Rosewater and Soda Bread

by Marsha Mehran

  “Oh, but you are, my dear. Masterpieces, those bits of heaven you call chickpea cookies. You saw how many I gobbled up during the Bonfire.”

  Marjan smiled again, remembering how she had caught the priest slipping a handful of the clover-shaped cookies into his jacket pockets after his eloquent speech. Glancing around, she took in the radio equipment wedged into one corner of the vestry stockroom, which, besides a mixing deck and microphone, boasted a shiny, top-of-the-line turntable. “You're able to transmit from here? That's amazing.”

  “All you need is a satellite,” the priest explained. “Modern technology has its advantages, though they are few and far in between.” He flicked on the transceiver. “This miraculous box, along with the antenna I've got out back, pins down a frequency, one that is not already taken by nearby stations—akin, you might say, to divining water with a mere rod.”

  “Is that when someone points a stick at the ground?”

  “That and the same. But this stick goes up into the cosmos, sending my voice out on waves. Radio waves.” He paused, his face alight with excitement. “But you've not come here to talk about my next monologue. What can I do for you, my dear?”

  Marjan wasn't really sure what the priest could do for her. She knew she could trust him to keep the girl's secret, but confiding in him would still be putting both Dr. Parshaw's and Estelle's reputations in jeopardy, not something she was willing to do in order to unburden her own worries. But then, what was she doing here, in a church, in the middle of the day?

  “It's about someone I know. Someone who has been going through a hard time lately,” Marjan began.

  Father Mahoney nodded encouragingly.

  Marjan continued, feeling out her words as well as the reason behind them. “I'm worried about this person. I don't know what I can do to help her—them.”

  “And has this person come to you for help? What I mean is, does this person want your help?”

  “Maybe. I'm not sure. She's been in a lot of pain, that I know. But I don't think she's ready to talk about it.” She paused. “I think her situation has reminded me of things I had hoped would stay in the past.”

  “I often find it interesting how we mirror each other's concerns without knowing it. Have you talked to this person at all about the matter? Maybe if they, er, she, knew you were worried about her, she would be happy to open up and let you into her world.”

  “That's the problem, Father. She won't talk. She can't talk, it seems. And it has the two of us very worried.”

  The priest mulled over the information. “And you are sure this person is in pain? Currently?”

  Marjan nodded.

  “But it was my understanding that the migraines had long gone.”

  “Migraines?”

  “Er, the pain. The pain was gone.”

  “No, I mean, I don't think the pain is gone.” Marjan thought of the antibiotics Dr. Parshaw had prescribed. “Well, maybe the physical pain. Most of that might be healing, but not the real pain. Not the real reason behind her actions.”

  “And you've tried expressing your concern, in a gentle manner? The soft touch after all…”

  Marjan nodded. “I tried. I think I made things worse, though. I wish there wasn't so much sadness in her—it seems to be everywhere I turn lately.”

  Father Mahoney gave her a sympathetic nod. “It's your sensitive nature talking. You're open, that's all, absorbing your loved ones' feelings. You are like the transmitter here, taking in the waves, scrambling them, and trying to make the most of all the information.”

  He paused, forming his fingers into a studied steeple. “My best advice to you, Marjan, is this: her search is not over yet. Her road is a long one, so give her some time. She'll come around to talking about it soon enough.”

  “That's the thing about time, Father. I'm not sure if it does help at all. With the past, I mean,” Marjan said quietly, staring down at her teacup. “Every time I think we are all getting better, stronger, something comes along to shatter that idea.”

  She paused again, unsure of where she was going. She was about to end the conversation when suddenly it came pouring out of her: “All my life I've been struggling, trying to build a home for us, trying to make something beautiful we could all be proud of, but it doesn't seem to be enough. It's my responsibility, I'm the eldest. I am supposed to protect us. But I was the one who went away, I'm the one who hurt them.”

  She stopped, realizing what she had just said. Her face reddened. “I am being silly, I am being silly. I don't know what's come over me. I don't know why I'm talking like this.”

