Pomegranate Soup

by Marsha Mehran

  He needn’t have bothered with those tinkers, Tom Junior told himself; he should have let Jimmy throw them out of the Ale House, or better yet, called those two lazy shites at the Garda station to come and collect them instead of getting his hands dirty on some stinking knackers. But then again, he couldn’t just sit idly by and watch as that lot of drunken trailer trash waltzed into one of his father’s pubs as if they owned the place. And how was he to know that one of them was going to come out with a clean southpaw from bleedin’ nowhere?

  A sharp spasm in his right eye made him recoil in pain, and he hissed under his breath. He was going to have a fecker of a bruise come tomorrow. Still, he would have rather taken another stinger to the jaw than miss his afternoon rendezvous behind the church’s impressive grove of gooseberry bushes. Leaning forward on his haunches, Tom Junior resumed his close guard over the church, aware that Layla would be stepping out of the door of the Sunday School room at any moment.

  Tom Junior had been following Layla’s every move for months, ever since his father had given him the job of spying on his brother’s romance with the girl. At first, Tom Junior had kept his distance from the couple. In a commando move that he practiced many times, he would lie flat on the boggy field adjacent to the cobblestone alleyway behind the café, timing with an army stopwatch the exact minute when Malachy and Layla turned down the side street after school. Pockets of undergrowth in the field kept Tom Junior well out of sight, creating terrific bunkers where he was able to store his spy craft: a Huntsman compass he had bought at Healy’s Hardware, a bottle of warm Guinness to quench his thirst, and an old pair of camouflage-colored binoculars that his father had given him for his seventeenth birthday, the year he had seen Sylvester Stallone in First Blood.

  Disgusting how Malachy cavorted with that Arab girl, with no thought to the damage he was doing to the McGuire name. What was so special about her, anyway? he wondered. Tom Junior had heard the Donnelly twins and some of the younger lads jabbering on about Layla in the pub, as though she was God’s gift to men or something. Jaysus. Sure, she was all right looking for a darkie, but he didn’t know what all the fuss was about. He much preferred those blond-haired birds with nipples as pink as they come. And to think that she had taken a fancy to Malachy of all people. Well, that just proved she wasn’t right in the head, didn’t it?

  Tom Junior kept up his vigilant watch in the bog every afternoon. When rehearsals for Father Mahoney’s play started in Saint Barnabas’s Sunday School room, he shifted his hiding place to the bushes that bordered the back of the church, waiting until the three-hour practice session ended to resume his covert operation. Using stone walls and bundles of piled up turf and hay to mask himself from view, Tom Junior would then follow the young sweethearts to Clew Bay Beach, where he had singled out his own private dune for spying. From his sandy fort he was able not only to listen in on the couple’s intimate conversations but also finally to appreciate Layla’s kinetic beauty. This close proximity to Layla’s gazelle legs and glossy black locks was what would finally do him in.

  The first time Tom Junior smelled Layla’s natural cinnamon-rose perfume he staggered back into a razor-sharp patch of nettle near his dune. His entire body felt electrified; his eyeballs and the inside of his mouth sizzled with longing. When the seizure passed, Tom Junior curled up into his own snail embrace, absolutely stunned. The young man found himself crying unexplainable tears that poured from a dark place in his heart. He kept weeping as Malachy and Layla walked back to town, moaning with confused sadness until the sun went down and the moon was pitying him with her full face.

  The next day Tom Junior felt hollow inside but also strangely calm. For he finally knew what was wrong with him, why he had cried so hard, so fast. Layla had shown him what he could do, what he could be without the shadow of his father always looming over him. Riding that wave of her glorious perfume over his pain and anger, Tom Junior had seen himself as the conqueror of his father’s empire, the rightful heir to the McGuire throne. He, not Thomas, should be the undisputed drink lord of Ballinacroagh. With Layla by his side, Tom Junior could bring his father to his knees and finally become his own man.

