The Deportees (19 page)

Declan walks through Harlem. It's Sunday. It's freezing. 126th Street. All the churches. All the houses are actually churches. Nearly all of them. The Church of the Meek. Harlem Grace Tabernacle. Glory of Lebanon. Groups of people stand outside. Families. In the Sunday clothes. Holding prayer books. Bibles. It's years since Declan wore Sunday clothes. He hasn't been to Mass since his father's funeral. He looks at the old men. Old, neat men, surrounded by children and grandchildren.

It's funny. At home in Dublin, he'd be laughing at them, the churches. Making up names for them. The Church of the Semi-Detached Tabernacle. Here, he wants to dress up and join one.

All the black people here are neat. Not just on Sundays. Their jeans, Jesus. They're not just ironed. It's like they've been dry-cleaned. Their fuckin' jeans. Even the homeless lads. He feels scruffy walking past them. God, it's fuckin' freezing. He walks faster. He even runs a bit, keeps an eye on the ice. To a Starbucks. He has a book with him.

—Are you sure you are going about this the right way, Mister O'Connor? says the Professor.

She's talking about the book.
The Sport of the Gods,
by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

—Well, says Declan.

—Yes?

—Like, I read in the introduction that it was published in Britain in 1903, says Declan.

—And?

—Well, you know your man, John Millington Synge?
Playboy of the Western World,
like?

—Yes.

—Well, the story goes, Yeats told him to go to the Aran Islands and listen in on the culchies.

—Excuse me?

—The locals. The peasants. And that's how he ended up writing the
Playboy.
So, I was thinking. What if he'd read
The Sport of the Gods
when it came out, and something in it gave him the idea for the
Playboy.
Or not even
the
idea. An idea. A bit of something. The language, maybe. Instead of the official story.

—And did you find anything?

—No, says Declan.

He shakes his head. So does she.

—Do you intend reading every book ever written by an African-American, Mister O'Connor?

—I don't know. There's a lot of them, yeah?

She nods.

—You're going at it like a murder mystery, she says.

—How d'you mean?

—You're examining the pages, for evidence. You're hoping something will turn up.

—Yeah.

—And if something doesn't turn up?

He doesn't let himself shrug. He listens.

He's back out on the street. He's back out on Broadway. It's late afternoon. Getting dark, getting colder. There's a guy with a bubble jacket and a clipboard coming up. He smiles at the man in front of Declan.

—Hi, sir, have you time for Save the Children this evening?

The man walks past him. It's Declan's turn.

—Hey, man, have you time for Save the Children this evening?

—Why amn't I 'sir'? says Declan.

But the guy's gone past him.

—Hey, man, have you time for Save the Children this evening?

Declan looks and feels like an eejit. It's 'man' for the students, 'sir' for the suits. He should have known. He walks on. It's freezing.

—Go deeper, Mister O'Connor, the Professor had said.

—What d'you mean?

—Look for yourself, she'd said.

For fuck sake.
Look for yourself.
Did she think they were in
Karate Kid 3
?

He shakes himself out of it. He's in New York, for fuck sake. Get over it, Dec, he tells himself. She might even be right. Get over it.

—Hi.

He's over it.

She's lovely. And she's with Marc.

—Deklan! How the fuck are you?

—Grand.

—Grand, she says. —Cool.

Grand.
They love that stuff here. God, she's lovely.

—Heading home, Deklan? says Marc.

—Don't know, says Declan. —I might.

—I got some milk in, man, Marc tells him. —Help yourself.

—Okay; grand.

The Marc guy's an eejit, talking about milk in front of a babe like that. They're walking away. Marc waves. She smiles back at Declan. He reminds himself: he smiles back at her. She's lovely. He'll pour Marc's milk down the fuckin' sink. He's feeling better.
Look for yourself, Mister O'Connor.

—What was my grandad's second name? he'd asked his granny, years ago.

—His surname, d'you mean?

—Yeah.

—Powell.

There's that Powell in the White House or the Pentagon, Bush's pal. But he's too young to be Declan's grandad, even though he's black and he'd been in the army.

Still, it's a start. One down, millions to go. And there's Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard, running right through Harlem. The place is full of Powells.

—What's that you're reading, Deklan?

—The phone book, Marc.

—Cool.

Earl, Hattie, Sadie, Marcus. They're all in the book. Uncles, aunties, cousins? One of them, even.