  She burst into tears. Bending her face onto her hands, she let the tears run into her palms.

  What was happening to her? One minute she was here to talk about the girl and her unwanted baby, maybe ask Father Mahoney what he thought she could do to help her, the next moment she was thinking of Ali and Hossein, and Gohid, those terrible three days she had spent in the detention center.

  How had it all turned to that time again?

  “Thank you.” Marjan sniffed, accepting Father Mahoney's handkerchief. She blew her nose and hiccuped. “I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me,” she said, wiping her face.

  “Nothing at all to it. All natural, my dear. You're just a sensitive soul, that's it. I said you were an artist. I can spot them a mile away.”

  He smiled and poured her another cup of tea. “Though if the tears are a result of my disc-jockeying, then I'll have to reconsider my extracurricular activities. Belly dancing perhaps. Or water polo. I could definitely get into water polo.”

  Marjan gave him a small smile. “I'm just worried, that's all. It's hard being the eldest. Having to take care of everyone.”

  “Of course it is. And I know I shouldn't be saying this, but take heart: your sister just needs some time. After all, it's not every day a person finds her path to the Almighty. That's once in a lifetime, if we're lucky. Just give her time, and she'll come around with it herself. Just give her time.”

  He stopped, a beatific smile on his pink face. “She might surprise you, after all.”

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN you're going to be a Catholic? How can you just decide something like that?” Layla exclaimed loudly from her post at the refrigerator.

  “I didn't just decide it,” Bahar replied with an indignant air. “And really, it's not any of your business.”

  She looked very uncomfortable, cornered as she was at the kitchen table, with her back to the pantry door. She desperately wanted to reach into her apron pocket for her laminated card, the watercolor rendition of the prayer to Our Lady of Knock, but she resisted, not wanting to have to explain that as well.

  “But how long have you known?” asked Marjan.

  Unlike Layla, Marjan had had a few hours to mull over what Father Mahoney had let slip.

  “Look, I came in here to tell the both of you the truth, because Father Mahoney thought I should, because I think I should. But if you're going to act as if I'm guilty of some crime, then I'm just going to get up and leave,” Bahar said, pushing herself away from the kitchen table. “If you want crime, you know where to look.”

  She pointed at Marjan accusingly. “What were you doing seeing Father Mahoney, anyway? Making a confession? Can't do that if you're not a believer, you know.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I think it's pretty obvious. We've never had any kind of faith, nothing to rely on growing up. Doesn't that just strike you as a little strange?” Bahar crossed her arms with a pointed air.

  It took Marjan a few seconds to answer. “Of course we had faith. Maybe we weren't religious as such, but we were taught what was right and wrong.”

  Bahar snorted. “You and I have completely different memories, Marjan. All I remember is asking Baba what God was and getting the craziest answer ever.”

  “He told you the same thing he told me,” Marjan replied softly.

  “What did he say?” Layla looked eagerly to her older sisters.<
br />
  Bahar smirked. “Go on, Marjan. What did he say?”

  “He said… he said that God was all around us,” Marjan replied, feeling defensive all of a sudden. “He said that there was no sense in looking to religion for the divine, that all we had to do was take a breath, see the beauty in our ability to do something as simple and complex as taking in a breath.”

  “Simple and complex.” Bahar sniffed. “How can something be two opposite things at once? You make it sound so romantic.”She turned to Layla. “Do you want to know what Baba told us? What jewels of wisdom I have to pass on to you?”

  Layla stared at Bahar, not entirely sure she wanted her to continue.

  Continue she did. “He told us we come from monkeys—no, wait, bacteria—we all, every single human being on earth, came from bacteria that lived in the sea. And that, when we die, we have nothing to hold on to. No soul, no memories, nothing.”

  She turned to Marjan accusingly. “Do you think that's what happened to Maman? She just disappeared? No heaven, nothing to go up to?”

