by Ian Sansom
As a welcome-home meal, Israel's mother had prepared her signature dish, paprika chicken, which was basically chicken with a lot of paprika sprinkled over it-one part chicken to one part paprika-and cooked with tomatoes and rice until all the constituent parts had broken down to roughly the same size and consistency and were indistinguishable; you could almost drink Israel's mother's paprika chicken. Israel had eaten this meal probably at least once a week for fifteen years before becoming a vegetarian; if he had to identify a particular dish, a particular meal, that had turned him vegetarian, then it was probably paprika chicken: the sickly smell of it, the oils, the colours. The paprika chicken sat now, liquid and fragrant and oily and orange, centre stage on the Armstrong family dinner table. For Israel, in respect of his status as honorary returning family vegetarian, there was a side dish of glistening fried mushrooms.
'Thank you for having us, Mrs Armstrong,' said Ted.
'Thank you, Mr Carson.'
'Please, call me Ted.'
'If you'll call me Eva,' said Israel's mother.
'Is that an Irish name?' said Ted.
'I don't think so,' said Israel's mother. 'Although my late husband was Irish.'
'Oh,' said Ted.
'So we certainly have something in common,' said Israel's mother, who was clearly in good spirits: she'd lit candles, and there was a tablecloth. The meal felt like a special occasion; a family gathering. Israel was there; his mother; his sister, Deborah; and Ted. Deborah's fiancé would be arriving later.
'Well,' Israel's mother was saying, looking at her watch.
'Ari won't be here till later,' said Deborah.
'So we're just waiting for Gloria,' said Israel's mother.
'I'm sure she won't mind if we start,' said Israel.
'Are you sure?' said Israel's mother. 'I wouldn't want it to get cold.'
'Yes, absolutely.'
'I'll serve, at least,' said Israel's mother. 'She may be here by then.'
Israel had told Gloria what time he'd be arriving, and she said she'd be there. Probably she was busy.
Israel texted her again.
She was not there by the time the food was served.
'So. Shall we?' said Israel's mother, looking at her watch again.
'Let's,' said Israel.
'No sign of Gloria then?'
'She's probably busy.'
'Well, good. First, a toast. To Israel! It's lovely to have you back! And to Mr Carson!'
'Please, call me Ted,' said Ted.
'Ted. Yes,' she said. 'And your lovely dog.' Israel's mother hated dogs. 'What was it he's called?'
'Muhammad,' said Ted.
'How unusual!'
'After the boxer,' said Israel.
'Woof!' said Muhammad.
'Quite!' said Israel's mother. 'Lovely to have you here. We missed you,' she said to Israel, placing a hand on his arm.
'I missed you too, Mum,' said Israel.
'I didn't,' said Israel's sister, Deborah.
'You wouldn't,' said Israel.
'She's joking, Ted,' said Israel's mother. 'They like to tease each other. Of course she missed him.'
'Have you had your hair cut?' said Israel to his sister, sipping his wine.
'Yes, of course I've had my hair cut. You think I'd grow my hair for six months without having it cut?'
'Well, it looks…different,' said Israel.
'And you look like you've been sleeping in a ditch,' said Deborah.
'Thank you,' said Israel.
'Mmm,' said Ted, who was enjoying his first experience of Armstrong paprika chicken. 'Delicious.'
'And what about me?' said Israel's mother.
'Sorry?' said Ted.
'My hair, Israel?'
'Yes,' said Israel. 'Yours is-'
'It's shorter,' said his mother. 'More modern.'
'Is it…?' Israel thought perhaps his mother's hair colour had gone a shade too far towards burgundy.
'There's a touch of colour in it,' she said.
'Right,' said Israel. 'And there's something else…'
'My nails?' said Israel's mother. 'He's very observant. He gets that from my side of the family,' she explained to Ted. 'I've started getting my nails done.' She held up her hands and stretched out her fingers as though about to play a two-octave scale. Her hands were all wrinkly and slightly liver-spotted, but the nails were pure bright white and shiny; like old wine skins stoppered with brand-new plastic corks. 'French polish,' she said.
'I thought that was something to do with furniture,' said Israel.
'Tuh!' said Deborah.
'But they're nice,' said Israel. 'Really nice.'
'Thank you,' said his mother.
'And your eyebrows,' said Deborah.
'Ah, yes, my eyebrows.' Israel's mother raised an already arched eyebrow. 'I go to a woman now that Deborah knows in Swiss Cottage.'
'I thought she needed some updating,' said Deborah.
'Right,' said Israel.
