'Ah. Right.'
'He's dead.'
'Oh.'
'Cancer.'
'Oh dear.'
'Of the nose.'
'I didn't know you could get cancer of the nose.'
'You can get cancer of the anything,' said Deborah.
'Are you sure?'
'Of course I'm sure.'
'It can kill you,' said Israel's mother.
'Cancer of the nose?'
'For sure. He's dead. And Mrs West, her Israeli cousin, her son, he's dead. He was killed.'
'Oh dear. In Israel?'
'No, in Tunbridge Wells,' said Deborah. 'What do you think? Of course in Israel!'
'And we're doing Guys and Dolls again with the amateur dramatics. It's a shame you're going to miss it.'
'Yeah. That is a…shame.'
'Gerald-'
'An old Armstrong family friend,' noted Deborah.
'Calls it Goys and Dolls!'
'Ha!' said Israel. 'Very funny.'
Ted looked perplexed.
'Anyway, we know the news, Mother,' said Deborah.
'Israel doesn't know the news.'
'He knows it now. What we want to know is his news. So how is the world of information services, brother of mine?'
'Well. Erm. Good, thanks,' said Israel. 'It's…very interesting.'
'I'm sure Israel has made a lot of good friends over there, hasn't he, Ted?' said Israel's mother. 'The Irish are renowned for their warmth of welcome and hospitality, aren't they?'
Israel almost choked on a mushroom.
'Aye,' said Ted, who had paprika around his mouth. 'That we are.'
'We're in Northern Ireland, Mother,' said Israel.
'Ah, yes, of course,' said his mother. 'The IRA bit.'
'Yes. Well…' said Israel.
'How's all that going these days?' said Israel's mother.
'Fine,' said Israel. 'It's this whole peace process thing and the devolution, so-'
'Ah, yes, good, good. My late husband was an Irishman,' said Israel's mother. 'Did Israel tell you, Ted?'
'Aye,' said Ted.
'From Dublin.'
'County Dublin,' said Israel.
'So good they named it twice,' said Deborah.
'That's what he always used to say,' said Israel's mother. 'He'd kissed the Blarney Stone. Have you kissed the Blarney Stone, Ted?'
'Ach, no,' said Ted.
'He was great crack, my husband, Ted. You'd have got on. Do you have crack where you are?'
'Aye,' said Ted. 'Craic? We do.'
'Good,' said Israel's mother. 'I am glad. I do love the Irish-such a sense of fun and adventure.' Israel couldn't tell if she raised an eyebrow, or if it was permanently raised.
Israel's mobile phone vibrated. Text message from Gloria: she was going to be later than she thought. Okay. That was fine. That was okay.
They were sitting in the back room-the best room, the room with the curtain tiebacks and the swags. Israel looked up at the photos on the walls: his father, his grandparents, the Irish, and the Jews, all tiny, all reduced and captured in neat shiny silver frames; his mother liked a nice silver frame. All shipshape, present and correct. And there, there was the old wooden gazelle on the mahogany sideboard under the window, a wooden gazelle that Israel remembered as having belonged to one of his mother's aunts; and next to it a couple of elephants made of coloured glass, which he recognised as having once belonged to his granny. Things had slowly migrated to this room from other houses, or got washed up, like wreckage; it was a room completely stuffed to overflowing, teeming, bobbing with booty, ornaments and furniture; barely enough space to edge round the dining table (which had for years been in situ in Colindale, at Israel's mother's brother's, before coming adrift and floating downstream to the Armstrongs). The whole thing was like a palimpsest of other rooms, a stratum, layer upon layer of other people's lives. The only thing that Israel could identify as being absolutely native, something original and aboriginal and uniquely of their own, was a stainless-steel hostess trolley that had never been used for hostessing, as far as Israel was aware, and had only ever been used for storing newspapers and the Radio Times; though by the looks of it his mother seemed to have converted since his departure to the TV Times. Standards were slipping.
Half an hour after the meal had begun, on the verge of the end both of the conversation and of the paprika chicken, Deborah's fiancé arrived. He was wearing the kind of shirt that had obviously recently seen a tie, and he had a thick, luscious head of hair, the hair of a lead character in an American made-for-TV courtroom drama.
'Hi!' said the thick-haired fiancé loudly, entering the room, to everyone and no one in particular. 'Sorry I'm late.'
'Long day?' said Israel's mother.
'You could say that!' He kissed Israel's sister-on the lips. And then-unbelievably-he went over to Israel's mother and kissed her also. On the cheek. Israel didn't like this at all; this was definitely a new development. Israel was pretty sure that his sister's fiancé hadn't previously been in the habit of kissing his mother; Israel would definitely have remembered that.
'Israel!' he said, reaching across and shaking his hand, in a man-of-the-household fashion. 'No, no, don't get up. Good to see you. You're looking well. And…Hello!' He shook Ted's hand. 'I'm Ari.'
'Say again?' said Ted.
'Ari. My name.'
'Hello,' said Ted. 'I'm Ted. Nice to meet you.'
'Ari and Deborah are engaged to be married,' said Israel's mother.
'Oh,' said Ted. 'Congratulations.'
'Ted works in information services over in Ireland with Israel,' explained Israel's mother.
Ari and Deborah exchanged amused glances.
'Really?' said Ari. 'Information services? I'd be very interested to know about that. I'm kind of in information services myself.'
'Ari works in financial PR,' said Israel's mother.
'Oh,' said Ted.
'He's very successful.'
'Oh,' said Ted.
'Paprika chicken, Ari? And Ted, perhaps I can tempt you?'
For someone who was very successful Ari ate as though he hadn't eaten in a long time-or maybe that's just how very successful people eat, like tramps or emperors; determined, heedless. Ari paused from stuffing himself only to heap absurd, lavish praise upon Israel's mother's cooking, and to provoke and dominate conversation, and to share sly whispered asides with Israel's sister. Israel had fantasised for months about returning to his family. And this was it. This was his family. This was home.
Oh God.
'So, Israel, you followed this business in Lebanon?' said Ari, mid-forkful. 'What do you think?'
'I don't know,' said Israel. 'What do you think?'
Ari knew full well what Israel would think. And Israel knew full well what Ari would think.
'You get the news okay over there then?' said Ari.
'We manage,' said Israel. He didn't want to admit that he was mostly listening to BBC Radio Ulster and reading the Impartial Recorder.
'I'm trying to wean your mother here off the Daily Mail.'
'I like Melanie Phillips,' said Israel's mother.
'My aunt knows Melanie Phillips,' said Ari.
'Yes, his aunt knows Melanie Phillips,' said Israel's mother.
'I like to read The Times, the Telegraph and the FT every day. To get a rounded view of things,' said Ari, who didn't talk so much as make statements and request information.
'I'm sure you do,' said Israel.
'I read the Telegraph,' said Ted.
'That's the Belfast Telegraph,' said Israel.
'Oh,' said Ari.
'So, Israel, you haven't answered the question, what should we do in Lebanon?' said Deborah.
'I think we should pull out, of course,' said Israel.
'Well, well,' said Deborah. 'There's a surprise.'
'And I think all Israelis should come out and protest.'
'Like that'd help,' said Deborah.
'It'd be a show of solidarity.'
'Now, I hope we're not getting into politics?' said Israel's mother.
'It's not politics, Mum,' said Israel.
'I do apologise, Eva,' said Ari.
'That's okay, Ari,' said Israel's mother. 'More chicken?'
'Yes, please. Delicious.'