16

The Vespa and the Maenad

On monday afternoon, fifteen minutes before the end of her Turkish class, Daphne received a text from Kosmas: “Stop by if you have time. Sıraselviler Avenue, next to the German Hospital.”

She entered the Lily while the midday call to prayer was sounding from the loudspeaker of the local mosque. Vanilla-scented air, blown by the fan above the door, refreshed her sweaty forehead. Through the half-open door to a back room, she spied a mustachioed old man performing the namaz prayers. A few feet away from her, a shy twenty-something employee was quietly manning the cash register. At the opposite counter, a middle-aged fellow with a brush-cut attended to customers and wrapped their orders in white boxes with lavender ribbons. Both the cashier and the server wore black ties and white lab coats, as if the sticky summer weather had no business entering the Lily.

While patiently waiting her turn, Daphne peered into the glass cases full of crescent-shaped cheese pies, golden batons salés, French viennoiseries with tempting bits of chocolate peeking through their seams, trays of mille-feuille, and a variety of delicate cakes and tarts decorated, she supposed, by Kosmas himself.

“Can I help you, Madame?” The mustachioed old Turk was standing squarely in front of her, wearing a white paper hat instead of the knit prayer cap in which she had seen him earlier.

“Allah kabul etsin,” she said, in Turkish. May God accept your prayer.

“Amen,” he replied. “How could God refuse the wish of such a beautiful lady?”

Daphne wondered if non-flirtatious Turkish men existed. Her dad had charmed every woman in Little Havana, including their toothless ninety-three-year-old neighbor Josefina and her tattooed lesbian great-granddaughter.

“Is Kosmas here?” Daphne asked.

The old man winked playfully, passed halfway into the kitchen, and called, “Lady wants you.”

Through the swinging door, Daphne glimpsed Kosmas whipping something by hand in a wooden bowl. He looked up from his work and said a few words to the old man, who then returned to the shop floor, allowing the door to swing back into place. “He needs a minute to finish up. I’m Mustafa, by the way. Taught him everything he knows. Correction. Everything he knew before he went off to Vienna and became a hotshot.”

“He speaks of you fondly.”

“None of my kids is interested in pastry-making,” said Mustafa. “It’s a passion I share only with Kosmas, which makes him like a son to me.”

Daphne reached over the counter. “I’m—”

“Daphne.” Mustafa shook her hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Now go out the door, turn right, and follow the building around to the kitchen entrance.”

Kosmas was waiting out back, wearing his white chef’s coat with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “June’s always like this,” he said. “Super-busy.” He held out a small box with an elaborate gold and lavender bow. “I made you something.”

Daphne stepped into the shade beneath the door’s awning. “It looks too pretty to open.”

“Don’t, then. Until you get home.”

“What are you making in there?”

“Uncle Mustafa finally found his grandfather’s book, but I haven’t had time yet to read through the minuscule Ottoman script. So right now I’m experimenting with Uncle Mustafa’s help.”

“Can I taste?” Daphne reached for the doorknob, wondering what this mystical Ottoman creation would look like. But she didn’t have a chance to see anything before Kosmas pulled the door shut.

“Sorry, but I’m as superstitious as a bride about her dress.”

“Not even a peek?”

“I’ve only been trying out different creams, which I’m going to pipe into a regular wedding cake. In any case, the cake is half finished, and I don’t let anyone but Uncle Mustafa see my stuff before delivery—”

“Please.”

Kosmas sighed. “Not one woman has ever been in the back room. . . . It might be bad luck to start now.”

“So it’s a sexist thing?”

“Not at all. Just the way it’s always been.”

“A little taste, then?”

Kosmas brushed Daphne’s cheek with cinnamon-scented fingers. “You’ve already got it. In that box.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head into his hand. It was the first time he had really touched her.

“Can I take you out tomorrow tonight?” he asked. “Nine o’clock?”

She looked into his eyes, then at the endearing scar above his brow. “Perfect,” she said.

