“Let me come up tomorrow. I can bring some gormeh sabzi, all right?”
“Ah, no, that is all— Oh, okay, yes. Tomorrow, tomorrow. Okay, bye-bye. Bye, Marjan.”
And she hung up.
Marjan stood staring at the receiver in her hand for a moment. Estelle's voice had sounded awfully strange. Distant, as though it was being sifted through layers of mountain fog.
Marjan was glad she had made such a large batch of gormeh sabzi that day. The stew would give Estelle some of her strength back.
Marjan replaced the phone in the cradle and turned toward the staircase.
“I was hoping to find you here.”
The Englishman she had met yesterday, Julian Winthrop Muir, stood at the foot of the stairs. He had to duck to avoid the low oak frame.
“Hello,” said Marjan, catching her breath.
“It seems I missed the pyrotechnics. How was the Bonfire?” he asked, amusement dancing across his face.
“Better than expected. You can never tell with all the rain.”
“Ah yes, the West with all its rain,” Julian remarked. “ ‘To Connaught or to Hell,’ as Cromwell liked to say. Now there was one Englishman not welcomed in these parts.”
He moved aside, letting a group of middle-aged women pass by. Already on their third gin and tonics, they had no trouble giving him the twice-over. They muffled their giggles and shuffled into the ladies' loo, though not before throwing him some suggestive grins.
“Looks like you're doing all right,” said Marjan with a smile. “Being welcomed, I mean.”
“Oh, I wouldn't be too certain, now. You never know what the locals think of you straight out,” Julian said pointedly. “A lot goes on behind closed doors in Ireland.”
Marjan agreed. “Same as in Iran,” she said.
“Oh?” Julian looked at her with genuine curiosity. “How do you mean?”
“Well,” Marjan said, “we like our privacy in Iran, as well.”
He nodded. “You mean your veils. I'm afraid I can't get used to that image. Only old women and the very religious wore your black chadors when I last visited. Now it's something else, indeed.”
“It's not something I can get used to seeing either. On television, I mean.” She paused. “But that isn't what I meant by privacy. It's part of it, perhaps, but only a small bit.”
Julian leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Go on. This is fascinating.”
Marjan cleared her throat, surprised by the tingle of attraction in her belly. “It has something to do with our history, I think,” she began. “Something about being conquered so often.”
“You mean by the Arabs?”
“Them, and there was the Mongolian invasion. And later on the British and the Americans, in their own way.” She looked up, blushing. “Sorry.”
“Not at all. I'm only part British, so I'm only half-insulted,” he said, jokingly. “But you might have a point about the comparison. A complicated topic.”
Marjan nodded. “Yes, complicated. It's funny, I was thinking about this exact thing earlier this evening,” she said, as much to herself as to the man standing next to her. She turned to the stairs, still in deep thought.
Julian came up from behind. “Mind if I follow you up?”
Marjan shook her head and smiled softly back at him. She climbed the stairs, her hand gripping the banister. She wondered if he was staring at her backside and found herself blushing at the thought.
At the top of the stairs, they both paused, dodging the jostle of the pub crowd. The band had finished with their butchering of Bono's solo and its members were taking a drinks break.
Julian turned his green eyes on her. “Can I get you a pint?”
Marjan stared at him, feeling the jolt in her stomach once again. “Umm …”
He flashed her a smile, nodding. “Go on. I have some great stories to tell. Spent an entire five weeks with the whirling dervishes of Kush once, if you can believe that.”
“Sounds wonderful. But…” She could see Fiona waving to her from the bar.
Julian followed her gaze. “But you have your pint waiting, I see.”
Marjan ducked her head shyly. “Thank you, all the same.”
“My pleasure,” he replied. He turned to go, then looked at her once again. “I'll take a rain check, as the Yanks say. Not bad odds, from where I'm standing.” He nodded at the misty darkness outside the pub window before disappearing into the crowd.
Marjan took a deep breath. The whirling dervishes of Kush— she had heard him right, hadn't she?
