Rosewater and Soda Bread (7 page)

“Will you have a pint, Marjan?” Fiona asked, as they pushed through the smoky, cheerful pub.

“Some cider, if there's any left. Thanks!” Marjan had to yell over the bustle of the front room. From the back parlor thunderous clapping followed the beat of a bodhran drum, that goaded cry of battle dawns. “I'm just going to make a phone call!” She pointed toward the back of the pub as Fiona sidled up to the long oak bar.

Weaving her way through the crowd, Marjan passed by a
plank table tucked under a low alcove. Known to regulars as the Confessional, the spot was a favorite of amorous couples, chosen mainly for its darkened crannies and velvet-curtained nooks. She caught a glimpse of Malachy sitting with Peter and Michael Donnelly in one corner. Wedged in with the lads was Layla, her lips glued to a pint of stout, drinking greedily from its creamy top.

Wonderful, thought Marjan, as a trio of tweed-capped farmers blocked her view. That was all she needed: a hormonal teenager with curious taste buds. It was a good thing Bahar had gone home early; the sight of Layla sipping Guinness would not have gone over well with their more conservative sibling.

Marjan took another look around the busy pub. Quite a few families had gathered under its cozy rooftop tonight. Children of all ages were among the patrons; newborns and toddlers cradled in corners and benches while their parents drank and gossiped about the brilliant but all too brief Bonfire. There was even a carpeted area reserved for young ones to crawl, next to a corner table where a gang of school-age kiddies had set up a house of cards.

It was a time-honored tradition in Ireland, bringing the whole gang out to the local pub for some craic and grub. The bar was an extension of the family parlor, after all, a big living room where loneliness and the constant rain could be cast away for a few precious hours.

Still, Layla should know better than to take advantage of that singular strain of hospitality, thought Marjan, reminding herself to make a stop by the Confessional on her way back.

She slipped past the crowded back parlor and descended a flight of sloping wooden stairs. The Covies, with Conor Jennings on the tin whistle, had just launched into a spirited rendition of U2's “With or Without You,” a big hit of the summer charts. At the bottom was a narrow hallway that housed the
ladies' loo. One of the many additions to the pub since Margaret McGuire had taken over its management, the restroom had initially caused quite a rumpus with Paddy's male contingent. Generations of drinkers had taken their bathroom breaks in the outhouse beside the beer garden, it was fervently argued, and any woman who thought herself equipped for the stout should be expected to likewise abide. Well aware that the criticisms were fueled by envy over the powder room's soft toilet paper and lavender-scented potpourri, Margaret ignored the comments and went ahead with her renovations.

Marjan slipped a ten-cent coin into the wall pay phone opposite the restroom door. She dialed from memory, easy since she called the number at least once a day.

Estelle finally answered on the fifth ring. “
Si?
” the Italian widow whispered.

“Estelle? It's Marjan. How are you?” Marjan cradled the receiver closer to her ear as the tin whistle revved through a series of dizzying triplets directly above her.

“
Si
?Eh, hello?”

“Estelle, can you hear me? Is everything okay?” Marjan raised her voice, not realizing she had also been whispering.

“Hello, Marjan. Uh, sorry I could not come tonight.”

“I was worried it had to do with your arthritis. Is it acting up again? Do you want me to come up and get you? You could stay with the three of us tonight.”

“No, darling, that is okay. I have your lentil soup from yesterday. That warmed me very nice. Oh, so good,” the widow said with a sigh.

“But is it warm enough up there for you? I can send Malachy up to chop some firewood.”

“No, no … you go now and have a good time. I can hear the music. I come to you next week again.”

“Let me come up tomorrow. I can bring some
gormeh sabzi
, all right?”

“Ah, no, that is all— Oh, okay, yes. Tomorrow, tomorrow. Okay, bye-bye. Bye, Marjan.”

And she hung up.