Later that afternoon, while Aunt Gavriela made tea, Daphne opened the box and found a small, snail-shaped pastry crowned by a single orchid. Her heart fluttered. She had never before seen such an artistic outpouring of love. She carefully lifted Kosmas’s creation from the box, cut it down the middle, and gave half to her aunt. The pastry was soft, fresh, and buttery. The creams were smooth and rich. The cardamom, cinnamon, and rose flavors transported Daphne to the Egyptian Bazaar as she imagined it would have been a hundred years before. This was the taste of Ottoman Istanbul.

“Lucky girl,” said Gavriela.

“You mean he got it?” said Daphne.

“No. It’s not what I remember. But he’s trying so hard. That’s what makes you a lucky girl.”

While finishing a wedding cake, Kosmas thought about where he would take Daphne the following night, whether they should go in a taxi or on his scooter, and how he could bring things to some sort of favorable conclusion before her scheduled departure on Sunday. He wanted to pick her up with his new Vespa, but he wouldn’t be able to wear a suit if he took the bike. Then he remembered how much his teenage sweetheart had loved their rides, and how he had felt so much less inhibited as he sped through Istanbul’s back streets and boulevards with her arms wrapped around him. So he dressed casually and rode the Vespa Super Sport over to Gavriela’s at half past eight on Tuesday evening.

Naphthalene-scented air wafted out of the apartment when Madame Gavriela opened the door. She was wearing an old-lady housedress and flat slippers that took away three inches of what Kosmas remembered as her natural height.

“Kosmaki,” she said. “What are you wearing?”

He looked down at his suede athletic shoes, his jeans, and the black shirt with double breast pockets that made him look as if he had been working out in the gym. “Is it so terrible?”

“No, not terrible.” Gavriela picked a piece of lint from his collar, pulled the flap straight, and brushed at something imaginary just above his heart. “But the suit was something else.”

“Is Daphne dressed?”

“Not yet.”

“Could you tell her to wear pants?”

Gavriela put her fists on her hips. “On a date?”

“We’re going on the Vespa.”

“Where?”

“Madame Kyveli’s. In Tatavla.”

Gavriela herded Kosmas toward the open living-room door. “Don’t stay on your feet. We need to talk.”

While making his way between the marble-topped sideboard, the Chippendale chairs, and the shelves covered with handmade lace, artificial flower arrangements, snow globes, plastic butterflies, and ceramic elephants, Kosmas knocked his shin on the coffee-table.

“I’ll bring ice,” Gavriela whispered, trying not to wake her husband, who was napping in his American-style recliner. Mr. Andonis’s snoring stopped, but he didn’t open his eyes.

Kosmas sat on the sofa and rubbed the sting in his shin. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing.”

“Sure?” said Gavriela.

Kosmas nodded.

“Listen, then.” Gavriela sat beside Kosmas. “It’s nice of you to want to take her to my old neighborhood. But on dates, ladies prefer—”

“Leave him alone,” said Andonis. “Don’t listen to a word she says, son.”

“But Tatavla is dangerous,” said Gavriela.

“Not really,” said Kosmas.

“It’s full of transsexual prostitutes, drug dealers, and—”

“Sus, woman!” said Andonis.

The recliner’s footrest released with a popping noise that startled Kosmas. Andonis struggled to his feet, hobbled down the hall with his hand on his lower back, and rapped on Daphne’s door. “Put on a pair of pants, girl. You’re going to have an adventure tonight.” Returning to the living room, he said to his wife, “Now let’s have some tea while the boy and I watch the game.”

“Evil hour,” murmured Gavriela. She huffed off to the kitchen.

“Women.” Andonis winked at Kosmas and made a patting motion in the air, as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all settled now.’

