“She needs an education,” said Selin.
“An education?” said Fanis.
A chilly draft blew into the back room. Fanis shivered: his shoes and socks were wet. He hoped he wouldn’t catch a cold. Seeing him quiver, Selin took off her wool scarf, wrapped it twice around Fanis’s neck, and said, “Rea needs to learn something about genetics. The various peoples of Turkey are not so different. Genetically, anyway.”
“Where did you hear that?” said Gavriela.
“I read a study about it on the internet.”
Fanis opened an unbleached paper tube of brown sugar and dumped it into the tea just delivered by Emine. “You can’t believe everything you see on a computer screen,” he said.
“This was a serious university study,” said Selin. She took her iPad from her handbag and handed it to Fanis. With Julien and Gavriela crowding toward him, he skimmed the text, swept his finger over the screen, and came to a map of Europe dotted with pie charts. Greece and Turkey had almost identical DNA frequencies: balanced pinwheels of orange, green, red, black, and yellow.
“And?” he said.
“Look at the key,” said Selin, pointing. “The light green represents the Minoan Greek gene. The Greeks have the same amount of that as the Turks. The black is Caucasian and Greco-Anatolian. The dark green is Arab and Jewish, the yellow Mycenaean Greek. The orange is also Mediterranean, and the red represents Hittite and Armenian.”
Fanis set the iPad on the table. “Do you mean to say . . . that the Turks are almost as indigenous as we are?”
“Yes,” said Selin.
“Nonsense,” said Gavriela. “I don’t believe a word.”
Fanis stirred his tea, took a sip of its hot, sugary bitterness, and said, “Neither do I.”
Julien took the iPad and looked at the charts through his bifocals. “So the Turks aren’t Turks?”
“Depends,” said Selin. “If you define Modern Turks as the people of Turkey, then of course Turks are Turks. But that doesn’t mean everyone is a thoroughbred descendant of Central Asian nomads.”
Fanis heard a tremolo of glass and porcelain and turned to see Dimitris approaching with two teas, a third of which had already spilled onto the tray.
“Where’s Rea?” said Julien.
“Right behind me.” Dimitris set down the tray and shooed the cat from a chair.
Fanis noticed that Dimitris’s formerly yellow claws had healed into clear, neat nails—perhaps as a result of the apple-cider-vinegar treatment that Rea had imposed. Love was working miracles.
A cane snapped on the laminate floor, heralding Rea’s appearance in the passageway. Fanis was surprised by how youthful Rea looked. He almost wondered if she was doing those poisonous injections called something like buttocks.
“How’s your health, Rea?” said Julien.
Rea hung her cane on the back of the chair that Dimitris held for her at the head of the joined tables. Fanis glanced at Gavriela: she was looking out the window at the flooded garden, as if even the sight of Rea was unbearable.
“O gegonen gegonen,” said Rea, using an Ancient Greek expression. “What happened happened. But it’s not likely to happen again. The doctors say I’m not even anemic anymore, with all the liver and onions that my fiancé fries for me.”
Fanis and Selin exchanged a glance. “Thank God,” said Fanis.
“And the wedding?” said Selin.
“No rush.” Rea’s new peacock-feather barrette—miraculously untouched by the rain—bobbed as she spoke.
Selin pronounced the standard Turkish wish: “Allah bir yastıkta kocatsın.” May you grow old on the same pillow.
“I’m all for the same pillow,” said Julien. “But old . . . who wants it?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Rea. “If you could take the physical problems away—the bad knees, the swollen ankles, the illness—I’ve never been happier. I like making my own decisions. I never did that before my husband died.”
Emine delivered a plate of almond cookies on the house. Fanis smiled at her, graciously took a cookie, and said to Rea, “I went by the Lily yesterday. Kosmas said he rented an apartment. That must give you some peace of mind, Rea, knowing he’s settled, but nearby?”
Rea turned abruptly toward Fanis. Dimitris explained in a whisper, “Rea is traditional. She doesn’t think her son should move out until he’s married.”
Fanis looked to Selin, who always knew how to remedy a difficult situation. She winked at Fanis, fingered the edge of the white-work collar peeking out from beneath Rea’s cardigan, and said, “I adore your blouse.”
“It’s broderie anglaise,” said Rea. “They say I do an excellent satin stitch.”
“You did it yourself?”
Rea took a deep breath through her nose and nodded. The peacock feather bowed like a graceful ballerina. Now that a little flattery had put Rea in better spirits, Fanis slid the iPad over the table. He said, “We’ve been doing some reading about genetics.”
“Genetics?”
Fanis showed Rea the multicolored pie charts of haplotype distributions across Europe and Turkey. “It’s a little disconcerting, but . . . look at the colors. What do you notice if you compare the Greek and Turkish charts?”
The vein on Rea’s neck throbbed. “What would I know about reading charts?” she said.
“Look, dear,” said Fanis. “Just compare them as if they were cakes.”
“They’re almost the same,” said Rea.
“Exactly,” said Selin. “See the green and black? That’s Ancient Greek. The Turks have almost as much of it as the Greeks.”
“The sliver of yellow is the Central Asian element,” said Julien, raising his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe his own words. “Apparently they don’t have too much of it.”
“Your point is?” said Rea.
“The point,” said Selin, “is that, genetically speaking, nobody is any one thing.”
Rea set the iPad down. “Of course,” she said. “The Ottomans forced so many Christians to convert. That’s how they got our genes.”
“In fact,” said Selin, “many Christians and Jews converted willingly. Out of interest.”
“It’s true,” said Dimitris. “The historians say there were more Rums fighting for the Ottomans outside the City walls than there were defending it from the inside in 1453. When you get right down to it, all our conflicts and wars
