Rosewater and Soda Bread

by Marsha Mehran

  “Fear came on our little world the year last. In all her days of curing others' ailments, it seems Mary had not taken her own hands to herself. Hadn't paid any mind to the hump of matter growing right on her breast. That bit killed her before the year was out. And there was no planting, no bark of wood I could give her to stop it.

  “As much as I tried explaining so to Teresa, that she had no means for mending her mother's cancer, she wouldn't hear of it. Sure, there are times when the hands have taken out the strands of the disease, but those were the early stage kinds. Mary's was incurable, even to the both of us. But Teresa would not understand the logic of it, not at all.

  “She took to sitting on that pier come storm or not, shivering to the bone and looking out to the sea like she wanted nothing of this world. I was out of my wits to get her to come in most days, but she wouldn't listen. And when there was any boats around she would scamper off to the greenhouse or to the other side of the island, where our Mary's laid, God rest her soul. Some of them tourists still came for the vials, and looking for the hands, but Teresa stopped her sessions. Stopped coming in to lessons.

  “Then, nearly six months back or so, time of the Saint Brigid's Day itself, here comes a fancy boat. A millionaire's yacht. And who steps off from it but the Minister of Health himself! The bollocks! That's right, Dara, that gobshite Willy Prendergast, that's who stepped off that yacht. I was thinking he's here for a feckin' cure, the bastard! Much good he's done for our health system, now he's devourin our true talents as well.

  “But no, he wasn't here for a cure, was here to see about a bit of business, he said. Would you believe it now, he wanted to buy the island right off from under our noses! Wanted Inishrose for himself, for a bit of a retreat from the buzz of Dublin, so he says. I put the feckin' buzz on him—nearly pushed him off the cliff, so I did. Told him to get off my island or I'd put the eye of hag on him. Off he took himself, coward that he is.

  “Now, Teresa had come in during the time that man was here, right here onto the hearth, but she had slipped out just as quick so I never thought a thing about it until a month later. I wake up to find Teresa missing and the currach gone. No note at all to tell me whether she was thinking of leaving this life or not. Had to take a bit of eyebright just to see clearly, I was so distraught.

  “I waited and waited, and sure, at sundown who comes walking in but herself. Would have none of my questioning. Locked herself in her room and wouldn't come out until the morning.

  “Same occurrence every week, every Friday, and I not knowing what to make of it. Never thought of that politician, not one time. How can I have the touch of the plantings, how can I see things like this but not know my own daughter? How could I have been so blinded? You tell me now, Dara.”

  Sean paused, his blue eyes afire. He took the heavy poker and rustled through the turf blocks, reigniting them orange. He stared at the fire for a minute longer before continuing.

  “Haven't seen her now for a fortnight. Finally got myself to look in her room. Found a stack of napkins and matchbooks from different hotels up and down the coastline. One for the Aulde Shebeen even. Put two and two together and finally got my answer. The minister. The bastard. Now I've nothing. For not talking to her before, now I am alone for it. No Mary, no daughter, nothing but my plants, and what good are they to me now, Dara? What good are they? Nothing for this hole in the heart that won't go away.”

  Sean finished, and the three of them sat silent. The fire crackled and rose to the wind funneling down the chimney. Escher sighed and rolled onto his back.

  Dara was the first to speak: “Why didn't you tell me about it sooner, Sean? On one of my days out? I could have looked out for her.”

  “ 'Tis a family matter. Not for anyone but ourselves,” replied the old man solemnly. “Truth is, I probably wouldn't have told you now, not to a stranger—no offense now, Miss—but for you bringing me her dress and all. And the weather. The brightening skies got me to thinking of my Mary. How I'd be glad to see her someday soon. Got me in a mood, so you did.”

  Marjan cleared her throat. She lifted her gaze into the man's hurting eyes.

  “Everything's going to be all right,” she said softly. “You have found your beloved. Everything's going to be all right now. I promise.”