Kosmas nodded in thanks and tried to make himself comfortable, but he was sinking deeper and deeper into the little cavern between the back of the sofa and the seat. Soon Gavriela returned with the tea. Daphne followed, wearing a broad American smile and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. She leaned on the doorjamb, lifted one foot as if she were practicing yoga, and strapped on a three-inch-heeled silver sandal—significantly sexier than the black pumps she’d worn on the first date. While she buckled, Kosmas noticed something turquoise on her ankle. She must have guessed his foot fetish.

Gavriela set the tea tray on the rust-stained lace of the central coffee-table. “Do you at least have a helmet for her?”

“Don’t worry, Madame Gavriela,” said Kosmas, threading his way out of the furniture maze. “I’ll bring her back safely.”

“But you haven’t had your tea!”

“Another time.”

The Vespa was waiting for them on the sidewalk outside Gavriela’s door. Daphne ran her fingers over the front grille slots, the white piping on the leather saddle, and the dark, satiny finish of the delivery compartment at the rear. She imagined her legs straddling Kosmas, the rumble of the motor, Kosmas stopping in some deserted back alley. . . . He handed her an immaculately cleaned and polished vintage helmet and helped fit the chin strap through the buckle. “We’re going to Tatavla,” he said, as he climbed onto the bike.

“Really? I asked my aunt to take me, but she always says it’s ruined and not worth a visit.”

“Tatavla isn’t as picturesque as Antigone,” said Kosmas, “but since it’s where your mom grew up, it’s at least worth a visit.” With both feet on the ground, he rocked the heavy bike backward to gain momentum, then forward to retract the kick stand. They threaded through the tight two-lane traffic of Sıraselviler Avenue, emerged into the madness of Taksim, and whizzed past exhaust-spewing buses, taxis, and trucks. The sudden swerves and a near collision with another motorcycle terrified Daphne, yet left her wanting more. She wrapped her arms all the way around Kosmas, resting her chest against his back. She knew this wasn’t the way he usually drove. She’d seen him motor by Neighbor’s House on the Vespa two or three times that summer, driving as carefully as if he had a baby on board. Now he was accelerating quickly, braking abruptly, and taking risks.

“How are the pegs with your heels?” he asked, after stopping at a traffic light. He picked up her right foot, adjusted its position on the peg, and playfully spun the charm on her anklet. “Nice.”

Daphne had worn that anklet at least a dozen times without Paul’s ever having said a word. But nothing escaped Kosmas. “Thanks,” she said.

The light changed. They turned off into a neighborhood where laundry lines of ghostlike sheets drooped between rotting oriels. With expert skill Kosmas dodged automobiles, piles of rubbish set out for the nightly collection, formidable gangs of young men, and herds of girls dressed for Carnivale. Was this really the same Kosmas who fulfilled his mother’s every wish? The same meticulous chef who had won the Pfeifenberger competition?

They climbed a steep hill and came to a stop before a low, dreary white shack with a corrugated aluminum roof—the restaurant, apparently. Daphne took off the helmet. “That was better than a rollercoaster.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.” Kosmas carefully chained the Vespa to one of the posts supporting the building’s brown awning. Daphne sighed. Although his driving skills indicated that he might have hidden talents, only a conventional type would tuck his scooter in like that. “Ready,” he said, taking the helmet from her.

They followed the host into a courtyard where ivy dangled between the branches of whitewashed citrus, mulberry, and black poplar trees. At the oilcloth-covered tables sat a few couples, two large men-only parties, and a pack of gabby ladies. The street view was completely blocked by a red wall, but at the far end of the restaurant, the opening between a wooden sun shelter and waist-high shrubbery allowed a glimpse of ceramic roofs and navy blue sky.

The host indicated a table that was marked as reserved with an empty wine bottle. He pulled a chair over the dull blue and yellow floor tiles, offered it to Daphne, and wished them good digestion. A few seconds later, a waiter set plates of honeydew melon and feta cheese on their table. “To drink?” he asked.

“Water,” said Kosmas. He placed the Vespa’s helmet on an empty chair beside him.

“No raki?” said the waiter.

“No, thanks. We’re not drinking tonight.”

