Still smiling, moving his head gently from side to side. There was a litany of the countries he had tried that would not let him in. I'm a drug dealer, a white-slave trader coming to take girls, I'll be a burden on the state, that's what they say,
I'll steal someone's job, I'll take smaller pay than the local man.
And at this last, they could laugh a moment because that was exactly what he was doing.
It's terrible. Inhuman. Disgraceful.
No. Don't you see them round all the places you like to go, the cafe. Down there, crack you can buy like a box of matches, the street corner gangs who take your wallet, the women any man can buy - who do they work for? The ones from outside who've been let in. Do you think that's a good thing for your country.
But you … you're not one of them.
The law's the same for me. Like for them. Only they are more clever, they have more money - to pay. His long hand opened, the fingers unfolding before her, joint by joint.
There are gestures that decide people's lives: the hand-grasp, the kiss; this was the one, at the border, at immigration, that had no power over her life.