Pomegranate Soup

by Marsha Mehran

  “She had her eye on my Benny, you know,” Assumpta informed them.

  “Sure, my boys won’t even come home anymore. Ever since that hussy started strutting her stuff around the place. They could have been priests, those two. Priests!” Joan protested.

  The old biddies nodded simultaneously in a geriatric chorus line. Dervla tisk-tisked and shook her head. “I’d tell that sister of yours to keep out of that café, Joan. I saw her going in there just this morning. Knocked on the door with Evie Watson at her side. I thought that café was closed for the day,” she said.

  “Fiona’s never been one for sound judgment. Sure, she’s still letting those tinkers in for cuts. Driving out decent business without a thought to myself. And she won’t listen. She won’t listen,” repeated Joan, feeling the pressure of judging eyes upon her.

  All heads turned as the café door opened across the street. Mrs. Boylan and two goodwilled ladies from the committee emerged, without the large casserole dishes they had carried inside just half an hour earlier. The stinging drizzle had picked up again, and the three elderly women linked arms and ran up the main street like a trio of carefree schoolgirls.

  “Did you see that then? Geraldine Boylan taking them her best dishes. Sheer wastage,” said Dervla, spitting out her words.

  The Bible study ladies nodded, although most tried their best not to think of the delicious food piling up inside the Babylon Café.

  The café’s kitchen was indeed teeming with a vast array of delicacies. Mrs. Boylan had made two casseroles of her buttery potato champ, and Maura Kinley brought by three loaves of barmbrack, that wonderful medley of marmalade and dried fruits. There was a chunky rabbit stew, moist brown bread, and creamed vegetables, as well as the minestrone Estelle Delmonico was cooking.

  There was nothing like a good bowl of steaming minestrone to put things into perspective, thought Estelle. The old widow sat at the kitchen table, chopping carrots into fine slices. She was making the soup for Marjan, who was lying upstairs recovering from the flu— a result of staying up all night looking for Bahar. Marjan had bravely maneuvered the green hippie van in the pouring rain, taking all the main roads out of town, hoping to spot her sister somewhere along the way. But in the end she had come home alone, chilled to the bone and shivering with fever.

  As soon as the chunky vegetable soup had finished cooking, the little widow climbed up the stairs, balancing a bowl in her arthritic fingers. She walked into the flat’s tiny living space, still surprised at how much it had changed since Luigi had used it as an office. Back then it was filled with yellowing receipt books and boxes of quick-rising yeast. Now there was a small woven rug on the scratched wooden floor, a pretty paisley coverlet spread over a futon, and sitting on a spare café chair, a secondhand television Marjan had picked up in Castlebar.

  Marjan was lying on the couch, still sniffling and surrounded by crumpled tissues. Though her face was gray and clammy, she looked much healthier than she had the night before.

  “Here you go. Some minestrone, yes? Don’t get up.” Estelle bent down toward Marjan’s open mouth to lovingly administer teaspoonfuls of soup.

  “Where’s Layla? Is she downstairs?” Marjan asked, before coughing into a wad of tissue scrunched up in her hand.

  “Shhhh . . . she is okay. She is with Malachy and Emer. They went to Castlebar today. To look for Bahar. They will find her, you will see,” said Estelle, smoothing strands of hair from Marjan’s eyes. Had Estelle borne a daughter, she had no doubt that she would have looked a lot like Marjan. Such a Roman nose, such an Italian complexion. “Shhhh . . . you go back to sleep, okay?”

  Marjan sank deeper into the couch, tears springing up in her reddened eyes.

  “What if they don’t find her? What if she’s gone and they never—” Marjan broke off and looked away for a moment. She hadn’t told Estelle much about Bahar’s disappearance, only the fib she had told everyone else who had already paid her a visit: that Bahar had felt so badly about Tom Junior attacking Layla she had decided to skip town for a while. Marjan knew it was a weak explanation, but the alternative would mean opening up too many wounds.

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t know if we’ll find her. And . . . God—” Marjan surrendered into coughs and tears once again. Estelle shushed her gently and wiped her forehead with her wrinkly fingers.