  Loud voices startled Tom Junior from his daydream. He jerked his head up too quickly and accidentally rustled the gooseberry branches. Drawing in his breath, he held his body very still and squinted toward the opened church door. The hairdresser, Fiona Athey, strolled out of the church carrying a massive pink binder and a transparent pencil bag full of colored markers. She was tossing her braided hair from side to side, yapping happily. For a second Tom Junior thought the batty beautician was talking to herself, but then Father Mahoney appeared in the doorway, nodding excitedly. Tom Junior strained to hear a snippet of their conversation.

  “. . . used it in the Puck Fair two years ago. Said we could have it for the whole weekend,” Father Mahoney said, beaming.

  “An amphitheater! I still can’t believe it! It’s absolutely perfect!” Fiona did a quick jig on the sidewalk.

  “I’ll be picking it up from the Arts Center today. Made out of plywood, so it’ll need some reassembling. Young Malachy has offered his services,” the priest informed her.

  “Would you be wanting to go to Castlebar now, Father?”

  Tom Junior winced. There was Malachy, that bastard, walking out of the church door with his arm around Layla. His Layla! That gobshite, Tom Junior muttered lowly to himself. How he would love to bash his head in one of these days.

  Tom Junior’s bruised eye sent another bullet of pain through his skull as he watched his brother embrace Layla and climb into Father Mahoney’s clunky black 1975 Cadillac Eldorado. His gaze followed her as she waved good-bye to Fiona and walked the length of the square alone before turning off into a side street that led away from Main Mall toward Clew Bay. Unraveling himself from his leafy hideout, Tom Junior plucked the twigs from his hair and, despite his racing heart, ambled casually up the side street after Layla.

  The road was narrow and hilly, flanked by crumbling, three-story Georgian mansions whose expansive doors had been painted in confident shades of blue, green, and red by burgeoning, bustling families in better days. Most of the sad houses were now in disrepair, their limestone porticoes strangled by impenetrable ropes of creeping ivy, their once grand rooms subdivided into musty flats. Tom Junior climbed the steep hill slowly, keeping a safe distance from Layla. By the time he reached the top, she had already rounded the bend that ran past a number of scattered milk farms and was headed straight down to Clew Bay Beach.

  Storm clouds were fast gathering over Clew Bay as Tom Junior mounted the sandy bank. Layla was sitting comfortably on her favorite dune, about fifty yards away from him, her head tilted up toward the changing sky. A gentle current of air carried her intoxicating cinnamon-rose perfume to his hungry heart.

  Layla sighed with happy relief. The week had been exceptionally hot, and the Sunday School room, built to withstand treacherous gales and long hours of tedious Bible study, was improperly ventilated for the brilliant summer the town was experiencing. Rehearsing in the sweltering room had proven nearly unbearable, so Layla welcomed the cool caresses of sea breeze on her moistened skin. She checked her watch again, eager for Malachy to finish his errand with Father Mahoney and join her on the beach. How romantic it would be if they were caught together in a rainstorm, Layla thought, hugging herself tightly. Straight out of a movie. Grinning, she looked up and winked at grumpy Croagh Patrick, sharing her fantasy with the ancient mountain.

  Seized by a sudden, uncontrollable longing, Tom Junior chose that very moment to expose himself to Layla. He dashed feverishly across the dunes, a deep groan escaping from his churning bowels, and jumped on her from behind. His callused fingers pulled at her silky blouse and clumsily groped her bared stomach. At first, Layla thought Malachy had turned into a mad animal, but then Tom Junior’s glazed eyes and snorting nostrils came into focus. His mutton lips pressed down into her whole face, suffocating her screams. Gnashing hungrily,
Tom Junior’s teeth tore into the inside of her lip, breaking its persimmon softness. His beefy paw was just reaching under her squirming denim skirt when, out of nowhere, a knuckled fist came crashing down on the left side of his head.

  fesenjoon

  1 pound shelled walnuts, chopped

  Olive oil

  2 1⁄2 pounds skinless chicken breast, cubed

  3 large onions, sliced

  6 tablespoons pomegranate paste, dissolved in 2 cups hot water

  1⁄2 teaspoon salt

  1⁄2 teaspoon ground black pepper

  1 tablespoon sugar

  2 tablespoons lemon juice

  Grind walnuts in a food processor for 1 minute. Fry in olive oil for 10 minutes, stirring constantly. Set aside. Sauté chicken and onions in a deep pan until golden. Add walnuts, pomegranate juice, and remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil. Lower heat to a simmer, cover, and cook for 45 minutes, or until the pomegranate sauce thickens. Serve with chelow.

