“I don't know, Miss Aminpour. Sometimes it just must be done.”
Marjan nodded, understanding the doctor completely. “Thank you, Dr. Parshaw.”
He tapped the casserole dish with his pen. “Perhaps your delicious rice will loosen her tongue, yes?”
“I hope so.” Marjan thanked him again and made her way to the door.
She walked in to find the old woman talking animatedly to the silent patient.
“And this, this is very special,” Estelle said, pointing to a photo album on her lap. “Beautiful day.” She scooted to the edge of her chair, opening the album page further.
“Luigi wanted to bake a special cake for my birthday. But I didn't even want a piece of biscotti. Not even a macchiato, I was so depressed.”
Estelle sighed, looking at the photo thoughtfully. “You know, fifty years is a very important time for a woman. The hips get big overnight, the skin looks tired, and if you are unlucky with marry, the husband looks like a bad piece of eggplant you want to compost, not eat. I had good husband, but I was still getting old.
“So, okay, I was a little sad that day. Very missing Napoli. And I wake up in morning and I see Marcello Mastroianni. Believe me, I almost scream. I think my Luigi has turned into Marcello Mastroianni while I was a-sleeping!” Estelle waved her hands above her head.
She turned her head dreamily, as though reliving that moment in bed.
“Then, I look again and see that it is Luigi, but he dressed like so handsome, and he is sitting on top of a Vespa. A white new motor. I always want a Vespa, but you know we left Napoli after the War, and how can you find such a thing here in Ireland, eh?
“Okay, so now I wake and I have the best present. A present made by my Luigi's own hands. Would you believe he had made a Vespa for me? All from his famous meringue recipe! A meringue Vespa! What a baker, eh?” Estelle laughed. “We did not leave the bedroom that whole day!”
She blushed. “Ah, but I don't think you want to hear about that,” she said. That was when she noticed Marjan.
“And look who is here!” Estelle exclaimed, getting up from her seat. “It is Marjan. You remember Marjan, yes? She make that nice stew for you. The one you like so much!”
The girl made no show of having heard Estelle. She sat with her back propped against the three pillows, staring out the window to the cold clover valley below. The nurses had given her hair a good wash the night before; it fell around her shoulders in gleaming waves of auburn.
Estelle persevered. “A few more bowls and you will be strong enough to walk around my garden, yes? That is what Dr. Par-shaw said. Only a few more days for you to be strong again.”
She patted the girl's covered legs. “We will have to make you good and fat, yes?”
The girl took in a shallow, raggedy breath. She continued to stare out the frosted window, her profile thin with sadness.
Her hands, Marjan noted, were curled in tight fists on her lap, her interesting fingers hidden from sight.
A mermaid, Estelle had called her.
Maybe she was.
With the blanket pulled up all the way to her chest, and the silence that still pervaded her every breath, she could definitely have been mistaken for a Victorian heroine; the Lily Maid, thought Marjan, on her way out of Camelot's reign.
Tennyson's poem had been a favorite of Marjan's when she was younger; she had learned it in high school in Tehran, during a particularly spirited semester of English literature.
Still, it took a minute for her to remember the story's fateful outcome: the Lady of Shalott had not made it alive out of the fabled kingdom; she had left on her death barge, floating down a dark river.
THE VAN SIDLED UP to the backyard, chug-chugging along the wide gray cobblestones. It took a whole minute for it to reverse and downshift before finally nosing in with a precarious dive.
Marjan let go of the breath she had been holding as she watched the awkward maneuver. If Layla could pass this test, she told herself, she would soon be ready for her full license.
Cobbled back when donkey carts were the mode of privileged transport, the alleyway that ran behind the café was a dodgy steer at the best of times. Narrow enough for one vehicle to pass, it required careful navigation, especially for the green hippie van.
Marjan always made a concession to the space by parking the Volkswagen at an angle. As Corcoran's Bake Shop boasted no back garden, and had no need for parking space thanks to its owner's preference for wheelbarrow delivery, the arrangement was a sound one for both parties. Benny Corcoran never minded having to share his alley space, encouraged it even, as the sharing allowed him proximity to his primary source of inspiration, Layla Aminpour's rosewater and cinnamon scent.