  The old lady’s touch reminded Marjan of her mother’s caresses. Shirin Aminpour had often lullabied her daughters to sleep with fantastic tales of Scheherazade and her courageous storytelling. On such warm nights, as was the custom in Iran, their whole family would gather on their house’s flat roof. Sunken and completely cleared of stones or rubble, the roof was lined with back-to-back rugs and ornate pillows, upon which they would all sleep the humid night away, dreaming of golden arches and flying Arabian horses. Someone always had an instrument on hand, usually a tomback, the gourd drum of poets, which would thump, thump, thump to the stories that were being passed around.

  Marjan doubled over from the pain of the memory. They were so young then. Nothing to regret. Nothing to run away from.

  Estelle sat quietly by Marjan’s side, tenderly stroking her hand as the younger woman sobbed her heavy tears.

  “You lie down and don’t move,” Estelle said, propping several pillows behind Marjan’s back.

  Marjan marveled at how their situations had reversed; only a couple of months ago she had been the one helping Estelle into bed after her fainting spell.

  “You need to rest. No more sadness, okay?”

  Marjan nodded tiredly, her cheeks burning with fever.

  “Now, open your mouth. This is going to make you feel much better, you will see,” Estelle said gently. She scooped a big spoonful of broth-softened zucchini and carrot from the bowl in her hand, offering it with a soothing smile. Finally, she thought, someone to take care of. She was going to look after all three girls from now on, just as a mother should.

  EVERYONE FELT THE absence of aroma when they stepped inside the café on Saturday morning. The heady steam that always surrounded the golden samovar had deserted its keeper, giving it the look of a barren woman. But for a few stale zulbia and a half plate of almond delights, the pastry counter held only the crumbs of past sweetness, an emptiness that further stressed the importance of their mission.

  Father Mahoney led the search party that had gathered in the café’s closed front room, outlining his reconnaissance plan like a seasoned general out to conquer.

  “I’ll take the old Cadillac to the east—Westport, Ballintubber, Claremorris,” he said, unfolding an old, dusty map of Western County Mayo on the long communal table. “Who wants the coastal road?”

  “Evie and I will take it,” Fiona volunteered.

  “Fine. Malachy, Layla, and Emer can try Castlebar. You’ll need a full day for that, I’d say.”

  “We only got as far as Bridge Street yesterday,” Malachy said apologetically.

  “Right, everyone. We’re as good as we’ll ever be, so. Time to pull out. Now remember, meet back here at o–eighteen hundred. That’s six in the evening if you didn’t know. And good luck!”

  Father Mahoney attempted a half salute but stopped midway when he realized that he was not in a Bob Hope war pic and the troops were in no mood for light entertainment. Nevertheless, the search party rolled out of the Babylon in regimented strides. No one noticed Marjan’s pale face watching through the kitchen door’s round windows.

  It had been just a day since she had taken in Estelle’s comforting minestrone soup, but after five healthy bowls Marjan was finally able to walk up and down the stairs without feeling her legs tremble. Estelle had stayed awake all night to nurse her and instruct Layla in making the footbath, a recipe of salt, vinegar, and hot water that Marjan had herself made many times when her sisters had fallen sick. Only after she was sure that Marjan was free from the flu’s hold did Estelle let Mrs. Boylan drive her home to her little white cottage by the sea. For the first time in the four months they had bee
n in Ballinacroagh, Marjan was all alone in the empty café.

  Four months. Marjan backed up against the staircase banister as though propelled by a sudden blast of wind, the magnitude of her swirling emotions momentarily sucking the breath out of her. Resinous grief, the echo of guilt, and yes, simple gratitude. Observing the efforts of the kind people gathered to help them, she could not fail to feel grateful. After those lonely years of running and barely trusting anyone, Marjan and her sisters had finally found a home. A real home. So why hadn’t Bahar seen that? Why was she giving up on it all, to go—where?

  Marjan sank down into a nearby chair. The kitchen seemed to be suffering from a fast of seasons, looking so desolate with its creaking appliances. She had insisted that Estelle and Mrs. Boylan take home the remaining food, the lovely casseroles and stews cooked by the generous ladies of the committee. The groaning refrigerator was now empty but for some ground lamb, three eggs, and leftover fesenjoon. She should really throw it away, thought Marjan. Start a new batch, maybe some other kind of stew, or perhaps some pomegranate soup. It had been a long time since she had made pomegranate soup.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME since December 1981, when he bought Boney M.’s Christmas Album, Thomas McGuire was back in Kenny’s Record Shop, thumbing through the latest dance singles with a look of consternation on his fleshy face.

