A Perfect Match

by Sinéad Moriarty

  Gary began to read:

  ‘Emma has two losses here. The first is when Garfield was run over by a truck and she had to go and scrape his flattened body off the road.’ Gary’s lips were beginning to twitch. I turned purple. ‘The second is when she lost her two front teeth the day of her first … ha ha … her first Holy … ha ha … Communion,’ he said, shaking with laughter as everyone else joined in.

  I wanted to die.

  ‘Well done, darling,’ whispered James. ‘You’ve really put us ahead of the bunch now.’

  Dervla was not amused. ‘This is not a subject to be taken lighdy,’ she fumed.

  ‘I wasn’t making fun, honestly, I just couldn’t think of anything – I’m really sorry. I guess I’ve been very lucky on the loss front, nobody has died on me yet and I haven’t had any miscarriages, I just have crappy old eggs,’ I said, fighting back tears. God, I’d really blown it this time.

  ‘It’s OK, Emma. It can be a difficult exercise. Don’t worry, everyone has different levels of loss,’ said Yvonne, patting me on the arm. ‘Now, who’s next?’

  The next hour was the longest of my life. I couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I was so humiliated.

  As we were leaving, Brendan waved. ‘Good luck, Emma, I hope no more tragedies strike you. Be careful not to break a nail or something,’ he said, laughing as he squeezed his fat arse into his sports car.

  ‘Oh God, James, how bad was it?’

  ‘To be honest, darling, I think you outdid yourself today. I particularly enjoyed the toothless Holy Communion.’

  ‘I saw everyone scribbling away and I panicked. The only thing I could think of was Garfield and my teeth. I’m so embarrassed.’

  ‘Not your finest hour, perhaps, although it did give us all a good laugh.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think putting down losing the semi-final of last year’s Rugby Cup was much better,’ I grumbled at him.

  ‘Did you see the guys’ faces? They all agreed that that was a very big loss. The match, teamed with my grandfather – who was like a third parent to me – dying when I was ten, was relevant to the exercise. Scraping your cat’s body off the road was just a little off the mark.’

  ‘Stop, please. I feel bad enough as it is. Do you think I blew it? Do they all think I’m shallow and ridiculous and not fit to be a mother? Should I go back in and explain that I panicked? Oh God, James, what have I done?’ I said, beginning to hyperventilate.

  ‘Emma, hey. It’s all right. It wasn’t that bad. They thought it was funny and sweet. Of course they’re not going to reject us because your family didn’t die in a car crash when you were two. Some people have more losses than others. You were just honest about it. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’

  When we got home I took out the list of questions we had been given to answer for the next session. I wanted to make myself feel better by doing something positive, so I decided to tackle the questions then and there. I read the introduction:

  Here are fifty questions you might consider about the country and culture you are thinking of adopting from … when you have answered the following fifty questions, you may consider yourself to be well beyond the beginner stage … there will be questions that you cannot answer … as a comparison, consider how you would find out the answers if they were questions about Ireland.

  Right. I was going to answer every one of these ques­tions before the next session if it killed me. I’d prove my dedication to the adoption process by tracking down all the information. I’d fly to Moscow if I had to. Watch out Brendan and Joy, your time in the limelight is coming to an end.

  Question 1. How many people who are prominent in the affairs (politics, athletics, religion, the arts, etc) of the country you are interested in can you name?

  President Putin, Olga Korbut the gymnast, although she was a bit old at this stage, Rudolph Nureyev except I think he might have died … I’d come back to that one. I could look up people on the Internet. I decided to read all the questions and highlight the difficult ones. Question 2…

  I looked down at the page. I had highlighted forty-eight questions. They included:

  If, as a customer, you touch or handle merchandise for sale, will the storekeeper think you are knowledgeable, inconsiderate, within jour rights, completely outside your rights? Other? Come on! How the hell am I supposed to know? I’d have to go to Moscow and go around mauling things in shops to find that out. And what if it was considered outside your rights? Would I get arrested? Whisked off by the KGB and sent to Siberia to shovel snow for twenty years?

