Rosewater and Soda Bread

by Marsha Mehran

  Marjan did not reply. There was no point in it: no man would ever be good enough for either of her sisters in Bahar's eyes.

  “HE'S MY NEPHEW, and I was standing right over him and his brother during his christening,” Marjan heard Fiona Athey say as she pulled open the salon door, “but I have no qualms in saying he's being a right old bastard the way he's treating you.”

  Fiona turned at the tinkle of the door chime. She beckoned Marjan in with her hand. “Which reminds me, I've still to lend you that book I was meaning to.”

  Her junior stylist, Evie Watson, was crumpled up in one of the salon's pink leather armchairs, her eyes rimmed with tears. She was still holding a broom in one hand as she blew her swollen nose with the edge of her flowery smock.

  “What book's that?” She sniffed, giving Marjan a pathetic smile.

  Fiona switched on the row of theatrical vanity lights over the mirrors. “The Female Eunuch. It'll open up your eyes, Evie my dear,” she said, slipping on her bib. “Men are as incomplete a sex as there ever was, and that Peter Donnelly is one likely candidate.”

  Fresh tears rolled down Evie's thin face, causing her to plunge further into the folds of her smock.

  “What's happened, Evie?” Marjan asked softly, kneeling down to pat the young woman's hand. She noticed the Claddagh ring that Evie always wore on her right ring finger was turned around, the heart in the middle open to the world, an eligibility sign. “Did you and Peter have another fight?”

  Evie nodded her head and blew her nose again.

  Fiona tugged at a tissue carton, handing her the last Kleenex. “It's more than a fight, I'm afraid, Marjan. She's told him she'd rather snog a donkey than get back with him again. Mighty improvement, if you ask me.”

  At the reminder, Evie threw back her head and bawled, letting go of the broom in her hand. The broom handle swung toward the salon's mascot, a mannequin by the name of Fifi O'Shea, just missing her tissue-enhanced bosom.

  “He said he was moving up in the world! Needs a woman with more meat on her bones!” Evie howled, pummeling her thighs with her bony little fists.

  Marjan threw Fiona a bewildered look.

  “For rearing children,” Fiona explained. She patted her own generous curves. “That amadan” she said, shaking her head.

  “Moving up? Where's he going?”

  Evie blinked, her eyes red-rimmed. “He's starting a real estate course in Castlebar. Him and Michael. Fancies himself a landlord all of a sudden.”

  Fiona sniffed. “Landlocked is more like it.”

  “To think, Marjan,” Evie said with remorse, “I gave up all your lovely sweets for the sake of my diets!”

  Marjan stroked her hand sympathetically. “It's never too late. Stop by for tea later and I'll set you a proper pastry plate, okay?”

  Evie sniffed her thanks and grabbed the broom again.

  “Make one up for me while you're at it.” Fiona patted the seat before her. “What'll it be this month, Marjan? Your usual trim?”

  “I was thinking of something a little different,” said Marjan, settling into the chair. She stared at her reflection. Her cloud of wavy hair was usually impervious to modern hairstyles. “Maybe some layers or bangs?”

  Fiona tapped her chin with a wide-toothed comb. “Layers, huh?”

  “Or maybe a color? Something warm for the autumn?”

  “Hmmm … I don't know now. Not that kind of warmth he's going after,” Fiona replied. “Not from what I hear, anyway.” She winked at the mirror.

  Marjan turned around. “Who?”

  “You know who. I'd be careful, Marjan. That one looks like he's read a few books, if you know what I mean. Got a way with words, Julian Winthrop Muir.”

  Marjan's lips curved. “I told you, there's nothing going on. We're just friends.”

  “Wish I had a friend like that,” Evie remarked, sweeping the floor around Fifi O'Shea.

  Fiona grinned, jabbed her back with the comb. “Go on, open your gob. What's the latest there? Getting some loving or what?”

  Marjan flipped through the magazine, well aware that both Evie and Fiona were waiting. When neither of them moved, she closed the magazine and glanced in the mirror. “It's nothing. Just a bit of talk.”

  Fiona snorted. “Nothing, huh? Didn't look like it from where I sat the other night. Did you at least get a good rubdown after all that talk?”