  THE MIST CLEARED as far as Clare Island as the three of them reached the pier. To Marjan it looked like the rising hull of Hy Brasil, that ancient land known as Atlantis. With the wind at her back, she turned toward the mainland and was greeted by that king of mounds, Croagh Patrick. Standing there on that island, she felt as though she was coming out of her own fog, suddenly could see the land she had missed.

  As an enlivening spray brought the sea to her senses, Marjan awoke to what she had to do as well; it was something she should have done from the very beginning, from that day she left Gohid.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  TERESA STOOD AT THE START of the path, the circular garden bordered by powdery lavender. The kind Italian woman was inside, giving her room to be alone.

  She felt alone all the time.

  That was one of the questions she had decided to ask: why she felt so lonely, even now, with someone looking after her. The woman, Estelle, had told her that any question she asked while walking would be answered by the time she found the center. But she wasn't so sure this was true, especially as she could not find her own center. She had lost her compass last year, and now knew not where to begin.

  She looked out onto the valley. The fields had taken a soaking in the past hour, but it had not deterred four Jersey cows from congregating in the next hollow, wet and luxurious in patches of dandelion.

  A weed to many, the dandelion. Though she knew better than to disregard the bright yellow petals: roasted and grated, an infusion of the peppery plant strained all impurities from the blood—bar of course the one impurity she could find no potion for, the hurt she had already caused to those who loved her.

  And to the baby below her navel.

  The girl stopped at the paths center stone. One more step and she'd be in the middle of the meditative circle, where Estelle said she would know. Know what to do about all her sadness. The kind lady had not asked her any questions, even after their sessions in which Estelle had seen, despite all Teresa's efforts, one of her most beloved childhood memories: the day of her confirmation.

  She had known she was transferring her memory of that day, that glorious morning when her mother had helped her change into her white dress and veil, her pearl rosary wrapped around her ten-year-old wrist; sometimes there was no way of stopping the memories. But the kind widow had needed her hands, needed some healing as soon as possible. It was the least she could do to thank Estelle for saving her, for taking her in from that sea, from the death of her baby.

  She stayed still on the limestone square. She lifted her hand to her center. The pain there was no longer unbearable, and every day she felt stronger. She didn't deserve a second chance, but a second chance she was still getting. He had said he loved her in Irish. Ta gra agam ort. He had said he loved her but had left as soon as he heard about their baby. She pressed her hand against her belly. They could heal others, her fingers, but not her own soul.

  She lowered her hand and stepped forward.

  THE RED LAVAZZA SIGN blinked with a sleepy, almost reverent glow as Sophia Loren blew them a kiss from her cupboard marquee.

  Marjan looped her forefinger in the handle of a mug of hot tea and smiled. Across from her sat Estelle, grinning with a benevolent light; the older woman had not stopped smiling since Sean McNully had entered her cottage nearly an hour ago. So delighted was she with father and daughter reuniting that every few moments were punctuated by chuckles and snapshots of her married life.

  “Today I am so happy it is almost like Luigi is alive again. You know, I think I could even climb a big elephant, I feel so young!” Estelle lifted her hands above her head and laughed. She licked her sugary lip. “I can hear them talking. Can you hear talking?” />
  Marjan cocked her ear toward the hallway; a gentle murmur of voices, two voices, emanated from the closed bedroom door. Sean had been in there for nearly the entire hour.

  “I didn't know if she—Teresa I mean—would be happy. But it was important to bring her father here, wasn't it?” Marjan turned to Estelle.

  The widow nodded. “Of course it was important, darling. He is her papa. And she was happy—I could see it in her eyes.”

  “And she did talk,” Marjan said, relieved.

  Teresa McNully's words had a silvery timbre to them and continued to ring in her ear. She had turned from her wheelchair when her father was shown in, her delicate features breaking into immediate tears: “Ta bron orm. Ta bron orm. ” There were only a handful of words Marjan recognized in Irish, and those weren't ones she knew. Still, it wasn't hard to surmise their meaning. Teresa's young face was filled with regret. Both Marjan and Estelle had broken into tears as well.

