Rosewater and Soda Bread (4 page)

“Family was from here. Down Louisburgh way. I'm staying at the Wilton Inn at the moment. Just checked in today, in fact.” Julian smiled again. “But I most certainly will be having my meals here from now on.”

Marjan hoisted the platter on her arms. “Oh, I don't know, I hear the carvery does a mighty roast plate. Peppercorn gravy, turnip mash, and all,” she said, her lips curving.

“But it doesn't hold its own to that cherry rice I saw being served. A meal that's taken its time to formulate. ‘Let the kettle boil slowly …’ ”

“ ‘For stew boiled in haste is of no use to anyone.’ ” Marjan smiled again, recalling the proverb immediately.

Julian nodded. “Exactly. Makes you wonder what would have happened if Marco Polo and the Silk Road had made it all the way to Ireland.”

“Potatoes would certainly have taken a hit,” replied Marjan, tickled by the thought.

“Might have even stopped the famine. Imagine that now: the Irish could have been clear of the English earlier but for that. Change the whole course of the nation with just a bowl of sweet cherry rice.”

Marjan laughed. “Somehow I can't imagine Paddy's offering
chelow
with their Guinness.”

“Well, you never—” started Julian. He paused and turned around: a loud crash had just come from the street behind him.

They both glanced out the window, in time to catch Evie Watson storm out of the hair salon with a pair of sharp-looking scissors.

“You gobshite!” she yelled, stomping up the cobbled sidewalk on the heels of Peter Donnelly, her beau and all-around sparring mate. “You bastard! Stop, you hear me! Stop right there, Peter Donnelly!”

For once, the young hooligan chose to listen to his girlfriend. He braked directly in front of the Reek Relics shop and turned to face Evie. From behind her store door, Antonia Nolan could be seen watching the battle while chewing on a Picnic chocolate bar, delighted by the display.

“Now, Evie,” Peter started.

The junior stylist stamped her foot. “Don't feckin' Evie me! I've given you the best year yet, and this is the return I get? You little bollocks! I could kill you!” The scissors sliced the air between them.

Peter sighed. “All I said was that a man in my position needs
to be looking to the future.” He held up his hands to protect the burdens of his sex. “It's called progress. Consolidation.”

“Consolidate my feckin' arse! You're a chancer, you are, Peter Donnelly. Just looking for a cheap shag, that's it all right!” Evie took a step forward with the scissors snapping furiously.

Just when it looked as if she was about to mow through Peter's wavy brown hair, the latter came back with what in retrospect was not his wittiest rejoinder: “By ‘shag’ I don't suppose you're offering a haircut, now. Eh, babes?”

Evie screamed. Her reedlike body seemed to reverberate with the pitchy sound, a parenthesis of exploding fury. Opting for a weapon greater than the toothed scissors, she plunged deep into her bib pocket and pulled out a bottle of pink solution.

Aware of his fate but unable to stop it, Peter could only cover his eyes as his head was set awash with the entire contents of a bottle of Panto Perm XLRate, the most powerful permanent solution this side of Eastern Europe. The junior stylist then turned and ran back inside Athey's Shear Delight, wailing all the way.

Julian broke the tension: “ ‘Love is reckless, not reason,’ ” he said, quoting one of Rumi's better known verses.

Marjan stared at a dripping Peter Donnelly, who despite his soaked exterior had retained his swaggering air. No reason about that at all, she told herself; love
was
reckless, there was no other word for it.

THE AFTERNOON TRAIN was to arrive at Westport station at forty-seven minutes past four. A noontime train by all standards, it had departed Dublin on schedule, but by the time it had crossed the river Shannon, it was running an hour and ten minutes late.

“Not bad for a Friday,” Layla remarked when the ticketmaster informed them of the delay. “Remember during Easter break? What were we, five hours late?”

Marjan shook her head. “More like two, but the smell of those eggs made it seem like much longer,” she said.

They had made the mistake of sitting across from a local sheep farmer on his day out. Clearly taken with the holiday spirit, he had bundled a crock jar of pickled eggs in his heavy houndstooth jacket. Every half hour would see him pull another sour specimen from the vinegary depths, popping it into his gummy mouth with the utmost relish—though not before offering it to both Layla and Marjan, a gentlemanly gesture to his credit, if not to their senses.

“I couldn't wash that stink from my hair,” Layla recalled with a shudder as the two of them found seats in the cozy waiting room. “I didn't even smell like me for a whole week.” Layla's natural perfume, an approximation of which could be reached from mixing rosewater and powdered cinnamon, had indeed been thrown off-kilter by the pickled hard-boiled eggs. Not since birth had she been without her personal scent, and Marjan recalled how panicked her sister had been that whole week to retrieve it.

“Thank God the van hasn't broken down since then.” Marjan glanced out the small windows facing the front of the station. The lime green van stood at an awkward angle, the orange peace sign on its side warped by the window's mullioned panes. “I think we need to work on your parking skills next.”

Layla gave a start beside her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Clew Bay Beach isn't the best place to practice paralleling,” Marjan commented in half jest. “At least not if you're serious about passing.” She turned to her sister. A stark paleness was washing over Layla's cheeks. She looked as though she had just swallowed one of those ghastly eggs.

“Don't worry,
joon-e man
. Parking's the hardest part of driving. You'll pass it with flying colors,” Marjan assured her. “Is that what you've been worrying about?”

“Yes. No.” Layla blinked. “It's not that,” she said, swallowing. She quickly surveyed the waiting room. “Marjan? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Marjan sat up. “Of course. What is it?”

“Not here,” Layla replied, tipping her head slightly to the right. Directly diagonal, sitting starch still next to a potbellied stove that crackled with turf, were Antonia Nolan and her middle-aged daughter, June. Regulars of Ballinacroagh's Bible study group, the two were caught in rapturous spying. “Let's go outside. We have time.”

