The Deportees

  Then Mona spoke.

  —God, that's a gorgeous smell, she said.

  And the girls, like little dogs in the back window of some gobshite's car, all nodded their heads.

  And Ben smiled and turned away from Larry.

  5 Spuds

  Roast beef, boiled Wexford spuds, gravy you could dye your hair with – all of his favourite foods but all Larry could smell was the black fella's perfume. But that was fine. It kept Larry – focused. That was the word.

  —Lovely, he said to Mona, and pointed at the plate with his fork.

  He watched the black fella putting away the spuds like he'd been born and bred in Gorey. His plate was never empty. He'd lift one spud and Mona or Stephanie would replace it with another from the bowl, and no objections from him either, a quiet Thank you every time.

  —D'yeh have spuds like them in Nigeria? said Larry.

  —No, said Ben.

  —They're great, aren't they?

  Ben looked at Larry, and Larry could tell: this guy knew what was what – you didn't slag Irish spuds at an Irish table, especially in the summer, even if the owner of the table had never dug up a potato in his life.

  —They are delicious, said Ben. —Thank you.

  —Thank the chef, said Larry.

  —He's been thanking me non-stop since he came in the door, said Mona.

  —So he should, said Larry.

  And he pointed at the plate again.

  —Magnificent, he said, and he looked at Ben. —Amn't I right?

  —Ah, lay off, Da, will yeh, said Tracy. —He's the same every summer, she told Ben. —Going on and on about the new potatoes.

  —It's like his fight for Irish freedom, said Mona. —Standing up for the spuds.

  Larry smiled; he knew when he had to.

  —What d'yis eat over in Nigeria, Ben? he asked.

  —Anything they can get, said young Laurence.

  And the roof came off the house.

  There was what Laurence had said, yes, but there was also the fact that he'd spoken at all. As far as Larry knew, they were the first words out of Laurence since Christmas, when he'd got sick in the hall and said, Sorry. By the time Larry got around to thinking about what he'd actually said, young Laurence was being walloped around the head and shoulders by five fine women – his four loving sisters and his ma.

  —I was only joking!

  —So am I! said Stephanie as she brought her dessert spoon down on his skull.

  —Apologise!

  —I'm sorry, righ'.

  —Like you mean it!

  Laurence was on the floor, trying to crawl to the door.

  —Please, said Ben.

  He stood up.

  —Please. I accept the apology.

  Everyone looked at him.

  —I have become used to these insults, he said.

  —Not in this house, you haven't, said Larry. And then, to Laurence: —Get up, yeh gobshite.

  And they were all sitting down again, Laurence as well. Laurence half looked at Ben.

  —I didn't mean anything, he said.

  Ben nodded.

  —Yes, he said. —But ... nobody means anything.

  —I didn't, said Laurence.

  —Yes.

  And Larry spoke.

  —He means it.

  —Yes.

  Ben was looking straight back at Larry. There was no gratitude there, and no hint of a smile, no shrug. But there was no anger either, and no hurt that Larry could see. Larry knew, then and there: he liked Ben.

  —Does it happen often, Ben? said Mona. —You know?

  —Yes, said Ben. —I am afraid so.

  —All the time, said Stephanie. —He can't walk down the street without someone shouting something at him.

  —That's desperate, said Larry.

  —And not just eejits like him, said Stephanie, pointing at young Laurence. —Respectable-looking people. You know, like. In suits. And women with their kids.

  —God, said Mona.

  She looked at Ben but she couldn't think of anything to say, nothing that wasn't empty.

  —Well, said Larry. —All I can say is, on behalf of the Irish people, sorry. The Irish are warm, friendly people, Ben.

  —Yeah, maybe, said Stephanie.

  —Give me a chance, love, said Larry. —Ben, in 1985, when Live Aid was on, the Irish people gave more money than any other country in the world. A small, little country.

  —So what? said Stephanie. —That's just stupid.

  —Shut up, love, said Larry.

  He was getting annoyed with her. He was trying to get to the point, to everything he wanted to say to Ben. He wanted to get there gently but firmly. And he didn't want to be misunderstood.

  —But they're frightened, Ben, he said.

  —I will not shut up, said Stephanie.

  —Just shut it, for Jaysis sake, said Larry.

  —You're just standing up for all those pricks—

  —Please!

  It was Ben. And he stood up again.

  —Please.

  He looked at Stephanie.

  —Stephanie, your lack of respect for your father shocks me.

  —Good man, Ben, said Larry.

  —And your language, said Ben, and he looked from Stephanie to Larry. —I will not listen to this profanity. I find it most offensive.

  And now Larry was standing up.

  —You fuckin' what!?

  6 The Naked Chef

  They stood staring at each other, Larry and Ben. Larry could feel himself shaking. His face was burning. He could feel his heart kicking the blood straight to his cheeks and armpits.

  And he looked across at the black fella. Not a bead of sweat that Larry could see. Did black people blush? If this guy did, Larry couldn't see it.

  It wasn't fair. Larry felt exposed, stupid and even more angry and hopeless. And your man over there just looking back at him, like he was an ad on the side of a bus shelter.

  —Get out of my house, said Larry.

  He didn't know he'd been going to say it.

  —If that is what you wish, said Ben.

  It was too late to take it back, to sit down and start again. And Larry felt even more hopeless. He watched the black lad walk around the table towards the door.

  But Mona stretched her legs, pushed her chair, so she was sitting right in front of Ben.

  —Stay where you are, Ben, she said.

  —But, said Ben, —it appears that I am not welcome.

  —Three things, Ben, said Mona. —One. You are welcome. Two. I spent all day making the dessert; I got it off The Naked Chef—

  —It better be all you got off the naked chef, said Tracy.