Ever since the Babylon Café's opening, that first day when Benny had crossed paths with Layla on his way from Fadden's Mini-Mart, the baker had been on a steady chrysalis-like course of transformation. Not only had he tripled his hot cross bun production and experimented with a black yeast and soda water ferment that pumped his sugar loaves to near Blarney Stone proportions, but he had dedicated himself to the rigors of an exercise regime that found him running up and down Croagh Patrick's stony path once a week, showers notwithstanding.
Metamorphosis would have been an exaggeration had it been anyone but Benny Corcoran; the once puffy baker had turned his body and libido into a sinewy machine of redheaded virility—a development that did not bode well for his wife As-sumpta's version of the marriage sacrament.
Marjan opened the back door as Layla approached the gate. “Assumpta's going to be over in ten minutes about the way you parked there. You're blocking half the vent,” she said, pointing over the fence to a tin contraption sticking out of the bake shop's wall. Shaped like a small chef's coronet, the vent let out daily puffs of flour into the drizzly morning air. The van's side panel was blocking the passageway.
“Benny said it was fine. He's finished baking for the day,” Layla replied, latching the gate behind her. She giggled. “He was doing his pull-ups again,” she said.
“I guess he has to practice his patience some way,” Marjan said, returning her sister's smile. “Baking requires a whole set of virtues, patience top of the list.”
“You bake a great lavash bread,” Layla pointed out.
Marjan smiled. “But I'd rather be making chelow, if it came down to it.” They both stepped inside the kitchen. “It's somehow less complicated to pull off.”
Layla shrugged off her knapsack. “Well, your barbari bread was so good I even got Regina to taste some today.”
“What did she think of it?” Marjan said, returning to the island. She poured hot water into a small glass of saffron strands. The water turned an instant liquid light.
“She said it was nice, but she much preferred cream crackers. I tried to explain it wasn't the same thing, but there's no point, really. She still thinks we eat curry, even though I've told her a dozen times we're Iranian, not Indian.”
Layla picked one of the aprons hanging from a wrought-iron hook on the kitchen wall and tied it around her waist. “I can't wait until Emer gets back.”
Marjan looked up, surprised. “Emer's coming back? For good?”
Layla shook her head. “Just for Christmas holidays. Father Mahoney's already got her thinking up set designs for the nativity show. He stopped by school today. Auditions are next month,” Layla said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I'm thinking of trying out for Mary. What do you think Bahar would say to that?”
“Say to what?” Their middle sister pushed her way into the kitchen, using her behind to swing open the double doors.
She needed little help with the brass tray of empty dishes she carried in her strong arms. She slid them effortlessly onto the counter and whipped off her yellow checked apron. Underneath she was wearing a shin-length gray skirt with double pleats and pockets.
“Mary, Mother of Jesus. You know, the Virgin.” Layla flicked her eyebrows up and down in a teasing manner.
Bahar stared at her younger sister for a moment. “What about her?” Her voice was laced with tension.
“Well, Father Mahoney's writing his own version of the nativity—”
“Oh”—Bahar waved her hand dismissively—“the Christmas show he's auditioning.” She stopped short, her face reddening.
Layla squinted her eyes. “How did you know? He only announced it at school today.”
Bahar shrugged quickly and turned her back to Layla. “Mrs. Boylan. She told me about it at the Mart.” She stretched to reach her coat from the stand near the pantry. “What about it?”
Layla smiled, reaching over to a bowl of plums. “I'm thinking of auditioning.” She kept her eyes on Bahar, waiting for her inevitable reaction.
“For Mary.”
Layla nodded. She popped one in her mouth, chewing it with irreverent gusto.
Bahar sighed, her lips pursed tight. Then she nodded, moving her head up and down slowly. “Good. I think that's a very good idea. I'm proud of you, Layla. Good for you.”