Marjan stood staring at the receiver in her hand for a moment. Estelle's voice had sounded awfully strange. Distant, as though it was being sifted through layers of mountain fog.

Marjan was glad she had made such a large batch of
gormeh sabzi
that day. The stew would give Estelle some of her strength back.

Marjan replaced the phone in the cradle and turned toward the staircase.

“I was hoping to find you here.”

The Englishman she had met yesterday, Julian Winthrop Muir, stood at the foot of the stairs. He had to duck to avoid the low oak frame.

“Hello,” said Marjan, catching her breath.

“It seems I missed the pyrotechnics. How was the Bonfire?” he asked, amusement dancing across his face.

“Better than expected. You can never tell with all the rain.”

“Ah yes, the West with all its rain,” Julian remarked. “ ‘To Connaught or to Hell,’ as Cromwell liked to say. Now there was one Englishman not welcomed in these parts.”

He moved aside, letting a group of middle-aged women pass by. Already on their third gin and tonics, they had no trouble giving him the twice-over. They muffled their giggles and shuffled into the ladies' loo, though not before throwing him some suggestive grins.

“Looks like you're doing all right,” said Marjan with a smile. “Being welcomed, I mean.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be too certain, now. You never know what
the locals think of you straight out,” Julian said pointedly. “A lot goes on behind closed doors in Ireland.”

Marjan agreed. “Same as in Iran,” she said.

“Oh?” Julian looked at her with genuine curiosity. “How do you mean?”

“Well,” Marjan said, “we like our privacy in Iran, as well.”

He nodded. “You mean your veils. I'm afraid I can't get used to that image. Only old women and the very religious wore your black chadors when I last visited. Now it's something else, indeed.”

“It's not something I can get used to seeing either. On television, I mean.” She paused. “But that isn't what I meant by privacy. It's part of it, perhaps, but only a small bit.”

Julian leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Go on. This is fascinating.”

Marjan cleared her throat, surprised by the tingle of attraction in her belly. “It has something to do with our history, I think,” she began. “Something about being conquered so often.”

“You mean by the Arabs?”

“Them, and there was the Mongolian invasion. And later on the British and the Americans, in their own way.” She looked up, blushing. “Sorry.”

“Not at all. I'm only part British, so I'm only half-insulted,” he said, jokingly. “But you might have a point about the comparison. A complicated topic.”

Marjan nodded. “Yes, complicated. It's funny, I was thinking about this exact thing earlier this evening,” she said, as much to herself as to the man standing next to her. She turned to the stairs, still in deep thought.

Julian came up from behind. “Mind if I follow you up?”

Marjan shook her head and smiled softly back at him. She climbed the stairs, her hand gripping the banister. She wondered
if he was staring at her backside and found herself blushing at the thought.

At the top of the stairs, they both paused, dodging the jostle of the pub crowd. The band had finished with their butchering of Bono's solo and its members were taking a drinks break.

Julian turned his green eyes on her. “Can I get you a pint?”

Marjan stared at him, feeling the jolt in her stomach once again. “Umm …”

He flashed her a smile, nodding. “Go on. I have some great stories to tell. Spent an entire five weeks with the whirling dervishes of Kush once, if you can believe that.”

“Sounds wonderful. But…” She could see Fiona waving to her from the bar.

Julian followed her gaze. “But you have your pint waiting, I see.”

Marjan ducked her head shyly. “Thank you, all the same.”

“My pleasure,” he replied. He turned to go, then looked at her once again. “I'll take a rain check, as the Yanks say. Not bad odds, from where I'm standing.” He nodded at the misty darkness outside the pub window before disappearing into the crowd.

Marjan took a deep breath. The whirling dervishes of Kush— she had heard him right, hadn't she?

At that moment she couldn't be too sure: she felt as though she were whirling herself, her heart turning and turning as rapturously as those mystical dervish men.

“YOU'RE GOING TO LOSE your looks if you keep going the way you do. Besides, it is
illegal
, Layla.” Bahar's voice was as stern as her march across the kitchen tiles.