When the waiter had gone, Daphne said, “You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s okay. I’m afraid it might throw me off course later on.” Kosmas paused and flashed Daphne a playful smile. “I’m driving the Vespa, remember?”

She rested her chin on her hands and wobbled her head mischievously. “Just how far off course can one go with a Vespa?”

Kosmas, who seemed surprised that she had both caught his wordplay and matched it, remained silent. Daphne let him savor the momentary awkwardness before she asked, “So what’s this place called?”

“Madame Kyveli’s.”

The name sounded like something straight out of her mother’s stories. “I think my dad used to bring Mom here. He’d request a special song, something like . . .” Daphne shut her eyes and breathed in the faint scent of musty wood, but she couldn’t recall the title of the song her father used to sing.

“What about the tune?” said Kosmas.

She closed her eyes again and hummed, but only a few words came. She sang out loud: “Dance … fairytales …” She felt his hand on hers. Finally. She opened her eyes and turned her palm to meet his. It was softer than she had expected, given his profession. Holding it both excited her and gave her a feeling of security, as if nothing could go wrong while he was nearby. If only she could hold on forever. . . .

“Ι know which one you mean,” he said.

The host leaned the meze tray against their table. The portions were bigger than they had been at the first restaurant, and they included something that looked like—and was soon confirmed to be—calf brain. After naming each plate, the waiter looked to Kosmas.

“It’s the lady’s choice tonight.”

“But you know the restaurant,” said Daphne.

Kosmas squeezed her hand and let go. “When men decide, you eat to bursting.”

“And when women decide, you go hungry,” said Daphne.

“Let’s decide together, then.”

They chose stuffed grape leaves, salted mackerel, fried eggplant mixed with garlic and yogurt, and broad beans in a tomato, carrot, and celery-leaf sauce. The waiter took their selections directly from the tray and set them on the table. Unlike the Balık Pazarı restaurant, the meze at Madame Kyveli’s was not plastic-wrap-covered samples, but ready-to-go appetizers.

“And a plate of muska cheese pies,” said Kosmas.

The waiter nodded and left them.

Kosmas served Daphne a heaping portion of broad beans. “Try this first. It’s the house specialty. I hope you like fried cheese pies? The triangular ones?”

“Anything fried is good with me.”

“They’re called muska because they resemble the Muslim prayer amulets of the same name.”

Daphne smiled at Kosmas. “I’m crazy about cultural details like that.”

Kosmas’s cheeks dimpled. “Eat so that you’ll grow up strong!”

The beans were soft but not mushy. The tomato-and-onion sauce was lightly seasoned with fresh garlic, clove, and celery. “Just like my mom’s,” said Daphne.

“Home-cooked food without the mothers,” said Kosmas. “That’s why I like it here.”

“So . . . your mother gets on your nerves sometimes?”

“Gets on my nerves? Busts my balls is more like it.”

Daphne giggled. This was a new side of Kosmas. “Speaking of your mom,” she said, “I ran into Mr. Dimitris in the street today.”

Kosmas took a sip of water. “What did he have to say?”

The time had come. Just as Daphne had suspected, Dimitris did indeed remember Ilyas Badem. As they walked in the Grand Avenue, the old journalist had promised that the secret was safe with him. But that, in fact, was the problem: Daphne didn’t want to keep any secrets.

“He said you helped him change a few light bulbs yesterday,” she said.

Kosmas cleared his throat loudly, as if trying to suppress a cough.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine, fine. Something went down the wrong way.”

A group of musicians filed in, sat down beneath the ivy tendrils swaying in the evening breeze, and began tuning their instruments.

“Mr. Dimitris also said he never forgets a name.” Daphne scanned Kosmas’s face. He had stopped chewing. His jaw was clenched and his torso was stiff, as if he were wearing a corset. She said, “He remembered my father. Did he talk to you about that?”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit of a blur.”

“What is?”

Kosmas wiped his mouth. “Mr. Dimitris asked permission to marry my mother.”