  If you are invited to dinner, should you arrive early? On time? Late? If late, how late? So now I had to go to Russia, make friends, hope someone would invite me over for dinner and then wait in a bush to see what time the other guests arrived at?

  If you are invited to a party, who wouldyou expect to find among the other guests? Were the Adoption Board people obsessed with dinner-party behaviour? How the hell would I know who to expect? – other normal people? Lunatics? Mafia? What?

  Who has the right of way in traffic – vehicles, animals or pedestrians? If I meet a cow on the road, am I supposed to let it overtake me? What kind of questions were these?

  I went to find James. He had sloped off when he saw me taking out the questionnaire. I found him lying on the couch watching rugby.

  ‘What’re you watching?’

  ‘Gloucester. We’re playing them next week. It’s a tape of their last game. Bloody good side too. The scrum half has the best pair of hands in the game. Look at that pass – text book stuff. Tough team to meet for a place in the quarter finals, I’d have preferred to meet Ulster.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll win. That guy may have good hands, but he’s got terrible balance. Why does he keep falling over when he gets the ball?’

  ‘It’s the dive pass, darling,’ said James. ‘It’s the more traditional style of … Never mind. What’s up?’

  ‘OK, well, I’ve been looking over die questions they gave us and they’re absolutely impossible – one of them even asks if we’ve read sacred religious Russian writings! So, we’re going to have to go to Russia for two weeks, before the next session.’

  ‘Hang on. Let me see them.’

  He read them and looked up. ‘Well, you’re right about them being impossible for us to answer. But with the big game coming up the week after next, I somehow don’t see a two-week holiday in Moscow as a runner.’

  ‘But, James, we have to make up for my fiasco. I’ll go on my own.’

  ‘You’re not going to Russia on your own.’

  ‘I know, maybe Danika can help. Poland is up there beside Russia, isn’t it? She’s bound to know about Russian culture.’

  ‘Actually, darling, I think you’ll find Poland borders Lithuania, the Ukraine and Belarus, not Russia. Not to mention the fact that assuming a Polish person knows all about Russian culture is like assuming a French person is au fait with all aspects of German life,’ said James, getting all technical and precise on me, which really got up my nose.

  ‘For all you know, Danika may have spent all her summer holidays in Russia, just like half of Germany spend their summers in France.’

  ‘A camping holiday in Provence does not make a German tourist an expert on French cultural behaviour.’

  ‘How about, instead of shooting down all my suggestions in flames and giving me geography lessons, you actually tried to do something helpful like suggesting a solution,’ I snapped.

  ‘Doesn’t Sean have a Russian workmate? Didn’t he bring caviar over last year that he got from a colleague?’

  ‘James Hamilton, you’re a genius,’ I said, forgiving him instantly. ‘He does have a Russian friend. I’ll call Sean now and fax him over the questions. Maybe the guy will know someone from his old village who has a baby they don’t want and then we won’t have to go through the adoption process. We can just hop on a plane and pick the baby up.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him for his help with the questions f
irst, then you can ask him to kidnap his neighbour’s child for us when you get to know him better.’

  16

  Sean’s friend Vlad was a great help. He filled in all the blanks and agreed that some of the questions on the list were very odd. I managed to refrain from asking him to nip home to Russia and abduct one of his neighbour’s babies, much to Sean’s relief. After talking to Vlad, I asked my brother how things were going with Shadee and he said everything was great, so good in fact that he was planning to bring her home in a couple of weeks to meet the family.

  The next morning, as I was transcribing Vlad’s answers into my workbook, Mum called.

  ‘Well, have you heard the latest?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sean’s bringing that girl home to meet us.’

  ‘Her name’s Shadee and, yes, I had heard.’

  ‘Why’s he bringing her home? It must be serious. Is it? Is it serious?’

  ‘I dunno. I suppose it is.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the girl.’

  ‘Be nice.’

