Rosewater and Soda Bread (14 page)

Dervla turned toward the squeak over her shoulder. Her sister was slouched in the doorway with a plate of digestives cradled in her hands. Dervla curled her lips in disgust. Why did Marie always have to look as though she were on her way to some sacrificial altar, she thought. Of all the sisters to be granted, God had given her one without a spine.

The old gossip huffed up from the bed. “Thanks be to God,” she said. “Take the seat before I go.” She waddled toward the bedroom door. “Make sure you note the father's whereabouts. I haven't seen him come in or out of that place for four days— could be looking at sheer mutiny on our hands and we wouldn't know it.”

“Maybe he's taken to his bed,” Marie suggested. “The change in weather could have sent the bug his way,” she said, settling onto the edge of the bed with the cookie plate.

“Don't be daft, Marie! Sure, didn't you see him at Mass this
morning? Taken to his bed!” Dervla threw her sister a disappointed glance before turning in to the narrow hallway.

As attested by the worn carpet, the path from bedroom to toilet was one well traveled, a route she took at least every hour. Incontinence was the condition's official name, and in her opinion, it deserved its very own rosary. To think—Dervla grimaced—of all those years she went through her working hours on the farm without a break, not a thought to having another cup of tea or baking Jim Quigley's bread, only to be saddled with this godforsaken affliction so late in the day.

No doubt the bastard was having a laugh at her expense in his final resting place.

“Dervla! It's Antonia Nolan, so. She's coming up the side door!” Marie leaned away from the window, her face flushed with excitement. “She says not to move a muscle.”

Dervla grunted. “Wasn't a muscle I was thinking of moving, but all right. Get the door, will you?”

Marie hurried to the apartment door, where a moment later Antonia appeared, out of breath and full of hot air.

“Lord save us! What's got into you?” Dervla muttered.

Antonia huffed and puffed for another few seconds before spilling her news. “Anne-Marie O'Connell. At hospital. Abomination! Abomination!” She paused to drink from the glass of water Marie handed her before relaying the rest of the story. When she was finished, she plopped down on the telephone seat near the door and crossed herself. “She'd been fed and clothed by those two. And that darky doctor as well!”

Marie blanched, looked to her sister. “Maybe it's only the flu, so. She could be from one of the islands,” she began. “They say it's reaching Clare and the Aran, the flu sickness is.”

Dervla stayed silent for a moment, rubbing her chin with her
knuckles in thought. She nodded. “It's a sickness, all right. And it's catching. Like hellfire, so it is.”

She moved to the telephone seat, lifted the receiver, and began dialing. Yes, thought Dervla, there was a reason why He had granted her the ability to see far and wide; a reason why she was—incontinence aside—able to keep watch over her beloved street.

The power of the Word was the greatest gift God had ever given to man, to one Dervla Quigley of Ballinacroagh, County Mayo, Ireland. It was up to her now to harness it to the cause.

“WHAT'S THIS?” Bahar asked. She had her coat already buttoned and was in the process of tucking her ears into a furry gray beret.

Marjan stopped spooning the cucumber and mint salad and looked up. Bahar was holding a paperback book, flashing its black-and-white cover. “Where did you find that?”

“On the ground. Next to the coat tree. What is it?” She turned the book over, peering at the large embossed title.

Marjan took the paperback from her sister. “Nothing. Just a book,” she said with a shrug. She stuffed it between the bread tin and a jar of cardamom pods and turned back to the salad with a frown. Her mind was getting so scattered. She had spent a whole hour last night looking for Julian's novel, even turning the tidy pantry inside out, without any luck. She was sure she had looked under the coat tree as well. Or had she? Placing the salad bowl on a platter, she topped it off with a piece of
barbari
bread and pushed it across the island. “Order up, Layla.”

Layla looked up from her after-school meal, tomatoes stuffed with almond rice. “Is that for Fiona?”

“Yes, that's for Fiona,” Marjan replied. “What are you waiting for?” Her tone was harsher than she intended. “I know it's a cold salad, but that doesn't mean you don't send it out when I ask you.”

“I was just saying, 'cause—”

“Because? Why?”

Layla swallowed her bite. “Because, I just took a bowl out ten minutes ago. Don't you remember? Evie was having one too.”

“Oh.” Marjan looked at the bowl, then grabbed it and tossed its contents into the rubbish bin. Of course she had. Sluggish, that's what her mind was. She seemed to be forgetting everything the last few days. This morning she'd stood in the middle of the Butcher's Block staring at a pile of black pudding for an entire five minutes, wondering whether it would suit her red lentil soup or as a side to
bagali polo
, before realizing that none of her dishes contained that very Irish of delicacies.

She was even beginning to forget some of her recipes, and that had never happened. Marjan looked up from the island. Bahar was staring at her. “What?”

“So, where did you get the book?”

“Oh, uh, he, Julian wrote it.”

“The Englishman. Full of himself, isn't he? Shouldn't he wait until you buy a copy of his masterpiece?” Bahar narrowed her eyes in disapproval.

Marjan grabbed a tea towel and wiped down the island. “Isn't it nicer that I got it as a gift?”

Bahar sniffed. “Beware of gifts, Marjan. They always come with a price.” She paused, picking up her purse. “Besides, there's only one book worth reading in my opinion.”

Layla piped up from her seat at the kitchen table. “And what book is that?
The Joy of Sex
?” She burst out laughing.

