The Deportees (11 page)

Miss, the teacher-lady, follows the other boys and girls into the classroom. She stops at the door and turns to Joseph, Christian Kelly and Seth Quinn.

—Not a squeak out of you, she says. —Just stand there.

She is looking at Joseph. Does she think that he will run away?

She walks into the room. Joseph remains in the corridor.

—Now!

Joseph hears the noise of children sitting down, retrieving books from schoolbags. He hears Miss.

—Open up page 47 of
Totally Gaeilge.
Questions one to seven. I'll be right outside and listening out for any messing.

Joseph does not look at Christian Kelly or Seth Quinn. They do not speak. They face the classroom door but cannot see inside.

Miss has returned.

—Now, she says.

She stands in front of them.

—I didn't do anything, says Christian Kelly.

—Shut up, Christian, for God's sake.

Joseph looks at Miss. She does not look very angry.

—We have to sort this out, boys, she says.

—I didn't—

—Christian!

It is, perhaps, a time when she will say
God give me strength.

But she doesn't. She looks at Seth Quinn.

—Seth, she says. —What happened?

—Nothing.

Christian Kelly is looking at the floor. Seth Quinn is looking at Miss.

—It was a funny sort of nothing I saw, says Miss. —Well, Joseph. Your turn. What happened?

—Nothing happened, says Joseph.

Miss says nothing, for three seconds. These seconds, Joseph thinks, are important. Because, in that time, the three boys become united. This is what Joseph thinks. They are united in their silence. They do not like one another but this does not matter. They stand there together, against Miss.

She looks at the three boys.

—You're great lads, she says.

Joseph does not think that she is sincere.

—What'll I do with you? she says.

Again, the boys say nothing.

—Seth?

Seth Quinn shrugs.

—Joseph?

Joseph looks at her. He does not speak. He will not speak. He will be punished but he is not frightened or very concerned. He is, at this moment, quite happy.

—Nothing to say for yourself? says Miss.

Joseph shakes his head. He looks at the floor. There are many loud noises coming from the classroom. Joseph hopes that these will distract Miss. She does not speak. He hears her breathe. He looks at her feet. They do not move.

She speaks.

—Right, so. If that's the way you want it—

—Miss?

Joseph looks. It is Hazel O'Hara, the girl with the magnified eyes. She is at the door.

—Yes, Hazel? says Miss.

—I seen it.

—Now, Hazel—

—But I seen it. Christian Kelly pushed—

—Back inside, Hazel.

—But he—

—Hazel!

Hazel lifts her very big eyes and makes a clicking sound with her mouth. She turns and walks back into the classroom. They hear her.

—She's a bitch, that one. I was only telling her.

Miss follows Hazel. She rushes into the classroom.

—Hands in the air!

Seth Quinn speaks.

—She thinks she's robbing a fuckin' bank.

Christian Kelly laughs quietly. Seth Quinn laughs quietly. Joseph smiles.

They listen to Miss. They cannot see.

—Hazel O'Hara!

—What?

Joseph laughs. It is like listening to a radio programme.

—I heard what you said, Hazel O'Hara!

—It was a private conversation.

He laughs because the other boys are also laughing. He hears them snort. He also snorts.

—Don't you
dare
talk to me like that!

—Like what?

Joseph looks at Christian Kelly. He looks at Seth Quinn. They laugh, with him. Their shoulders shake.

—Stand up! says Miss.

—I
am
standing.

—Hands in the air!

—She's an eejit, whispers Christian Kelly.

The three boys laugh together.

It is quiet in the classroom.

Seth Quinn whispers, —Now.

And—

—Now, says Miss, inside the room.

This is, perhaps, the funniest thing that Joseph has ever heard. He laughs so much, he cannot see. He wipes his eyes. The other boys also wipe their eyes. He tries to stop. He knows that Miss will soon reappear.

He stops.

Then he says it.

—Now.

He thinks suddenly of his father; a great weight drops through his chest. He cries now as he laughs. He feels the weight, the sadness, fall right through him. He wipes his eyes. He continues to laugh. Many times, Joseph made his father laugh. He remembers the sound of his father's laughter; he sees his father's face.

He laughs. He wipes his eyes. He looks at the other boys. They are looking at the classroom door.

Miss stands in front of Joseph.

