Rosewater and Soda Bread (36 page)

After settling the pots on the refreshments table, Marjan, Fiona, and Evie joined the crowd walking into the main room, a large hall flanked by a wooden stage that was currently missing half its proscenium arch and at least thirty floorboards. Fiona surveyed the theater. Once completed, it would make a beautiful arena for Father Mahoney's many plays—under her astute directorial guidance, of course.

“You have a curtain already?” Marjan asked Fiona, pointing to the pearly screen of organdy stretched from one end of the stage to the other.

“That's just for tonight. Borrowed it from a pal at the Druid Theatre in Galway It's for the fairies' sake,” Fiona explained with a bemused look on her face.

“Finnegan?” Marjan said, moving to a side wall where bales of hay made for a scratchy yet convenient seating area.

The hairdresser laughed. “Finnegan, the Tuatha De Danaan, the Little People, the lot. It's meant to protect them from us. Or is it us from them?” Fiona shook her head. “I can never tell.”

She shrugged. “Anyway, it's the veil that separates our world from theirs. Keeps all things in balance for this Day of the Dead. Do you have something like this back in Iran?”

Marjan smiled. “Something like this, yes.” Veils were everywhere, she told herself. Even if you couldn't see them.

The ceili band—none other than the Covies—launched into a jigged-up version of Madonna's number one hit “Like a Virgin,” prompting Godot to leap up onto his tipsy owner. The Cat made as though he couldn't be bothered, but a moment later saw him waltzing with his hairy companion.

Marjan giggled as she made her way to the left wall, where the All Hallows' Eve Games were stationed. There she found Layla and Malachy lined up to try their luck at a game called Apple Dookin.

Layla was busy trying to talk her school friend Regina Jackson into giving the game a go. “You have to put your whole head in if you want to catch one,” she said, impatience in her voice. Regina was kneeling to the side of the large oak bin that held the Red Delicious apples.

“I just got this perm. I'm not about ruin it for anything,” Regina moaned, pointing to the red kinks springing every which
way from her head. She stood up and shrugged. “I'd rather just give them a donation.”

“You have to have an apple for the Mirror,” Malachy said.

Marjan looked at the next game, for which many of the villagers had gathered: the Lady in the Mirror.

A large blackboard taken from the high school spelled out the rules: Once the apple had been procured from the Dookin Tub, it was duly handed to Maura Kinley treasurer of the Ladies of the Patrician Day Dance Committee, who would slice it into nine even pieces. Eight were to be eaten, while the last one was to be held for the divination ritual of the Mirror.

Marjan craned her head to where a large gilt mirror hung on the wall. She couldn't read the rest of the rules over the crowd of heads. “What happens when you get to the Mirror?” she asked.

“You throw the last piece of your apple over your left shoulder and turn quickly to look at your reflection. Whatever picture you see in the mirror is supposed to be your future,” Layla replied. She put her hand on her sister's arm, gave her a long, deep look. “Are you all right, Marjan?”

Marjan patted her hand. “Of course I am,” she said. From across the room she could see Bahar looking at her as well.

Ever since she had told her sisters about Gohid and Ali, they had been treating her deferentially, nearly tiptoeing around her, really. She had even been ordered to take a holiday by Bahar, who had insisted on doing all the café's cooking herself for the rest of the week. They had a long and good cry about it, the three of them, especially when Marjan described her last glimpses of Ali before he was arrested. That was something she would never forget.

Marjan could see that Layla remained unconvinced. “I'm fine,
joon-e man
. Don't worry,” she assured her.

Layla nodded, smiling with relief. “Is Mrs. D coming?” she asked, searching the crowd.

“She's resting tonight. But she'll be at the church tomorrow.”

Marjan had not been up to the white cottage since yesterday, when she had brought Sean McNully to see his daughter, but the Italian widow had related the latest on the phone that morning:

“She is talking still! Yes! Not too much, but enough. Her papa was in there for three hours again today, they talk for three hours! Can you believe this? What a wonderful day! And she is staying here for more time. What happiness!” she exclaimed. “Tomorrow her papa and I are going to the hospital, to see Dr. Parshaw. He should not lose his job, he did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at all.”

Estelle was breathless with excitement. “And you want to know something else? You want to know what she said? Very quiet, only this morning? I bring her tea, just tea, and she says to me, ‘Thank you, Estelle.’ Just like this: ‘Thank you, Estelle.’ She knows my name, Marjan! Isn't that something wonderful?”

It
was
something wonderful, thought Marjan; there were so many blessings to be thankful for, so much beauty in their lives at the moment.

Malachy approached Marjan, a sheepish look on his handsome face. “About last week, Marjan. At the Inn. I just wanted to say that—”

“You don't have to say anything,” Marjan said, holding up her hand. “That's between you and Layla.” She winked at her youngest sister, who gave her a shy smile back.

“Thanks, Marjan,” Malachy replied.

“Not a problem,” she said, feeling suddenly very proud of Layla and Malachy. It was clear to her that they had a deep respect for each other. That was hard enough to sustain in any romance, let alone one in your teen years.

The young couple, with Regina in tow, moved to the Mirror line while a reel started in the open area in the center of the hall. Two rows of couples lined up for the traditional dance as the Covies jigged away to “The Boys of Belfast.” Marjan thought of what Julian had said to her before dropping her off from their beautiful evening at Ashford Castle. “I'll be in Dublin during the ceili, but you save a dance for me all the same. There'll be plenty of dancing once I get back, I promise.” She smiled at the memory. She couldn't wait.

Someone coughed behind her.

Marjan turned, knocking right into Dara O'Cleirigh.

Dara nodded cordially as he stepped back. “Hello again.” He was without his usual rain jacket, though his dark hair was as windswept as it had been on the boat's deck.

