on you for months, little mama, if not years.”
“I don’t know if that’s true. He dances with other women, and he’s told a few lies, but I doubt he’s actually slept with any of them.”
Gavriela raised her eyebrows and resumed her potato peeling. “You know best.”
Daphne cut a piece from the tsoureki bread Kosmas had baked on Wednesday. “I’m going to break up with him as soon as I get back.”
“Better late than never,” said Gavriela.
Daphne kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I’d do it now, but telephone breakups are insensitive.”
Back in her room, Daphne sat down at her little desk. While waiting for her laptop to start up, she took a bite of tsoureki: in its perfumy mastic and mahleb flavors hid memories of a midnight picnic—and endless kisses—at Rumelifeneri. Daphne had never expected that a mama’s-boy pâtissier would kiss so well.
She found Lidia’s email with the title Lo siento mucho: “Nena, forgive me for being the bearer of bad news, but you always said you’d want to know. Paul was with Luciana at La Rosa Negra last night, snuggling in a corner. Cristina says they’re sleeping together. I’m so sorry. That tramp isn’t worth the heels of your shoes.”
Daphne pulled up Luciana’s public Facebook page, which identified her as an actress-model-dancer-singer-songwriter. At the very top of the timeline were two photos of Luciana and Paul in a close embrace, as well as a video of them dancing together. She clicked through to Luciana’s website and skimmed the online CV. The first professional qualification was Luciana’s bust size: 42. The second was her waist: 25. The third her hips: 38. It seemed that she was the Dolly
