The Deportees

by Roddy Doyle

  He's wearing it now.

  —Irish? she says.

  —Yes, he says.

  —Well, here, she says.

  She's friendly; she's nice. She writes OTHER beside Hispanic. And a little box.

  —That's yours, honey.

  —Thanks, he says.

  —Sure.

  That's great; that's done. He's registered. Here. In college. In America. The land of his ancestors.

  He's back out on the street. It's freezing; fuck. The hands are cut off him; he'll have to get gloves. But he loves it, he loves it. Broadway – for fuck sake. He walked that way this morning. He'll give this way a go. Broadway. Broadway. Another Starbucks. God, it's great. He hasn't slept since the plane. He's here.

  The Harlem Renaissance. That's what he'll be working on. The Harlem Renaissance and its influence on Irish literature. He doesn't know if he'll find any; he's chancing his arm. But it got him his visa, so fuck it.

  A supermarket. He goes in. He'll be feeding himself.

  He just got sick of it one day. Sitting in a tutorial, when he was in Second Year, in UCD. The lecturer droning on about Irish writing and its influence on the world – Joyce, Yeats, little country, big prizes. And the others around him nodding away, like they were part of it. Nod nod, pride pride; the smugness. It had got on his wick.

  There's about twenty-eight different kinds of milk. What the fuck is 2 per cent? All he wants is white.

  —Were they never influenced by anyone themselves? Declan had said.

  Gasps, snorts; folders clutched.

  —Well, said the lecturer. —Who?

  —The Irish lads, said Declan. —Did they never read a book themselves, like?

  The lecturer had smiled.

  —Come on, Declan. The Greeks, the Romantics, you know—

  —No one a bit more recent, no? said Declan.

  —Well, who? said the lecturer. He was still smiling.

  —Like, the Harlem Renaissance, said Declan.

  And he watched as the lecturer's smile became a different kind of smile, and that was that. Ireland's gift to the world? Bollocks to it. Declan would prove that Harlem had kick-started Ireland's best writing of the twentieth century – or at least some of it. And, if he couldn't do it, he'd cheat; he'd make it up. Yeats had died clutching his copy of The New Negro. Beckett never went to the jacks without The Souls of Black Folk under his arm.

  So here he is. Two years later. Still looking at the milk.

  —For fuck sake.

  —You're Irish, right?

  —Yeah.

  —Awesome.

  —Eh. Thanks.

  —Bye.

  —Bye.

  That's nice. They talk to you here. That would never happen in Ireland. He chooses a carton with a cow on it; you can't go far wrong with a cow. And a few apples. And one of those yokes of salad – lettuce and that. He'll start cooking next week.

  He starts tomorrow. Meets the Professor. Gets dug into the books. Home to Harlem.

  His grandad came from Harlem. Met his granny in Glasgow, during the war. She worked in a hotel – he can't remember the name. She was seventeen, and on her own. She'd come over with her sister, but the sister had moved on, to Coventry. And she'd met his grandad. At the back of the hotel. He was getting a kicking – they stopped when they saw her. They ran, and she picked up his cap. And she watched him get up. He stood up slowly, deliberately, like he'd meant to be down there – that was what she'd said. What she'd told Declan, when his mother wasn't listening.

  —He was only gorgeous, she'd told him. —Absolutely beautiful. The blood and all.

  Declan can see him. His grandad. He's always seen him. The bleeding, the uniform, smiling at his granny. Putting the cap on, so he can take it off again.

  —Thank you, Miss.

  —Lovely, lovely manners, she'd said.

  —I'm going to find him, Granny, Declan had told her, again and again.

  —Good little lad, she'd said. —And when you do, you can tell him I was asking for him.

  2

  She's looking at Declan. And she isn't smiling. She's the Professor. At the end of a very long corridor. It took him ages to find her. He'd read all the names on the doors as he passed, looking for her door. They're all fuckin' professors.

  —Is this a personal thing? she says.

  Declan has just told her that he wants to prove the influence of Harlem on twentieth-century Irish literature.