'A woman needs to take more care of herself as she gets older. Isn't that right, Ted?' said Israel's mother.
'Mmm,' said Ted. 'Lovely chicken.'
'After all, I'm only sixty-two. There's plenty more, if you want some.'
Ted looked bemused.
'The chicken?' said Israel's mother.
Ted smiled and graciously accepted another ladleful of paprika chicken.
'Now,' said Israel's mother. 'Just for a quick catch up on all the news, Israel, seeing as you've missed so much while you've been away. Mrs Metzger?'
'Who?'
'Mrs Metzger, of the Metzgers?'
'Oh.'
'She's been in hospital. They cut out half her intestine.'
'Ouch,' said Israel.
'And Mrs Silverman?'
'Sorry?'
'Her husband taught the girls the violin.'
'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.'
'Are there any more mushrooms?' asked Israel.
'No, sorry,' said his mother.
'Ted,' said Ari. 'I'm sure you must have an interesting perspective on things, coming from Northern Ireland.'
'On mushrooms?' said Israel.
'On the situation in Lebanon. Obviously,' said Deborah.
'One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter,' said Israel's mother. 'That's what your father used to say.'
Ted picked at his chicken bones.
'Ted?' said Ari.
'I…' began Ted, blushing.
'How anyone could think it was okay to plant a bomb and kill people,' said Israel's mother.
'As they're drinking a cup of coffee or on their way to work,' said Deborah.
'Exactly,' said Israel's mother. 'Disgraceful.'
Ted was flushed, and coughed, and adjusted himself awkwardly in his chair.
'Are you okay, Ted?' said Israel's mother.
'Fine, thank you.'
'I blame Tony Blair,' said Israel.
'Tony Blair?' said Ari. 'For Lebanon?'
'Evil man,' said Israel.
'Evil?' said Ari. 'He's not evil.'
'He is evil.'
'What, the same as Hitler or Stalin or Saddam Hussein were evil?' said Ari.
'No, of course not,' said Israel.
'So in what sense evil?' said Ari, stroking his luxuriant hair. 'Like who? Like Jeffrey Dahmer was evil?'
'Don't be silly,' said Israel.
'Israel, please, treat our guests with respect,' said his mother.
'I am treating him with respect,' said Israel. 'He's not-'
'It's okay, Eva,' said Ari. 'I hardly think Israel and I are ever going to agree over the Middle East.'
There was a suggestion here in what Ari said, and the way in which he said it-coolly and calmly
-that this was in some way Israel's fault.
'It's just, I'm very'-Ari continued, spearing another chicken thigh-'very suspicious of this whole anti-Israel lobby.'
'I'm not anti-Israel,' said Israel.
'Really?'
'And I'm not part of a lobby. I just think people should be allowed to criticise Israel when it's made a mistake. Like, for example, going into Lebanon and committing atrocities.'
'Israel, Israel,' said Ari patriarchally. 'You know, it's funny, I do often find it's self-hating Jews who make these wild accusations about the-'
'They're not wild accusations,' said Israel. 'And maybe I am a self-hating Jew, because-'
'You're not a self-hating Jew,' said Deborah. 'You're a self-hating person.'
'Children!' said Israel's mother. 'Ted doesn't want to hear this, do you, Ted?'
Ted smiled, non-committally.
'Coffee everyone?'
Israel helped his mother take the dishes through to the kitchen, leaving Ted to battle it out alone over Lebanon with Ari and Deborah.
'So, where's Gloria?' she asked, when they were alone together in the kitchen.
'She's just texted,' said Israel. 'She's having to finish some work.'
'But she knew you were coming back tonight?'
'Yes, it's just something she couldn't get out of.'
'I see.'
'Mother, let's not get started on Gloria.'
Israel's mother didn't trust Gloria.
'I'm not getting started on anything. So, you've not met any nice girls over in Ireland?'
'Mother!'
'I'm only asking.'
'Well, anyway, no, I haven't. Not really.'
'Not really? Does that mean yes?'
'No!'
'Well. He's lovely, though, isn't he?' said Israel's mother.
'Who? Ari?'
'No! Ted.'
'Ted?' said Israel.
'Yes,' said Israel's mother. 'I think he's very charming.'
'Ted? Charming?' Israel thought back to when he'd arrived in Tumdrum and Ted had physically threatened him on a number of occasions. 'Ted is certainly a lot of things, Mother,' he said, 'but I hardly think charming is one of them.'
'I do like his accent.'
'His accent?'
'It's very cute, isn't it?'
'He's Northern Irish.'
'Yes, I know. Reminds me of your father.'
