Authors: Roddy Doyle
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.
But he doesn't. He stands up now and he's still a fuckin' eejit. He still remembers. And he's dying.
He tries to run. He can't.
—You're the Brits of the new millennium.
Did he say that? Yes, he did. To an American bird who, a minute before, had been holding his hand? Yes, he did. Running her fingers round and around his knuckles. Smiling at him. Laughing with him. Leaning nearer to him. And—
—What d'you think of the Iraq thing?
He'd said that. The Iraq thing? Where had that come from? Declan doesn't talk like that.
The drink. The Guinness. Never again. The Iraq thing.
—Jesus.
He's trying to move a bit faster. He has his coat back on. He doesn't want to die now. But he's soaking wet, and frozen.
Maybe she won't remember.
Declan has nothing against the Brits.
She won't remember; maybe she won't.
He'll phone her. He checks his pockets for money. But his hands are numb. He can't feel anything. Except the cold. He can't get his hands into his pockets. He tries to run.
He has nothing against the Yanks. He loves it here. He has Colin Powell on his fuckin' wall.
There's no hangover now.
He's running; he can run. Broadway. His legs and arms are working. And he can feel the heat of his breath, the steam on his face, as he runs into it.
—It's me.
—Oh. Hi.
—Hi – howyeh.
Give her the Irish; it might work.
Grand.
—I guess I owe you an apology, she says.
He can't believe it; fuckin' great.
—Don't worry about it, he says.
—I shouldn't have said that.
—Ah well, he says.
What did she fuckin' say? He hasn't a clue, and he doesn't care. He's warm; he's alive.
—D'you want to meet again? Hook up, like?
—Okay, she says. —Cool.
—Grand.
No drink this time, though; no fuckin' way. He's meeting her on Friday. Three days away. And that's good; he can wait. He might even remember what she said.
He isn't that cold now, and he has money for one more call.
—Franklin J. Powell?
—Yes.
—Were you in Scotland during World War Two?
—That was my father.
—Your father?
—Yes.
Is this man Declan's uncle?
—What is this about? says the man.
He sounds okay; he isn't aggressive – Uncle Franklin. Uncle Frank.
—Well, says Declan. —Your father. Franklin J. Powell.
—Yes? Hello?
—He might be my grandfather.
There's silence – phone silence.
—Your voice, says the man. —Your accent. You're Irish?
—Yeah.
And the man laughs. Right up into Declan's ear. The hangover's creeping back; he's cold.
—Well now, says the man. —This I have to see.
—It's not a joke, says Declan.
—That's good to hear. Where are you?
—Broadway and 116th.
—New York?
—Yeah, says Declan. —I'm right here.
—Well now, says the man. —I haven't heard your name yet.
—It's Declan, says Declan. —Declan O'Connor.
And Franklin Powell, Declan's maybe-uncle, laughs again.
Declan tries to concentrate. But he's failing. The book is on the desk, right below his face.
The Autobiography of an ex-Coloured Man.
But he can't hold his eyes or his head to the pages. He's on page 54 but he'll have to start again.
Fuck it.
He stands up. He's done enough for one day.
But Declan knows it: he's done nothing. He's done nothing since he got here, to New York. And he doesn't give a toss. But he sits down again. He flicks through the pages he's already sort-of read. They're no good to him.
But he reads on. He rubs his face; he straightens his back. He's proud of himself now, working. In the college library. Where he should be. But there's no way he can fit this book into the theory. It was published in 1912, which is perfect, and it's about a black man who can pass for white but decides not to, then changes his mind after he witnesses another black man being burnt alive by angry whites.
A great wave of humiliation and shame swept over me.
That was the shame that the Harlem Renaissance writers had had to face and fight. And the Irish writers too – the
Punch
cartoons, the drunken Paddy, the ape with the shillelagh, the pictures that the Irish had been given and the shame behind the grinning acceptance of them – this was the shame that Yeats and the lads had taken on and, sometimes, beaten. There are links here, parallels but—
Declan stands up.
He's just spent all afternoon reading a book that's no good. He leaves it on the desk. A waste of fuckin' time.
But it wasn't; it isn't. He hops out of the library, down the big steps he's sure he's seen in a movie. He jumps the last three and lands perfectly.
He's on to something. He thinks he is. Langston Hughes wrote about the same thing, a black man passing for white.
Dear Ma, I felt like a dog, passing you downtown last night.
That's what being Irish is a lot of the time, passing for something else – the Paddy, the European, the peasant, the rocker, the leprechaun. It's sometimes funny; it's sometimes dangerous and damaging. And then there's being black and Irish.
He's back on track – he's only starting. He'll give up on the influence of Harlem on Irish writing. He's getting over that one, and he can't even lie about it – he doesn't care any more. It's the parallels he's interested in now, black and Irish – what they mean, and the literary fight on both sides of the Atlantic. That's what he'll work on: himself.
He's off the campus, back on Broadway, heading home.
The days are getting longer. Jesus, he's thinking like his mother now – there's a grand stretch in the evenings. He might phone her, tomorrow.
Hi, Ma, I just met your new brother.
Maybe not. He doesn't want to kill her – not really.
Franklin Powell. He's meeting him tomorrow. Tomorrow morning. In fourteen hours.
He'll get some serious work done before he tells the Professor about his new decision. The fresh start. He was half pissed the last time he met her. He needs to impress her.
Go deeper, Mister O'Connor,
she'd said, months ago.
Look for yourself
'. Well, he had and he is. He's going deeper. He has something worth doing.
Maybe Franklin Powell won't be his uncle.