  Hi-NRG, Snap!, Industrial, Renegade Soundwave, Techno, House. It was mind-boggling, but according to his teenage daughter Helen, this was the music that everyone listened to nowadays. The new beats were not fit to be called dance music, if you asked him. With their overpowering bass lines and unintelligible lyrics, the whole lot sounded more like a hemorrhoidal computer on its last legs. Nothing like his beloved disco tunes, with their dignified synthesizer beats. But, Thomas reminded himself, after seeing how Ballinacroagh had taken to the Babylon Café, he would have to be more adventurous in his choices.

  The bar owner stole a peek outside the record shop window. Although the café was too far down Main Mall for him to see the Closed sign on its door, he knew all about Bahar’s disappearance. Three days now. Same as his boy Tom, although he for one was sure the two had nothing to do with each other.

  He had to admit, thought Thomas, he was proud of Junior. Maybe not for his choices but for his impeccable timing. With one sweep of his Neanderthal paws, Tom Junior had achieved what Thomas, even with all his influence over the town, had not been able to accomplish in months. That stinking café was finally closed. Good feckin’ riddance, if you asked him.

  And as for Malachy—that good-for-nothing bastard was no longer his son. Thomas had gone so far as to give his lawyer a call to change his will, so certain was he of the excommunication. Nothing and no one, not his wife’s mewling pleas, not his youngest Joanne’s crying, not even his sister Margaret, with her bullish force, could convince him to go back on his pronouncement. That boy was as good as dead to him.

  To satisfy his jivey fingers, which kept crawling over to the Disco section in the record shop, Thomas picked up the first album he saw, the Bee Gees’ Saturday Night Fever. He paid for a rake of dance cassettes that the puzzled shop boy stuffed into two Kenny’s Knows Kool Music plastic bags and worked his way down Main Mall toward Paddy McGuire’s Pub.

  Thomas’s eye flitted over the café’s silent façade with satisfaction. No sign of activity, not even the golden glow he had peeked at that first day. There was only darkness beyond the half-drawn drapes. A slimy round of phlegm flew out of the bar owner’s mouth and landed on the sidewalk between two pots of African violets outside the café’s windows. With the expelled spit came a sort of peace that he hadn’t experienced since his pre–Turbo Tanner days. Back then, everything around him ran like a well-oiled machine, and there was no competition to worry about except the one waged in his own head. Why had he doubted the outcome? Thomas wondered. Of course the café wouldn’t have worked out; the strange spell Ballinacroagh had fallen under these last few months would eventually have been broken, one way or another. Smug and warm all over, Thomas had his hand on the pub door when he heard his older son’s voice.

  “Dad?”

  Tom Junior was standing outside Fadden’s Mini-Mart, desperately trying to keep his emaciated knees from knocking against each other every time a gale tunneled down Main Mall. A long minute passed before Thomas recognized his son, for although he had been away only three days, the boy had experienced a complete and utter metamorphosis. Tom Junior had lost an incredible amount of weight. Gone was the premature beer belly of too many yeasty pints, replaced now by a concave pit of ribs and wrinkled skin. Instead of his puffy jowls, Tom Junior’s jagged cheekbones now fell into hollow recesses, while his sunken, saucer eyes were devoid of their usual insolence and cruelty.

  “Tom? Is that ye?” Thomas walked toward his son, squinting as though doing so would help flesh out the carcass staring back at him. “Get in the pub right now. Do ye plan fer the whole town to have a look?” said Thomas as he pushed his son up the street. “Thought you’d know better than to get yerself back here in a hurry.”

  A lone figure occupied the long, oak-paneled bar, slouched over a bottle of scotch. Thomas immediately recognized him as that drunk of all seasons, the Cat. Had it been any other time, the poor sod would have been thrown out on his sclerotic spine, but at the moment there were more important matters for Thomas McGuire to attend to.

