Chidimma Agu (FF) looked at the door. It was shut. In fact, it had just been slammed by its owner, Bernard Kavanagh, who had assured Chidimma that he would not be voting for her. He never had voted for Fianna Fáil and he never would.
–Listen, love, he’d said. –I wouldn’t clean my windows with a Fianna Fáiler. No offence, like.
And he’d shut the door.
Chidimma walked to the next house. Her shoes were new; they felt like someone else’s. The rain had started to trickle down her back. She could feel the cold drops poke at her – mocking her. She didn’t know who lived here. The voters’ register was in her bag and she hadn’t the energy to take it out. She rang the bell and prepared to smile.
Please, Lord, she said to herself. Let them be African.
Six months earlier, in the warmth of her kitchen, she had looked across at the Minister for Trade and Communications. The Minister had just placed her open hand on the table.
–I do not read palms, said Chidimma.
–Oh, said the Minister. –What do you do?
–Well, Chidimma started.
–D’you want a lock of my hair?
–No, thank you, said Chidimma.
-That’s for werewolves, is it? said the Minister. -Or vampires.
-I do not know, said Chidimma.
She had never laid claim to occult powers. This was unusual in a Fianna Fáil, or any other, electoral candidate. But bear in mind that Chidimma was not yet a candidate or even a member of Fianna Fáil. She depended only on a combination of straightforward observation and common sense. She looked at the Minister and saw a woman who had recently become quite skinny. Her face was a mix of triumph and desperation; the woman was starving and proud of it.
–You have lost weight, she said.
–Aye.
–Congratulations, said Chidimma. –That is a very great achievement. However –
–What?
–Be kind to yourself, said Chidimma. –You have achieved your goal. Now you can relax.
She knew she was saying the right thing. This was what Chidimma did so well. She had just given the Minister permission to eat.
The Minister smiled, and there was something else that Chidimma noticed, the way the smile took over the Minister’s face, as if it had escaped after years of custody and was running away in all directions.
–You seem to be quite drunk, said Chidimma.
–Jesus, said the Minister for Trade and Communications. –You’re good.
Now, six months later, Chidimma silently thanked God as she saw a black woman standing before her.
–Good evening, she said.
–Good evening, said the woman.
–It rains tonight on the just and on the unjust, said Chidimma, smiling. Let me in, she said to herself.
The woman also smiled. Encouraged, almost happy, Chidimma spoke.
–I am your Fianna Fáil candidate in the forthcoming local elections.
–Fianna Fáil?
–Yes.
–But they are rogues, said the woman, and she clicked her fingers above her head.
She took a step closer and peered at Chidimma.
–You are Igbo, aren’t you?
–Yes, said Chidimma.
–For shame, said the woman. –You should be in Fine Gael. Fine Gael is the party of the Igbo.
And she too slammed the door.
My God, said Chidimma, to herself. What am I doing? I am starting a tribal war in Mulhuddart.
Back in her kitchen, the same six months earlier, Chidimma looked at her watch.
–It is ten-thirty in the morning, she said. –And you are drunk.
The Minister shrugged, slumped, sat up.
–I suppose I am, she said. –But I’ll tell you. I can think better with a few vodkas inside me.
–Nonsense, said Chidimma. –Vodka for breakfast?
–I never eat breakfast, the Minister said, quite proudly.
–Listen to me, said Chidimma. –This must stop.
–What?
–This drinking activity. You are a member of the Government.
–Sure, they’re all at it, said the Minister. –I’m just after coming from the cabinet meeting. I was the only one still able to stand.
–You are a leader, said Chidimma. –You must lead by example.
–You’re right, said the Minister. –You’re right. I don’t suppose you’ve a bottle of Smirnoff I could buy off you, do you?
–Look at me, said Chidimma.
Forward, through the six months, and Chidimma stood at a different door, in the same rain.
–Good evening, I am your Fianna–
–Stop there, said the man who had just opened the door. –You should never go canvassing on a Champions’ League night. You’re Fianna Fail, are yeh?
–Yes.
–Well, listen. If Arsenal win, I’ll vote Sinn Féin. If United win, I’ll be killing myself. Seeyeh.
Her mobile rang as the door closed.
–How’s it going?
It was Gerald McKeefe, the director of elections.
–Not very well, I’m afraid, said Chidimma.
–Good.
–Good?
–I want you to meet someone.
© Roddy Doyle 2009
The story continues next week
