Geneaology

In the dingy vaults of the Rio de Janeiro Immigration Registration Office, the Gaffer and his trusty, but aged, sidekick carefully leafed through the dusty tomes which documented the great influx of Irish emigrants to Brazil in the early twentieth century.

They'd been at it three weeks now, and nothing. The Gaffer was not, by his nature, a jovial type, and indeed tended toward cantankerousness in his more pleasant moods, so the long days spent slavishly seeking their quarry gnawed at his very soul and drenched his disposition in darker hues than even he had ever suffered. Only for the unceasing good nature of his beloved old friend alongside him he would have left this godforsaken lair weeks ago.

But then, just as the Gaffer was about to bring an end to the forlorn search, there it was. In black and white, faint now, but unmistakeable.

"Robson?", the Gaffer cried.

"What is it Gaffer?" replied the elderly factotum.

"I've found something. Look!"

He slowly raised his pale, bony finger, quivering now and damp from perspiration, carefully so as not to damage the delicate parchment, toward the source of his rare glee.

The gnarled servant beheld a name, at once both familiar and strange: "Seamus Ronaldinho. By gosh, I think we've got our man" .

And for the first time in many weeks, the Gaffer smiled.