Rosewater and Soda Bread by Marsha Mehran Read Free Book Online Page B

hallway that housed theladies' loo. One of the many additions to the pub since Margaret McGuire had taken over its management, the restroom had initially caused quite a rumpus with Paddy's male contingent. Generations of drinkers had taken their bathroom breaks in the outhouse beside the beer garden, it was fervently argued, and any woman who thought herself equipped for the stout should be expected to likewise abide. Well aware that the criticisms were fueled by envy over the powder room's soft toilet paper and lavender-scented potpourri, Margaret ignored the comments and went ahead with her renovations.
    Marjan slipped a ten-cent coin into the wall pay phone opposite the restroom door. She dialed from memory, easy since she called the number at least once a day.
    Estelle finally answered on the fifth ring. “
Si?
” the Italian widow whispered.
    “Estelle? It's Marjan. How are you?” Marjan cradled the receiver closer to her ear as the tin whistle revved through a series of dizzying triplets directly above her.
    “
Si
?Eh, hello?”
    “Estelle, can you hear me? Is everything okay?” Marjan raised her voice, not realizing she had also been whispering.
    “Hello, Marjan. Uh, sorry I could not come tonight.”
    “I was worried it had to do with your arthritis. Is it acting up again? Do you want me to come up and get you? You could stay with the three of us tonight.”
    “No, darling, that is okay. I have your lentil soup from yesterday. That warmed me very nice. Oh, so good,” the widow said with a sigh.
    “But is it warm enough up there for you? I can send Malachy up to chop some firewood.”
    “No, no … you go now and have a good time. I can hear the music. I come to you next week again.”
    “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 whatthe 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