A canopy of ivy and delicate clematis shivered as they stepped onto the single platform. Settling into one of the wooden benches, painted red to match the large carriage wheels leaning decoratively against the awning beams, the sisters were greeted by a fresh westerly breeze. The smell of burning peat and muddled boysenberry from a nearby bush reminded Marjan of the Bonfire awaiting them that evening.

Layla cleared her throat. She fiddled with her blue school jumper and bent over to retie her Doc Martens. Then, after several fumbled attempts at her knapsack straps, she unbuckled its side pocket.

The leather copy
of Much Ado About Nothing fell
onto her lap. She carried the book with her everywhere these days, thought Marjan. The play's parchment-like pages rustled softly as Layla flipped through them.

“Layla, what is this about?” Marjan said, feeling suddenly anxious.

“Just wait, I want to explain it right,” Layla whispered, backing up when she reached a specific point in Act I, Scene II, of the
romantic play. A small scrap, torn off from a newspaper, was stuck between the two pages. It was an advertisement for a pharmacy in West London.

“From the
Sunday World
. Tore it out of the back section,” Layla explained, handing the newspaper scrap over to Marjan.

Marjan read the print, done in medieval lettering:

“It's near Gloria's apartment,” Layla said, blushing profusely. “In Croydon.”

Marjan looked up from the piece of paper. “Gloria?” Her closest companion when they had lived in London, Gloria Del-monico had been a great comfort to Marjan in those dark months and years after they left Iran. It was Gloria who had calmed them down and helped pack all their belongings the night they heard again from Bahar's husband, out of the blue. It was her dear friend who had sent the three of them to Ireland with blessings, on to her dear aunt Estelle.

“Yeah, well, see, ummm … well, I know how she still sends you the odd package. I just thought—We, Malachy and me,
thought that, uh, you could ask her to, to …” Layla paused uncomfortably and squirmed, looking down at the book in her hands.

Marjan had more than an inkling of where the conversation was going. “You want Gloria to send over some birth control. Condoms.” She found herself blushing as well.

Layla nodded, sighing with relief.

“For you and Malachy?” Marjan gently prodded. Layla gave another quick nod, her eyes still on the Shakespearean masterpiece.

“They're not really sold in Ireland. Well, at least not so much in the West.”

Marjan studied the advertisement again. “Let the Friar Stoke Your Fires.” It would have been amusing in any other situation. She racked her brain for the right words of response.

“Are you sure you're ready?” she said hesitantly, peering into Layla's bent face. “What about just taking your time with, uh, kissing and the rest of it?” The station door creaked open just then, and out walked Antonia Nolan and her daughter. The two women stood under the awning for a moment.

“We've been doing all that. For two years nearly,” Layla replied. “What do you think happens every time we park on the Beach?”

Marjan's eyes widened with realization. Parking. “Ah,” she said, pausing. “Have you done—I mean, did you two, you and Malachy, have you done anything yet?”

Layla looked up, her almond-shaped eyes dancing impishly. “You mean
sex?
”

Marjan was taken aback. She had never heard that word come out of her youngest sister's mouth.

“We haven't,” Layla said with a shrug. “We've come close, though.”

“What do you mean close?” Marjan whispered, watching June and Antonia as they waddled slowly toward them. She placed her hand on Layla's arm. “Did Malachy try to force you into something? You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You know that, don't you?”

“But I do want to,” Layla insisted. “I'm the one who's asking, Marjan. Malachy said he'd wait.”

“But you're so young!”

“I'm sixteen! Bahar was married by my age.”

“And that wasn't the best of decisions, was it?” Marjan asked pointedly. She folded the newspaper scrap in half, tucking it into the pocket of her belted jacket just as the two gossips squeezed into a nearby bench.

“This is a very important matter, Layla.”

“I know. That's why I came to you,” Layla said, a touch of desperation in her voice.

“And I'm glad you did. But that doesn't mean I have to approve of what you are doing. Or going to do, for that matter.” Marjan gave her a stern look. “You understand?”

It did not look like Layla did. Or wanted to, which amounted to the same result. Tossing the play into her knapsack, she leaned back in the bench, crossing her arms with a large pout. “You just don't want me to grow up. That's what it is. You want me to be the baby forever, so you can keep making all the decisions.”

“That's not true.” Marjan felt hurt. “I'm only trying to do what's best for you.” The train bell began to ring, followed by the whistle of an engine chugging its way into the station. Marjan turned to the sound, sadness suddenly trickling through her. Was Layla right? Was she trying to keep her from growing up?

“You know, this is just like
Much Ado About Nothing
,” Layla said, reaching back for her knapsack. “You want me to be just
like Hero, all virginal and wimpy. You want to be just like Beatrice, not caring about dating or anything.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Layla.”

“Yes, you do. You don't have a guy, and you think I shouldn't either.” Layla opened the play once again. “Have you ever fallen in love, Marjan? Was that Ali guy you talk about even real? Or did you just make him up 'cause you're too embarrassed to admit the truth?”

“That's enough, Layla,” Marjan replied curtly, standing up. The train was pulling in, carrying the squeals and cacophony of its iron wheels. “You're stepping over the line now,” she said, feeling her face heat up. She felt just as shocked to hear her sister mention Ali's name as she had been to hear her say the word
sex
. She couldn't believe Layla had remembered about her first love, the boy she had left behind in Tehran so many years ago. They had only spoken about him once, after all.

Marjan brought her hand up to her hot cheek. She could feel it throbbing with embarrassment. The train's carriage doors slowly opened, passengers streaming out in all their rumpled glory. Behind her, Layla remained fuming in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest.