Authors: Roddy Doyle
The house was surprisingly small.
—Mind you, Raymond, said the Minister. —It's one of many. We've the big one at home, this one, a little place in Spain, and a couple of apartments round and about. You wouldn't want that kind of responsibility, would you, Raymond?
—No, said Ray.
—No, said the Minister. —You wouldn't.
The front door was right on the street. The Minister rang the bell.
—I have my keys, said the Minister. —But I prefer to be let in. It's a nice way to end the day.
—Cool, said Ray.
The Minister stepped back and looked up at the house.
—You'd never guess that this was the home of the nineteenth most powerful man in the country, would you, Raymond?
—No, said Ray.
—No, said the Minister. —You wouldn't. It's modest, isn't it?
—Yes, said Ray.
—The way I like it, said the Minister, and the door opened. —And here's Mrs Minister.
She was an attractive, smiling woman. And, Ray realised, as she put her hand out and missed his, she was pissed as a rat.
—Get in out of the cold, she said.
It was July.
—Come on in, come in.
Ray followed the Minister down the narrow hall and the Minister's wife was behind him. Right behind him – her foot caught the back of his shoe. He stopped and she walked into him, and her hands were on his hips.
—Oooh Lord, she said, and laughed.
She let go.
—Go on, go on.
The Minister was bending down at the Aga when Ray got to the kitchen door, and her hand was on his arse. Then not, and she walked past him.
—How's that for a smell? said the Minister.
He brought a baking tray to the table. The kitchen was nice, all wood and a ticking clock.
—Take a pew now, said the Minister as he took off the oven gloves. —And tell me what you think of my Moroccan baked chicken with chickpeas.
—He's the chef here, said Mrs Minister.
—That's correct, said the Minister. —It's Upstairs, Downstairs in this house. I'm Downstairs. And guess what that makes that lady there.
They both laughed and sat down. She patted a chair beside her. And Ray sat.
The food was great; the chicken broke in his mouth.
—Wicked.
—Yes, said the Minister. —But how would it do with our Fáilte Score, Raymond?
—Don't know, said Ray.
—Mind you, said the Minister. —The chicken came from Monaghan. It's only the chickpeas that'd get sent out to the airport.
He pushed his chair back from the table.
—Now. Is Raymond's room ready?
—Nice and snug for him, said Mrs Minister.
She winked at Ray. The Minister stood up.
—Come on, so.
Ray untangled his legs from the chair. The food had been good but he was suddenly convinced that Mr and Mrs Minister were going to do something to him. The chicken was coming back up his throat, in a very fast race with the chickpeas.
But the Minister took car keys from a hook. And Mrs Minister's eyes were closing; her head was dangling over her dinner. Ray didn't vomit. If he lays a hand on me, he thought, I'll blackmail the fucker.
—I've never strayed, the Minister told Ray.
They were in a two-door Audi that had been parked outside the Minister's house. They'd crossed the river and gone up O'Connell Street, past what was left of the Spike, but Ray was lost now.
—A man like me, said the Minister. —Women find me attractive. Worth the conquering.
He slapped Ray's leg.
—But not once. I love my wife, Raymond. I adore the ground she walks on. Men are often reluctant to talk about these things. What about you, Raymond?
—It's cool.
—What is?
—Talking about it.
—About what, Raymond?
—Love and that.
The Minister slowed the car, and parked. Ray didn't know where they were. The street was narrow and old; the houses were mean looking.
The Minister handed a set of keys to Raymond.
—She collects every Friday. Leave it on the table if you're not staying in.
—What?
—The rent. My wife collects the rent.
Raymond looked out the window.
—Number Thirteen, Raymond. Your room is on the second landing. You'll like it. Off you go now.
The hall was a mixture of smells and noise. Stew, a nappy, laughter, a cough. A bike against the wall. An ancient hoover. A buggy. He climbed the stairs. Music he didn't recognise. A woman singing. More of the laughter. A crying baby. Peeling wallpaper, but not too bad.
He found his door and unlocked it.
He turned on the light.
A black man sat up in the bed.
—Sorry, said Ray.
He got out and shut the door. A door behind him opened. He turned.
—Hi, said Ray.