  —How d'you mean? says Declan.

  She nods at the window.

  —That's Harlem out there, she says. —You're, what?

  She looks at the file on her desk.

  —South Irish?

  —What d'you mean? says Declan.

  —You are not from the North. The Ulster.

  —Oh, fair enough, says Declan. —Yeah, then. Yeah. I'm South.

  —So. Why?

  —Why what, like?

  He was late. He couldn't help it. He forgot that the ground floor was the first floor here, and he got out of the lift at the wrong floor and spent ages walking up and down, wasting his fuckin' time before he asked someone the way. He hadn't been that late, though. Ten minutes. No big deal.

  —You are late, Mister O'Connor, she'd said.

  —Listen, she says now. —This has been my office for six years and you are the first Irishman of colour to walk in here and you are also the first man or woman of any colour to suggest that Harlem had anything to do with Ireland. So, again. Why?

  She still isn't smiling. She won't be either, he guesses. If this was Ireland, she'd be putting on the kettle. The Ulster. For fuck sake.

  There's another reason he's late. He slept it out.

  —Well, he says.

  Declan never sleeps it out. Never. But the days just caught up with him; he hadn't slept since he'd arrived in New York. One minute he'd been chatting away to his new room-mate, trying to ignore the fact that the guy was still stunned that Declan was black. The next minute, Declan was awake, and late.

  —Well, he says now.

  Marc is the room-mate's name.

  —With a C.

  —Fair enough, Declan had told him. —I'm Declan. With a K.

  —Cool.

  —Well, he tells the Professor. —Yeah. Yes, I suppose it is. Personal, like.

  —I am not interested, she says.

  —What? says Declan.

  —I am not interested.

  She closes the file.

  Declan's mother hated his granny's stories.

  —They're all bullshit, she said. —I wasn't born during the war. I was born in 1950. And in Dublin, not in bloody Glasgow.

  To be fair, she'd only started telling Declan this when he was old enough to hear it. And she was years too late. Declan still saw the hotel, the alley, his grandad, his granny, no matter what his mother said.

  —And anyway, said his mother. —Look at yourself. You're not even black.

  —God love her, said his granny.

  —I am not interested, says the Professor.

  And Declan is annoyed.

  —You should've told me that before I bought the fuckin' ticket, he says.

  And, now, she smiles. But it isn't a good, now-we're-talking smile.

  —The Irish and their famous profanity, she says. —Charming.

  —Did you get here on a sporting scholarship? says Declan.

  —I beg your pardon? she says.

  The smile is gone.

  —Well, says Declan. —You were indulging in a bit of the oul' stereotyping there. The Irish and the profanity, like. So, I kind of thought, you being black and that, you must have got in here on a sporting scholarship. So, was it basketball or the sprinting?

  —Am I expected to apologise?

  —Or the beach volleyball? I couldn't give a shite if you apologise. I fuckin' swam here, by the way.

  His arse is telling him to get up and leave. But he stays.

  —She was born in Dublin, said his granny. —But in 1945.<
br />
  —Why did she say 1950?

  —God love your innocence, said his granny.

  The Professor stares at him.

  —So, she says. —Explain.

  And he does. He starts with his granny and his grandad. He tells her about Ireland and about being black and Irish. He tells her about first reading The Souls of Black Folk, about the question repeated in the first paragraph of the first chapter: 'How does it feel to be a problem?'

  —The problem is but, he says. —I'm black and Irish, and that's two fuckin' problems.

  She laughs.

  —Hey, Deklan!

  It's later. It's Marc. He's sitting in a corner, on his bed, facing the door, wearing his shoes. Ready to run.

  —Hey, says Declan.

  —How was your day, man?

  —Not too bad, says Declan.

  He opens the fridge. His milk feels lighter.

  —Hey, Marc, have you been helping yourself to my milk?

  —No way, man!

  —Good, says Declan.

  He takes a gulp.

  —Mind you, he says.

  He sits on his bed.

  —The milk in Ireland is much better.

  3

  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?