Bahar grabbed her umbrella and pointed it at Layla. “You
need to get some soap for that mind of yours, missy.” She turned the umbrella at Marjan. “And you,” she said, “you need to stop encouraging her.”

Marjan stopped wiping. “And what have I done wrong now?”

“Out with that English guy until whatever time it was the other night.”

“I am a grown woman, Bahar. I can go out wherever and with whomever I like.”

“You could at least have told me you were going to be so late, you know. I came down at nine, half past nine, then ten. You weren't home until nearly half past ten!”

“I don't want to talk about it. Don't you have your break to go on to?”

“You tell her, Marjan!” Layla stamped her feet excitedly.

“See? That's exactly what I'm talking about. Next thing we know she'll be doing drugs!”

“Oh!” Layla turned toward Bahar, a roll of lavash in her hand. “Take that back!” she yelled, brandishing the bread.

Bahar looked smug. “Hit a nerve, did I? What's with the guilty look? Doing something you shouldn't, eh?”

Marjan dumped the empty salad bowl into the sink, a loud clang breaking through the raised voices. “All right, that's enough! Both of you.”

She took the canister of salad and shoved it impatiently back into one corner of the counter, unaware of the looks of surprise from her sisters. “I've had enough, do you understand?”

She picked up a ladle and turned to the soup pot, swiveling almost as quickly back to the cupboard. Yanking open a drawer, she plunged her hand into a pile of silverware and nicked her finger on something sharp. “Where are the spoons? Why aren't there any soupspoons?”

Layla scrambled from her seat, reached for the tray of utensils
sitting on the counter. She handed Marjan a spoon and stepped back, surprised at her sister's harsh tone.

“What's wrong, Marjan?”

“What's wrong? What's wrong is we have a café to run, if you haven't noticed.” She stared at the spoon in her hand, unsure of why she was holding it. Her shoulders were aching terribly, and a band of tension was beginning to tighten across her chest. What was she doing?

“Marjan …” Bahar started.

Marjan continued to pull open drawers. “Where's the colander? I put it under the sink. Where is it? Is it even washed?” She pointed to the forlorn pile of dirty dishes in a plastic pan.

“Marjan.”

“See, this is what I mean. I'm losing my mind with all this mess, all this noise. Do you two understand me?”

She stopped, turned around. Her face softened instantly when she saw her sisters' concerned eyes. Sighing, she let her shoulders drop, placing the ladle and spoon she was holding in each fist on the island.

“I'm all right. Don't look so worried.” She pushed the drawer shut with her hip. “You two just have to understand that while you indulge in your petty arguing, I have to think of a hundred different things at once.” She spotted the colander on top of the refrigerator. “I would just appreciate some understanding,” she said, reaching for the implement.

Layla bit her lip. “Sorry,” she said contritely, moving to the order carousel.

“I'm sorry too,” said Bahar. She started to take off her coat. “I'll stay.”

Marjan held out her hand. “No. You go. Take your break. But just some quiet next time, okay?”

Bahar and Layla nodded, both still rather stunned. They couldn't remember the last time Marjan had reacted to their nitpicking in this manner, and they were not able to properly register it.

There was quiet indeed after Bahar left. Layla did not say a word for a whole five minutes.

And then, when she could no longer stand to see Marjan so sullen at the stove, she walked over and poked her eldest sister in the ribs.

“Anyway, I think we should go with my theory about Bahar,” she said, nodding emphatically.

“And what theory is that?” Marjan said quietly.

“She's got a boyfriend, for sure,” Layla said with her customary naughty grin. “Some Irish lover with a beer belly and orange hair coming out of his ears.” She doubled over, laughing raucously at the thought.

Marjan allowed herself a small smile. “Oh, Layla,” she said with a shake of her head.

Bahar was the last person she could think of who would keep a romance hidden away, she told herself. Not anymore, anyway; not after Hossein.

“AND THAT IS HOW Luigi found the secret to his cannelloni menta cream. One part cream, two parts sugar, three tablespoons peppermint extracto, and one drop of me. He said my sweat tasted like nectar. Imagine if these Irish people knew about it! They would have never even looked at Papa's Pastries, eh?”

Estelle paused, nodding her head at the girl sitting in the hospital bed. She hadn't planned on revealing Luigi's secret ingredient,
the sugary essence that made his pastries so dear, but had somehow gotten carried away with her story.

The flush of delight in the young woman's usually pale face told Estelle it had been a wise decision. Her cheeks, which had had a sunken look to them only yesterday, were now rounded and hosting gingery freckles.

She was looking much better than that first day, thought Estelle, when she had been lying with a fever in this big bed. Perhaps her love stories did more good than harm, she told herself.

“I think it is time for a bowl of good food, yes? Plum stew the best for you!” Estelle waved her hands again.

It may have been just a blink of the eyes, but it seemed to Estelle that the girl returned her nod.

Since coming to the hospital, they had made do with a series of pantomime moves for everyday speech; along with the language of blinks and nods, these had been sufficient if not desirable for someone with arthritic tendencies.

The power of speech should never be underestimated, the old widow told herself.

She uncovered a bowl of heated plum stew and set it on the tray in front of the girl. “Marjan brought this last night, when you were sleeping, yes? She says this is the best for strength. We will build your blood now, make it thick and strong, okay?”

The girl blinked again, encouraging Estelle to carry on with her tender nursing. She wasn't speaking, but that was okay. What was more important was that she did not try to hurt herself again. Estelle vowed she would do anything to stop that from happening.