  “Fiona!” Marjan could feel her blush.

  “What?”

  “Isn't that a bit on the crude side?”

  “You want romance? Okay.” She nodded. “Has he declared his devotions to you yet, madam?” She swept the comb in her hand into a deep bow.

  Evie sidled up to the mirror, her face lit from excitement. The rush of fresh gossip had cleared her tears.

  “Go on. Has he asked you out again?”

  Marjan turned to face the two women. “He's come in a couple of times for lunch …” She trailed off.

  “And?” Fiona tilted her head to one side.

  “And, no. Nothing. He said he had a good time at the pub and that's all.”

  “His loss,” replied Fiona, taking a clip from her bib collar. She pointed it to Evie. “See? Incomplete. Something missing, even from the ones who look like they should know better.”

  Evie commiserated with a small nod.

  Marjan turned back to the mirror. “I'm glad he hasn't asked me again, actually,” she said, staring at the magazine on her lap.

  Fiona pinned the side of Marjan's head. “And why is that, exactly? You're entitled to a bit of craic like the rest of us.”

  “I'm just not ready yet. For dating, and everything.” Although she had not told Fiona all the details of her time with Ali, the hairdresser was the one person in Ballinacroagh who knew of the first time Marjan had ever given her heart away. Only to have it shattered.

  Fiona dragged the comb down her customer's crown. “I know. But who ever is ready? Listen, incomplete sex or not, men are still handy for a few things, if you follow my meaning.”

  “Maybe …” Marjan shrugged. “I just—I don't know much about him.” She looked up. “He's been to Iran.”

  “There you go. Don't know anyone for miles who can claim that.”

  “Peter says he bought back the Hall for beggars' pay” offered Evie. “You could be a landlady if you play your cards right, Marjan.”

  Marjan glanced in the mirror. She could see Fiona and Evie grinning behind her. “You two! You think you're so funny!”

  Fiona laughed. “What's funny is the way your ears turn a beet at the mention,” she said, reaching for her scissors. She snipped a lock of Marjan's curly hair.

  “I've got news that'll keep them rosy as ever—” Evie stopped short, grimaced. “Oh, maybe I shouldn't…”

  Fiona stopped snipping. Both she and Marjan looked at the younger woman expectantly.

  “ 'Fess up. You've gone and started it already,” Fiona said.

  Evie bit her bottom lip. “Well, it's sort of about Layla.”

  Marjan turned in her seat. “What about Layla?”

  Evie held up her hands. “Now you didn't hear it from me. If she asks, wasn't even I who saw him.”

  “Him?”

  “Oh, for the love of— Just get on with it.” Fiona blew out an impatient breath.

  Evie raised her shoulders, tilted her head. “Well, the other day, on the Saturday, now, I was making my way into Castlebar, down the roundabout near Dunne's. You know the one that's always getting the scraps? Sure didn't Tom Ford's bull take a licking the other month, coming in from the side road and all—” Evie stopped. Fiona was tapping her feet impatiently. “Oh, right. Well, who do I see coming out of Alfred Bennett's Chemists but Malachy McGuire himself. There he was, rushin' out, head down, with a nice brown bag tucked under his arm. A small brown bag, if you get my drift.”

  Marjan turned to Fiona, confused.

  “There's only one thing Bennett's tucks away in plain bags,” Fiona explained. “Every young lad's
worst nightmare.”

  “What nightmare?” Marjan stood up from the chair, locks of cut hair falling from her shoulder. “What are you talking about, Evie?”

  “It's nothing, nothing to worry about, I'm sure. It could be any number of things,” Evie said uncomfortably.

  “Protection, Marjan. Malachy was buying protection,” Fiona said.

  Marjan brought her hand to her forehead. Protection. Oh, God, she had completely forgotten about Layla. She looked up. “When did you say this happened, Evie?”

  “Last Saturday. Day after the fire.”

  Marjan sat back down, trying to register the information. “I can't believe it. She promised she wouldn't do anything.”