At that moment she couldn't be too sure: she felt as though she were whirling herself, her heart turning and turning as rapturously as those mystical dervish men.
“YOU'RE GOING TO LOSE your looks if you keep going the way you do. Besides, it is illegal, Layla.” Bahar's voice was as stern as her march across the kitchen tiles.
“Oh! How can you be such an old lady at twenty-five?”
“It's not about being an old lady. It's about being right!”
Marjan sifted through a bowl of walnuts and dried apricots as she observed her sisters from the corner of her eye. They had been at each other ever since the café had opened for Saturday breakfast.
“When I am right, I am right. That's all there is to it,” said Bahar, opening the refrigerator door.
“You mean righteous. God, who made you queen of Ireland all of a sudden?” Layla was preparing a roasted eggplant and hummus roll at the wooden island. She held the stuffing awkwardly down with the blade of a knife as she tried to roll the bread tight.
“I'm telling you, it's not right. And the guards there as well. Are there no laws in this country that people actually obey?” Bahar poured cherry water into two tall glasses and placed them on a small brass tray.
Marjan left the island and walked over to the swinging doors. Hungover faces, many familiar to her from the pub the night before, filled the cozy café.
Bahar paused to address her on the way out: “You see these?” She pointed to the glasses of cherry water. “Cures for those two in there. Drunk still, from that bar. That bar our little sister was in until all hours last night. Humph!”
She disappeared into the dining room and plunked the two glasses in front of the Donnelly twins, Peter and Michael. The young men gratefully slurped back the refreshing drink, a sweet and sour mixture that cured hot flashes as well as nights of excessive tippling of the black and tans.
Marjan returned to the sink. “I'm not getting involved. I told you how I felt about you drinking last night,” she said to Layla. “I want to leave it at that.”
Layla pouted. “It was just a little sip.”
“Still, you are underage. And it isn't that healthy for you either.”
Layla looked indignant. “But you drank. I saw you at the bar with Fiona.”
“I'm older, Layla. And this is not about what I do at the bar.” Marjan rolled her tired shoulders and turned back to the island. “Just take it easy with Bahar, all right? All this arguing is making me lose my concentration.”
She stared at the bowl of walnuts and apricots for a moment, trying to remember the next step in her stuffing recipe.
Was it chop first then fry, or fry then chop? It was simple enough. So why couldn't she remember it? Her mind was all over the place today, fractioned. Scattered, even.
Layla raised her hands in protest. “She just won't stop. How did she find out anyway? She wasn't even at the pub.”
Marjan hadn't seen Bahar at the bar either, but she wasn't too surprised to hear that her sister had uncovered Layla's Guinness venture. Bahar had access to an intuition that could come only from her sensitive nature.
“I don't know how she knows, but I do know that she hasn't had one of her headaches in a very long time. And you are not helping keep it that way.” She gave her younger sister a knowing glance. “All right?”
Layla shrugged, nodding reluctantly. She placed her hummus roll on a small plate
and sat down to her snack. Halfway through her roll, a devilish smile stole across her face.
She put down her food and crossed her arms. “So, who's that guy you were talking to last night?”
Marjan did not answer right away. She moved to the stove as casually as possible, turning up the back burner. She let it crackle under a deep pan of butter before giving a small shrug. “Just a customer,” she said, dumping the fruit and nuts into the sizzling butter.
“I've never served him before. He was nice,” Layla said, throwing her sister a bemused smile.
Marjan shook her head, stirred the golden mixture. “What happened to Malachy being your one true love? Are you growing fickle in your old age, Miss Layla?”
Layla shrugged. “I have eyes, don't I? And they told me that guy was nice.”
Marjan blushed, sending Layla into a peal of laughter.
“Okay, okay. But you haven't heard the end of this conversation.” After a moment she spoke again: “Marjan?”
“Yes, joon-e man ?”
“Have you thought more about, you know, that thing we talked about? At the train station?”
Marjan turned to face her little sister. “Fat Friar's?”
Layla nodded, her turn now to become shy.
Marjan sighed. “I have to be honest with you, Layla. I'm not sure if I feel comfortable with the whole thing.”