“Oh! How can you be such an old lady at twenty-five?”

“It's not about being an old lady. It's about being right!”

Marjan sifted through a bowl of walnuts and dried apricots as she observed her sisters from the corner of her eye. They had been at each other ever since the café had opened for Saturday breakfast.

“When I am right, I am right. That's all there is to it,” said Bahar, opening the refrigerator door.

“You mean
righteous
. God, who made you queen of Ireland all of a sudden?” Layla was preparing a roasted eggplant and hummus roll at the wooden island. She held the stuffing awkwardly down with the blade of a knife as she tried to roll the bread tight.

“I'm telling you, it's not right. And the guards there as well. Are there no laws in this country that people actually obey?” Bahar poured cherry water into two tall glasses and placed them on a small brass tray.

Marjan left the island and walked over to the swinging doors. Hungover faces, many familiar to her from the pub the night before, filled the cozy café.

Bahar paused to address her on the way out: “You see these?” She pointed to the glasses of cherry water. “Cures for those two in there. Drunk still, from that bar. That bar our little sister was in until all hours last night. Humph!”

She disappeared into the dining room and plunked the two glasses in front of the Donnelly twins, Peter and Michael. The young men gratefully slurped back the refreshing drink, a sweet and sour mixture that cured hot flashes as well as nights of excessive tippling of the black and tans.

Marjan returned to the sink. “I'm not getting involved. I told you how I felt about you drinking last night,” she said to Layla. “I want to leave it at that.”

Layla pouted. “It was just a little sip.”

“Still, you are underage. And it isn't that healthy for you either.”

Layla looked indignant. “But you drank. I saw you at the bar with Fiona.”

“I'm older, Layla. And this is not about what I do at the bar.” Marjan rolled her tired shoulders and turned back to the island. “Just take it easy with Bahar, all right? All this arguing is making me lose my concentration.”

She stared at the bowl of walnuts and apricots for a moment, trying to remember the next step in her stuffing recipe.

Was it chop first then fry, or fry then chop? It was simple enough. So why couldn't she remember it? Her mind was all over the place today, fractioned. Scattered, even.

Layla raised her hands in protest. “She just won't stop. How did she find out anyway? She wasn't even at the pub.”

Marjan hadn't seen Bahar at the bar either, but she wasn't too surprised to hear that her sister had uncovered Layla's Guinness venture. Bahar had access to an intuition that could come only from her sensitive nature.

“I don't know how she knows, but I do know that she hasn't had one of her headaches in a very long time. And you are not helping keep it that way.” She gave her younger sister a knowing glance. “All right?”

Layla shrugged, nodding reluctantly. She placed her hummus roll on a small plate and sat down to her snack. Halfway through her roll, a devilish smile stole across her face.

She put down her food and crossed her arms. “So, who's that guy you were talking to last night?”

Marjan did not answer right away. She moved to the stove as casually as possible, turning up the back burner. She let it crackle under a deep pan of butter before giving a small shrug. “Just a customer,” she said, dumping the fruit and nuts into the sizzling butter.

“I've never served him before. He was nice,” Layla said, throwing her sister a bemused smile.

Marjan shook her head, stirred the golden mixture. “What happened to Malachy being your one true love? Are you growing fickle in your old age, Miss Layla?”

Layla shrugged. “I have eyes, don't I? And they told me that guy was nice.”

Marjan blushed, sending Layla into a peal of laughter.

“Okay, okay. But you haven't heard the end of this conversation.” After a moment she spoke again: “Marjan?”

“Yes,
joon-e man
?”

“Have you thought more about, you know, that thing we talked about? At the train station?”

Marjan turned to face her little sister. “Fat Friar's?”

Layla nodded, her turn now to become shy.

Marjan sighed. “I have to be honest with you, Layla. I'm not sure if I feel comfortable with the whole thing.”