It doesn't really matter.
Yes, it does.
It doesn't. Not really.
It does.
The sun cuts the street into blocks. It's cold but always bright here, never like Ireland. It's only dark when it should be, at night. He loves it.
He loves it. But there are things he misses. He stops at his favourite phone.
—Hello?
—Hi.
—Declan?
—Yeah; hi.
He wishes he could see her.
—God, it's lovely to hear your voice. How are you?
—Grand, he says. —Fine.
And he hears his mother slagging him.
—Grand, she says. —Fine. And what about your studies? Are they grand fine too?
—Yeah, he says.
—Great stuff; grand fine. Are you feeding yourself, Declan?
—I am, yeah. Lay off.
He listens to her laughing. She's always laughing. But it's strange, because she's never happy. She's a funny woman but it's always been angry-funny. Nearly always. From as far back as he can go.
—You're not black, she told him, once – more than once; he was only nine or ten. —I'm black but you don't have to be.
She's still laughing.
He can't do it. There's no way he can tell her about meeting her maybe half–brother. When she grew up, back then in Ireland, you were Irish or you weren't, one thing or the other. You couldn't be both; you couldn't be black.
Has it changed? He doesn't know. When he's here he thinks so. When he's there he's not so sure.
—So, no news for me then, Declan? says his mother.
—No, says Declan. —Not really.
It's the day; it's the morning, early. He's out on the street. He's walking.
He woke Marc on his way out. He couldn't help it.
—Shite!
His shin hit the side of the bed, bang right into it.
—De-klan? That you, man?
—Yeah; sorry.
—Coming in, heading out?
—Out.
—Cool. Good hat.
He walks. He could go on the subway but he doesn't want to wait; he doesn't want to stand. He wants to move – he has to.
Franklin J. Powell. His grandfather's son, maybe. Declan's maybe uncle.
He doesn't know if his grandfather is still alive,
if
it's his grandfather. He hadn't asked when he spoke to Franklin Powell. He hadn't thought of it till later. He hadn't phoned back.
He'll find out soon.
He's nearly there.
Very soon. He's walked downtown, sixty blocks. Two more blocks and he'll be there. It's cold but not
that
cold; it's bright, it's good. He'd been surprised when Franklin Powell had named the place. The bookshop, Barnes and Noble, Lincoln Plaza, the cafe at the top. Another fuckin' Starbucks. He'd expected to be heading up to Harlem; it's what he would have chosen. He's not sure why – stupid, really. Sentimental.
Home.
He's getting a bit sick of Starbucks. But he knows where this one is; he doesn't have to search.
He's in, going on the escalator, up. He takes his cap off, gives his head some air.
He puts it back on.
—So, how will we know each other? Franklin Powell had asked.
—Don't know.
—We might be the only black men in the store, said Franklin Powell.
—Yeah. But.
—Yes?
—I have a cap with a map of Ireland on it, said Declan. —It's green.
A present from his mother, a horrible scratchy thing he's never worn. —To keep your head and heart warm, she'd said, the night before he'd left.
And Franklin Powell laughed.
—Shouldn't be too many African-Americans wearing maps of Ireland, he said. —Not that early.
He's off the escalator. He stands there, at the edge of the cafe. It's nearly empty. No black man of about fifty. No black men at all, or women. There's a Chinese girl reading a book and taking notes. She brushes crumbs off the page. There's a guy about his own age, flicking through
Kerrang!
There are three more people at the counter. None of them looks like his uncle. He looks back – no one coming up after him.
He goes to the counter, joins the small queue. His head's getting itchy, under the cap. He remembers years ago, his mother searching for head lice. Going through his hair with the lice comb. Her anger.
—The cheek of that teacher sending home a letter.
—Everyone got a letter, Ma.
—Everyone?
—Yeah. Not just me.
—Still. Your hair, God, it's—
—What?
—Nothing.
—It's like yours, Ma.
—No, it isn't.
—It is. All curly.
—Stay quiet and sit still.
He has to keep the cap on. But he slips his hand in under the wool and gives his head a scratch. He turns around – straight into the face.
—Declan?
—Yeah.
He takes his hand from under this cap. He holds it out. Franklin Powell looks down at it, then takes it. They shake – an ordinary, Irish kind of handshake, no fancy stuff. And Declan takes the cap off. He puts it in his pocket.
—Thanks for coming, he says.
Franklin Powell smiles.
—I had a choice?
—Well, says Declan. —It must be a bit weird.
—A little. But—
Franklin Powell smiles again.
—It sure is a good story. You order yet?
—Eh. No.
And Franklin Powell takes over. He gets past Declan, orders the coffee.
They make their way to an empty table.
They sit.
They look at each other. Franklin Powell wears a grey suit. His hair is grey and cut close to his head. He wears glasses, black frames.
—There many like you over there in Ireland? he says.
Declan shakes his head.
—A few; he says.
He shrugs.
—It was my granny, he says.
He tells the story, as well as he can. He talks and his coffee goes cold.
He stops.
—More coffee? says Franklin Powell.
—No, says Declan. —Thanks.
—I'm having one, says Franklin Powell.
—Okay, says Declan. —But it's my turn.
He goes up and orders latte and espresso, the latte for him, the hard stuff for Franklin Powell. He wonders why the young one behind the counter – she's black – is staring at him. Then he sees the coffee: she wants him to pay.
—Sorry, he says.
He can't find his money.
But he finds it. He pays. He goes back to the table, to Franklin Powell.
Franklin Powell isn't smiling.
And Declan's worried.
He puts the cups on the table. He sits. He says nothing.