She reached behind her, took his cheeks in her hands, pulled his head down, and kissed the scar above his brow. “I’m in love with you,” she said.
“That’s not the impression you gave an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Kosmas realized that his jealousy was ruining the moment. He had to get control of himself. “I love you, too, Daphne. But our love has to be steadfast. Like this tower.”
She returned her gaze to the minarets of Hagia Sophia. “I’m thinking of coming back here to stay.”
Kosmas squeezed her more tightly. He didn’t want to let her go, not then, not ever. But he needed to know that she was just as sure. “Moving here requires decision and determination,” he said.
“I know. And my parents are against it. Would you visit me in Miami? If they met you, then maybe . . .”
Kosmas felt his throat contract. “I’m booked for weddings through Christmas.”
“January, then.”
Daphne had the stubbornness of a camel. Which meant that she was Istanbul Rum through and through. Kosmas yielded: “In January.”
19
The Nightingale and the Seagulls
The second week in september, Selin finally said that she was coming to the Panagia to hear Fanis chant. She promised to arrive shortly after the start of vespers. Twenty minutes into the service, however, she was nowhere to be seen. Fanis gave up hope: Selin had to have been delayed at rehearsal. But then, just after the bishop descended from his throne in a tizzy because no one was helping him with his robes, Fanis turned to his left and saw the top of Selin’s curly head. She might even have been standing there the whole time, shielded by the throne.
After the service, Selin waited in her place until the parishioners had withdrawn for tea. Then she picked up her violin case and approached the cantor’s stand. “Outside we have the nightingales,” she said to Fanis. “Inside we have you.”
Fanis felt his cheeks flush. “So you liked it?” he said, fishing for more.
“Your voice exudes optimism.”
Her glassy-eyed wonder made him feel like a sultan. He stepped down from the cantor’s stand.
“Really,” she said. “It’s sexy.”
Now that was the best compliment anyone had ever paid him. Even better than the nightingales and optimism. But Fanis didn’t allow his imagination to scamper about like a five-year-old on a sugar buzz: just because she found his voice sexy didn’t mean that she actually found him sexy.
“And that hat,” she whispered, shaking her hand playfully, as if she had burned it. “Wow. Slightly fez-like, but black velvet. Orhan would love it.”
She always had to spoil things by mentioning Orhan. Never mind. It helped keep Fanis grounded. He would have liked to introduce her to everyone in the church tea room, but he decided that he ought to protect her reputation. So he said, “Hungry?”
“I made leek fritters last night,” she said. “Why don’t you come by my place and try them?”
“Perfect,” said Fanis. “I made stuffed grape leaves this morning. I’ll bring them over.”
He hung up his robe and stuck his cantor’s hat into a boutique bag to take home for some spot cleaning. They hurried out, around the far side of the church so that they wouldn’t be seen and called back. Just before they reached the gate, Fanis reached for her violin case. “Let me take that,” he said.
“Please. I carry it all the time. It’s very light.”
“You shouldn’t,” said Fanis, taking the handle.
“Thanks,” she said. “I guess I was getting a little tired.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” said Fanis. “A famous soloist like you shouldn’t have to serve as a hamal.”
They plodded through the tunnel of towering houses whose edges were made smooth by the coal smoke coming from the poorer apartments. The cold had set in early that autumn, making heating necessary in the evenings. The damp, soot-stained pavement outside the greengrocer’s shop was littered with scallions and lettuce. Fanis and Selin rounded the bend to their part of the street and found it completely dark: the electricity had gone out.
Fanis climbed his stairs with the aid of his key-chain flashlight and grabbed the stuffed grape leaves, a paper-wrapped package of garlicky beef pastırma, and a jar of his favorite pickles. Once over at Selin’s place, he insisted that she sit down at the kitchen table and relax with a glass of Cappadocian Chardonnay while he, by the light of Selin’s super-bright kitchen flashlight, made a lettuce, mint, carrot, and walnut salad, drizzled it with pomegranate concentrate and olive oil, and warmed the fritters on the gas stove.
“Ach,” said Selin, putting her feet up on a stool. “This is just what I needed.”
You’re just what I needed, thought Fanis. But then he remembered his resolution: friends. He tasted a leek fritter and said, “Magnificent . . . the dill, the subtle white cheese, so well combined with the egg—” Just then there was an angry outburst of seagull screeching. “Poor things,” he said. “When I was young, they feasted on fish in the Bosporus and squawked peacefully. Now they have to pick at garbage dumps. They’re as angry as the rest of us.”
“There must be a new nest up there,” said Selin. “Things were quiet when I moved in, but now I hear them going at it morning and night.”
Fanis stuck wooden spoons in the salad and transferred the fritters to a serving plate. “I bet they’re saying, ‘This isn’t the Istanbul of our ancestors. The City is ruined, polluted. We used to live the dolce vita here. Now everything has gone to the devil.’”
Selin laughed. If Fanis were trying to seduce her that would have meant he’d reached a milestone. Fanis picked up the salad and the plate of fritters. “It’s ready. Just grab the stuffed vine leaves for me, dear, will you?”
Over a candlelit dinner, they talked about her work. The Mendelssohn concerto had been so well received that the orchestra’s conductor wanted Selin to
