excited himself every time he watched them watch that goal. He wanted them all in, all Irish, all more than welcome.
But by the time the phone call came, three long years later, he'd lost interest. His work was rubbish; he wanted out. He'd seen Vladimir Damien – his brother called the kid VD – only twice in the last year, and Stalo was making angry noises about going back to Russia. And good riddance to the bitch – he sometimes thought.
Ray looked at the young man. The replay. Keane scored again. The young man didn't even yawn. But Ray didn't really care. He'd written his conclusions months ago; he was just rounding off the numbers now, picking his evidence. His only honest conclusion, not in the official version, was that women didn't fancy Robbie Keane but they loved the way he celebrated. All that, after three years' work.
His mother knocked, and stepped into the shed.
—You're wanted on the phone, Doctor, she said.
God, he'd kill her. She handed him the handset and he stepped down, into the garden. He kicked her fuchsia.
—Yeah?
—Mr Brady?
—Yeah.
—Would you be prepared to speak to the Minister for the Arts and Ethnicity?
He answered before he really caught the question.
—Yeah.
His mother was beside him.
—Will that be all, Doctor?
He didn't answer. He climbed back into the shed and shut the door.
2 The Minister
He was a big man in a big suit. The smile was big too but it wasn't warm. It was the smile of a man who might have had a gun or a bread-knife hidden up one of the big sleeves.
Ray wished he wasn't there. But he was only after arriving; the Minister's handshake was still a throb right up to his shoulder. He was stuck. But it was fine, because he was also curious, and a little bit excited.
—Well, said the Minister for the Arts and Ethnicity.
Ray was wearing his graduation suit. It seemed a bit tight, but Ray decided that that was just the situation, the formality of the occasion. It was him that was tight, not the suit.
—I hear great things about you, said the Minister.
It was a huge room, more like a hall, Jack B. Yeats prints on the walls, a typed page of Ulysses, author's corrections and all, framed, behind the Minister, an autographed photo of Ronan Keating – before the baldness – on the other side. The Proclamation of Independence, a U2 gold disc – before the split – all sorts of interesting stuff around the place.
—And I think you might be the man for the job, said the Minister.
Ray decided that now was the time to speak.
—What job?
—Good man. Straight to it. No messing. Forty thousand a year and the petrol money.
—What job? said Ray.
—Ah. Fair enough.
The Minister sat back, changed his mind and sat forward.
—I'll be frank with you, Raymond, he said. —A week ago I was the Minister for the Arts and Tourism. The arts came first in the job description but I was more at home with the tourism. The arts; grand, but a lot of it is bolloxology.
He sat back. That was the frank bit out of the way, Ray thought. The man sat up again.
—And administered by bollixes, he said.
More frankness. Ray wondered if he should throw in a bit of his own.
—I've never been to the Abbey, he said.
A lie.
The Minister winked at Ray.
—We speak the same language, he said. —D'you want a drink or a sandwich or anything?
—No, thanks, said Ray.
—Grand. So, then we have the reshuffle last week. You know youself, two lads in, two lads out, one girl sent sideways. And me.
He shrugged.
—One little joke about putting a wall around Offaly and calling it Inbred-land. And An Taoiseach takes the tourism out from under me. And leaves me with the fuckin' arts. And this new yoke. Do you know what ethnicity means?
—Yes, said Ray.
—Of course you do. And so do I. I've known since last Thursday.
He walloped the Collins dictionary on his desk.
—Ethnic. Of or relating to a human group with racial, religious and linguistic characteristics in common, from the
But by the time the phone call came, three long years later, he'd lost interest. His work was rubbish; he wanted out. He'd seen Vladimir Damien – his brother called the kid VD – only twice in the last year, and Stalo was making angry noises about going back to Russia. And good riddance to the bitch – he sometimes thought.
Ray looked at the young man. The replay. Keane scored again. The young man didn't even yawn. But Ray didn't really care. He'd written his conclusions months ago; he was just rounding off the numbers now, picking his evidence. His only honest conclusion, not in the official version, was that women didn't fancy Robbie Keane but they loved the way he celebrated. All that, after three years' work.
His mother knocked, and stepped into the shed.
—You're wanted on the phone, Doctor, she said.
God, he'd kill her. She handed him the handset and he stepped down, into the garden. He kicked her fuchsia.
—Yeah?
—Mr Brady?
—Yeah.
—Would you be prepared to speak to the Minister for the Arts and Ethnicity?
He answered before he really caught the question.
—Yeah.
His mother was beside him.
—Will that be all, Doctor?
He didn't answer. He climbed back into the shed and shut the door.
2 The Minister
He was a big man in a big suit. The smile was big too but it wasn't warm. It was the smile of a man who might have had a gun or a bread-knife hidden up one of the big sleeves.
Ray wished he wasn't there. But he was only after arriving; the Minister's handshake was still a throb right up to his shoulder. He was stuck. But it was fine, because he was also curious, and a little bit excited.
—Well, said the Minister for the Arts and Ethnicity.
Ray was wearing his graduation suit. It seemed a bit tight, but Ray decided that that was just the situation, the formality of the occasion. It was him that was tight, not the suit.
—I hear great things about you, said the Minister.
It was a huge room, more like a hall, Jack B. Yeats prints on the walls, a typed page of Ulysses, author's corrections and all, framed, behind the Minister, an autographed photo of Ronan Keating – before the baldness – on the other side. The Proclamation of Independence, a U2 gold disc – before the split – all sorts of interesting stuff around the place.
—And I think you might be the man for the job, said the Minister.
Ray decided that now was the time to speak.
—What job?
—Good man. Straight to it. No messing. Forty thousand a year and the petrol money.
—What job? said Ray.
—Ah. Fair enough.
The Minister sat back, changed his mind and sat forward.
—I'll be frank with you, Raymond, he said. —A week ago I was the Minister for the Arts and Tourism. The arts came first in the job description but I was more at home with the tourism. The arts; grand, but a lot of it is bolloxology.
He sat back. That was the frank bit out of the way, Ray thought. The man sat up again.
—And administered by bollixes, he said.
More frankness. Ray wondered if he should throw in a bit of his own.
—I've never been to the Abbey, he said.
A lie.
The Minister winked at Ray.
—We speak the same language, he said. —D'you want a drink or a sandwich or anything?
—No, thanks, said Ray.
—Grand. So, then we have the reshuffle last week. You know youself, two lads in, two lads out, one girl sent sideways. And me.
He shrugged.
—One little joke about putting a wall around Offaly and calling it Inbred-land. And An Taoiseach takes the tourism out from under me. And leaves me with the fuckin' arts. And this new yoke. Do you know what ethnicity means?
—Yes, said Ray.
—Of course you do. And so do I. I've known since last Thursday.
He walloped the Collins dictionary on his desk.
—Ethnic. Of or relating to a human group with racial, religious and linguistic characteristics in common, from the
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