Robert Wilson - Eureka Street - A Novel of Ireland Like No Other

`This and that:

The man laughed, showing his expansive, expensive teeth. With hatred in his heart, Chuckie tried to calculate how many times he would have to brush them every day to get them to gleam so.

`You're doing some business over here, right? That's the kind of answer I always give if I'm cutting some kind of deal.!

`Not really.'

'What do you do?' challenged the man.

`This and that.'

The man whooped with triumph. `I knew it. You're cutting some deal.' He began murmuring to himself, as though remembering his multiplication tables. `San Diego, Kansas City. What could it be?' He looked up at Chuckie again. `You in agribusiness?'

`Not yet,' said Chuckie.

His interlocutor barked with laughter. Chuckie was amazed to find himself such an effortless comic success. (When he had landed at New York, the immigration officials, after giving him some grief, had asked him whether he had any previous convictions. Yeah, Chuckie had replied. That God existed and Distillery would win the European Cup. Though mostly mystified, the men had laughed like drains.)

`When I said not yet, I didn't mean that I was intending to go into agribusiness,' he explained. `I just meant you never know. If you'd asked me if I was gay, I would have said the same. Not yet is the best you can say.'

The man stopped laughing and peered at Chuckie with something disconcertingly like awe. Chuckie's homespun meta physics had always brought the house down in the Wigwam but round here it looked like it would get him published.The man pulled a grave friendly face and thrust his hand towards Chuckle. john Evans; he said.

'Chuckie Lurgan,' replied Chuckie Lurgan.

The men shook hands.

There was the tiny hint of another gap in the dialogue and Chuckie tried to return to his magazine. He was nowhere near quick enough.

`I do a bit of this and that myself,' said Evans. `In fact, I do a lot of this and that.' He took Chuckle's magazine from his lap and flicked through until he reached the page he wanted. He set it back on Chuckle's knees. `That's me.' He pointed at the glossy pages.

Chuckie looked and saw a double-page article about John Evans, the San Diego tycoon. He was the man in the photographs, sure enough. The article called him a billionaire. If Chuckie had not been trying to think about Max, he would have been impressed. 'It says here you've got a private jet,' he said, making conversation.

`That's right!

'Is it broken at the minute?'

'What?'

'What are you doing on this plane?'

'Oh, right' The man smiled delightedly, as though he'd been asked a question he relished answering, which was indeed the case.'Nah, the jet's fun sometimes but I like to fly regular airlines when I can. It's the only chance I get to meet ordinary folks and annoy them about how rich I am.'

He belted out his big laugh and Chuckie sniggered politely. This American Croesus was beginning to get on his nerves.

`Tell me more about what you call this and that,' said Evans.

Chuckie told him.

After an hour, Evans was frankly drooling. Chuckle's narrative was not producing the effect he had intended. He had hoped that his brief summation of the paucity of his enterprises would make this super-rich American shut up and leave him alone. His attempt failed disastrously. Evans, experienced businessman, brilliant dealer, had never heard anyone downplay the scope of their business concerns. Chuckie's attitude perplexed him crazy. He was desperate to know what stroke Chuckie was trying to pull. He made a few hints about the capital he could inject into fresh ventures. Chuckie didn't even listen. He just complained that Belfast City Council had objected to his idea of setting up a ready-to-wear balaclava franchise in Northern Ireland. It was madness. Northern Ireland's peculiar circumstances created a huge market for such a product, he whinged.

Evans grew frantic. He was used to men trying to wheedle his cash out of him.This eccentric, secretive Irishman was refusing to be interested. He must be on to something huge, Evans concluded. There was something in Kansas he wanted to keep to himself.

then I bought this big fuck-off car that I couldn't even drive. It was too big to park so I had to abandon it in the middle of the road all the time and then, of course, the Army panics and sends in its bomb-disposal team and they threaten to blow it up because they think it's a car-bomb

The fact that he could not imagine any big Kansas deal of which he would not know made Evans more convinced of the truth of his theory. Anything he didn't know about had to be very good indeed.

`Do you do much business over here?' he asked Chuckie, interrupting that steady flow of plaint.

Chuckie looked confused. `A bit.!

'Oh, yeah?'

'Sold some stuff here. No big deal. Very small-scale. Everything we sell is complete bullshit.'

Evans tried to smile ironically but it was too European for him. `Bullshit?'

'Total.'

Evans smiled in a more American manner this time. `Bullshit sells. We like it. Look at our presidents.'

He laughed his huge laugh again. Chuckie didn't bother to join in this time. The time for politesse had passed. He started to read his magazine, quickly flipping over the pages about Evans.

Evans's good humour was checked by Chuckle's rudeness but his irritation was soon replaced by an expression of recognition, of approval, even. He seemed to think that Chuckie's handling of the situation was admirable. The fat Mick had big balls, for sure, but Evans had never met a man who could outgonad him. He persisted. 'OK, Mr Lurgan. Let's talk straight. I'm interested. Let's do some fucking business.'

For the next half-hour he badgered Chuckie for more information. Chuckie was growing wild with despair. They would land soon and he didn't want to turn up at Max's door without some preparation. Unfortunately, his demonstrably unfeigned lack of interest made Evans wild with plutocratic desire. Eventually, maddened, Chuckie gave him his office number in Belfast and told him he could speak to Luke. He warned him one last time that it would not be worth his while.

The plane had now landed and Chuckle was standing by one of the exits before the airbrakes had been released. The air hostesses were unable to persuade him to return to his seat. He heard Evans puffing and blowing to follow him. He closed his eyes and thought of Ireland.

'I should have guessed she'd end up with someone like you,' the old lady at Max's grandmother's house remarked.

`That's what her mother said.'

`Yeah?'

'I'm glad I meet everybody's expectations like that.'

The old woman's face was expressionless. `Her mother's a tramp. She married two of Bea's sons. Bea hated her both times. Sometimes I think she did it just to annoy the old girl.'

`I met her. It wouldn't be a surprise.!

This produced something close to a smile. Her eyes clouded again quickly. This woman's husband rented Max's land. Max had come round a couple of days before and asked her to fix up the house. She was going to stay a while.

'You're not pretty,' the old lady said implacably.

`I have a good personality,' said Chuckie.

There was a definite smile on her papery face this time. `Max never went much for looks.' Her words were insulting but her tone was distinctly less harsh. Chuckie decided to be happy with that.

It had taken him three hours to get to Max's grandmother's place. He had booked a hotel room in a small town ten miles away and cabbed it out there. He had stood on the gravel of her driveway for some minutes, his fortitude in poor repair. The old lady had come to find out who he was. At first, the bewildered Chuckie thought that she was Max's grandmother but she was just a neighbour. She was the cliched Midwest matriarch and he was almost surprised to find her without a shotgun on her hip. After a couple of minutes of conversation with her, it became clear that this old lady didn't need one.