  “What happened, son? Thought you’d be in Galway having a laugh for yer old man. What’s this, now?” He grabbed a crinkly piece of notepaper from Tom Junior’s gaunt fingers and peered at it. Thomas could make out only a few words in the dim pub lighting, but his meaty hands started to shake with anger when he saw his son’s sloping signature at the bottom of the page.

  “It’s my note of apologies. I was going to give it to Sean Grogan to give to the Ara— to the girl there. I shouldn’t have done it, Dad,” Tom Junior said, looking down at his dirty sneakers.

  The apology was genuine, the culmination of three of the longest days of Tom Junior’s life. His journey had begun when he swallowed a whole bottle of tequila, purchased from the Dew Drop Inn outside Westport, and had ended with Junior squatting in a one-room dustheap better known as the Cat’s moldy cottage. And all the while, without his knowledge, Tom Junior’s insides were being gnawed at by a ravenous tapeworm.

  Posing as a tequila worm, the parasite had been biding its time at the bottom of the now emptied José Cuervo bottle, just waiting for a healthy farm boy to cross its path. The worm had eventually worked its way into Tom Junior’s bland soul, boring deep holes from which his ignorance and pent up frustration had seeped out. Gone with the unnecessary bulk of fat was the anger that had burned indiscriminately toward all who stood to oppose him, especially his overbearing father. Tom Junior now realized that Thomas had been suffering under similar strains of unfulfilled dreams, and that he had wrongly compensated for his failures by steamrolling and manipulating everyone in his path.

  All in all, these three days had been a spiritual fasting for Tom Junior, from which he had emerged thinned and complete, bereft of any desire to rule over Ballinacroagh or his father’s weighty legacy.

  Thomas was not so understanding.

  “What are you talking about? Have you gone feckin’ daft, Tom? Leave this to me,” he said, crumpling the written apology in his shaking hand. “Get yerself home to yer mother. She’s been driving me up the wall with her crying. Go on, now,” Thomas ordered, then added, “And for God’s sake, eat something while you’re there.”

  “Da . . .”

  “What? What, Tom?” Thomas glared at the ghost of his once hardy son. Was it just him, or had the whole town gone mad?

  “I’m not going home, Dad,” Tom said firmly. “I’m leaving today. For America. To sort meself out. Find myself.”

  There was no denying it: Tom Junior was a changed man, through and through. Two days of squatting with the Cat had done more for his mind and soul than the two decades he had lived under his parents’ damp r
oof.

  Tom Junior had met his raggedy alcoholic host in a water ditch, where he had spent his first night on the run from the law. What no one in town knew about the Cat, and what Tom had come to discover, was that the old drunkard was once a well-known philosopher in his native Bulgaria. Growing up in a quiet hamlet near the Balkan Mountains, he had been untouched by the seemingly endless Russian-led coups that rocked the little Slavic country toward the end of the nineteenth century. This quiet existence had allowed the Cat to concentrate on his dissertation (via correspondence with Trinity College in Dublin) on Kierkegaard and the missing fourth stage in his existential approach. It was a thesis he was working on well into the second decade of the twentieth century, when out of the blue, Bulgaria found itself caught in the international game of war, choosing the wrong side to cheer for. The Cat escaped the fighting for his Irish alma mater and, after several unrequited love affairs in the capital city, soon found himself in Ballinacroagh of all places. And in Ballinacroagh he had come to stay.

  When Tom Junior, with his body thoroughly ravaged by the tequila tapeworm, first stepped inside the Cat’s one-room, thatched-roof cottage, he was struck dumb by the library amassed before him. Crammed into every corner of the modest space, and piled high in teetering columns, were hundreds of books. Books everywhere. What windows there were had been blocked by barricades of well-thumbed Mills & Boon romance novels (which, if asked, the Cat would vehemently deny were his), and the old philosopher’s Louis XIV daybed was raised on a stack of esoteric Egyptian texts, bought from a Berber peddler in Bulgaria. Tradition had given way to innovation when it came to the cottage’s floor; the customary dirt ground was paved in encyclopedias, thesauri, and dictionaries from every language imaginable, with prominence given to the Afro-Asiatic idiom, which was the Cat’s favorite tongue to date.