  Marjan sighed. “Bahar, it's more complicated than that. Both Baba and Maman believed the same thing. They were humanists. They believed humans have a key to their own fate.” She had forgotten about the issue of fate. “They were different from most people, you know that.”

  “They were hippies, that's what they were. Had no sense of practical things. Do you think we would have ended up without a penny after Baba died if they'd had any sense?”

  “Now you're taking it too far.”

  “Really? Well, tell me this, you think that girl—the one who is or isn't Estelle's niece, depending on what day it is—do you think she knew what she was doing? She chose her destiny?”

  Marjan did not respond.

  Bahar sniffed. “I don't think so.”

  Layla propped her elbows on the island, resting her chin in her hands. “So what do you think made her do it?”

  “Something evil. That's what made her try to kill her baby. There's no doubt in my mind. Evil, to even think about killing your unborn child.”

  “Oh, what a good Christian you are,” Layla remarked, throwing Bahar a nasty glare.

  “Look,” said Marjan gently, “we're getting off the subject. I was just trying to understand, Bahar. This is big news, you becoming Catholic.”

  “Big news! This is crazy news!” Layla said, standing up. A look of uncharacteristic fear had come across her face.

  “No crazier than what you get up to when no one's looking,” retorted Bahar. She stood up too.

  Layla narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Bahar snorted. “Don't act the innocent. I know what you and Malachy have been doing. It's not only necking you're after, is it, little sis?”

  Layla blanched. “What do you mean by that?”

  Bahar smiled triumphantly. “Don't forget, this is a small town. I only have to go to the butcher shop to hear all about your love life.”

  “At least I have a love life. What are you going to do now, become a nun?”

  Bahar stared at her sisters. “Maybe.”

  Layla and Marjan looked shocked.

  “Are you serious about that, Bahar?” Marjan moved away from the counter.

  “Yes, maybe. I don't know. All I know is that I have found God, and you two have no business telling me otherwise.” She came from around the table, her hand in her apron pocket.

  “You're right, we don't have any business telling you what to believe. But are you sure, Bahar? This is a big step.”

  “I know it's a big step. I've been working toward it for over a year. Ever since that first time up Croagh Patrick.” Bahar paused. “Look, doesn't it mean something that I haven't had a headache for nearly the same time? Don't you understand that I've found some peace finally?”

  Neither Marjan nor Layla said a word. It was true; Bahar had not reached for her jar of migraine medicine—a tribal mixture of cardamom, cloves, and nutmeg—for a very long time.

  Bahar moved to the stairs up to the flat. She placed her free hand on the banister and turned around. “If either of you is interested, I'll be attending full Mass for the first time on All Saints' Day. That's the first of November. You are both invited, if you care to come along.” She stepped resolutely up the stairs and slammed the flat door.

  Marjan spoke first. “She's happy. And we have to be happy for her. Even if we don't understand all her reasons. We can't worry about things we don't know about.”

  Layla rattled the silver carousel on the island, plucking at an old order. “Last time she decided to go all religious on us we ended up having to run away. Aren't you worried about that?”

  The carousel spun noisily, throwing shards of light into Mar-jan's eyes. She watched the pieces of paper fly by, their edges smudged with food stains and curling back like delicate fabric swaths. Suddenly, they seemed to resemble the curtains of chadors, the black cloths rushing by her as she stepped into the apartment that day so long ago.

  She could see them again, those women, the ones who had taken her sister under their darkened wings. Like stark ravens, swooping in while Marjan was held against her will in Gohid. Marjan had lost everything she held dear in the space of a few days, her thoughts whittled down to a cycle of regrets. In the end, it was Khanoum Zanganeh who had brought her out of her stupor.

  Her cellmate, a working girl of some experience, had been feeding Marjan bits of survival technique, as well as stale bread and water, during her time at the detention center.

  “Make sure you cover your whole face with your hands. Like this,” Khanoum Zanganeh had advised her, flapping her fingers over her heavily made-up face like shadow puppets.