“Why? You said you'd think about it.”
“And I have. But I just haven't made up my mind yet. You have to respect that.”
“But you said I should come to you with stuff like this.” Layla's voice took on a slight whine.
“Like I said at the train station—just because you came to me doesn't mean I have to agree with what you ask. Like it or not, I am the eldest. Sometimes I have to make decisions that might not make you happy. All right?”
“You don't have to tell me that,” Layla replied. She sank into her chair, her long legs flopping open before her. “I live with you, remember?”
Marjan let out another sigh and rubbed her neck. She placed the lid over the simmering nuts and fruit and walked over to Layla. “We need to set some time aside and talk about this properly,” she said, placing a hand gently on her sister's shoulder. “We'll go through everything, why you think you're ready, what Malachy really thinks, and then …”
“And then?”
“And then, I'll decide whether to write to Gloria or send you away to a convent,” she said, patting her sister's dark head.
“Ha, ha,” Layla said, narrowing her eyes. She stuck out her lower lip and stared at her roll, appearing suddenly to have lost all her appetite.
“A BOWL OF ABGUSHT for Father Mahoney lamb kebab for Mrs. Boylan,” Bahar said, backpedaling into the kitchen with the dregs of what had been a Persian chicken salad. She placed the empty bowl next to the chopping block and stuck the order to the carousel.
“And that Englishman's back,” she said. “Takeout order for the morning.”
Marjan looked up from the stove, her heart pounding.
“He asked for you again,” Bahar added, her eyebrows raised.
Marjan wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the double doors. She could see Julian Winthrop Muir standing at the Donnelly twins' table, his fists in the pockets of his tawny jacket. All three were laughing at something he had just said.
Bahar sniffed as she set out two bowls on an empty tray. “Between you and Layla, I'm surprised this place is running at all.” She scowled and took off her polka-dot apron.
Marjan wiped her hands on a tea towel and patted her ponytail. “Is it three o'clock already?”
“Nearly. I need a few more minutes today.” Bahar slipped into her coat and turned to her older sister, who was still staring out the kitchen doors. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Marjan replied as casually as possible, giving a slight shrug. She returned to the stove and lifted the lid of the eggplant stew, adding a pinch of black pepper. She made an effort to keep her hand steady but didn't quite pull it off.
Bahar came around to the stove, making sure not to get too close to the burners. She tilted her head, a sign of an oncoming interrogation.
“Who is this guy anyway?”
“I don't know. A visitor, I think.”
Bahar sniffed. “I heard he's some rich landlord's son, thinks really highly of himself and all.”
Marjan stirred the eggplant stew, placed the lid back on the stockpot. “And where did you get this piece of news?”
“Fadden's. Danny said his family used to own most of the land around Ballinacroagh. He's probably looking to own it all again.”
“Honestly, why do you always look at the dark side of things first?”
“What do you mean, ‘dark side’?” Bahar said, looking thoroughly offended. “Why am I suddenly the bad guy?”
Marjan sighed. “I didn't mean it that way.” Bahar stared at her. “Look, forget I said it. It's just that sometimes you have to give people a chance. They might surprise you with their goodness.”
Bahar snorted. “I don't know what fairy tale you're coming from, but that's not how the real world works. You know that as well as I do, Marjan.”
Point taken, thought Marjan. She fell silent as she watched her sister open the back door and step into the garden. It was not until she was fully over the threshold that Bahar opened her large plaid umbrella against the falling rain.
Superstitious as always, thought Marjan, shaking her head. She patted her tidy ponytail again. Reaching for the strings on her apron, she tightened them to give her waist nice definition. Her heart leapt again as she swung through the double doors. Passing Father Mahoney and Mrs. Boylan's table, she paused for the priest's assessment of the day's special (“I'll be having the barberry hen for my last supper, you can count on it!”) before making her way to the Donnelly twins and Julian. The three men were still laughing but quieted down as soon as they saw her.
