The Deportees Read Free Page B

someone like Eddie Murphy, without the grin and the shine. But that type of look. But this was more like meeting Sidney Poitier. Larry suddenly felt that he was the one being interviewed.
    —Great weather, wha'. It must remind you of home.
    And then he heard it. The rain. Whacking against the window behind him. He looked, and saw a sheet of the stuff charging down the glass.
    Where had it come from? It had been lovely when he'd gone up to shave. He was still hanging onto the lad's hand. There was sweat in the clinch now, and it was Larry's. He was failing here.
    But they were laughing, the girls, Mona, even young Laurence. They thought Larry had been joking. They were grateful. He was breaking the ice, making the lad feel at home. For a few seconds Larry forgot why they were all there, he forgot completely. He just wanted them all to love him. Especially the black lad in the suit.
    He was on the verge of saying, 'Welcome to Ireland', when he remembered what had to be done – and he looked properly at the lad for the first time and tried to see the religious fanatic, the AIDS carrier, the crook, the bigamist.
    But all he could see was a small, handsome, intelligent man looking straight back at him. Not a scar or a squint; his eyes never budged from Larry's. Again, Larry felt a sudden, roaring need to impress him, a demand from his gut to be liked by him.
    But the smell saved him.
    It was too sweet to be aftershave and not sweet enough to be coming from Mona or the girls. It was the lad – Ben. He was wearing that men's stuff. Men's perfume.
    Jesus.
    Larry let go of his hand.
    Larry had rules. He always held doors open for Mona when they went out together. He never let a woman cut his hair. He never put on anything that smelt – aftershave, bay rum, even talc if it was scented – they didn't get near Larry. A man with a smell was hiding something. That was what Larry believed.
    And what was this guy hiding? Larry got ready to stare him out of it, to let him know that he knew. The suit hadn't fooled him. The suit and the—
    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