  chapter ten

  THE YOUNG TINKER GIRL knocked at the back door at quarter to three in the afternoon. Marjan recognized her as one of the many freckled faces that lingered at the café windows long after other curious schoolchildren had left their mucky handprints behind. The mischievous pack of Irish street urchins, members of the itinerant camp, spent the greater part of their days panhandling with paper cups outside shop doorways on Main Mall. Though never afraid to solicit customers inside the McGuire establishments, for some strange reason the travelers kept a quiet respect for the Babylon Café and never ventured inside its vermilion walls.

  “Hello. What can I do for you? Do you want to come in?” Marjan smiled at the girl standing timidly in her back garden. She was a pale, small-boned child, about nine years old, Marjan guessed, a wisp of a thing with wide-set cerulean eyes and long orange hair that hung in a tangled ponytail down her back. The young girl shook her head and looked down briefly, before bursting into a half-intelligible message.

  “Yes bettur git te da water. Better git der quick now! We’ve got yer sis der. She’d hurt just da bit, now, so.”

  It was enough for Marjan to understand that something was terribly wrong.

  Speeding up Main Mall in the green van, Marjan tried her best to make sense of the girl’s warbled directions to the travelers’ campsite while also keeping her own thumping heart from exploding. They finally arrived at Clew Bay Beach, the van lurching into the public parking grounds just as thunder crackled across the bay. The beach, past the solitary dunes where Layla had been sitting, was filled with summering high school kids and the odd Speedo-suited farmer, all burnt to various shades of pink. As soon as the eager sunbathers heard the thunder, they scrambled for their unused suntan lotions and crisp bathroom towels, stuffing them under folded arms as they ran for their cars and bicycles.

  The young tinker girl quickly led Marjan across a sandy pathway scattered with grass and dulled bottle shards, toward a gravel lot crammed with trailer homes. Marjan briefly scanned the large vehicles before her. Fifty-year-old chrome-hooded caravans sat side by side with last year’s sleeker models, confidently equipped with the latest in mobile home technology. The entire train of trailers was clustered neatly around a communal area consisting of makeshift crate tables and foldout chairs. Perched on the edge of one white plastic chair was Layla, her black hair tousled and sandy. She was leaning her scratched elbows on her knees as she held a torn piece of tissue to an open cut on her lip. Crouched next to her, and whispering in uncharacteristically angry tones, was Malachy, his usually graceful hands balled into tight fists.

  “Layla! What happened to you? What’s going on?” Marjan’s voice was filled with terror as she rushed to her sister’s side.

  Layla stood up shakily. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I just—” She broke off, not knowing where to start.

  Malachy tried to control his anger, but his voice cracked and skipped octaves as he jumped in to explain what had happened.

  “I arrived just after it all. I’ll never forgive myself,” he began, his voice heavy with guilt. “Father Mahoney dropped me off at the beach after we got back from the Arts Center. Layla wasn’t in our usual spot, so I sat on a dune and waited. I thought she might have gone to the toilets near the parking lot and would be back soon. I can’t believe I was so stupid,” he said, shaking his head in utter dismay. At the time he had presumed that one of the tinkers had harassed Layla on the beach and scared her off. Malachy was embarrassed by his assumptions, now that he knew both who had given Layla her bloodied lip and who had saved her from further harm.

  Declan Maughan, two-time middleweight champion of the Con-naught amateur boxing circuit and chief of the caravan before them, was the man who had rescued Layla from Tom Junior’s slobbering assault. As luck would have it, Declan had been just itching for an opportunity to practice the Maughan slide and bounce cut, a combination that would surely make his third time on the ropes a charmed one indeed.