“Top of the mornin' to ya,” Julian said, tweaking an imaginary cap at her. His blond hair was combed back, Marjan noticed, revealing his strong, clean-cut jaw. “Or should I say afternoon.”
“Hello there,” she replied with a smile. “Are you staying for tea?”
“Just stopping to place a breakfast order. The lads on site can't get enough of those marvelous pastries, the baklava you've got there.” Julian indicated the glass cabinet, where platters of baklava, sugary fritters, and almond delights sat in honeyed rows.
He turned back, giving her an appreciative look. “Have to say, it's been quite a while since I've seen an apron worn so right.”
“Oh …” Marjan looked down, smoothing the skirt of red toile against her jeans. “Thank you.” She could feel her cheeks warming.
“I brought you something,” Julian said, motioning her to a quieter corner near the door. He handed her a fat paperback he took from his jacket pocket. “My latest.”
Marjan turned the book over to read the black-and-white cover: Dominions of Clay: A Novel. “By Julian Winthrop Muir III.” She looked up, impressed. “That's quite an achievement.”
“Well, I wouldn't go that far. According to my publisher, you'd be the third person to attempt to get past the first chapter—that is, if you do read it.”
“Of course I'll read it. I'm sure it's great.” Marjan glanced behind her. She could see Siobhan Kelly from the shoe shop leaning dangerously over her seat for a spy. Julian seemed to take no notice of the curious faces in the dining room.
“I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation last night.”
Marjan smiled at the memory. “Yes, it was nice.” Why was her heart suddenly pounding so hard?
“Perhaps we could do it again? This evening, at Paddy's?”
Marjan looked to her right. The Donnelly twins winked at her, giving her their customary cheeky smiles.
She looked down at the paperback in her hand. The embossed name stood out to her: Julian Winthrop Muir III. He was asking her for a date.
She wasn't ready
for this. Was she?
“Do you always leave men hanging, or is it just with me particularly?”
Marjan looked up again, met his gaze. “I'm sorry, it's just that—” She took a deep breath.
“You have previous engagements?”
Marjan nodded apologetically. “I'm just very busy for the next while.”
“I understand. Well, sometime soon, then,” Julian said. He started to lift his hand to touch her arm but dropped it to his side when she moved slightly to the right. “Another rain check.”
“A rain check. Yes.”
Julian chuckled. “I'll look forward to it.” Bidding the twins good-bye, he tipped his imaginary cap at her and walked out of the café, closing the door behind him.
Marjan watched him hunker into his jacket and disappear up the drizzly street, along with most of the lunchtime diners, who had suddenly found the topic of their day's gossip.
CHAPTER III
STANDING IN THE BRIGHT VESTRY of Saint Barnabas Roman Catholic Church, Father Fergal Mahoney took a few moments to study the airmail cartons piled precariously to the corniced ceiling. They had arrived earlier in the day his trusty housekeeper Mrs. Boylan had notified him, just as he was about to celebrate what he liked to refer to as his Matinee Mass and Eucharist.
He had ordered the boxes from a reputable dealer in Akron, USA, whose seasonal catalog featured other marvels of human ingenuity, among them a talking sundial and a set of nunchucks that sprang plastic flowers when swung in a full circle.
The nunchucks were a waste of money, thought the priest. No practical use for them whatsoever. He would never stoop so low as to buy himself a pair. He had, though, been tempted by another item: an autographed section of track from the set of The General, that silent-era film starring the wunderkind of comedic timing, Buster Keaton. The train track was particularly poignant as it was featured in the climax of the film, when the hero has to save his beloved from a deadly oncoming steam engine.
Buster Keaton was a hero unparalleled, in Father Mahoney's opinion, who had perfected the marriage of absurdity and pacifism on-screen like no one else. No matter what tragedies befell him in his cinematic escapades, be they man-made or natural disasters, he always kept his cool, preferring to neither laugh nor cry at destiny's whims. Such stoicism had earned Buster Keaton the title the Great Stone Face; a nickname the priest felt did not encompass the tender empathy Keaton showed for the weaknesses in his adversaries, or the kindness in his dark, drooping eyes.
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