If you saw them in the street at night, you would cross the road. Gym-shouldered and shaven headed, not to be confronted. In fact, they were two of the most peaceful guys you could meet.

They came to me via their cousin, also Romanian. She had the apartment upstairs and we knew each other from saying hello on the landing. She worked long hours in a hotel and saw me clearing up after seeing off a previous tenant, who had left me with soiled carpets, wrecked furniture and a general bad odour towards the letting game. But she pleaded with me to consider Pedro and Paulo, then in a "holding centre" in Rosslare.

"They have nothing. If you give them place, I promise they will be good." She seemed an honourable woman and I took her at her word. Apparently, if I signed forms to the effect I was providing accommodation, they would be released from detention, pending assessment by Immigration. I duly signed - it was the least I could do, for reasons of my own personal history. On the stroke of my pen, they came out of "the State pen". When they arrived, with just a plastic bag each, I interviewed them briefly and we established some sort of male bonding. Don't ask me to explain - "respect" will sum it up. They had been involved in a revolution in Romania and, even though "their side" won, they had left to make some money and maybe in time return to a better country. Or so I gleaned from their cousin.

I never asked exactly what happened during the revolution. With the wariness of migrants, they did not offer information. They were model tenants, paying the rent regularly, keeping the place tidy and clean and welcoming me with a cup of (milkless) tea when I visited. They kept the electricity usage to a minimum and worked all the hours God gave, mainly in hotel kitchens. For instance, they started in a city hotel at six in the morning, to prepare breakfasts and do the washing up afterwards. Then moved to a Temple Bar restaurant, to clear for lunch. After lunch wash-up, they prepared for dinner and moved to another restaurant to do the same. Then washed-up after dinner. And so on, throughout the day, intense, menial work in several catering places, until about 10 at night.

It was a long day, six or seven days a week. So much so, they had to ask for time off, because on the Seventh Day, usually a Saturday, they attended their Baptist church. The pay was always "cash in the hand" - no employer would put them on the books. As I got to know them better, they explained it suited them, as they sent the bulk of their earning home. Every week-end, from among the Romanian immigrant community, a "banker" went to Bucharest with a steel case full of money, which was distributed among nominated relatives.

After about a year, they were able to tell me, proudly, that each was buying "house in the country" for their families, meaning their parents. They showed the photographs of wooden "haciendas" among forests. Since the fall of communism, people like them could own property for the first time . . . the price was about €15,000 for a two-bedroom house. They were thrilled with themselves and counted off the weeks on a kitchen calendar, as the debt was being reduced by their work in Ireland.

In time they spent money on their favourite recreation, body building. The livingroom of the apartment became like a boxer's gym, with punch bag, skipping ropes and weights. Thankfully it was on the ground floor: the building regulations regarding standards of concrete mix came into some use. I could see why they were never bothered by the local youths as they came home late at night. Sometimes, for a joke they invited me to try and lift weights and I earned brownie points by being pathetic. But I persisted and noticed some improvement. See how easy the macho thing spreads . . .

And then one morning, an urgent call from Pedro on my mobile. "Please Mr, we are not longer in the flat, we have left next month's rent with our cousin. Please, if Immigration contact you, tell them we have left the country. Thank you very much, you are welcome visit my country anytime, you are my friend."

I gleaned, months later, that immigrations officials had made enquiries at the places of work. The rules had changed and employers could be in the dock, so had to let them go. Fired them, in effect. I also learned the two men had gone home, to Romania but found the place much changed in a few years "all gangsters now", as their cousin said. So they moved to Germany and were still sending money home. Here's to you Pedro and Paulo, I hope you buy many houses and have many children. And that you think kindly of your time in Ireland. I am not a law-maker, I am only a Landlord.