  Fiona patted her on the shoulder. “Ah sure, it's better safe than sorry. I don't want to even think of what my Emer's up to in that Los Angeles. Between the three of us now—and that includes you, Evie—I had her get a prescription from a doctor up north. Best have her prepared for the land of men, eh? Not likely they'd take the step. Malachy's a rare boy, that's what I say.”

  “But she's not ready, Fiona! I told her so. I told her to wait,” Marjan replied in frustration.

  Evie took up the broom again. “Sure, I've waited, Marjan, and look what happened. Tossed to the ditches by Peter Donnelly himself. Should have gone to the Beach like he wanted. Now he's off getting some Castlebar heifer up the pole, I bet.”

  “You two.” Fiona shook her head and took up the scissors again. “Remind me to get two copies of The Female Eunuch, Evie.” She snipped another layer of Marjan's dark hair with expert swiftness. “I'll make feminists of you lot yet.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  “HAVE YOU SEEN LAYLA?” The door slammed behind Marjan as she looked around the kitchen. Bahar was at the island, prepping eggplants for the next day's stew special, khoresht bademjoon.

  “What's wrong? What happened?”

  Marjan stepped onto the landing. She could hear the television upstairs. “Nothing. I just need her for something.”

  She placed her hand on the banister and was about to turn when a knock came on the back door.

  Bahar stopped chopping again. “Marjan.” She put down her knife and craned her neck to the stained-glass partition. “It's a man.”

  Marjan made her way back down and to the door. After a moment's glance, she recognized the face behind the colored glass: it was Padraig Carey, from the town council.

  Layla bounded down the steps, stopping short when she saw her sisters. “Hey, isn't that the councilman? What does he want?”

  “I don't know,” said Marjan. “Maybe he's here about that license extension. I applied for it last month, remember?”

  She reached for the door handle. “For goodness' sakes, Bahar. Don't look so frightened.”

  PADRAIG CAREY LEANED over the wooden island, staring curiously at a jar of mixed torshi. “Looks like your vegetables need a bit longer in the pot,” he remarked, tapping the glass with his finger.

  “They're pickled. Torshi” Marjan explained. “Margaret's thinking of putting it on the pub menu, you know.”

  Padraig looked shocked. “She's getting to be very cosmopolitan, my wife.”

  “She's a very smart woman,” replied Marjan. It was no secret that Padraig was often referred to as Margaret McGuire's Little Big Man. An apt description, considering the councilman's many shortcomings. She made her way to a stack of clear tea glasses. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  Padraig raised his briefcase to his chest. “No, no—thanks all the same, Marjan. No, I'm here on some town business.” He coughed, shifting from foot to foot as his eyes darted across the kitchen. He thought of throwing a perfunctory smile at the three women standing before him but decided against it. Best not send out the wrong signals, he told himself. Who knew how a smile could be translated. Especially by these dark-haired vixens. “Yes, town business it is,” he repeated.

  “I thought so,” Marjan remarked. It was rare to see Padraig near the café. As far as she could remember, he had tried their lunch only once, on Margaret's fortieth birthday. “You've never come around the back before.”

  Padraig let out a strained laugh. “You've got a point there, Marjan. You've got a point there, all right.”

  He glanced at the counter, with its piles of pots and plates, washed and gleaming. It was the first time he had seen the café since the fire that had taken half its back wall two summers ago. The entire place was spotless, he marveled. It wasn't nearly the backward operation Thomas McGuire had claimed.

  “Is it about the license? I think I filed all the proper papers.”

  Padraig patted his briefcase. “Filed away all right. No problem there.” He turned to Marjan. “No, no, it's another sort of business I've come about.” He cleared his throat. “Concerning Mrs. Delmonico.”

  Marjan looked apprehensively at her sisters. “Estelle?”

  Padraig held out his palm. “Now, I wouldn't be here if it were not for the concern of a few folk. Personally, I see no point in stirring the breeze if there's no need for it.” He pressed his lips grimly. The council post had its perks, he thought, but this was not one of them.

  Marjan nodded for him to go on.

  “If it were up to me, you realize, I'd say we'd best look straight ahead, put the past behind us.”

  “I understand,” said Marjan.

  “I'm not so daft not to know there's not a whole world out there, filled with all sorts of creeds and colors. Sure, there's been more than once I've hoped for a tan myself, to be honest. Going dead white to pale would be a mighty improvement.” He broke into a grin at his own joke.