He stops laughing. He waits.

He is surprised. She does not seem angry. She looks at Joseph for some long time.

—The three musketeers, she says. —In you go.

She stands aside.

Christian Kelly enters the room. Joseph follows Christian Kelly. Seth Quinn follows Joseph.

Ray Brady looked at the screen. He looked at the young man on the screen, who was looking at another screen. The young man, student, both parents Irish, was about to watch Robbie Keane's goal against Germany in the 2002 World Cup, back in more innocent times, before the collapse of the euro and Ray's near-marriage.

There was a monitor strapped to the young man's heart, another snuggled in under his testicles. His head was lodged in a comfortable brace that allowed him to look at the screen and nothing else.

The second screen gave Ray a good view of the young man's eyes. He needed the young man to become excited at the sight of Keane's goal. Not necessarily very excited, just a little, measurable bit excited – a wobble in the heartbeat, a little dilation of the pupils. But the young man was showing nothing.

Niall Quinn flicked the ball down for Keane. Keane scored. The young man yawned.

The idea – the thesis – had come to Ray in the minutes, three years before, just after Robbie Keane had actually scored that goal and Ray had hugged and kissed maybe fifteen people in the pub, and he'd found himself in the arms of a big lad from Poland. And he'd wondered. Why was this guy hugging Ray? Kissing his forehead. Punching the air. Throwing his head back and singing.

—YOU'LL NEVER BEAT THE EYE-RISH

YOU'LL NEVER BEAT THE EYE-RISH—

Why?

Because his own team was shite? (Poland had been beaten the day before, by South Korea.) Because he'd been in Ireland a while and felt that he was one of the gang? Because he wanted to feel that way?

Why?

How did you measure nationality? That was what Ray had wanted to know back then, when flags flapped on half the cars, when the week-long hangover was the badge of national pride; when, four weeks after Robbie Keane scored that goal, Ray's girlfriend, Stalin, announced that she was pregnant. Russian ma, Irish da – what would that make the baby?

—German, said his brother.

Ray went into that World Cup happily lost, no longer a student, not yet a graduate, a native of Templeogue. And he came out the other end a graduate, a screaming success, a daddy-to-be, and a native of near-Tallaght, where Robbie Keane came from.

Stalin wasn't his girlfriend's real name, just her temperament. Anyway, by the time the baby – a boy: Vladimir Damien – was born, Ray had a research grant and a title: 'Olé Olé Olé – Football and the Road to Irishness'. He'd starting off flying, reading anything that seemed useful –
The Territorial Imperative, Modern Ireland, Mein Kampf
and
Shoot.
He'd designed and redesigned techniques that would let him measure love of country via football, ways that were new and sexy and beyond scepticism. He'd set up his lab in the shed in his parents' back garden; they'd bought it especially for him.

—There'll be a plaque on that shed one of these days, said his mother.

—It's not a shed, said his father. —I paid 3,000 euros for that thing, so it's a fuckin' chalet.

Ray had shown the Keane goal to hundreds of people, and monitored their reactions – both parents Irish, male; both parents Irish, female; one parent Irish, both genders; neither parents Irish, European; neither parents Irish, non-European. And, as he measured their glee or indifference, in the first months of his study, he became excited himself every time he watched them watch that goal. He wanted them all in, all Irish, all more than welcome.

But by the time the phone call came, three long years later, he'd lost interest. His work was rubbish; he wanted out. He'd seen Vladimir Damien – his brother called the kid VD – only twice in the last year, and Stalo was making angry noises about going back to Russia. And good riddance to the bitch – he sometimes thought.

Ray looked at the young man. The replay. Keane scored again. The young man didn't even yawn. But Ray didn't really care. He'd written his conclusions months ago; he was just rounding off the numbers now, picking his evidence. His only honest conclusion, not in the official version, was that women didn't fancy Robbie Keane but they loved the way he celebrated. All that, after three years' work.

His mother knocked, and stepped into the shed.

—You're wanted on the phone, Doctor, she said.

God, he'd kill her. She handed him the handset and he stepped down, into the garden. He kicked her fuchsia.

—Yeah?

—Mr Brady?

—Yeah.

—Would you be prepared to speak to the Minister for the Arts and Ethnicity?

He answered before he really caught the question.

—Yeah.