  Estelle seemed to be recalling the same moment. “She was ready. After I saw her last memory, I knew she was ready to speak.”

  As Sean and his daughter continued their private conversation, Marjan filled the widow in on what had happened since she left for the Aulde Shebeen that morning, everything from the man who had helped her find Inishrose, Dara O'Cleirigh, to the puffins along the cove. She told her about the Minister of Health and his visit to that little paradise on earth.

  Estelle was especially intrigued by her account of Sean's greenhouse; Marjan could tell she had a lot of questions to ask the man with the healing abilities.

  The only part of the story she left out was her decision, the thought that had finally sorted itself out for her on that wooden pier. Marjan had never told Estelle what had really happened to her during those three days inside Gohid Detention Center, nor of the time right after it, when Bahar had married Hossein. The latter wasn't hers to tell, but the details of those three days and what led up to them Marjan did hope to confide in the kind lady sooner rather than later.

  But first, she reminded herself, first she had to tell her sisters. First there had to be sohbat—there was no way around it.

  Deeper than a tête-à-tête, more concentrated than everyday speech, sohbat was the word in Farsi for space: the area inhabited by two souls during deep and truthful conversation. Sohbat could take place anywhere, around a sofreh or within prayer: “The same whisper that made the rose open was hushed to me here inside my breast; the same advice given the cypress so that it grew with strength, touched the jasmine and its fluttering breath …” Those were Rumi's words, but they reflected her own emotions, Marjan told herself.

  The poet was speaking of those midnight conversations when the moon spoons lovers and honesty is the only way to connect. He was talking of the trust one had to have in others, and in one's self. She had forgotten about sohbat, Marjan told herself. She had forgotten to be honest.

  “You are all right, darling?” Estelle tapped her on the shoulder. “You look surprised all of a sudden.”

  Marjan smiled and shook her head. “I just realized something, that's all,” she said.

  Estelle raised her finger as though testing the air. “Ah. That is what my mama used to call ‘the coin dropping.’ Yes?” Estelle flashed her a grin and sipped her jasmine tea.

  Marjan nodded. Yes, she though. The coin dropping in her head. Sohbat. Conversation. That was what she would do when she got back to the café; she would tell her sisters the truth of Gohid, of why she had come to leave them for three long days.

  “AND THAT WAS ‘The Monster Mash,’ folks, right here on your local pirate station, Craic FM!

  “Well, it's a proud priest I am for announcing that it's been two weeks today since we—my lovely assistant, Mrs. Boylan, and I—have been sending out happy rays to your hearth and home. We're a babe on the crawl for now, but I have great confidence in our bit of western craic.

  “And don't think I don't appreciate a bit of criticism. Haven't heard too much from all of you out there, so don't be shy. Tell me what you really think of my latest foray. Two heads are greater than one, they say. And a village, well, with all your support we could carry this little ship to a whole new world!

  “So, for letting go of all ego, here's a tongue in cheek if I ever heard it: Carly Simon's ‘You're So Vain’!”

  MARJAN WAITED for Fiona and Evie to cross the street before lugging the two large pots from the window-side table. In honor of the All Hallows' Eve ceili, she had cooked up double batches of stew made with cinnamon, lamb, and apples, the fruit of the season.

  Fiona took one of the pots and Marjan the other, while Evie held on to the book she had been reading.

  Marjan had tried not to smile when she saw the young stylist in her latest outfit—fishing pants and Aran sweater to match her hardier employer's—and only nodded as Evie read to them from The Female Eunuch.

  “I can't get her to put it down,” Fiona explained as the trio marched up the cobblestoned Mall. “Makes me regret I gave it to her in the first place,” she said with a smile.

  Evie looked shocked. “But Fiona, how could you say that? It's like my eyes have been opened. I can't believe what I've put up with from that gobshite Peter Donnelly all this time.” She held the book out in front of her with both hands. “Germaine Greer is a goddess.” She sighed reverentially.

  Fiona winked at Marjan, who couldn't help but laugh.

  “Let's go, goddesses. There's a ceili out there with our names on it.”

