Rosewater and Soda Bread (11 page)

In Iran, it was Marjan's favorite holiday. She even preferred it to the bigger and brasher New Year's celebrations in March, anticipating the festivities months in advance. The preparations would begin as early as July, when she and the family gardener, Baba Pirooz, gathered fruit from the plum, apricot, and pear trees behind their house. Along with the queen pomegranate bush, the fruit trees ran the length of the half-acre garden.

Four trees deep and rustling with green and burgundy canopies, the fattened orchard always reminded Marjan of the be-jeweled bushes in the story of Aladdin, the boy with the magic lamp. It was sometimes hard to believe that their home was in the middle of a teeming city and not closer to the Alborz mountains, which looked down on Tehran from loftier heights.

After the fruit had been plucked and washed, it would be laid out to dry in the sun. Over the years, Marjan had paid close attention to her mother's drying technique, noting how the fruit was sliced in perfect halves and dipped in a light sugar water to help speed up the wrinkling. Once dried, it would be stored in terra-cotta canisters so vast that they could easily have hidden both young Marjan and Bahar. And indeed, when empty the canisters had served this purpose during their hide-and-seek games.

Only twice while growing up did the Aminpour sisters not
celebrate Mehregan: in 1971, after their mother had died giving birth to Layla, and then again in October 1978, when the three sisters had been sequestered in Pakistan, taking refuge from a revolution and a man with a face full of terrible pockmarks.

Hossein Jaferi's face propelled Marjan out of sleep.

She sat up in bed, blinking quickly. It took a few deep breaths before she could orient herself, remind her mind and body that she was safe in her bed. The crackling bonfires of Mehregan must have somehow morphed into the shadowy image of Bahar's estranged husband during the course of her dream, the sweet, woodsy smell of kindling flitting away to another, more primal scent.

It wasn't often that her dreams turned to darkness.

She swallowed hard and looked to her left. Bahar was still wrapped in her customary two duvets. A quilted eye mask covered most of her small face, rising to the rhythm of her soft snoring.

Saturday tea must have been especially busy, thought Marjan, enough that it had tired even Bahar's neurotic tendencies.

Normally her sister would have remained awake and waiting at the kitchen table until Marjan was home safe and in one piece. Bahar would never have fallen asleep had she known what—or rather who—Estelle had found beneath the dunes of Clew Bay Beach.

Drawing her legs up to her chest, Marjan laid her chin on her knees and let her mind roam the day's strange events. She still had a hard time believing what she had seen at Estelle's. It all seemed like a fantastical dream, something from one of Layla's Shakespearean plays.

Who was she, this girl with the strange hands and pale skin? Where had she come from? And why had she chosen to do what she had done in the Bay?

There were a lot of questions and, it seemed, only one person who could answer them.

Dr. Parshaw's examination had at least shed some light on the situation. After an hour's wait in Mayo General, the doctor had appeared with his verdict: “There is slight tearing of the lower cervix,” he explained, his face ashen from lack of sleep, “but no damage to the uterus itself. She is going to keep the baby—for the moment. Of course, things may change entirely once she is discharged.”

The meaning behind his words was clear: although to do so was not legal in the Irish Republic, the girl could terminate her pregnancy elsewhere in Europe.

Marjan asked her name.

“She was awake for most of the diagnosis but refused to answer any of my questions,” Dr. Parshaw replied. “I'm afraid I do not know any more than you both about her origins.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Most likely she is in shock. Trauma of these kinds, even if self-inflicted, has the effect of leaving some numb. There will be more time for questions later.”

“Yes, yes.” Estelle nodded, following the doctor's words attentively.

“I have not told any of the staff about the circumstances that brought her here. Just that she was suffering from an infection and would rather not talk about it. I am keeping most of her records in my office.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Marjan said. “I know that's asking a lot.” She put her arm around Estelle, who had begun to sniffle again.

“I am not sure if what I am doing falls under the Hippocratic oath or not, but I do not believe in handing her over to the guards,” continued Dr. Parshaw gently. “The infection should
be cleared up in the next fortnight. There were some serious cuts to her cervix. Had Mrs. Delmonico not found her when she did, she might have lost her baby.”

Estelle dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and nodded. “You are a good man, Doctor.”

“There is nothing good or bad about what I do, Mrs. Delmonico. It is merely my job.”

“Yes, but you know, good or bad, her body is fighting her heart. It knows she tried to erase pain, so it is still fighting. You must please tell her she is not alone. Please tell her there are people here to help,” insisted Estelle.

Marjan could see that the topic had struck a deep chord with her friend. Barren during what should have been her fertile years, Estelle Delmonico was never able to have her own children. Something in this mysterious girl, it seemed, had triggered her latent regrets.

