Rosewater and Soda Bread (19 page)

“Sorry, Father, but I wasn't too sure if you were on air or not. Didn't want to barge in there so, while you were making your accounts.”

“That's quite all right, Geraldine. Point to be taken—might have to construct myself a system of warning.”

“Maybe we can get one of those spare confessional lamps, and whenever you are on air, you can just flick it on, so.”

“Now, that's a grand idea,” praised Father Mahoney He looked at his housekeeper of fifteen years expectantly. “Was there something you wanted?”

Geraldine Boylan started. “Oh! Forget my own head if it wasn't stuck to my shoulders now. Marjan Aminpour's here to see you. She's just outside the door.”

“Well, let her in here, then. And bring down some of those lovely scones you have perfected so. The boysenberry ones. Topped yourself this time, Geraldine.”

Mrs. Boylan smiled with delight. She disappeared out the side door, letting Marjan in.

Timing couldn't have been more fortuitous, thought the priest. If there was one person to give him a good critique of his progress, it was the lovely cook of the Babylon Café.

AFTER A SCRUMPTIOUS TEA BREAK of boysenberry scones and the bergamot tea from the packed leaves Marjan had brought, Father Mahoney found her primed for questioning.

“All right, be honest now. I can take a critique like the best of them. From one artist to another, what did you think of my new pet project? Do you think I've made an entire mess of it?” The priest wiped scone crumbs off his dark trousers and looked at her in anticipation.

Marjan smiled. “Not at all. I only caught the last of your program yesterday, but I think it's a wonderful idea.” She paused. “I wouldn't call myself an artist, though.”

“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.

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?”