He was looking at Stalin.
—Hi, said Ray.
The kid was behind Stalin's legs, looking out at Ray. Stalin was looking at the bag in Ray's hand. He was going to tell her the truth, that he'd no idea that she lived here, that he'd actually thought he was moving into the room next door, that there'd been a big black guy in the bed when he'd walked in, that he'd just stepped out of that room as she was coming out of her own. He was going to tell her the truth.
But he didn't. He changed his mind. That look on her face, as she looked at the bag. He let her make up her own truth.
—You have come back to us, she said.
—Yes, said Ray.
—Fuck off, said Stalin.
She grabbed the kid's hand and pushed past Ray, down the stairs. And Ray was still standing there when they came back, with bread and a carton of milk, and a lollipop in the kid's mouth.
—What flavour? said Ray.
—Fuck off, said Stalin.
—You shouldn't talk like that in front of the boy, said Ray.
And she hit him across the head with old Mr Brennan. It was fresh and didn't hurt.
—Do not tell me what to talk!
And she hit him with the carton. The milk was fresh too but it stung the fuckin' ear off him. Ray stood there and took the pain. He'd made a decision. Stalin shut the door.
Ray stood there. For quite a while. Doors below him opened, closed. Songs changed. A kettle sang, and stopped. He was going to stand his ground; she'd see that he was serious. As long as it took. He'd stay there. He looked at his watch. Midnight; coming up to. No music now; no fresh smells. It was very dark. He moved closer to the door. He listened. Nothing. Asleep, more than likely.
He was tired now, and cold. She'd be up in eight or nine hours. And she'd see him, and his determination. His contrition. His love.
The door downstairs opened. Voices. Men. Russian. On the stairs now. Getting nearer.
—Fuck this, said Ray.
He found the key.
The black man was still in the bed.
—Don't mind me, said Ray.
He shut the door. The black man lay back down and covered his head. Ray put his ear to the door.
The Russian guys were at Stalin's door now. He could hear them. Pushing it, thumping. Whispering.
He heard it open, close. Something falling. Crying.
The kid.
—What did you do, Raymond? said the Minister.
—I kicked the door down, said Ray.
—Good man, said the Minister. —You saved the day.
Actually, Ray asked the black guy to kick the door down for him.
—Eh, hello, he said. —Hello?
The head came out from under the cover.
—Hello.
—You wouldn't give us a hand here, would you? said Ray. —Only, there's a couple of Russian gangsters out there beating up my wife and child.
The black guy got out of the bed – T-shirt, boxers, black socks. Ray followed him out to the landing. The black guy knocked on Stalin's door.
Stalin opened it.
—Darya Alexandrovna, said the black guy. —Good evening. This gentleman here—
Ray had hopped back behind the door.
—has informed me that he is your husband and that your brothers have been assaulting both you and Vladimir.
The Minister looked at Ray's black eye.
—It's even worse than the other one, he said.
—Yeah.
—So, you want to move?
—No.
She didn't do it on purpose; he was pretty sure of that. She threw herself at the door, but she couldn't have known that Ray was right behind it. The Chubb smacked his eye and he was alone on the floor for a while – it might have been an hour – when the black guy came back. Ray opened the other eye, and he was there.
—Darya Alexandrovna invites you to join her for hot chocolate, said the black guy. —Me too, but she insists that I first put on my trousers.
And that was it. He went into her room and sat on the floor with her brothers – two young, skinny guys who whispered to each other – and the black guy, Itayi, from Zimbabwe.
—Near South Africa? said Ray.
—Yes. And you?
—Templeogue.
—Near Tallaght?
—Yeah.
The kid was asleep in the bed. Ray could see his hair, and his forehead. He held his cup for a long time before he started drinking, and the warmth seemed to creep through him, right to his eye, and the pain wasn't there as he looked at Stalin sitting neat in the only good chair in the room, her legs tucked under her.
—So, said the Minister. —Today's the big day, Raymond.
—Yeah, said Ray.
—The Fáilte Score goes into action.
—Yeah.
Home, for two nights, was Itayi's floor.
—We can't have that, said the Minister, when Ray told him that he didn't have a bed.
