The Deportees

  —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.

  3 Soft Rain

  Ray Brady sat in his office. This was something he had to do every Tuesday. The real work would be done in the shed in his parents' back garden. But he was now an employee at the Department of the Arts and Ethnicity, most of which had been relocated a few years back to Castletimoney, a bit of a town in the previous Minister's constituency, and Ray had to visit his office once a week, until the Department was re-relocated to the current Minister's patch, a bit nearer to Dublin.

  Castletimoney boasted two pubs, a monument, a Spar that stayed open till ten, and the country's fourth biggest

  lap-dancing club, the Creamery, ONLY GENUINE IRISH GIRLS USED ON THESE PREMISES, said the banner over the door, ALL HEADAGE CHEQUES CASHED. Ray could read it from his window.

  —They do a good soup and sandwich, the guy on the other side of the partition told Ray.

  Ray's office was one third of an old classroom prefab. He'd put in a request for a table but, for now, he had a desk and chair left behind by the Junior Infants when they'd moved up the road to the new school.

  —Go easy on the racial, the Minister had said. —We can't be showing anyone the door because of their skin. But the rest is up to yourself.

  Ray was tired. He'd been up since four, and in the car – his mother's Audi – by a quarter-past.

  So far, he'd written five words. History, Geography, Religion, Food and Football. He took up his biro and crossed out Geography and Food. He stared at the sheet of paper and its three surviving words. Then he dropped it into the bin.

  How did you measure Irishness? The question was beginning to get into his sleep. A good quiz might do the trick. Who lost the Battle of the Boyne? What meat went into a coddle? What was the name of the small Pacific island that Roy Keane didn't like, before he quit football and took up his post at the UN?

  —Saipan, said the guy from the other side of the partition.

  He was murdering his chicken tikka sandwich while a genuine Irish girl from just beyond Krakow hovered over his minestrone, inviting him to take his change, or leave it.

  Answers could be learnt. That was the problem with quizzes.

  —What's the capital of Nigeria? he asked the guy from the other side of the partition.

  —Lagos, I think.

  He was right – Ray thought – but that didn't make him Nigerian. No, an old-fashioned quiz wasn't going to work. A Nigerian could become an expert on all things Irish without leaving Nigeria; he could be quiz-perfect Irish before he'd even packed.

  He'd have to come up with something more complicated.

  —Can I ask you a question? Ray asked the genuine Irish lap-dancer.

  He shouted the question up at her; the drums and bass were making waves across his soup. And she asked a question of her own.

  —How much?

  —What?

  —I answer, how much you pay?

  Jesus, thought Ray, she seemed Irish enough already. He put five euro on the counter.

  —Who killed Brian Boru? he shouted.

  —Perhaps Brodar, she shouted back. —But any one of six or seven Danes.

  She was suddenly all there in front of him, and the fiver and the soup bowl were gone. That did it: he could forget about an Irish quiz; everyone knew the answers.

  —See you next week, he told the guy from the other side of the partition.

  —You'd never know, said the guy, and he grabbed Ray's crusts before the lap-dancer could get to them.

  Ray blamed U2. On the drive home back across the country he looked out at the passing nothingness and the soft rain that was filling it, and he asked himself, why the fuck would anyone want to know anything about this kip, let alone live in it? Everyone on the planet was a fuckin' Irish expert, a citizen just waiting to pass. His ex, Stalin, had come to Dublin with her rucksack full of useful information. James Joyce lived here, the Edge laughed there – every bus and DART trip had been a pain in the fuckin' arse – although he'd found it dead sexy at the time, the Russian voice, the beautiful long finger tapping the window glass.

  —Bren-dan Bee-hhhan, 1923 to 1964, vomeeted Guinness and wheeesky righhht – – there.

  He missed those days, and he missed Stalin. But here he was: a professional. His public transport days were kind of over, and she couldn't stand the sight of him. So he was going home now, to the shed. And he wasn't coming out till he came up with a test that could send the ropy bitch back to Russia.

  4 The Fáilte Score

  He stayed in the shed a long time. Food and the toilet were the only things that could extract him from the place, and his mother made the most of the occasions.

  —Making progress?

  Ray was going down on his fifth Weetabix. It was his first time out in seventeen hours.

  —No; kind of.

  He pushed the bowl aside and homed in on the toast.

  —Remember that Riverdance tape I got you for Christmas a few years back?

  —Oh yes, said his mother. —It was lovely.

  —Can I borrow it?

  —Of course.

  —And your Irish Tenors CD, said Ray. —And the Celtic Tenors, and the Donegal Tenors, and Faith of Our Fathers and that GAA centenary tape, and the Best of Eurovision, and the Pope's mass in Galway, and the Four Kerry Tenors, and your Darina Allen cookbook, and The Commitments.

  —I'll get them for you now, said his mother.

  —Good, said Ray.

  He was out of the shed again the following afternoon, and he raided his brother's bedroom. The house was empty a
t the time but his mother found out about it later that night.

  —Did you take my Chemotherapy Virgins album? Ray's brother asked her.

  —No, I didn't, she said.

  —Fuckin' bummer.

  Chemotherapy Virgins were a west Dublin band, and the album, Burn the Red Cow Too, was their second. The disappearance annoyed Ray's brother, but he was much more worried about another disappearance. The Irish porn industry was thriving by 2005, and Ray's brother was one of its newer customers.

