Rosewater and Soda Bread (24 page)

“A cure?”

“That's right. Cure: healing water, New Age crap. You're not an American, are you, now?” The man moved slowly around the van, looking at the peace signs with raised eyebrows.

Marjan stepped back. “No, I'm Iranian.”

The man paused, as though unsure of what to make of the information.

“Oh, right,” he said somewhat flippantly. He came back around the van and stood next to her again, his dark raincoat flapping in the wind. Before Marjan knew what was happening, he had raised his fingers to his mouth, giving out a piercing whistle. At the sound, a black-and-white head popped up from the deck of the blue boat below. As Marjan stared, a large sheepdog
leapt onto the dock and trotted across the road toward them.

The man knelt down to pet the shaggy mutt. “Good boy, Escher, good boy.” The dog rolled onto his back, his paws raised in surrender. His owner took his time rubbing his belly before looking up at Marjan once more. “So it's not enough you've got the
Connaught
calling you magic, now you want to take it from others as well?”

Marjan frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. If I were you, I would just let it go. I'm sure you can cook up something to take care of whatever's ailing you. Heartburn, indigestion, your local bout of salmonella.” He stood up, pulling the cords of his raincoat tight. He started toward the dock, the dog trotting loyally after him.

“I'm sorry, but I don't know what you are talking about.” Marjan was surprised to hear the anger in her voice.

“I'm sure you don't,” he said. “Dogs are innocent, Miss Am-inpour. Not men and women.
Especially
not women.” And with one last scowl over his shoulder, he crossed over to the dock.

WITH A STRAW BASKET
hooked on her left arm, Marjan set about clipping long stalks of cilantro in the backyard. A fat bunch would be just what she needed for the afternoon's special platter: New Year's
kuku
.

A concoction of fluffy eggs, sweet herbs, and clarified butter, the pancake was a springtime dish by the usual standards. Marjan had decided to add it to the café's autumn menu not on a whim but after careful consideration. It was the
kuku
that had finally given her the answer to the questions posed yesterday on the shores of Clew Bay.

As soon as she had woken up that morning, she had known what to cook for Estelle's dinner. She had not even needed to consult the
Canon
to check whether or not the
kuku
was part of the abortive diet. Neither did she look into the fat botanical guide she also read on a regular basis, double-checking to see whether the herbs would aid a healthy pregnancy.

She did not have the power to make those kinds of judgments, she had finally decided; at least not for someone else's life.

Of course, thought Marjan, there was no denying that her meals had certain persuasive elements, especially over the diner who sat down to them willingly. It was common knowledge that her food had the ability to move some tongues into song. She considered the potency of her dishes as a basic truth, not hinging on potions or magic but a direct result of her fresh, earthbound ingredients. But it was not her dishes alone that prompted customers to start acting on dreams last remembered in adolescent years. That, she decided, rested entirely on the diner, on his or her ability to recognize their inherent, individual power. All she could do was provide her food with an open heart and no expectations.
Kuku
, with equal mixtures of
garm
and
sard
ingredients, and its beaten center of beginnings—the egg with its yolk heart—was one of the best recipes for freedom, a gentle place from which the eater could choose her own outcome.

Marjan finished her clipping and stood up. The basket had just enough herbs for the
kuku
: fat bunches of parsley, dill, cilantro, and chives, glistening still with the morning dew. She crossed the backyard and ascended the stone steps, pushing the kitchen door open with her right elbow. She had made the mistake of using her left shoulder a few weeks back, completely forgetting about the healed wound in its juncture, a softly puckered inch of skin that was still sore to the touch.

Once, a long time ago, she had pulled a wooden stake from that very spot. Pulled it out and used it to ward off the devil himself.

It had been the first time she had not remembered about the cut, and she had decided to take the forgetfulness as a good sign.
Maybe the past was truly behind them now, thought Marjan, stepping in just as another drizzle began its march across the western sky.

Wasn't that where the past belonged, after all?

THE FIGURE IN THE CHAIR was enveloped in shadows and lethargy. Time seemed to have stopped still somewhere around the seat's wingtips, mummifying the man in its ugly patterned upholstery.

His face, once a puffy cross-stitch of capillaries and ragged eyebrows, was reduced to a series of flapping jowls, cemented by deep forks that ran along the sides of his unhappy mouth. A heart attack would have been enough to do it, thought Padraig Carey. But then there was an uneasy diet of disco music, bland dinners, and Cecilia McGuire's red-light rubdowns to contend with. That would be enough to throw any man over the edge.

As the councilman crept nervously into the room, which was still carpeted in that psychedelic brown and orange, he couldn't help but recall the summer's eve he had first entered that very house, as a young man come a-courting. That night he had come laden with chocolates filled with vanilla cream and a handful of pansies, feeling dapper and quite confident of his prospects, with the lusty looks of Margaret McGuire to prompt him. A quarter of an hour later he had left with the wilted flowers still clutched in his fist, and the first of many anxiety attacks seizing his small, hairy body.

Fourteen years hadn't changed things. He could still feel his flesh creep.

“How's it, Tom? Catching up on the reading?” Padraig's throat emitted something between a cough and a wheeze. He
rocked back and forth on his heels, taking on the Ballinacroagh stance of manly camaraderie.

Thomas McGuire continued to stare at the LP record on his lap.