“How romantic! I thought something was going on with those two. They’re always smiling at each other.”

The musicians began playing “Reverberating Melodies,” a lively Zeki Müren song that always made Daphne’s father weep. Kosmas stabbed one of the muska pies just delivered by the waiter. “The problem,” he said, “is that my mother has no intention of getting married.”

“She said so?”

“No, but I know her.”

“How would you feel about her remarrying?”

“Mr. Dimitris is part of the family.” Kosmas chased a slippery broad bean with his fork. “But I think it would be uncomfortable if he were actually living with us. And it would be strange to see someone in my father’s place.”

“They couldn’t move into his apartment?”

“You’d need a bulldozer to clean it out. My mother would faint if she saw it. That’s probably why he doesn’t invite her.”

“You’ve never had a place of your own?”

“Only in Vienna.”

“It might be good for you, too, if your mother got married. It’s about time you weaned, don’t you think?”

“I’m there for her. Not for me.”

“Typical Mediterranean son.”

“Typical Freudian bullshit,” said Kosmas, with an impish smirk. He swirled the water in his glass, staring at it as if he wished it were something else. “I guess I couldn’t ask a woman to consider moving in with us. Living with a mother-in-law is awful, isn’t it?”

Daphne put down her fork and turned her attention to the musicians. “Hell would probably be a better word for it.”

*

Kosmas raised his hand to a passing waiter. “A grilled sea bass, please!” He couldn’t believe that Daphne would say such a thing about his mother. Hell? He was offended. Rea wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t a demon.

By that time the musicians had stirred up the restaurant. A couple of male customers were singing along. A tipsy party of women were seductively turning their wrists to the melody. At a break between songs, Kosmas put a bill into the bağlama player’s pocket and asked for “Bournovalia,” the optimistic Smyrniot dancing song that he’d recognized instantly when Daphne had sung a few words. As soon as the rocking rhythm began, she said, “That’s it! The one my father used to request for my mother.”

With the satisfaction of a knight who had managed to ride his horse a few meters closer to the castle, Kosmas said, “It’s always been one of my favorites.”

She coquettishly pushed one shoulder forward. “Mom danced it for Baba. On their twentieth wedding anniversary. I never saw him so happy.”

Daphne looked toward the musicians. Kosmas noticed the violinist glancing furtively at her. The bağlama player was practically drooling. The accordion player was transfixed by her breasts. The guitarist-singer had turned his back to Kosmas, as if he didn’t even exist. It was just like the words of the song: a thousand eyes were piercing her.

Suddenly Daphne stood and drew the backs of her hands along her chin and into her hair, raising it so that he could see her neck. Was she actually going to dance, here, in front of everyone? She moved to an open area between the tables. Her torso undulated to the 2/4 rhythm. She looked neither at the musicians, nor at the other customers: her eyes were fixed directly on Kosmas. There was no vulgarity in her tsifteteli, as there was in the tremors and jolts of professional belly dancers. Yet Daphne was certainly not an amateur. Her fingers separated like the plumes of exotic birds, flitted around her torso, and nested in her long hair. Her chest and abdomen slithered and snaked. This was the real thing: refined, sensual tsifteteli. The other customers watched, but not one woman dared get up and dance beside Daphne.

At the end of the song, the musicians applauded Daphne’s accompaniment and reluctantly moved on to another table. One of the drunk ladies cheered, “Lucky man!” That was when Kosmas realized that his erection might be visible. He quickly moved his legs back under the table and squeezed his knees together. With a woman who could dance tsifteteli like that, he would never have any need for prescription stimulants, not even at ninety.

“I’m rusty,” said Daphne. “It’s been four years since I danced tsifteteli, since before I met Paul.”

“You didn’t dance for him?”

“Once, for about ten seconds in his living room, and then he waved for me to stop. I think he found it embarrassing.”