  When Marjan did not respond, he coughed again, embarrassed, and pulled his short body up straighter. “But I have to ask all the same.”

  “Of course. What is the problem, exactly?”

  “The problem, the problem is the problem of a lawbreaking exactly,” Padraig said with a sober expression. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a small piece of scrap paper. “It's been brought to my attention that there's a patient up at Mayo General. A relative of Mrs. Delmonico's.” He squinted at the piece of paper. “A niece, is it?”

  “Is Gloria here?” Layla piped up from the landing.

  Marjan held out her hand behind her, shutting Layla up. “Her niece? I don't think so.” She paused. “I think Estelle would have told us if Gloria was in town,” she said, turning to her sisters with a nod. Their only response was confused stares.

  “Well, then, who is this Rosa Bella?” Padraig consulted the paper again. “Yes, that's right, is it? Rosa Bella. Sources tell me she's been taking a bed at the hospital the last week. A friend of yours, then?”

  “Marjan, what's going on?” Bahar's face was ghostly.

  Marjan shrugged, trying to keep her voice as composed as possible. “I don't know,” she said, aware of her lie.

  Her mind raced to her last visit to the hospital; one of the nurses had been very friendly with her, she remembered. Spent a few good minutes asking her about Iran and London.

  She hadn't asked anything about the girl, though.

  Padraig was waiting for an answer.

  “I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Carey. Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “Well, I'm not one to call out falsehoods, but to be fair, you have been seen coming in and out of Mayo General every day the last week. I've got an eyewitness that would vouch to your deliveries.”

  “Yes, I've been taking meals up to one of the patients. It's not against the law, is it? Feeding someone?”

  “It's not against the law, no, but holding information from officials is. This is Ireland, after all,” Padraig said pointedly. He paused for a moment before continuing. “Now, what can you tell me about this patient, this friend of yours?”

  Marjan shook her head. “She's not a friend. I don't know anything about her, actually. Estelle—Mrs. Delmonico—and I, we just make an effort to visit the sick in our free time.” She made an effort to smile broadly. “It does
Estelle good to get out and meet people. The hospital is a good place for her. We take food and give it out to patients, that's all.”

  It was a stretch, but it seemed to appease the councilman. Perhaps it was because his thoughts began to move to the pot of saffron lamb shank softening on the Aga.

  He took a long sniff and sighed. “Well, I'm glad to hear of it,” he replied. “Wouldn't want Estelle to fall into any kind of mess.”

  He snapped his briefcase and nodded to Bahar and Layla. “Now if you tell me there's nothing to be concerned with, I'll leave it at that. Won't even bother Mrs. Delmonico or the hospital about it.”

  Marjan nodded. “Of course.”

  The councilman took a moment to formulate his question. “It's about this lass, now. This Ms. Rosa. The one you've been feeding, like.” He paused, squaring his gaze on Marjan. She nodded again, meeting his gaze head-on. She hoped he hadn't noticed that she had been holding her breath for the last minute. Padraig continued, “Is she or isn't she at this moment, while still at Mayo General, is she or isn't she with child? A child she tried to do away with, mind you. Against the law, and with her own two hands.” The councilman raised his eyebrows. “Otherwise known as abortion, Marjan. Abortion of a sacred child.”

  “SO WHAT YOU'RE saying is, you lied. You lied about a law that was broken.” Bahar paced the space around the wooden island, wringing her forearms red.

  “It wasn't broken. And I'm very aware that I lied. But I had no other choice, and you know it.” Marjan sat at the kitchen table, suddenly exhausted.

  “Who is she, Marjan?” Layla asked.

  “I don't know. No one does. She just appeared.”

  “I can't believe you, I really can't.” Bahar swiveled abruptly on her heels. “Who cares who she is? She was trying to kill her baby.”

  Layla frowned. “Go easy. You don't even know her.”

  “I don't need to know her to know it's a sin. Haram, Marjan,” Bahar said, pinching the thumb and forefingers of both her hands to punctuate the word. “You remember what that means, don't you?”

  Haram, forbidden.