“Margaret's been telling me the good news, how the profits are up at the pubs. By twelve percent, last notice. Isn't that grand, now?”

Thomas's cracked knuckles whitened as he gripped the record cover. He had not said a word since Padraig entered the parlor.

Once a month the entire McGuire clan—or what was left of them—met at Thomas's for a rump roast and an afternoon of screaming kiddies and business concerns. And while this was a weeknight, the earlier side of the month, Padraig could not shake the sensation it was his hide being barbecued this meal.

Another minute passed before Thomas opened his mouth. “Everyone said Barry was the better bachelor, taking Studio 54 by its bollocks, but it wasn't true. It was Robin—he's the one with the teeth and glasses—that had the birds lining up two at a time to get into his pants. Wouldn't think to look at him, now, would you?” He pivoted the record cover toward Padraig.
The Best of the Bee Gees, Volume One
.

Thomas's brother-in-law shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No. No, you wouldn't, Thomas.”

Thomas scrutinized the councilman. “Take yourself, now. A man might look at you and think he's chatting away to some imbecile, some little fart from the bog roads of Ballina, all the while not knowing what you're really about underneath that stinking suit and all.”

“W-what do you m-mean, Thomas? What's the trouble?”

Thomas let out a low growl. “Listen to him, trying to hide his poxy ways from the Lord above. The truth can't be hidden from me, you should know that by now, Padraig.”

“Why, Thomas, what are you saying? I'm as clear as water, you know that.”

“Not when it comes to manning the post, you're not. Sitting with your thumb up your arse.”

“Eh?”

“The girl, you feckin' eejit! The girl!”

Padraig began to sweat, finally understanding. “Oh, right.”

“I'd get myself up to the witch's but for the stink. The smell of that place sends my liver up to a knot, so it does.” Thomas punched his flaccid stomach, groaning at his enfeebled body.

“But I've done the rounds,” Padraig replied. “There's nothing to the rumors, Thomas. You know how Dervla likes to talk.”

“It's Dervla herself who saw it all, you feckin gobshite! Or her sister—all the same, anyhow!” Thomas tossed the Bee Gees LP off his lap. It landed on a nearby ottoman, the polyester trio grinning up at Padraig.

The councilman held up his hands. “Now, Tom, calm yourself. All this talk is not giving your heart a chance.”

Thomas rounded on his brother-in-law. “Feck my heart!” he barked. “You think I plan to spend my days rotting away, listening to old records? It's Thomas McGuire you're talking to, now, boyo!”

Thomas pushed his large hands against the arms of the wing chair, swiveling his massive trunk toward Padraig. The heart attack might have restricted his day-to-day activities, but it certainly had not lessened the sheer terror the publican could summon when he put his mind to it. Thomas pointed a large, crooked finger at his brother-in-law. “And don't think I don't know what that Margaret is up to: must have really hit her well to think me caged up here like this. Thinks she's some feckin' queen with her hand in all the pots, does she? Taking in every bit of trash that comes off the streets, so Dervla tells me.”

“Sure, I tell her to stop with the Cat and such. She won't listen to anything I say, Thomas. What can I do?” Padraig loosened his tie, lowered himself onto the edge of the ottoman in dejection.

“What can I do? What can I do?” Thomas mewled in imitation. “You can get yourself up to that witch's nest, that's what you can do.” He spat, stamping his boots. Despite spending most of his days in that wing chair, he still wore the mud-encrusted boots he had favored in his working days.

“Take the guards with you when you do. And do something about that Paki doctor as well. If it's not a law you can take them on, then try on some accounts of foul play” He stopped, took a breath. “Dervla says she's not the old bat's relation after all.”

Padraig nodded. “That Marjan Aminpour, she said it's some stranger she feeds like the rest of them. Taken into Mayo General on some sort of woman's business. Marjan said…” The councilman trailed off. Thomas was gritting his teeth so hard, the sides of his potato face were twitching uncontrollably.

Padraig gulped. “Er, right, right. All a load of bollocks.” He cleared his throat. Where was Margaret when he needed her?

Thomas leaned in close to his face. So close that Padraig could smell the brussels sprouts he had consumed with his pork chop dinner. “You listen to me, you little hairy excuse for a fart,” he growled. “When the time comes—and I won't say when, now, but it'll come—when the time comes, I'm going to get myself out of this feckin' chair, out of this feckin' room, out of Cecilia's feckin' clutches, and march straight down to the Mall. You hear me?” His eyes bulged with anger.

“I'm going to take back what's mine, twice over. But this time I'm going to do it right. This time I'll have the law on my side.” He looked off in the distance. “Feckin' whores, the lot of them.”

Padraig stared at his brother-in-law and swallowed back his own anger, that sizzling fear that came from such blatant and constant emasculation. What could have possessed him to come a-courting that long ago day, he wondered. Couldn't he just have kept the notion in his pants, where it belonged?

Thomas seemed to have read his regrets. “Just remember,” he said, leaning in even further. “I gave you your life and I can take it back as well. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “One word and you'll be right back on the bog with your old dad, turning up turd and turf with a donkey for a mate. Just one word from my lips, Padraig, to the man in Castlebar.”

He cast a ruthless eye on the sweating councilman. “Didn't think I married the old mayor's daughter for her fat rump and mangy cooking, did you, now? Eh, Padraig?”