Rosewater and Soda Bread by Marsha Mehran Page A

the bakery, eh? My Luigi call me his Herculeana Neapolitana,” she said proudly.
    She turned to the rosebush flourishing at the end of the drive. With a loving smile, the old widow threw its flushed petals a kiss, bidding her husband's resting place a temporary good-bye.

    THAT NIGHT, Marjan dreamt of Mehregan.
    The original day of thanksgiving, the holiday is celebrated during the autumn equinox in Iran.
    A fabulous excuse for a dinner party, something that Persians the world over have a penchant for, Mehregan is also a challengeto the forces of darkness, which if left unheeded will encroach even on the brightest of flames.
    Bonfires and sparklers glitter in the evening skies on this night, and in homes across the country, everyone is reminded of their blessings by the smell of roasting
ajil
, a mixture of dried fruit, salty pumpkin seeds, and roasted nuts. Handfuls are showered on the poor and needy on Mehregan, with a prayer that the coming year will find them fed and showered with the love of friends and family.
    In Iran, it was Marjan's favorite holiday. She even preferred it to the bigger and brasher New Year's celebrations in March, anticipating the festivities months in advance. The preparations would begin as early as July, when she and the family gardener, Baba Pirooz, gathered fruit from the plum, apricot, and pear trees behind their house. Along with the queen pomegranate bush, the fruit trees ran the length of the half-acre garden.
    Four trees deep and rustling with green and burgundy canopies, the fattened orchard always reminded Marjan of the be-jeweled bushes in the story of Aladdin, the boy with the magic lamp. It was sometimes hard to believe that their home was in the middle of a teeming city and not closer to the Alborz mountains, which looked down on Tehran from loftier heights.
    After the fruit had been plucked and washed, it would be laid out to dry in the sun. Over the years, Marjan had paid close attention to her mother's drying technique, noting how the fruit was sliced in perfect halves and dipped in a light sugar water to help speed up the wrinkling. Once dried, it would be stored in terra-cotta canisters so vast that they could easily have hidden both young Marjan and Bahar. And indeed, when empty the canisters had served this purpose during their hide-and-seek games.
    Only twice while growing up did the Aminpour sisters notcelebrate Mehregan: in 1971, after their mother had died giving birth to Layla, and then again in October 1978, when the three sisters had been sequestered in Pakistan, taking refuge from a revolution and a man with a face full of terrible pockmarks.
    Hossein Jaferi's face propelled Marjan out of sleep.
    She sat up in bed, blinking quickly. It took a few deep breaths before she could orient herself, remind her mind and body that she was safe in her bed. The crackling bonfires of Mehregan must have somehow morphed into the shadowy image of Bahar's estranged husband during the course of her dream, the sweet, woodsy smell of kindling flitting away to another, more primal scent.
    It wasn't often that her dreams turned to darkness.
    She swallowed hard and looked to her left. Bahar was still wrapped in her customary two duvets. A quilted eye mask covered most of her small face, rising to the rhythm of her soft snoring.
    Saturday tea must have been especially busy, thought Marjan, enough that it had tired even Bahar's neurotic tendencies.
    Normally her sister would have remained awake and waiting at the kitchen table until Marjan was home safe and in one piece. Bahar would never have fallen asleep had she known what—or rather who—Estelle had found beneath the dunes of Clew Bay Beach.
    Drawing her legs up to her chest, Marjan laid her chin on her knees and let her mind roam the day's strange events. She still had a hard time believing what she had seen at Estelle's. It all seemed like a fantastical dream, something from one of Layla's Shakespearean plays.
    Who was she, this girl