The Deportees
Page 24
It's slipping away – is it? His past, his grandad—
Franklin Powell picks up his cup.
—Thank you.
He takes the lid off. He sips, he swallows.
—Good, he says. Then —How can we tell?
—What?
—How can we tell? says Franklin Powell.
—Tell what? says Declan. —I don't get you.
But he does: he understands. They'll never know; he'll never know. He'll never get closer than he is now, sitting across from an African-American who might be his uncle but probably isn't. He'll never know. But—
—There's the name, he says.
—That's right, says Franklin Powell.
—And there's Scotland, says Declan.
—That's right.
—And that's all, says Declan.
That is all.
And there's his granny. He remembers—
—Is your father still alive? he asks.
Franklin Powell shakes his head.
—He passed away three years ago.
—Oh, says Declan. —Right. Sorry.
Franklin Powell smiles, and shrugs.
—My grandmother's still alive, says Declan.
—Glad to hear that, says Franklin Powell.
—She said he was gorgeous, says Declan.
Franklin Powell laughs.
—He was my father, he says.
Declan walks. He walks all day. It's still early when he says goodbye to Franklin Powell. He walks the rest of Broadway, all the way to Battery Park. He sees the ferry. He makes his mind up. He'll go to Ellis Island. It's early afternoon.
They stood at the edge of the cafe, on the steps back down to the bookshop and the street. They shook hands.
—See you, said Declan.
—Yes, said Franklin Powell.
Neither of them moved.
—You're staying here? said Declan.
—I work here, said Franklin Powell.
—What?
The suit, the age – he shouldn't have been working in a place like this. Serving, cleaning.
—HR, said Franklin Powell.
—What?
—Human resources, said Franklin Powell.
—Oh, said Declan. —The books or the coffee?
—The books.
The sky is blue. The wind isn't strong but the air is cold and he wants to face into it, to look as the ferry nears the island. He puts the cap back on. Fuck the itch, his ears are killing him. The ferry stops at the Statue of Liberty. He doesn't get off. There's no point. It's shut, because of Bin Laden. And anyway, he couldn't be arsed. It's only for the tourists.
He stood at the top step. He didn't want to go.
—D'you have kids?
Franklin Powell shook his head.
—No, I do not.
—What about Powell? Are you anything to Colin?
—Colin?
—Coh-lin.
—Am I anything to Coh-lin Powell? The Coh-lin Powell?
—Yeah. Like, a cousin or anything?
—No.
Declan shrugged.
—Doesn't matter.
—You're an admirer?
—No, said Declan. —I'm not even sure what he does.
—He invades Iraq more often than is necessary, said Franklin Powell.
—Then we're better off without the bollix.
Declan turns now, on the ferry, and looks back at Manhattan. It's fantastic; it's fuckin' amazing. He hasn't seen it like this before. It doesn't look like the place where he's been living. It's shining there, and much too perfect. He loves it. And he knows: behind the walls and shine it's just a city.
He turns back, to look at Ellis Island.
It hasn't gone the perfect way he'd wanted, and he hasn't got the thing that he used to pray to God for – a family that made sense. A photo he could wave at all the fuckers who'd ever looked twice at him, who'd put his colour beside his accent and laughed.
But there's no big family waiting for him. And no grandfather. He's dead; he might not have been his grandfather.
It's disappointing. Of course it fuckin' is.
But it's grand, it's fine.
Ellis Island is taking shape in front of him.
This'll do.
And he's getting his photo. Franklin Powell is giving him a photograph.
—My granny might recognise him, said Declan.
—She might, said Franklin Powell.
Declan could show it to her when he goes home. She'd hold it in both hands; she'd bring it close to her face.
—The photograph, said Franklin Powell. —Do you want one from his army years? Or one I took a couple years before he died?
Declan took his time.
—The one you took before he died.
Franklin Powell nodded.
—It's yours.
The ferry is slowing, nearly there. He feels fresh, and kind of new. It's good; it's grand.
He has plenty to think about. He's met Franklin Powell. They'll meet again. They like each other. He's meeting the Professor in the morning. And then there'll be Kim.
He walks off the ferry. He joins the crowd. He takes the Ireland cap off.
But he changes his mind.
He puts it back on. He feels Irish today.
10
—Well. Mister O'Connor.
Declan sits in front of the Professor.
—Progress to report? she says. —What was that title again?
She looks down at her desk.
—So What? she reads. —Irish Literature and its Influence on the Rest of the Fucking World.
—Well, says Declan. —That was kind of a non-starter.
—Yes?
She's looking at him over her glasses, like they do in bad films.
—Yeah, says Declan. —I needed to get it out of my system.
She sits back; she has all the fuckin' moves.
—Tell me more, she says.
He'd stayed on Ellis Island, until the call for the last ferry back to Manhattan. He'd gone into every room. He'd stared at old photographs. He'd listened to the music of homes that had been left behind. He'd stared, he'd listened – he'd fought back the sentimentality.
—I've never felt Irish enough, Declan tells the Professor.
—Heart-breaking, she says.
—And that's where that idea came from.
He points at the paper on her desk, at the title.
—I was trying to get at the Irish. Kicking them where they feel strongest. The oul' culture.
—What are you talking about? she says.
He'd stared at the photographs on the walls, the faces staring back at him. Irish faces, and German, and Polish faces. He'd moved on to more photographs. Women being deloused. And more. Kids this time; more delousing. He knew he was right: If I was Irish I'd be crying by now. He wasn't crying. And that was grand; he didn't feel left out.