Layla nearly swallowed the plum whole from shock.
Both she and Marjan watched in silence as Bahar slipped into her coat and opened the outside door.
“I'll be back in an hour.” She paused and turned around. “There's three construction workers at table one who want to know about the hookah. I told them it's only for show, but they want to smoke it anyway. You deal with them, Marjan.”
She nodded at Layla once more. “Good for you,” she said before trotting down the garden path to the wooden gate. She disappeared down the cobblestone alleyway beyond.
Layla turned to Marjan, her eyes wide. “What just happened?”
Marjan looked out the window and shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said, feeling her worry creep up.
THE LATCHES ON THE SHUTTERS slid into place as dusk surrendered to night. The smell of turf laced the cool twilight, filling Marjan's lungs with its smoky sweetness. All across Ballina-croagh, fireplaces roared with blocks of dried bogland, the bricks of turf that were preferred over logs of any kind.
It was a pity the flat upstairs did not have a fireplace. It would have been a delicious treat to sit near a crackling fire after a long, hard day. Put her feet up with a cup of tea, tuck into a great gothic novel, something by those gorgeous Brontë sisters maybe.
Or perhaps continue on with Dominions of Clay. She hadn't had time to read much of Julian Winthrop Muir's novel, though she had cracked it open to read the first paragraph the day he'd given her a copy. The language was as rich and beautiful as she imagined it would be, though she had not yet grasped the story's intentions. According to the jacket flap, it told the story of one day in the life of an architect, a man who had built his entire life on shoddy foundations. It sounded intriguing, thought Marjan. Very intellectual.
Yes, a fireplace and a great fat paperback would indeed be lovely. She stooped to remove the iron doorstop. The footsteps behind had her rising almost immediately.
“This is beautiful country, isn't it? You forget, being away as long as I have.”
Julian stood next to her, observing the view down Main Mall.
“Oh. Yes, it is beautiful,” Marjan said, her heart leaping into her throat. He had a way of catching her unaware, she had noticed. She wasn't entirely sure she didn't like it.
“Busy day?” he asked, moving around to face her.
Marjan nodded, swallowing. “Packed for lunch and tea. I haven't had time to catch my breath.” She looked at the iron doorstop, suddenly too self-conscious to lean down to move it.
“No better time to catch it, then. Especially with this wonderful turf-filled air around us.” He smiled, inhaling deeply. “A turf fire supersedes a log one any day, don't you think?”
“Yes,” said Marjan, taken aback by his comment. “Yes, I do.” He seemed to read her mind as well.
“Elemental. Do you know what I mean?”
“The fire?”
“Exactly,” Julian replied. “The fire. A piece of turf comes from the ground, mulched sediment thousands of years old, then gets fed into the air to settle once more. That's what I call a full cycle.” He crossed his arms and took a few moments to observe the darkening sky, giving Marjan ripe opportunity to look at him.
He had changed slightly since the last time she had seen him, she realized. He seemed more relaxed, somehow less constrained by the London he had left behind.
Even his clothes had taken a Mayo turn: instead of his usual blazer, he was wearing a weathered jacket and an old cable sweater, work boots and a pair of roughened jeans. It was the first time she had seen him so casual, so rugged and handsome. He looked good in denim, she thought, feeling that tingle again.
Easy, girl, she chided herself silently, a little shocked by her thoughts. She hadn't felt anything remotely similar in a very long time. She cleared her throat. “How's the Wilton Inn working out? Are you enjoying your stay there?”
“It'll do for the moment. It's not my final destination.” Julian pointed to the elms bordering Fadden's Field. “My family's estate is beyond the woods there,” he said. “Muir Hall. It's been around for over two hundred years. I'm renovating it, actually.”
“Oh, I didn't realize,” replied Marjan, then remembered the gossip Bahar had overheard. “Is the field part of the property?”
“It used to be. Now it belongs to the county.” Julian paused, staring thoughtfully at the field. Then he looked at her again.