  He hammered at the shed door.

  —Give us back my tape!

  —What tape? Ray shouted, from inside.

  —You know.

  —You mean Anal Nation, Once Again, starring Shamrock Chambers?

  —Not so loud!

  —Made by Green Pussy Productions of Ballinasloe. Is that the tape you mean?

  —Not so loud.

  —Haven't seen it, I'm afraid. Fuck off.

  The door opened.

  —On second thoughts, come in.

  Ray hadn't shaved in days; he hadn't washed. Fresh food hadn't entered him in weeks; there were red spots roaring on his neck and a huge one, like a beacon, lighting his forehead. He'd spilt coffee on his T-shirt and there was a bloodstain on his shoulder. His brother was afraid to enter the shed, but more afraid to disobey.

  —Now, said Ray. —Sit yourself down.

  —What about my tape? said Ray's brother.

  —Don't worry about it, said Ray. —Here. Let me strap this around you.

  And Ray's brother became the first Irishman to have the length and breadth of his Irishness measured by Ray's new testing procedures. And he failed.

  —What, you mean I'm not Irish?

  —Sorry, said Ray. —But you only got 19 per cent. Strictly speaking, you're clinically dead. You didn't even react to the porno bits.

  —They went by too fast.

  —That's what they all say, said Ray.

  But, Ray decided, his brother was right. He slowed the images down a bit, and tried them out on his mother. He strapped her to the chair in front of the screen.

  —Say nothing, he said. —Just look.

  —I won't utter, she said.

  She kept her word, but it nearly killed her, especially when Michael Flatley hopped across the screen, followed quickly by Packie Bonner, and some of Shamrock Chambers.

  —Not bad, said Ray. —38 per cent. We're getting there.

  —May I speak now, Raymond?

  —Sure.

  —That was lovely, she said. —It was just like an ad. But I don't think that lady's bottom at the end was very nice.

  And she was right too. He studied the results. A longer gawk at Shamrock's arse would have pulled his brother's score over the 40 per cent, and no gawk at all would have kept his mother's score well over the same mark. Different strokes for different folks. A different test each time, hidden inside the one official test – that was what Ray was after; he could burn all the variants onto the one CD. The Fáilte Score. Success and failure pre-ordained. Come into the parlour, or piss off. And no one would know. Except Ray and the Minister.

  Ray opened the shed door and took in some fresh air. He liked it. He took in some more on his way to the kitchen. He'd sleep a few hours, shave, shower, and go to the Minister's office with the Fáilte Score in his pocket. Maybe he wouldn't bother with sleep. He looked at his watch. Half eight. He opened the door.

  The first thing he saw was his mother's lap – and the child sitting on it. Then his mother's face, and back to the child. His son. Bigger, but him. And his mother's face again – white, loose, gone. And Stalin. Sitting beside his mother. Embarrassed, defiant. Nice.

  His mother groaned.

  —Raymond, she said. —This young lady has just told me that this little boy is my grandson.

  —Really? said Ray.

  5 The Minister II

  Ray told himself to cross his legs. He'd noticed recently, he'd developed the habit of curling his legs around chair legs. Like an idiot, he thought. A drooling moron.

  He lifted his left leg and rested it on top of the right. The timing was good. A well-aimed pause.

  —So, he said, as he let go of the trousers at his left knee. —The individual shares certain characteristics with other members of the ethnic group. Elements of the culture. Language, for instance. And an attachment to a specific territory. Ireland, yeah? So, what I've done is—

  —That's some shiner you have there, Raymond, said the Minister.

  —Yes, Ray agreed.

  —Do you want to tell me about it?

  —A bird, said Ray.

  —Ah.

  —A Russian bird.

  —Ah. A bit of the old researchski?

  —Kind of.

  —Good man.

  Actually, it was his legs that had given Ray the black eye. Curled around the chair in the kitchen. That, and Stalin grabbing his hair. And the way he'd lost balance, and his legs caught around the chair legs – he'd gone straight down, face-first. Christ, the pain. And then she'd kicked him in the head. But it was the eye that had killed him. And the look on his mother's face when he untangled himself and stood up and he saw her, his mammy. And he knew: he was homeless.

  —On you go, said the Minister. —Sorry for interrupting you.

  —No problem, said Ray.

  —I was just a bit concerned.

  —Thanks, said Ray. —I'm fine.

  —Good.

  —So, said Ray.

  So, in the kitchen. He'd kept it very cool. He'd been friendly to Stalin. He'd patted the kid's head.

  —How's the man?

  He'd smiled at the kid, parked there on his mother's lap. He'd made his own coffee; he'd taken the milk from the fridge. All without shaking, much.

  He sat down. His back to the table and his mother. Right in front of Stalin. God, she was lovely though. The cred babe. Staring at him there. Her fingers there on her lap. Her hair, her lips.

  He smiled at her. Just as his mother spoke.

  —Raymond, are you this child's father?

  Stalin read something ugly in his smile – denial – and those fingers were off her lap, in his hair, pulling, and he was falling forward, legs caught, falling – he put his hands out to break the fall and his eye landed bang on the coffee cup. Jesus. The agony, the kid laughing. His son.