  ‘I’ll be polite, but I’m not going to pretend I’m happy with the relationship.’

  ‘OK, but promise me you won’t bring up Not Without My Daughter. Have you read that book Sean gave you on Iran?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, now’s the time to do it. We should all be more informed. When you’ve finished, give it to me.’

  ‘They’re not staying here, of course.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Staying in a hotel, your brother announces. Want their own space, so they do. Our house obviously isn’t good enough for her.’

  ‘Mum – that was probably Sean’s idea.’

  ‘Pffff. Well, I’m having a family dinner for them on Saturday night – I won’t have her telling her parents that we weren’t welcoming to her. Make sure yourself and James are free. I better go – I haven’t time to be chitchatting if I’m to read that encyclopedia of Iran Sean gave me for Christmas. I might get your father to read it and give me a summary.’

  ‘Good idea – get him to do bullet points for me too. Bye.’

  Babs called over a few days later.

  ‘Hi. I’m starving,’ she said, pushing past me into the kitchen where she stuck her nose in the fridge. ‘Have you anything decent to eat?’

  ‘Make yourself at home.’

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ she said, as she made herself a sandwich.

  ‘Feel free to bring your own food next time you come.’

  ‘So you heard about Shadee?’ asked Babs, as she stuffed her face.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Mum’s doing my head in. She’s been cleaning the house since Sean called her to say they were coming. You’d swear it was a state visit from the queen. I wouldn’t mind, but they’re not even staying in the house. She barged in at seven yesterday morning and started ranting at me to tidy up my room … she wasn’t going to have the Iranian people thinking Irish people were slobs … she wanted this house to be gleaming … and on and on. She has Dad tormented with that stupid book Sean gave her for Christmas. She keeps following him around, asking him if they’re all mad, like in the movie.’

  ‘God, poor old Shadee. Five minutes’ interrogation from Mum and she’ll be swimming back to London.’

  ‘She won’t get far with the big black sheet weighing her down,’ said Babs, grinning at me.

  When we had finished laughing about Shadee’s swim to freedom in a yashmak, Babs asked me how the adoption was going.

  ‘It’s a lot harder than I imagined. You get homework and have to analyse your feelings all the time.’

  ‘Feelings about being barren?’

  ‘Not really – but thanks for bringing that up! More your feelings about how you think your child will cope with racism and abandonment and a new environment and stuff.’

  ‘Do they show you any videos of the orphanages? I saw one where the kids were lying on the cold, wet floors covered in sores and wearing dirty rags and there was this social worker-type woman who was picking them up and hugging them. I dunno how she did it – they were filthy.’

  ‘Jesus, Babs.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For God’s sake, the children can’t help it. They just need to be rescued and loved. Besides, apparendy the orphanages have improved a lot.’

  ‘Fine, but if I was you, I’d bring a big bottle of disin­fectant and some lice shampoo when you go to pick up your baby.’

  I have to admit she had a point. I was secredy worried about how I’d feel if our litde child was covered in open wounds and nits when we went to meet diem. I know they say it’s different when it’s your own child – but it still made me squirm to think about it. I felt evil for even allowing negative thoughts to enter my head, but I couldn’t get the sight of oozing pus out of my mind. I wasn’t good widi blood. The sight of it made me feel ill – so God knows how bad I’d be with sores.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I said, sounding more confident than I felt. ‘James is well used to blood and gore on the rugby pitch.’

  ‘It’s not James I’m worried about,’ said Babs smirking.

  ‘I’ll be fine too.’

  ‘May I remind you of the eczema incident?’

