“That’s just a visit,” said Gavriela, with her eyes on the cobblestones. “Only eight days. I want forever.”
They stopped beneath the awning of Muharrem’s sweet shop. With her eyes fixed now on the baklava trays in the display case, Gavriela said, “Listen, Fanis, I’m sorry about what I said at Neighbor’s House. It was such a shock for us.”
“Never mind,” said Fanis. “It’s flattering, really, that you supposed us to be a couple.”
“We’re all sorry, especially Julien. He told me to tell you so.”
“Why doesn’t he tell me himself?”
“He’s embarrassed. Especially given his record with women. But he wanted you to come to Neighbor’s House after the Salutations. He said he’d call and invite Selin.”
Fanis glanced at his watch: a quarter to five. He put his hand on the damp shoulder of Gavriela’s wool coat. “Past and forgotten. Come, let’s say hello to Muharrem and pick up the lokum. Otherwise we’ll be late to church.”
The Akathist was Fanis’s favorite service. He was overwhelmed by its melancholy exultation, its literary beauty, and its use of rhyme, assonance, bold simile, and alliteration. Upon arrival at the church, he quickly slipped on his scratchy black polyester robe—a good protection against the church’s damp, chilly air—and joined his young trainee, Pandelis, at the cantor’s stand. At the end of the priest’s apolytikion, Fanis swung the music stand toward the boy and said, “Yours, son.”
Pandelis chanted the initial troparion alone while Fanis held a drone note to enrich the celebratory melody: “I shall open my mouth and it shall be filled with the Spirit . . .”
Pandelis’s voice was sweet, but Fanis immediately understood why the Patriarchate had sent him: he was an acrobat afraid to fall. A cantor had to be a swimmer, not a trapeze artist; he had to immerse himself and swim in the notes, not jump from one to the next.
Fanis whispered to the boy, “Instead of trying to hit the right notes, settle deep within yourself and let the chant flow out.”
Apart from being Fanis’s favorite service, the Akathist was also one of the rare hymns to which the women parishioners chanted along with the cantors. And yet Fanis did not hear Gavriela joining in. He discreetly peered over the back of the stand and saw her sniffling and dabbing her eyes. Was she weeping? She had seemed fine on their walk through the Fish Bazaar. Fanis nodded to Pandelis and approached Gavriela. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Daphne called today,” said Gavriela. “I didn’t want to say anything, but . . . she was rejected by Istanbul and Boğaziçi universities. And since Kosmas hasn’t rescheduled his trip, I’m afraid she might be reconsidering her decision to move here.”
The priest finished the first set of Salutations. Pandelis chanted, “Rejoice, Bride unwedded.” His voice was more optimistic. A definite improvement.
Fanis put his hand on Gavriela’s shoulder. “But she applied to Bilgi, too, didn’t she? And things could change with Kosmas. Listen, we’ll talk later, I have to—”
“What if none of our young people return?” Gavriela sobbed. “Is this the end of our community?”
Fanis had to think of something to calm her down. “The Patriarch says we should believe in renewal. Not just hope for it, but believe in it.”
“My husband says that the Patriarch sells fairytales,” returned Gavriela. She blew her nose. “But I want to believe.”
Fanis squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll all work out, Gavriela. For Daphne, for all of us. We must have faith.”
The rain had started coming down even harder while they were inside the church. In the Grand Avenue and Yeni Çarşı Street, Gavriela and Fanis had managed to walk single-file beneath shop awnings, but, upon entering Çukurcuma, they were forced to huddle beneath the umbrella. “Aliki’s playing bridge with her girlfriends today,” said Gavriela, as they climbed the steps leading to Neighbor’s House.
“Didn’t want to see me, I suppose?”
“She will. Eventually.”
“And Rea?”
“She’ll come later with Dimitris. Aliki said they went to Holy Trinity today. To see the bishop. Νot to avoid you, of course.”
They hurried past the budding acacia trees of the mosque’s square and turned the corner to Neighbor’s House. As Fanis held the door for Gavriela, the half-comforting, half-nauseating odor of the tea garden’s factory-prepared cookies wafted out into the damp evening. Wiping his feet on the mat, Fanis realized that the piano music he heard—“La Vie en rose”—was live. Normally they played soft jazz in the indoor space, while the outdoor area was pleasantly quiet, apart from the traffic in Sıraselviler Avenue.
Fanis dropped his umbrella into the holder by the entrance and followed Gavriela to the back room. Near the door to the toilets, they found Julien playing an upright piano. Selin, wearing a red beret, was sitting on the piano bench beside him and singing along to Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en rose.”
Seeing her, Fanis felt at once blessed to have Selin as a friend and jealous of her attachment to Julien. To hide the latter, he said in Turkish, “Since when did Neighbor’s House become a concert hall?”
Gavriela carefully peeled off her rain hat. “The new manager bought the piano last week,” she said. “The professeur thinks his playing charms the ladies.”
Julien brought the piece to an early finish, stood, and held out his hand to Fanis. “Finally remembered us?”
Fanis pulled Julien close for a double cheek kiss. His friend’s skin exuded the sweet, rotting odor of whiskey. “I never forgot you,” Fanis said.
“You swear you and my kid are just friends?”
This, Fanis surmised, was Julien’s attempt at reconciliation. “I give you my word.”
They made for the tables by the window overlooking the garden, hung their coats on the wall hooks, and settled in. “On the way over here,” said Fanis, switching into Turkish for Selin, “I was thinking that we need to help poor Kosmas with that mother of his.”
“That’s gallant of you,” said Julien.
“I