His mother was beside him.

—Will that be all, Doctor?

He didn't answer. He climbed back into the shed and shut the door.

He was a big man in a big suit. The smile was big too but it wasn't warm. It was the smile of a man who might have had a gun or a bread-knife hidden up one of the big sleeves.

Ray wished he wasn't there. But he was only after arriving; the Minister's handshake was still a throb right up to his shoulder. He was stuck. But it was fine, because he was also curious, and a little bit excited.

—Well, said the Minister for the Arts and Ethnicity.

Ray was wearing his graduation suit. It seemed a bit tight, but Ray decided that that was just the situation, the formality of the occasion. It was him that was tight, not the suit.

—I hear great things about you, said the Minister.

It was a huge room, more like a hall, Jack B. Yeats prints on the walls, a typed page of
Ulysses,
author's corrections and all, framed, behind the Minister, an autographed photo of Ronan Keating – before the baldness – on the other side. The Proclamation of Independence, a U2 gold disc – before the split – all sorts of interesting stuff around the place.

—And I think you might be the man for the job, said the Minister.

Ray decided that now was the time to speak.

—What job?

—Good man. Straight to it. No messing. Forty thousand a year and the petrol money.

—What job? said Ray.

—Ah. Fair enough.

The Minister sat back, changed his mind and sat forward.

—I'll be frank with you, Raymond, he said. —A week ago I was the Minister for the Arts and Tourism. The arts came first in the job description but I was more at home with the tourism. The arts; grand, but a lot of it is bolloxology.

He sat back. That was the frank bit out of the way, Ray thought. The man sat up again.

—And administered by bollixes, he said.

More frankness. Ray wondered if he should throw in a bit of his own.

—I've never been to the Abbey, he said.

A lie.

The Minister winked at Ray.

—We speak the same language, he said. —D'you want a drink or a sandwich or anything?

—No, thanks, said Ray.

—Grand. So, then we have the reshuffle last week. You know youself, two lads in, two lads out, one girl sent sideways. And me.

He shrugged.

—One little joke about putting a wall around Offaly and calling it Inbred-land. And An Taoiseach takes the tourism out from under me. And leaves me with the fuckin' arts. And this new yoke. Do you know what ethnicity means?

—Yes, said Ray.

—Of course you do. And so do I. I've known since last Thursday.

He walloped the Collins dictionary on his desk.

—Ethnic. Of or relating to a human group with racial, religious and linguistic characteristics in common, from the Greek,
ethnos.
I only have to read something the once and I have it for ever. Come here till I show you.

He opened the dictionary and glanced at it. Then he closed it and shoved it over to Ray.

—Page 540.

Ray found the page.

—Ask me one, said the Minister.

—Organza? said Ray.

—A thin stiff fabric of silk, cotton or synthetic fibre, origin unknown.

—Orgasm?

—Now we're talking. The most intense point of pleasure and excitement during sexual activity, from the Greek,
orgasmos.
Are you impressed?

—Yes, said Ray.

—It comes in handy. Any questions so far?

—Well, said Ray. —Like, why has ethnicity become a government department?

—Ah, said the Minister. —Fuckin' Europe.

—Sorry? said Ray.

—The shift to the left, said the Minister. —Spain, Germany, Poland, the rest. Even here. This Defiant Democrat shower –

It was a time of great coalition. The Defiant Democrats were Labour and the remains of Fine Gael. They'd merged to take on Fianna Fail, but had ended up sharing power with them, against an opposition of eighty-two Independents.

—Fuckin' whingers, said the Minister. —Anyway, all of a sudden they're not happy with the Fortress Europe tag. It keeps them from their sleep. So, the walls are coming down.

The Minister sat back.

—My arse, Raymond, he said. —We're having none of it but, of course—

He sat up again.

—This goes no further. Right?

He smiled and, at the same time, stared at Ray, hard.

—Absolutely, said Ray.

—Good man. We're telling no one, especially not the wee lads with the sandals on the other side of the Cabinet table. No, we'll play ball. The walls must come down, says Brussels. So, fair enough. But—

He sat back again.

—Here's the job, Raymond.

He waited for Ray.

—Yes?

—We want you to make it harder to be Irish.

—I see, said Ray.

—But, said the Minister. —You have to make it look easier.