  “You'll be blindfolded again, so you won't know where you are landing. Just be sure to hold up your hands—they'll unshackle you a second before they throw you out. Make sure your beautiful face won't get marked. You hear me?” Khanoum Zanganeh wriggled her brown fingers again. “Just like this, Khanoum Aminpour. Just like the dove of peace.”

  Part of Marjan wanted to believe the old prostitute, to imagine that she was really going to be released. It was the same part of her that had thought Ali's precautions overly dramatic, his warnings of what might happen if they got arrested highly unlikely. She remembered clearly, as though he were sitting before her once again.

  “They'll use wires. On the bottoms of your feet. Listen to me, Marjan, are you listening? If they beat you, I want you to tell them a lie. Tell them anything but the truth. Then let yourself faint. Don't be brave.”

  His green eyes had flickered in the low light of The Voices basement offices, the steam from their bowls of food rising between them. Their late-night meals of soothing noodle soup or cheese and bread were a ritual, something they shared when everyone else had crept back home to their families.

  Their talks turned often to what they would do if either of them were ever arrested. Everyone who worked with the movement, the uprising, had to be prepared for interrogation. It would have been naïve to think otherwise.

  Neither of them had ever contemplated the end result—what would happen once she was released. And when the time had come, when they had been arrested that night in the offices of The Voice, Marjan knew why. Ali did not expect to be released. He knew he would never get out of the Revolution alive.

  “Aren't you worried?” Layla had said. Yes, she was worried, thought Marjan. She worried about it, them, everything, all the time. Despite her best efforts to do otherwise.

  THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE a good bike ride to bring joy to a lonely spinster's life. The sheer sensation of the ride was right up there with flannel bedclothes and hot bubble baths, a red hot-water bottle pressed against old and tired thighs.

  Marie Brennan grinned inwardly at the thought as she pumped the ten-speed bicycle up the nettle-lined hillside. The clank of chain and pedal was even more harmonious than she remembered. It had been a long time since she had last heard that simple noise.

  A proud owner of a Schwinn sinc
e she was a girl of fourteen, Marie had not ridden the blue bicycle of her youth in over ten years, not since her sister, Dervla, had come to live with her. Dervla did not approve of bicycles for women. She believed that there was something entirely unseemly about the motions, straddling and siphoning and all, so Marie had obliged as she always did when it came to her older sibling's commands: she had kept the bike stored in the shed they shared with Antonia Nolan's relics shop and run all her errands on foot, bar the few necessary trips a year to Castlebar or Dublin.

  Marie had kept the bike hidden away, but she had never forgotten about it—some of her fondest girlhood memories involved that blue Schwinn—so when Dervla had insisted she unearth it to visit Estelle Delmonico's cottage, she had not needed to be asked twice.

  Marie guided the bicycle past a burbling freshwater stream. The bouncing water flowed directly from a gully that found its estuary deep on the other side of the Reek, not far from where she'd started her journey. It would eventually end in the basin of Clew Bay, which announced itself as she turned the side of the hill. She glanced out at the Bay, breathing in deeply. The sky over the water was overcast as usual, the depths of blue shrouded for their mystery. Those waters contained a thousand stories, Marie told herself, moved to tears by the beauty. The Bay always brought out her emotions, its divine essence something she did not enjoy or appreciate enough, at least not in her everyday existence.

  With her days spent in routine—squeezing Dervla into her girdle and stockings was an hour's work at the very least—she rarely left the environs of the musty little flat, let alone Main Mall. Sure, a walk to the mini-mart or the Butcher's Block did help break up the monotony of her sister's carps, as did the highlight of her day, the only lining in her ever-constant cumulus: noontime Mass inside Saint Barnabas's alabaster hush.

  Father Mahoney was always at hand when she had a moment's confession. She wondered what he would think now, to see her rounding the hilly corner. Wouldn't think too highly of her, that's what. Would no doubt dispense thirty Hail Marys next time she faced the confessional's latticed window. He might even expose her on his new radio program as an example, tell the whole world what a mean spirit she was really.