  A FAMILIAR SIGHT GREETED the three of them as they approached the Town Hall. Parked in a semicircle around Saint Patrick's monument were four horse-drawn carriages heralded with lively pink and orange banners. The McGuire Family Circus had come back to town.

  The youngest of the seven McGuires who controlled Balli-nacroagh's drinking establishments, Kieran McGuire had been the only sibling with a taste for trails less beaten. The same strain that sent his nephew Tom Junior to seek the solace of a Califor-nian ashram had driven Kieran to establish the troupe of actors and street performers setting up now in the square. Traveling the Continent, the McGuire Family Circus performed variations on Celtic themes and festivities and were in constant demand wherever they went.

  On this All Hallows' Eve, they were going to enchant Balli-nacroagh with a dance based on The Faerie Queene.

  Fiona sniffed the air. “Can you smell the greasepaint? Makes me long for the stage again.” She waved at Kieran, who was busy applying makeup to his face inside one of the canvas-topped caravans.

  The Ladies of the Patrician Day Dance Committee had really performed miracles this time, thought Marjan. The Town Hall's Palladian exterior, crumbling as it was, looked for once as lavish as it must have when it was first built. Yards of twinkling lights swathed the pillars with their fluttering song, meeting wide steps illuminated by hurricane lamps that looked like their Arabian Nights counterparts.

  After settling the pots on the refreshments table, Marjan, Fiona, and Evie joined the crowd walking into the main room, a large hall flanked by a wooden stage that was currently missing half its proscenium arch and at least thirty floorboards. Fiona surveyed the theater. Once completed, it would make a beautiful arena for Father Mahoney's many plays—under her astute directorial guidance, of course.

  “You have a curtain already?” Marjan asked Fiona, pointing to the pearly screen of organdy stretched from one end of the stage to the other.

  “That's just for tonight. Borrowed it from a pal at the Druid Theatre in Galway It's for the fairies' sake,” Fiona explained with a bemused look on her face.

  “Finnegan?” Marjan said, moving to a side wall where bales of hay made for a scratchy yet convenient seating area.

  The hairdresser laughed. “Finnegan, the Tuatha De Danaan, the Little People, the lot. It's meant to protect them from us. Or is it us from them?” Fiona shook her head. “I can never tell.”

  She shrugged. “Anyway, it's the veil that separates our world from theirs. Keeps all things in balance f
or this Day of the Dead. Do you have something like this back in Iran?”

  Marjan smiled. “Something like this, yes.” Veils were everywhere, she told herself. Even if you couldn't see them.

  The ceili band—none other than the Covies—launched into a jigged-up version of Madonna's number one hit “Like a Virgin,” prompting Godot to leap up onto his tipsy owner. The Cat made as though he couldn't be bothered, but a moment later saw him waltzing with his hairy companion.

  Marjan giggled as she made her way to the left wall, where the All Hallows' Eve Games were stationed. There she found Layla and Malachy lined up to try their luck at a game called Apple Dookin.

  Layla was busy trying to talk her school friend Regina Jackson into giving the game a go. “You have to put your whole head in if you want to catch one,” she said, impatience in her voice. Regina was kneeling to the side of the large oak bin that held the Red Delicious apples.

  “I just got this perm. I'm not about ruin it for anything,” Regina moaned, pointing to the red kinks springing every which way from her head. She stood up and shrugged. “I'd rather just give them a donation.”

  “You have to have an apple for the Mirror,” Malachy said.

  Marjan looked at the next game, for which many of the villagers had gathered: the Lady in the Mirror.

  A large blackboard taken from the high school spelled out the rules: Once the apple had been procured from the Dookin Tub, it was duly handed to Maura Kinley treasurer of the Ladies of the Patrician Day Dance Committee, who would slice it into nine even pieces. Eight were to be eaten, while the last one was to be held for the divination ritual of the Mirror.

  Marjan craned her head to where a large gilt mirror hung on the wall. She couldn't read the rest of the rules over the crowd of heads. “What happens when you get to the Mirror?” she asked.