—It's hard being Irish, he tells the Professor. —It's not like here.
She does the over-the-glasses trick.
—You're not any less American, he tells her, —because your people didn't come over on the fuckin' Mayflower.
—My people, she tells him, —came over on a fucking slave ship.
—There, he says. —Exactly. And you're still American.
—Why am I angry? she says.
—I haven't a clue, says Declan.
It's later. It's evening. He's meeting your woman, Kim. He's going around the block because he doesn't want to be early. He likes the cold. He knows that now.
He'll miss it.
He made the Professor understand. But it took all afternoon.
—In Ireland, he told her, —there are rules.
—You haven't noticed some here?
—I know, I know, he said. —But, like, here you can be called an African-American or a Native American or a good American or a bad American or a liberal American or a neo-con whatever-the-fuck American. But you're always American. You're never le
ss American.
She said nothing; she let him at it.
—But not in Ireland. You can be less Irish. I am. At least, I used to be.
—Explain.
—I'm black.
—And?
—That's not Irish. Or Irish enough. And my dad used to say there was a Dublin thing too. Dublin wasn't really Ireland. And there's the language. The fuckin' cúpla focail. You're not fully Irish if you can't fart in Irish.
She puts her hands up: enough.
—Your work here, Mister O'Connor, she said. —Where is this leading us?
—Fair enough, he said. —I always felt I was being pushed out.
—Like Joyce?
—Fuck Joyce. Sorry. Not like Joyce. Well, he said. —A little bit. More like Bloom.
—Created by Joyce.
—Fair enough. I take it back. Like Joyce. Only, I'm not leaving.
—You're here.
—I'm going back.
—Soon?
—No. I mean, I don't know. Whenever. When I'm finished here.
He likes it here; he loves it. The weather, the women, the long straight streets with numbers; the bigness, the madness, the rashers.
He'll miss it.
He doesn't know why he keeps thinking that. He isn't going anywhere yet.
—And it's as bad since the country went sexy, Declan told the Professor. —Riverdance and that. The same ol' shite with shorter dresses. Compulsory sexiness. You know, like, we used to be miserable but now we're fuckin' great.
—Mister O'Connor.
—Okay, said Declan. —Anyway. I'm going to study writing that questions the we in we're fuckin' great.
—Irish writing?
—Yeah.
—So, why are you here?
—The Harlem Renaissance questioned the same kind of we, here. I'll compare the two.
He felt himself blush, just a bit.
—They're both in me.
—Yes, she said. —And do you have a title?
—Yeah; kind of.
It's an hour later, and Kim is there before him. It's not a bar this time; no way. It's fuckin' Starbucks, far from alcohol.
She's sitting in a corner.
She looks up from her book. She's lovely.
—Oh, hi, she says.
She's lovely.
—Howyeh.
—How was your day?
—Grand, says Declan. —Not bad. What're you reading?
She holds up the book. The Superfluous Men.
—Nice one, he says. —I hope I'm not in it, am I?
She grins. She's gorgeous.
—Not so far, she says. —Come up with that title yet?
—Yeah, says Declan.
He sits down.
—Who the Fuck Are We? What d'you think?
—Love it, she says. —It's so Irish.
—Ah, bollix, says Declan. —I give up.
She laughs.
He smiles.
I Understand
1
This morning, I stand at the bus stop. I have been in this city three months. I begin to understand the accent. I already know the language. How do you do? Is this the next bus to Westminster? I have brought my schoolroom English with me. There is no Westminster in this city but I know what to say when the next bus goes past without stopping.
—Fuck that.
People smile. One man nods at me.
—Good man, bud, he says. —Making the effort.
I smile.
I understand. This word, Bud. It is a friendly word. But I cannot say Bud to this man. I cannot call him Bud. A man like me can never call an Irish man Bud. But I can say, Fuck that. The expletive is for the bus, the rain, the economy, life. I am not insulting the bus driver or my fellow bus-stop waiters. I understand. My children will learn to call other children Bud. They will be Irish. They will have the accent. If I am still here. And if I have children.
It is spring. I like it now. It is bright when I stand at the bus stop. It is warm by the time I finish my first job. Early morning is the best time. It is quiet. There are not many people on the footpaths. I do not have to look away. Eyes do not stare hard at me. Some people smile. We are up early together. Many are like me. I am not resented.
I polish floors in a big department store. I like pushing the buffer over the wooden floor. I am used to hard work but every machine and tool has its own pain. With the buffer, it was in my arms. It was like riding an electric horse. My arms shook for a long time after I finished. I felt the buffer every time I closed my eyes. I heard it. Now, I like it. I control it. It is my horse now and I am the cowboy. This morning, I push the buffer too far. The flex becomes tight and the plug jumps out of the socket. I have to walk across the big floor to insert the plug. It is a correct time to say Fuck that. But I do not say it. I am alone.
I like this job. I like the department store when it is empty. I like that I am finished very early. I wear my suit to the store and I change into my work clothes in one of the changing rooms. I carry my work clothes in a bag that I found in my room. It is a bag for Aston Villa. It is not a very good team, I think, but the bag is good. It is grand. I understand. How are you? Grand. How's the head? Grand. That's a great day. It is grand.
One time, the supervisor was outside the changing room when I came out.
—Make sure you don't help yourself to any of the clothes, she said.
I saw her face as she looked at me. She was sorry for what she had said. She looked away. She is nice. She is grand. She leaves me alone.