And Mrs Minister arrived with a mattress. Ray met her on the stairs with it. She'd stopped halfway up for a rest.
—It's new, said Mrs Minister.
It was still in the plastic. Thin, single and – he squeezed it – foam.
—Like you, said Stalin, when he told her about it later. —Theen, seeng-le and foam.
He smiled.
—D'you know what she told me? said the Minister the following morning, after he told Ray how rested he looked. —She thought the African lad would give you the bed and sleep on the floor. Isn't that gas?
—Yeah, said Ray.
—She's a bit old-fashioned, said the Minister.
Ray shrugged.
—Will we try it out? Mrs Minister said to Ray as she watched him lower the mattress into a corner.
—Eh—
—I'm only joking with you.
She waved, and he heard her feet on the stairs. He let himself drop onto the mattress.
—So you have your bed, said the Minister.
—Yeah, said Ray.
He didn't. Just the mattress. But he couldn't cope with another visit from Mrs Minister, with a bed on her back. He was happy enough, just a thin wall between him and Stalin.
He was in the Minister's office every morning, in that first week of the Fáilte Score.
—How are we doing, Raymond?
—Good, said Ray. —No fuck-ups yesterday.
—Grand.
There'd been problems with the monitor-pads. On day one, a Ghanaian crossed his legs during the test, and that action had delivered three minutes of hardcore Irish pornography, and sent his score soaring to 97 per cent.
—And now he's the most Irish man in the country.
Not only that, the Ghanaian had complained about it. He was looking for compensation.
—More Irish yet, said the Minister. —We'll keep him. But we can't have more slip-ups like that, Raymond. How's the room?
—Cool.
—How's the African fella?
—Cool.
—Do we not pay you enough, Raymond?
Ray could have well afforded somewhere better, a bed with legs, his own jacks, a kitchen. He had money in the bank these days; he had two suits and a car loan.
He shrugged.
—I like it, he said.
—Research, said the Minister.
—Yeah.
—Good man.
Inside a few days, he had his routine. He brought the kid to the park after work, to kick a ball around. It was a struggle at first. Ray kicked the ball to the kid, and the kid stood looking at it. On the third night, Vladimir kicked the ball back to Ray. A hopeless kick, no power in it, no accuracy, but Ray was happy enough. He always reserved a last burst of parental energy for the stairs; he made sure that he made Vlad laugh, a tickle, a mad face, son and dad laughing as Stalin opened the door. And then the hot chocolate. Every night, just the three of them.
The sex was a shock. It had been a long-term hope; next week, maybe even give it a month. But there they were, on the floor, rubbing at each other, while Vlad slept in the bed. Ray took off his jumper. His head got stuck, and she pulled. He watched her unlace her boots. God, she was gorgeous, and generous. Because, he had to admit, he wasn't looking the best. One eye was black, the other was yellow; the big spot on his forehead had been joined by a couple of mates. He was a thin man but – he couldn't figure it out – he'd grown himself a bit of a gut.
—I'm thinking of joining a gym, he said.
She patted his stomach.
—My lee-tle apparatchik.
They lay on the floor with a sleeping bag over them. Next door, Itayi was running the tap, and singing.
—THE PIPES, THE PIPES ARE CALL–ING—
—I love you, said Ray.
She said nothing back. He couldn't feel her soften; no tears wet his shoulder. He didn't mind. He'd wait, as long as it took; a week, maybe a month. He'd wait.
He drove out to his mother's on the Sunday.
—I'm back with Darya, he told her.
She looked at him, and away.
—I'm past caring, Raymond, she said.
—I'm thinking of joining a gym, said Ray.
He slept that night on Stalin's floor, with her brothers, and he was in good and early on Monday morning.
The Minister was there before him.
—Raymond, he said. —Cast your eyes on these.
He slid pages of names across the desk.
—We're doing well with the Africans, said the Minister. —But it's time to move in on the lads and lassies from the edge of our European home.
Ray saw her name before the Minister had finished.
Ray looked at Stalin's name on the Fáilte list.
—There's a woman here, he said. —And she has a kid born in this country.
—We ironed out that difficulty some years ago, Raymond, said the Minister. —The child's nationality does not entitle his mother or father—
I'm his fuckin' father, thought Ray.