The dark green hunting jacket he was wearing matched his eyes, Marjan noticed, as her heart started in on its now familiar jig. Ali had green eyes too, though his were lighter, with inner golden flecks.
“I was down for lunchtime yesterday, but your sister, is it? She said you were out on business.”
“It's been a crazy few days,” admitted Marjan. If only he knew how crazy.
Julian shook his head. “I'm amazed at the work you take on,” he said. “All by yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“The restaurant, for one. It's a serious venture, a great business success. And we're not talking about in the middle of Soho London. Here, in the lonesome West of Ireland.” He looked at her with admiration. “Not many can claim that kind of victory.”
“Well, I didn't do it alone. I have my sisters. And some great friends who made it possible. Without them, none of this could have happened.”
She looked up at the little stone building with its purple shutters with fondness.
“Friends and relatives aside, I know you are still the one that makes it all happen inside that bit of a kitchen. You could bottle up that magic of yours and make a fortune, Miss Aminpour.” Julian ran his hands over the wooden shutters, stopping midway. “May I call you Marjan?”
“Of course.” Marjan paused. “Julian.”
“Well, Marjan. I know it's not drizzling in any sense of the word, but I was hoping to take that rain check after all. How about a pint next door?”
Marjan stared at the pub's glowing windows. Paddy McGuire's was filling up with its usual crowd of weekday locals. It was the first evening she had had free all week, in a couple of weeks, actually, she thought. Her nights were usually spent in prepping for the next morning's menu, or going over the café's books, which, if not extensive, still challenged her elementary mathematics skills. The idea of sitting down to a ledger suddenly seemed very unappealing.
Julian was looking at her expectantly.
Bahar was not impressed when her older sister stuck her head in the kitchen a minute later. “Back by ten,” Marjan said, whipping off her apron. “Lock the front door, will you?” Before Bahar could voice an opinion, Marjan found herself seated in the Confessional, a carafe of the pub's house red between her and Julian.
He held up the carafe. “Now this is something you don't see every day in a pub,” he said, pouring her a glass of the rose-colored wine.
“It's a new addition,” said Marjan, taking the glass in both hands.
“Something tells me you had a
hand in that suggestion.”
Marjan laughed. “Maybe. But Margaret—she runs the pub— is really good with new ideas.” She tipped her head toward the bar, where a buxom woman with gingery curls was laughing uproariously with a few punters.
Julian persisted. “I think you're underestimating your powers over this little hamlet of ours. I've seen you rushing about in that van of yours, spreading those peace signs all over the place.”
Marjan gave an indulgent nod. “It's not the most glamorous car, I know. But it's been really handy when I've needed it.” She raised the glass to her nose, inhaling cherry, vanilla, and blackberry tones. Delicious.
“It's a grand piece of machinery. Especially those peace signs. Quite apropos to the responsibility you've taken on.”
Marjan turned to him with a curious look. “Responsibility? What do you mean?”
“Well, it's not every day a backwater gets a taste of the world's greatest culture. The seat of all learning.”
“I wouldn't exactly call it a backwater,” Marjan said. “But thank you for the compliment.”
“Don't mistake me—I think this is one of the loveliest spots on the planet, right here, this town, the Bay. I come from a long line of Mayo men, after all.”
“But you've never lived here yourself?”
“Boarding school and Oxford, London all the way. But I always knew I'd come back to Mayo,” Julian said, a fondness in his voice.
“So you're renovating your family home?”
“Yes, that's right. Restoring the ancestral seat to its former glory—that sort of thing. I've hired a firm from Dublin to oversee the finer details. Don't want some local Mick taking a sledgehammer to its precious walls.” He turned to her intently. “I would love to show the old place to you sometime.”
Marjan paused, took a sip from her wine. “I'd like that,” she said softly. She glanced up. Fiona Athey had just come in with Father Mahoney.
Her friend raised her eyebrows and nodded provocatively at Julian, a large grin spreading across her face. Marjan's eyes widened, embarrassment rushing over her.
She'd be hearing about this tomorrow, she could bet on it.
Rosewater and Soda Bread Page 8