It had set off Marjan's own memories, too. There was no denying it, she had been here once before, they all had; the young woman's inner wounds were too similar to another set of inflictions, the marks of a baton that had caused Bahar so much pain. But unlike here, in the quietude of Mayo General Hospital, with its staff of whispering nurses, Bahar had not been properly treated for the assault that had left her so battered. Instead, she had cooled her wounds with a paste of grated potato and mint leaves, a recipe from their grandmother Firoozeh. She had treated herself and kept her secret for four months, never calling Marjan for help.

A shudder ran through Marjan. She glanced once more at Bahar, thankful that she was still asleep.

Maybe she should wait a while before telling her sisters about the girl. She had weighed the thought on her drive down from Estelle's but had still not decided whether it would be right to
tell them about the girl and her attempted abortion. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a bad idea.

It would only cause panic, she told herself, especially since no one knew who the girl was, or even where she had come from. There would be no point in worrying them as well, at least not until she knew more about the situation.

Yes, she told herself, she would wait—for answers and a new day. Marjan took a deep breath and rubbed her arms. She couldn't seem to stop the shivers running up her spine.

Slipping quietly out of the bed, she tiptoed across the small room to the door. She knew one surefire way of dashing the nightmare: a big cup of warm milk and honey, with just a pinch of powdered cinnamon.

Maybe a piece of
barbari
bread as well, to dip into the frothy surface. Comfort, Baba Pirooz used to say, comes easily from such simple pleasures.

In the living room, Marjan found Layla sprawled where she usually slept, on the opened futon sofa before the television. Her youngest sibling was also in a deep sleep, a smile on her dreaming face.

From the latticed skylight, the moon was sending a series of hushed beams into the small parlor. The light was just strong enough to reveal the mottled cover of
Much Ado About Nothing
tucked in the girl's long and slender arms.

MARJAN HELD THE CASSEROLE DISH
close to her chest as she climbed the stairs to the convalescent unit. She followed the arrows on the polished floor, making her way to the room as she had done the day before.

She spotted Dr. Hewey Parshaw as she turned a corner. He was talking to a plump nurse near the check-in station but nodded at her as she approached.

“Good afternoon, Miss Aminpour.” He smiled, sniffing the air. “My, whatever you have hidden in that dish, it smells delicious. Makes me wish I were a patient, if only for this lunch hour.”

Marjan smiled. “It's
bagali polo
. Dill and lima bean rice,” she said, holding out the casserole.

Dr. Parshaw sniffed again. “Mmm … takes me back to my mother's kitchen in Pakistan. What years they were!”

“How long have you been away?”

“Nearly five years. Too long, too long for any son.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Marjan replied. She had wondered about the doctor's story. Estelle had told her a little about his background, how he had escaped a civil war for Germany and then residencies in hospitals around the Emerald Isle. He looked much older than she had expected after hearing Estelle's description.

Loneliness had a way of aging people, Marjan thought. “I know how hard it is to leave everything behind,” she said gently.

Dr. Parshaw nodded sadly. “Indeed. I sometime wonder if it is all worth it. Not sharing this prosperity with my loved ones.” He looked at her. “But you are lucky. You have your sisters, Mrs. Delmonico was telling me.”

Marjan nodded. “I am very lucky. I don't think I could have survived the move from Iran without them.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you have any family in Ireland?”

Dr. Parshaw shook his head. “None, I'm afraid. Some cousins in Frankfurt, that is all.” He paused, attempting a cheerful tone. “But I have hope of bringing them here, and in the end, that is everything. Hope.”

“I agree,” said Marjan. Courage and faith, she reminded herself. She lifted the casserole dish. “Can I leave some of the rice for you? It might help with the memories.”

“Well…” Dr. Parshaw paused, sniffing the buttery dill again. “Normally I would not intrude on a patient's dinner, but I am willing to make an exception this time.”

Marjan smiled. “Good. I'll put aside a dish every day if you like. It's the least I can do,” she said, when the doctor tried to protest, “for all the help you gave yesterday.”

“Well, then … there's nothing to say in argument. Much obliged.”

Marjan glanced toward the room opposite the check-in station.
She lowered her voice. “How is she doing? Estelle said she's been awake for most of the day.”

Dr. Parshaw's expression became sober. “The antibiotics are taking effect. One must be careful with any treatment, but especially in the condition she is in.”

“So there is still a baby? Definitely?”

“For now, this is certain. It is, of course, important to monitor her recovery.”

Marjan sighed with relief, surprising herself. “Does she know? About her condition, I mean?”

He paused and looked around, making sure he was out of the nurse's earshot. “I have informed her of her pregnancy,” he said, in a low voice. “I explained to her that she will need to rest and heal. She has yet to make any comments.”

“Estelle said she was keeping quiet.”

“Yes, and we still have no name. I have taken the liberty of naming her for the records. Otherwise, the rest of the staff, and I daresay the guards, would have to be notified,” he said. “From now on she will be known as Bella Rosa. That was Mrs. Del-monico's suggestion.”

Marjan's eyes widened. “Can that be done?”

“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!”