“You’re an easterner, Daphne, one of ours. Frankish men aren’t for you.” Kosmas served her a helping of eggplant and yogurt. “By the way, what’s your father’s name? My mother wondered if she knew him.”

Daphne wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Badem.”

How could her father have a Turkish name? Then Kosmas remembered how often Rum names were misspelled, mangled, or outright changed by the registry office employees. “What was it before?” he asked.

“They didn’t have one before. They chose it in the twenties, when everyone was required to take a surname.”

“But the Rums already had family names.”

Daphne flagged the waiter. “A single raki, please!”

Something had gone wrong. The drunk-on-love expression that Daphne had worn while dancing had disappeared. “I thought you didn’t drink,” said Kosmas.

“I don’t.” Daphne conjured an uneasy smile. “Half an hour ago, you passed on the raki in order to stay on course. Now a bit of deviation is necessary.”

The word deviation titillated Kosmas, but something told him that this would not be the kind he liked. He asked, “Are you okay?”

The waiter delivered a small ice bucket and a tall glass with two inches of clear alcohol at the bottom. Daphne dropped two ice cubes into the glass and said, “Drink so you’ll grow up strong.” As soon as he’d taken a sip, she opened her purse, took out her student card, and slid it across the oilcloth.

Kosmas read her full name on the card: Daphne Zeynep Badem. “What’s this? Why the Islamic middle name Zeynep?”

“My father is Ottoman,” said Daphne, replacing the student card in her wallet.

Kosmas froze. He’d fallen for Daphne believing she was one of his own. Now he wasn’t sure what she was. She didn’t drink. Her middle name was Zeynep. Her surname was Turkish. She liked the call to prayer. Kosmas swallowed half of the straight raki. Feeling short of breath, he raised his hand to loosen his collar, only to find that the top of his shirt was already open. He unfastened a button and slid his hand over his quickly beating heart. “Under Turkish law,” he said, “you’re Muslim.”

The space between Daphne’s black brows narrowed. “I think I’m the one who decides that,” she said.

“And the name Zeynep?”

“It was my grandmother’s.”

“I also noticed that . . .”

“What?”

“You take your shoes off in the house.”

Her mouth pursed like a wrinkly apple. “I don’t like dirt.”

“And the alcohol? And the pork?”

“What pork? I don’t eat meat. And why do you care so much about my father’s religion, anyway?”

“I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that . . . if you get involved with somebody, you get involved with the parents as well.”

“If I’d thought about it that way . . .”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“This is ridiculous,” she said, tossing her napkin onto the table.

Kosmas took a sip of water and pushed his chair back. “Excuse me for a second. I have to check on the Vespa.”

He crossed the courtyard in two large strides, stopped in the entryway, and rubbed his eyes. Come on, he said to himself. Mother will get over the Ottoman-father thing, won’t she? It might take years, decades even, but in the end she’ll get over it. Then again, she’s seventy-two. She doesn’t have decades. Maybe it will even kill her. And maybe she’s right in the end. Daphne deceived us both. Who knows what else she could be hiding?

Kosmas opened his eyes. What was his destiny? To marry Daphne and have his mother fall over dead before the wedding? To reject Daphne and regret it for the rest of his life? To end up like Mr. Dimitris, alone in a rat hole? Kosmas leaned against a wall. It’s all right, he said to himself. Daphne’s leaving on Sunday. We’ll just have this little fling. Enjoy ourselves a bit. We don’t have to get married or even get serious. There isn’t time for that anyway. And if she ever returns . . . we’ll think about it then. He went outside for some fresh air. There was the Vespa, still chained to the overhang post. And Daphne was still inside, waiting for him, if he could just get control of himself.

Kosmas returned to the courtyard. The musicians were already on the other side of the restaurant, serenading someone else. Daphne’s eyes were glassy. He crouched at her feet and took her hand. “I’ve been a beast, upsetting you like that,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t care that your father’s Ottoman. So is Uncle Mustafa, and he’s been like a father to me since mine died.”

“And your mother?”