  —Shut it, you, said Mona, and she looked back at Ben. —So you're not leaving here until you've eaten your share of it. And three. Get down off your high horse, so we can have a nice chat with the coffee. Okay?

  Ben looked down at Mona.

  —What is the dessert? he said.

  —Chocolate pudding.

  —With cream?

  —Yep.

  —Then I will stay.

  —Good man.

  —Do I have no say in this? said Larry.

  He knew the answer.

  —No, said Mona.

  But Larry's anger was spent and his brain was in gear again. He knew: he'd been rescued by Mona. And he'd seen the chocolate pudding.

  He sat down.

  And Ben sat down.

  Stephanie went to get the pudding from the kitchen and Mona tried to fill the huge, heavy gap that was sitting on the table between Larry and Ben.

  —So, Ben, she said. —Do you have family still in Nigeria?

  —Yes, said Ben. —My mother died some years ago. Three years ago, last week.

  —Oh, I'm sorry, said Mona.

  And Larry wanted to say it too, but he didn't – he couldn't.

  —My father lives in the house of one of my sisters, said Ben.

  —Where? said Mona.


  —Kaduna.

  —I haven't heard of that one. All I know is Lagos.

  Ben smiled and shrugged.

  —Still, said Mona. I don't suppose you knew much about Ireland before you came, did you?

  —No, said Ben. —That is right. I knew of Dublin. And Belfast, of course. Bombs and strife and Dr Ian Paisley. And I knew that someone called Dana won the Eurovision Song Contest.

  They laughed, Larry and Laurence included.

  —Where did you pick that up?

  —I do not know, said Ben.

  And Stephanie arrived back with the dessert and lowered it onto the table.

  —Ah now, look at that.

  They all admired, and sat back to make room for the pudding's glory. Mona stood. They watched her as she cut the pudding into eight slices. If she'd used a geometry set she couldn't have been fairer. She put a slice onto each plate. The plates were handed from sister to sister to brother to sister to black guest to sister to Da and, finally, Mona kept the last plate and sat down. They all picked up their forks.

  —Now, said Larry. —We'll see if it tastes as good as it looks.

  —Have you other family, Ben? said Mona.

  —Yes, said Ben. —I have one brother.

  —Younger, older?

  —Older, said Ben. —It is delicious. Thank you.

  And he smiled at Mona.

  —I am glad I stayed.

  Suddenly, the chocolate was gone from under Larry's nose and all he could smell was the black fella's perfume.

  He's flirting with my missus, he said to himself. He's trying to get off with the whole fuckin' family.

  —What does your brother do? Mona asked Ben.

  —He is a doctor, said Ben. —That is – he will be a doctor. He will soon be resuming his studies.

  —Why did he stop? said Larry.

  —Larry.

  Mona was warning Larry. She looked back at Ben.

  —What about sisters? she said.

  —I have three sisters. Two.

  Ben looked very young now; he looked down at the table.

  —Three, he said. —I have three sisters.

  —What happened? said Mona.

  Ben said nothing at first. Stephanie shrugged slightly; she didn't know what was happening.

  —My sister, said Ben —My sister. Disappeared.

  Suddenly, Larry felt very cold.

  7 Two of Them

  Larry looked across at Ben.

  He could see anger and hurt, a face trying to control itself. The eyes wet, the makings of sweat on the forehead. Each breath a decision.

  —It happened, said Ben, —it happened after I left Nigeria.

  He stopped.

  They waited.

  —I left soon after my brother was arrested.

  Larry knew what had happened. He knew what 'disappeared' meant. He'd seen a programme, years ago; women going to a dump in the outskirts of a city, in South America somewhere, searching every morning for the bodies of their husbands and sons. He'd missed the start of the programme; he'd just been flicking through the channels. But he'd watched, mesmerised, as the women climbed huge mounds of steaming rubbish. One of them picking up a shirt; the shirt going from woman to woman.

  They waited for Ben to talk.

  Larry remembered hoping, praying – sitting up, clutching the arms of the chair – hoping to Christ that it wouldn't be a shirt that one of them knew. And then changing his mind. As he began to understand how long this had been going on. Some of these were old women who hadn't been old when they'd first walked out of the city to the dump. Searching for proof, bending down and rooting for it, dreading it. First thing, every morning, for the rest of their lives.

  Larry wondered if he should ask the lad a question, just to give him a hand. But he knew: his voice, any other voice would have been an assault, just now. They could wait for Ben.

  Ben fixed his eyes on the wall behind Mona.

  —She went to work one day. But she did not go – she did not arrive. And she did not come home.

  —What did she do, Ben? said Mona. —Her job, I mean.

  —She was a teacher, said Ben.

  —What was her name? said Stephanie.

  —Jumi, said Ben.

  They waited.

  —I did not learn about it until much later. I was in Germany at that time. I had made no contact with my family. It was very difficult.

  They waited. Ben looked at each of them.

  —Somewhere between my mother's house and the school. Jumi—

  He shrugged.

  —Was your mother still alive at the time? said Mona.

  —Yes.

  —Oh, God love her.

  —Yes.

  —And they found no trace of her at all?

  —If you mean my family, said Ben, —no, they found nothing. If you mean the authorities—

  Again, he shrugged.

  —My sister spoke her mind, he said. —It can be a dangerous activity. In some places and at certain times.

  The silence had no edge to it. Ben looked at the faces that looked back at him.

  Then Larry spoke.

  —Just like that.

  He said it softly.

  —Yes, said Ben.

  —I'm sorry for your troubles, Ben, said Larry.

  Ben nodded, twice.