It's too cold to be using a phone on the street. But here he is. It's not like one of the old phone boxes back in Dublin. There's no door and the wind coming over the Hudson is a killer.

—Hello? says the voice.

—Is that Alexander Powell? says Declan.

—Yes, it is.

—Eh. What colour are you?

—I'm not buying today, says Alexander Powell.

—Are you African-American?

—No, I am not.

—Grand, says Declan. —Thanks.

He heads over to Starbucks. He takes the lid off his latte, so the steam comes up and warms his face. He looks at his ripped-out phone-book pages – a couple of names a day; he won't go mad. This Starbucks, on Broadway, is his favourite. He can look out the window, and watch the women passing, and coming in and going out, and crossing the street, and everything. Even wrapped up they're brilliant. He looks at the old men as well, the old black men. He looks at them everywhere he goes. He hopes his grandad is like one of the old church men he sees on Sundays. One of the neat old men surrounded by their families. Declan's cousins. That's what he can't help thinking. Cousins and uncles, aunts. Nieces, nephews.

—Did he have any brothers? he'd asked his granny. —Or sisters?

She looked over her shoulder to make sure his mother wasn't listening.

—I don't know, she said. —We never got round to chatting about our families.

Declan puts the phone-book pages into his backpack. He takes out his book.

—So, Mister O'Connor, says the Professor.

It's an hour later. Her office is too warm.

—Who are you reading today?

—Langston Hughes, says Declan.

—And does he seem Irish to you?

—Not really, says Declan.

She's a wagon.

—But he's good, says Declan.

—And?

—I'm doing what you said.

—Which was?

—Look for yourself. You said. So, I'm, like – I'm looking.

He holds up Langston Hughes.

—I'm looking.

He's back at the room he shares with Marc. He's just in. It's the thing he doesn't like about New York, now, in the middle of winter; it's the taking-off-clothes-putting-them-back-on business. Coat, cap, gloves, jumper, boots. All fuckin' day.

Marc is standing beside his bed.

—Hey, Deklan!

—How's it goin'?

—It's going cool. This dude.

He points at the photograph over Declan's bed.

—Yeah, says Declan. —What about him?

—That's Colin Powell, right?

—Right.

—Right. Why?

—He's a friend of the family. Your woman you were with, Marc.

—My woman?

—The bird I met you with the other day.

—Kim?

—Yeah, says Declan. —You're going with her, yeah?

—Kim? says Marc. —I am SO not going with Kim.

—Grand, says Declan.

He lies back on the bed and gets dug into Langston Hughes. Some of the poems are great, and some are just shite. He leans out, picks his pencil off the floor. He underlines.
America never was America to me.
He's not sure why. Take out
America,
put in
Ireland.
That's how Declan sometimes feels, how he's felt all his life. A great little country, all that shite, but not his. Not really.

—D'you have her phone number, Marc?

—Absolutely.

—Good man.

What about America? Will it be home? He's not sure. It's fuckin' cold. He's back out on the street, back out at the phone box. He waits for the pick-up.

—Yes?

—Is that Bernard Powell? says Declan.

—Bern-ard. Yes.

—Are you African-American?

A grunt, a laugh.

—Yes, I am.

—Was anyone belonging to you ever in Scotland during World War Two?

—No.

—Grand. Thanks anyway.

He puts the phone down. He picks it up. He dials. He listens; he waits.

—Hi.

—Kim?

—Hi.

—Howyeh. It's Declan.

—Who?

—The Irish fella. Marc knows me.

—Who? Oh, hi.

—Howyeh.

Another hour, and Declan is wandering again. Across the snow in Morningside Park. Mad, mad; he's up to his bollix. But it's great, it's brilliant. Kim. He loves her voice. And she passed the test; she didn't say 'awesome'. They're meeting tomorrow. Hooking up. An American bird. For fuck sake. It's getting dark.

—I like him, says Declan.

He's talking about Langston Hughes. He's talking to the Professor.

—He's the business.

—The business? says the Professor. —What do you mean?

—Like, says Declan. —He's good.

—Why is he good, Mister O'Connor?

—I'm not sure yet, says Declan. —I like the way he can be inside and outside. In Harlem, outside the rest of America.

She nods.

—It's like being Irish, says Declan. —And it's like being black and Irish.

Later again; he's at the phone. It's freezing; his hands hurt.