Marjan couldn't hide her surprise. “What are you doing here?” She stopped. “I mean, hi. How are you?” The last time she had seen him was at the dock back in Clew Bay, before she and Sean had driven off to Estelle's.

“Grand now, if I get my workin' done.” He lifted the large Canon camera hanging from his neck. “I do bits for the
Con-naught
every now and again. Trips to Argentina have to pay for themselves some way.”

Before Marjan had a chance to say anything else, Dara moved away, flicking his left hand from his head in an abrupt good-bye. His faithful dog, Escher, had come with him and was currently sniffing away at a perturbed Godot.

Fiona sidled up to Marjan with a large candied apple. “Who was that?”

“Just someone I met the other day. He's very strange,” said Marjan thoughtfully.

“He reminds me of my ex.” Fiona sniffed, referring to her late German puppeteer of a husband. “Stay away from the artists,
Marjan. They'll only give you heartache,” she said, biting into her shiny treat.

“Oh, I'm not looking for an artist,” Marjan replied. “At least not someone like him, that's certain.”

Fiona clucked approvingly. “Good girl, yourself.” She nudged Marjan. “Now why don't you get yourself a divination while you're at it?”

Marjan glanced at the line weaving its way to the gilt mirror. “Why not?” She turned back to Fiona. “Are you coming?”

The hairstylist narrowed her eyes in discontent. “Looks like my future's all set. I predict that devil of a goat's got his eye on the stage there. Better grab his billy before he tears down the veil.” She marched purposefully toward Godot and his owner, both of whom were inching their way to the proscenium. Dara O'Cleirigh and his Canon were trailing the degenerate duo closely. The photographer had the same instincts as Fiona; his camera was shuttering away in anticipation of a grand old ruckus.

Marjan smiled as she watched Fiona brandish her candied apple at the Cat before turning to Maura Kinley

“Got yours already sliced, Marjan,” the treasurer said with a wide grin. “No one our age should be kneeling for her luck.”

Marjan accepted the plate of apple slices. “Easy now, Maura. I'm not getting my pension yet,” she said with a laugh.

“But you'll be looking for a husband soon enough, I'd say. That's the real purpose of the Mirror,” Siobhan Kelly piped up next to her. The shoe shop owner pointed to the last rule on the big blackboard. “I'm not standing here for anything less.”

Marjan leaned forward to read the small print.

Marjan smiled. Fiona's contribution, no doubt. Or Germaine Greer's. She turned to the growing line behind her. She had not noticed it before, but it seemed as though most of the village's unmarried women had taken their dripping turns at the tub of bobbing apples.

“Must have missed that last rule,” Marjan said, feeling a little giggle rise in her throat.

“If you don't want to risk finding out, just take a bit out of your throw slice. That'll keep Cupid at bay for a while,” Maura offered.

“Thanks. I think I might do that.” Marjan picked up one glistening red slice. She took a healthy bite out of it, relishing the briskness of its red skin as it broke between her teeth. The fruit had a particular taste of earth and Atlantic showers that was nothing like the sweeter version she remembered from Iran. What autumn bounty, indeed, she thought.

With her mind on the coming season, Marjan faced her reflection in the mirror.

“You have to turn away from the Lady, or she'll never tell you her secrets,” Julian whispered in her ear. “Isn't that a woman for you?”

Marjan gave a little gasp as she felt his palm settle on the small of her back. She blinked at the reflection before her. It was him all right.

“Not a big fan of putting my life in her avaricious hands. At least not if I can help it,” he said, inching closer.

Marjan smiled at the welcome face in the Mirror. “I think Lady Fate's disappeared for the moment.” She tilted her head up at Julian. “What happened to going to Dublin?”

He smiled. “Had a change of heart halfway there. The local contractor can handle it, I told myself. It'll cost me an arm and a leg less. Not to mention get me into the good graces of this mercurial parish of ours.” He leaned forward and winked toward the line of women behind Marjan. “Evening, ladies. Looking your usual gorgeous selves tonight, I see. Ah, if I could only stop the hands of time and have a dance with each of you—a happy man I'd surely be.” There were blushes of delight all around, followed by a few faces looking rather hopeful at the thought. Marjan resisted a giggle.

“You'll have them eating out of your hands if you're not careful, Mr. Muir,” she said, shaking her head.

“That's precisely where I want to keep them.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Better to leave my lips free for you alone, that is, if you're willing.” Then, right there, in front of the entire village gathered, with the swoon of the ceili band rising in four-step over them, his lips met hers in an apple-scented kiss.

The Lady in the Mirror could wait another year, thought Marjan. She had found her destiny.

“IT'S A QUARTER TO MIDNIGHT, everyone, time to wrap things up before the fairy folk make their way across from their underworld!”

Father Mahoney stood at his post in one corner of the stage, his trusty Ari 3000 turned up to full hilt.

“Let's not forget, this All Hallows' Eve is a feast of the dead,” he said. “As well it's a bit of a bash for all those who have yet to be born. There'll be a parade of souls, both fairy and otherwise, moving across the fields, and I for one am not taking my chances.

“Grab a loaf of Mrs. Boylan's currant soda bread on the way out. Leave it on your doorstep or on your kitchen table, with some whiskey if you can spare it. It'll keep the folk from knocking down your way.

“And be sure to tune in on Monday when I'll recount the whole history of this sacred holiday. I'll be seeing you at Mass tomorrow, bright and sharp for All Souls' Day!” Father Mahoney waved at everyone.

The last of the ceili revelers filed out of Town Hall, punch-drunk on merriment and cider. Most paused at the door, where a plank table was piled with cellophane-wrapped loaves of soda bread.

Marjan and Julian each took a loaf from Mrs. Boylan, while Danny Fadden waived his chances, not wanting to keep his Finnegan away.