The Deportees

—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?

  4

  —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?

  5

  —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.

  6

  It's all coming back, or some of it is, what happened the night before.

  —Jesus.

  The drink. He blames the drink. He's not sure exactly what happened, but he's blaming the drink. He's not ready to blame himself.

  The fight. Two fights. Maybe three.

  He's back on the street. He needs air. The street is full of it. It's fuckin' freezing, and he's glad. He deserves it. He opens his jacket – kill me, I'm useless. He walks straight at the Hudson. The wind goes for his nipples.

  —Oh Jesus!

  It's coming back. The night before. It's making sense, no sense at all. It had started fine; he's sure of that. She'd been shocked when he'd told her that he didn't like hip-hop. He remembers that. He remembers her face.

  —No?

  —No.

  —How come?

  —It's just shite.

  —In Ireland?

  —Fuckin' everywhere.

  He remembers telling himself not to be thick.

  —Some of it's alright, he'd said.

  She'd nodded, uncertain. He'd smiled. She'd smiled. It had been grand then for a while, he remembers.

  He'll phone her. Now. He'll go to a phone and say Sorry.

  Why should he, though? He didn't invade Iraq.

  He walks into Riverside Park. Down the hill. Onto the snow.

  He doesn't remember how they got there, to Iraq. It had never been part of his plan. But it was him who brought it up – he remembers.

  He takes off his coat. He gets down on the ground. He rolls on the snow.

  —Jesus!

  He deserves this. Eejit. Wanker. Fuckin' eejit. He buries himself in the snow. The cold will burn last night away. He rubs it into his face and neck; some of it is ice and really hurts. But he keeps pushing it into his skin, maybe even cutting himself. He'll stand up fresh and new.