Jesus and Billy Are Off to Barcelona. Deirdre Purcell

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      Jesus leaned forward in his seat and stared through the oval window as the jet at last broke through the cloud cover. The fields around Dublin airport spread out beneath it like a bright green-and-white tablecloth. All around him was the excited buzz of chatter and loud talk. Jesus had no wish to be part of it. He had no friends on this trip and he was contented about that. Three weeks in Ireland with a family he did not know was fine with him.

      To prepare for the visit, he had read a lot about Ireland. About Riverdance and Gerry Adams and Bono and computers. And most of all, about the craic and the Guinness and the little fairy-sized churches and the green, green grass.

      And now here it was, all starting. Jesus, who never showed any excitement because to do so would be vulgar, felt a little flutter somewhere around his middle. He sat back. The flight attendant, who was passing along to check seat belts, shot him a big toothy smile. Jesus smiled back. It was good to be coming to Ireland, to escape the summer heat of Barcelona. All that endless, tiring, boring sunshine. It rained a lot in Ireland. Jesus liked rain, the way it rushed from the sky to cool the streets and freshen the flowers.

      His Mama had not wanted him to come. Lately, Jesus had been finding that he and his Mama were not seeing eye-to-eye the way they used to. His brother, Jose Manuel, who was married and six years older than Jesus, had helped to persuade their Mama. Jose Manuel had said that a little holiday away from one another would be no bad thing for either of them.