—Are you African-American? he asks.

—Yes, I am.

—Was anyone in your family in Scotland during the war?

—Why, yes.

—What? says Declan. —Are yeh serious?

—Why, yes.

Chantel Powell; she's the seventh Powell he's phoned.

But it's the wrong war. Her nephew was in Scotland during the last Iraq war. She tells him all about Lee Jr. Declan likes her, although they'll never meet.

He walks away from the phone. He isn't disappointed. He doesn't think he is.

He's getting close. It makes no sense – he knows it doesn't – but that's the way he feels. So, fuck disappointment; get over it, Dec. He has Langston Hughes –
it is winter, And the cousins of the too-thin suits, Ride on bitless horses.
He passes the homeless men along Broadway. He only really sees them at night. He wonders how they survive the winter.

Jesus, it's the coldest yet. It hurts – it actually hurts. He's mad to be out. But, fuck it. He's meeting Kim tomorrow and he'll get to see her unzipping her coat.

He's too restless for home. Not that the room is home. What is home? Where is it? His granny's house, he thinks. He's not sure. He's loving it here.

—What was my grandad's first name, Granny? he'd asked her, years ago.

He'd watched his granny blush. The face changed colour, like red ink across paper, right up into her grey hair.

—You're a great man for the questions, she'd said.

—D'you not know? he said.

—No, she said. —I don't.

—Did you forget?

—I did.

—Really?

—God almighty, she said. —Those big eyes of yours. No. Not really.

—Did you never know?

—That's right. I never knew. Now, go out and play while the rain isn't falling.

—How did you know his surname?

—Someone shouted it, she said. —A military policeman. Out you go now.

He walks. Forty blocks, no bother. Another ten. He goes fast, boots along; he fights the cold. He's meeting the Kim one. Tomorrow.

And it
is
tomorrow and he makes sure he's there before her. He wants to see her coming in. He wants to see how she looks when she sees him.

It's a big bar near the university. He hasn't been here before. He doesn't like bars much, or the pubs in Dublin. Declan doesn't drink. He's been drunk twice and doesn't like it. And he doesn't like the friendliness of drunk people, the we-don't-mind-if-you're-black thing. He hates it.

But it was Kim's idea to meet here. So, fair enough.

He doesn't have to wait long. She's in right after him.

She sees him. She smiles.

She smiles.

She smiles. She comes over. She smiles.

—Hi.

—Hi, says Declan. —Howyeh.

He'll give her the whole Irish bit, get in a few
grands.
They love it.

—How's it goin'?

Her coat has no zip but he watches her fingers on the buttons. She smiles.

—Hey, she says. —I feel like getting shit-faced tonight. How about you?

—Yeah, says Declan. —Fuckin' sure. Grand.

He hates Guinness, even the smell of it, but there's a pint of it now, under his nose. And he's going to pick it up and knock back some of it. She's ahead of him. She's sipping away, like a puppy at its water bowl. She has a Guinness moustache. It suits her.

He picks up his pint.

—Sláinte, he says.

God, he fuckin' hates himself.

—Cool, she says.

She smiles. He shuts his eyes and tastes his pint.

—Well, Mister O'Connor.

It's the morning after – after what? – and the Professor is studying Declan. She's smiling, the wagon.

After what?

She says it again.

—Well, Mister O'Connor?

It's a question. He sees that now.

—What? he says.

The answer brings out the sweat. He doesn't know how he got here. How he managed. He wants to go home and die. Or just out to the corridor. That'll do; he'll lie down there. It'll be
grand.

—Progress, she says. —Any?

—Title, he says.

—I'm sorry? she says.

—I have—

He sits up. He starts again.

—I have the title.

—And?

—
So Wha'?

—That's it?

—
So Wha'?
says Declan. —
Irish Literature and its Influence on the Rest of the Fuckin' World.

He sits back; he falls back.

—I like it, she says. —And you're drunk.

He nods. He looks at the door.

After what?

The drink and the fight and the reconciliation. And the snog and the drink and the second fight. Or third? He isn't sure; he hasn't a clue.

His fault. He thinks it was. You shouldn't bring up Iraq on your first date with a Yank. You just shouldn't. But he did.

Declan groans.

—Ah, shite.

The Professor is still there. Looking at him. It's her office.

He stands up.

—Library, he says. —I have to.

—Continue your research.

—Yeah.

He hits the door.