  After they had been ousted from their last three campsites (twice by tractor teams in Donegal and once by a herd of menopausal cows in Galway), Declan had moved his caravan to Clew Bay Beach for the spring and summer seasons, knowing how useful the sand would be for resistance training. He had missed his daily beach workout that morning, though, as a result of heavy partying with several of the younger men of the camp the night before. The revelry had lasted well into the morning, as the whole gang caroused down Main Mall with Guinness bottles held high, bellowing songs of rebellion. And then, of course, there’d been the fight in the Ale House with those two eejits, those amadans, in which, Declan was proud to say, he and his mates had come out the victors before having to make a hasty retreat to the camp. So, when a still-punchy Declan finally trudged onto the beach that afternoon, the last thing he expected to see was the same gobshite who had picked a fight with him just a few hours before.

  He spied Tom Junior groveling on top of the distant dune, his chunky legs sashaying over the sand with all the poise of a ground-hog. Declan slowed down his hoppity jog and squinted into the afternoon horizon. If he wasn’t mistaken, that bleedin’ bastard wasn’t alone. There was a poor girl squirming under him! Declan’s sinewy legs sprinted across the sand, flying high over powdery sandbanks and spools of barbed seaweed, landing right behind Tom Junior, on the dune, within seconds.

  “I’m going to kill him, Layla. If those bloody guards at the station house don’t do anything, then I say we go all the way to Castlebar,” said Malachy. His fists were clenched, his knuckles white as he bit down on his words.

  “Where’s this man who helped you, Layla?” Marjan asked, searching the campgrounds.

  Several travelers had gathered behind the two teenagers: the impish red-haired girl, Aoife, trailed by a handful of other rascally children, and four gum-clacking, gold-clad women who looked at Marjan with wary eyes. Two older, scruffy men dressed in frayed football jerseys sat smoking on chairs nearby, but Declan Maughan was nowhere to be seen. He was, in fact, watching the whole scene from his trailer home, the newest and fanciest one on the lot, but a debilitating shyness that always overcame him in the presence of strange women kept the caravan chief from stepping outside to claim his heroic deed.

  “He’s indisposed ri’ now. What can I do fer ye?” The biggest woman there stepped forward. Her teased, hair-sprayed blond helmet reminded Marjan of an overripe kumquat. She had a territorial air about her and was indeed Declan Maughan’s older sister.

  “I just want to thank him. I can’t imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t saved my sister,” said Marjan, attempting a smile but managing only a wavering grimace. She could feel her composure beginning to unravel.

  Buck it up, Marjan, she told herself. Just get yourself back into the kitchen and decide what to do from there. Surrounded by the safety of its warm walls, she might have a chance to make sense of it all.

  BAHAR LOCKED THE café door behind Marie Brennan and Mrs. Boylan. After pouring herself a cup of strong Darjeeling tea, she sat down at
the kitchen table and replayed Marjan’s words in her head.

  “Just keep your eye on the abgusht, Bahar. Give it a stir, okay? I’ll be back soon,” her sister had whispered urgently, her face a greenish white as she ran out the back door.

  Had Bahar’s hands not been full with Mrs. Boylan’s order of marinated pepper wrap and red lentil soup, she would have hurried after her sister and demanded an explanation for her stricken appearance. But by the time she stepped out into the cobblestone alleyway, Marjan had already reversed the van and was gone.

  Something terrible had happened, Bahar was sure of it. What else could have prompted her sister to run out of the kitchen so hastily, or to ask her to mind the bubbling pot of abgusht? Marjan knew how she hated to stand before a hot stove. It was Layla, Bahar told herself. Something bad had happened to Layla.

  A tinny sound rang out from the wall behind her. The phone. It was probably Marjan, with the horrible news. Bahar picked up the receiver and slowly brought it to her ear.

  “H-hello?” She swallowed hard, a lump caught in her throat.

  There was no answer on the other end of the line, just silence.

  “Hello? Marjan, is that you?”

  She almost didn’t hear the low breathing at first. The sound came upon her suddenly, a strange, soft whoooosshh like a balloon slowly releasing its air. A deflation of the senses, a deceptively simple expiration that sounded like barely controlled danger. A few seconds later the air spluttered and stopped, ending abruptly in a raspy, barely audible grunt. Then silence.

  Bahar felt a sharp, painful depression in her lungs as she stood listening to the void. And then, out of nowhere, she opened her mouth and surprised herself.