“Let me handle that.”

“You don’t look so sure.”

“It won’t be a problem. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s partly my fault, I guess,” said Daphne. “I should have told you from the start. I wanted to, but it just seemed awkward.”

So she hadn’t meant to deceive him. He rose to standing. Half the restaurant was staring at him. The drunk women applauded. He bowed, took his chair, and said, “How about I take you to the Lily for dessert?”

The pâtisserie kitchen was more stylish than Daphne had expected: it had old-fashioned cement tile flooring, yellow cabinetry, ceramic brick backsplashes, and baroque molding framing a daring black ceiling.

“It’s the only place where I really feel at home,” said Kosmas, cracking a high window. “We redid the kitchen just a few months ago. Uncle Mustafa gave me carte blanche.” He scrubbed his hands, lit the oven, donned his double-breasted chef coat, and rolled up his sleeves. “What will it be?”

“Something from Vienna.”

“Apple strudel?”

She nodded.

Like a soldier under orders, he piled ingredients onto the central steel table: flour, apples, butter, sugar, lemons, oil, cinnamon, rum, breadcrumbs, an egg, and finally raisins. Daphne sat on a high stool and watched while he combined the dough ingredients by hand, transferred the ball to the floured countertop, and worked it with firm, rhythmic movements. He roasted the breadcrumbs in butter, cored and sliced the apples with speed and precision, and mixed them with lemon juice, a shot of rum, and a few spoonfuls of sugar and cinnamon. An hour before, Daphne hadn’t been sure if she wanted the relationship to go any further. But watching him now, she couldn’t help thinking that he was rather dexterous.

He floured a tea towel, opened the dough with a rolling pin, picked it up, and stretched it over his fists. When the circle had reached a transparent, leaf-like thinness, he transferred it to the tea towel, trimmed the rough edges with scissors, and spread the apple mixture on top. After folding a pastry edge over the filling with the care of a father covering his sleeping infant, Kosmas lifted the tea towel, causing the pastry to roll. For a second Daphne wondered if he would care for his children—perhaps their children—with similar tenderness. Then she reminded herself that this was the same guy who had just flipped out about her father’s religion.

Slow down, she said silently.

Kosmas buttered the seam, twisted, cut, and tucked the ends. Finally he transferred his creation, still swaddled in its tea-towel hammock, to a baking sheet and set it in the oven. Selin was right. Kosmas knew what he was doing in the kitchen.

“May I?” said Daphne. She amassed the trimmings into a ball and began rolling out the dough, just as their neighbor Josefina had always done with leftover bits. Kosmas leaned against the refrigerator, crossed his arms over his chest, and fixed his gaze on . . . her breasts? Or her dough rolling? She asked, “What are you looking at?”

“You’ll blush like the apples if I tell you.”

Daphne leaned even further. Kosmas’s gaze deepened, leaving no doubt. She sprinkled the dough with cinnamon and sugar, rolled it, cut it into slices, and said, “That’s what our Cuban neighbor used to make with the scraps.”

Kosmas transferred each pinwheel from the counter to a buttered baking tray, which he placed in the oven, on the shelf above the strudel. Then he slipped behind Daphne and turned off the industrial fluorescent lights, leaving the kitchen dark except for the warm orange glow of the oven. A moment later Daphne felt his hands on her hips. They caressed her lightly, almost imperceptibly, slowly rose over her back to her shoulders and neck, and finally descended to her breasts. She turned within his embrace. He entwined his hands in her hair, kissed her, and bit her bottom lip. She took a deep breath of the sweet apple-and-cinnamon steam as he pulled her blouse over her head. He lifted her onto the steel counter, beside the hot oven, and stood back to observe her. His eyes traveled over her bare chest. It was more arousing even than touch, as if he was already making love to her in his mind. He kissed her on the mouth, inhaled the scent of her neck, and kissed her mouth again. She wrapped her legs around him, locked her ankles behind his waist, and pulled him toward her.