  Damn Babs and her elephant memory. The summer I was sixteen, our cousin Deirdre came to stay for a few weeks. Her parents were getting separated and Mum had told my Auntie Pam to send Deirdre up for a visit to try to distract her. Deirdre was given my room and I shared with Babs – who even at die tender age of four was really annoying. Cousin Deirdre suffered from eczema and when she got stressed, die eczema got worse. She was clearly very fraught about her parents’ divorce – for the three weeks she stayed, her skin peeled off in daily layers. After she left I moved back into my room. While I was helping Mum strip the sheets off the bed, bits of flaky skin fluttered to the ground. I freaked. Mum said not to worry, she’d boil-wash the sheets and they’d be as good as new. I said that not only could she burn the sheets, but she could burn the mattress as well because there was no way in hell I was going to sleep on it after Deirdre of the snaky skin. I was told not to be so ridiculous, but I dug my heels in, and no flipping or the mattress, or new sheets would induce me to sleep in that bed. I had nightmares about dead skin sticking to me. Eventu­ally, after two weeks or finding me asleep on the floor, Mum relented and bought me a new mattress.

  ‘That was nineteen years ago, things have changed, I’ve grown up and, besides, it’s different when it’s a baby.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ snorted Babs. ‘Anyway, can you do me a quick make-over, I’ve got a date tonight.’

  ‘New guy?’

  ‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I’m re-cycling an old one out ot pure boredom.’

  ‘Finding a job might help fill your days. It’s what normal people do.’

  ‘Actually, I’m starting an acting course next week, so I will be working.’

  Acting! As if she needed any encouragement to be more dramatic.

  A couple of days before Sean and Shadee were due to arrive, I called in to see how things were going with the Iranian research. I was hoping Dad would have a quick summary for me so that I wouldn’t appear like a complete philistine when I was talking to Shadee. Mum opened the door, looking extremely fraught.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said, genuinely worried by her pale demeanour.

  ‘I’m at my wits’ end,’ she sniffed, trying not to cry. ‘I decided to show this girl that we are an open-minded family, so I was going to cook an Iranian meal. I asked Barbara to look up the computer and find me the most popular Iranian dish. This is what she found,’ said Mum, handing me the printout.

  I looked down. It was the recipe for a dish called Maghz. The main ingredient was lamb brains. The instructions noted: Wash the brains carefully in cold water and then remove the skin and reins… I looked up, Mum was nodding her head.

  ‘Brains! Sheep’s brains. That’s what they eat there even-day app
arently. No wonder they’re all lunatics. You get mad cow’s disease from eating animal brains. She’ll poison Sean with her cooking and then drag him back to Iran. She has him under a mad cow disease spell.’

  ‘Mum, calm down. Let me check this out on the Internet for you. I’ll be back down in five minutes.’

  I had a funny feeling that Babs was winding her up. I checked out Iranian recipes on the web and found that although Maghz was an Iranian dish, it was not the most popular and there were plenty of others to choose from. I printed out the recipe for Khoresht Baamieh.

  ‘Stewing lamb or beef, potatoes, onions, lime juice …’ read Mum, looking ten years younger as she realized she wouldn’t have to perform a lobotomy on a sheep for dinner.

  Dad strolled in looking very pleased with himself. He handed us both a sheet of paper with ten bullet points under the heading:

  Info on Iran – based on facts, not on a Hollywood film

  1) Area: 1.64 million sq km

  2) Population: 68.27 million

  3) People: Persian (Farsis) (65%), Azari (25%), Arab (4%), Lors (2%), Turkmen (2%), Kurdish, Armenian, Jewish

  4) Language: Persian, Kurdish

  5) Religion: Shi’ite Muslim (89%), Sunni Muslim (10%), Zoroastrian, Jewish, Christian, Baha’i (1%)

  6) Government: Islamic Republic

  7) Head of State: Spiritual Leader (Rahbar) Ayatullah Sayyed Ali Khomeini

  8) Iranian cuisine is heavily based on rice, bread, fresh veg etables, herbs and fruit. Meat, usually lamb or mutton minced or cut into small chunks, is used to add flavour but is rarely the dominant ingredient, except in kebabs.

  9) The national drink of Iran is chay (tea), always served scalding hot, black and strong.

  10) Alcohol is strictly forbidden to Islamic Iranians, though it is permitted for religious purposes, such as communion wine in churches, and to non-Muslims with special per­mission.