—to citizenship or residency rights. The child is welcome to stay, or he can come back to Eireann when he's had enough of his mammy.
—What if the father's Irish? said Ray.
—Does it say that there?
—No.
—Well then, said the Minister. —Don't let it come between you and your sleep.
Ray kept his eyes on the list.
—Are you sleeping well these nights, Raymond?
—Yeah, said Ray. —Fine.
—Good, said the Minister.
—Why? said Stalin that night.
She was looking at the huge, melting Toblerone in Vladimir's hands. He'd barely touched it but he was already sick and speeding.
—He's to share it with you, said Ray.
She was staring at him.
—Why?
Guilt, said Ray, to himself.
—I'm his dad, he said to Stalin.
She stared at him, then took the chocolate from Vlad and pushed it at Ray.
He was alone now, next door, on Itayi's floor. He let himself settle into the mattress, his mouth full of Toblerone, when the door opened. Stalin. He sat up and tried to swallow the chocolate.
—It's only me.
It was Mrs Minister.
She turned on the light and saw Ray dying.
—Oh Lord.
She ran at Ray. She was drunk, and missed. The chocolate was a solid block in his gullet; it wouldn't melt, he couldn't swallow. She dropped down beside him. She thumped his back.
The chocolate was getting bigger, harder.
She thumped again.
He heard himself groan, far away. His chest was exploding, her fingers at his mouth. He felt her engagement ring; it cut his lip. He blacked out. He was awake. Her fingers were in his mouth. He wanted to die.
Air.
He wanted to die.
Air.
He opened his eyes, and saw Mrs Minister, above him, licking her fingers. She winked at him.
—Back to life, she said.
She leaned down. He could smell the gin and chocolate.
—What about the kiss of life?
He saw her tongue coming at him, and he got out from under there; he pushed with strength he'd never had. He dashed to the door, the landing. He knocked at Stalin's door.
—Can I come in?
She looked at Mrs Minister's fingerprints on his chest, his thigh.
—Ah yes, she said. —Rent-night.
She stepped back, and let him in.
And again, the sex surprised Ray. And, if he was honest, he wouldn't have messed with the Fáilte Score if it hadn't been for the sex that night. Although maybe he would have; he wasn't sure – he was rarely honest.
Anyway, true or not, he told Stalin.
—That ride just changed the course of Irish history.
She knew: he was fishing for another one.
—Now you must change the course of Rossian history.
When, two weeks later, Stalin went to do her Fáilte test, there was no sign of Ray. She sat in front of a screen that delivered Behan and Chekhov, Christchurch and the Kremlin. It was boring, but she still scored 83 per cent. She met Ray for lunch, in a new place on Trimble Street.
—How did you get on?
She answered the Irish way.
—Grand.
—Cool, said Ray.
He looked down at his plate.
—I was thinking, he said.
He looked up.
—We should maybe get somewhere bigger.
He watched her and waited.
She shrugged.
—Okay.
That afternoon Ray turned fourteen nervous Ukrainians into fourteen happy Irishmen and women. And then, Mrs Minister said something to the Mexican ambassador. The words were never reported but in the quick reshuffle that followed the poor man's suicide, the Minister lost Arts and Ethnicity, and Ray disappeared. Ethnicity was merged with the Department of the Marine and Ray kept drawing his pay and working the Fáilte Score. By the time he was discovered, after the Board of Works knocked down a wall, Ray had granted Irish citizenship to over 800,000 Africans and East Europeans. He had four kids, a grandchild and, somewhere in her mid-forties, Stalin turned into Gorbachev. Still imperious, still forceful, but much nicer. Ray was a happy man.
He sat at the window with his brother and watched his pint settle. They were in the Colin Farrell, on Liffey Street. It was his fiftieth birthday and he'd retired that afternoon.
—Look, said his brother.
—What?
—An Irishman.
Ray looked.
—Where?
—There, look; at the lights. Scratching his arse.
—Ah, yeah.
—Haven't seen one like him in years. What happened, Ray?
—Haven't a clue, said Ray.
He picked up his pint.
—Cheers.
—Ah yeah; cheers.