The Deportees (5 page)

It had been a tricky few days.

Jimmy didn't want to go back into band management, he really didn't. He didn't want the grief and, as well as that, he couldn't come up with the music – there was nothing out there that he could really get worked up about. With The Commitments, it had been soul – James Brown for breakfast, Otis Redding for the dinner. Jimmy was the first man he knew to own a Walkman and he'd deliberately missed buses so he could hear all of 'Prisoner of Love' or 'Down in the Valley' without having to turn the volume down while he paid his fare.

He liked a lot of what he heard these days but nothing that he really wanted to wade into and drown in. But, still and all, there was something that kept pushing at the back of his head – do it, do it, go on.

Aoife felt mean for coming between Jimmy and his schemes. And that made her angry because he shouldn't have been having them at this particular time. She was six months' pregnant, for God's sake, and retaining water like a camel. There were days when she could hardly move, when the sweat ran off her like rain. But Jimmy's schemes and plans, the way he could build dreams with that mouth of his – these were what she'd always loved about him. The man had literally talked his way into her knickers an hour after they'd met.

She wanted to kill him.

They avoided each other.

He washed the dishes, even some that hadn't been used. He bathed the kids until they were wrinkly and faint. He told them bedtime stories that went on for ever. He saw Aoife looking in as they all lay on the big bed, cuddled up, listening to Jimmy.

—Once upon a time, he said, —there was a pixie called P.J. who wanted a career in band management.

She didn't laugh. She didn't smile.

She was gone.

She sat in the kitchen and tried to think of nothing.

He came in and went behind her without touching her chair. She heard him fill the kettle at the sink.

—Tea?

—Yeah. Thanks.

He sat at the other side of the table.

—So, he said. —How was your day?

She smiled. She couldn't help it. She looked, and he was smiling at her. And she cried. The boiling kettle sounded exactly how she suddenly felt. A flood of wet happiness and relief poured up out of her. She held her hand out, across the table, and he took it. And she got ready to tell him, Go ahead. Form your band. It's why I love you.

She wiped her eyes with her free hand and looked at him again. And she caught him looking at the CD rack in the corner, between the fridge and the wall.

—Jimmy!

—Yes, bitch, sorry. Yeah?

—Can you not even look at me for a few seconds? Do I look that bad?

—No, said Jimmy. —You look gorgeous.

She screamed and stood up.

—Listen, you, she said. —You think you know everything but you don't. For your information, Stevie Wonder's wife was not up the
stick
when he recorded
Innervisions.
It was
Songs in the Key of Life,
and you can stuff your fucking tea.

Aoife never said Fuck or Fucking.

She left him alone in the kitchen. They hugged twenty minutes later, and had another row. And they rolled that way all week. It was desperate.

Jimmy was on his way home on the Friday. He was walking down Parnell Street, on his way across to Tara Street Station. The car was being serviced. Marvin and Jimmy Two had filled the petrol tank with muck from the front garden.

—It was an experiment, said Marvin. —Petrol comes from the ground.

—Not Irish ground, Marv, said Jimmy as he pushed his hands deep into his pockets so he wouldn't strangle him.

Anyway, he was on Parnell Street, walking past one of the African shops, when something in the window grabbed his attention. Wigs or something, a string of them hanging there. He walked across for a closer look – he'd get one for Aoife, the pink one there, for a laugh – and someone walked straight into him, sent him flying.

—E'cuse me!

A Romanian, a young fella, Jimmy could see, as his head hit the edge of the path and an Italian bike courier rode over his hand – an Italian who'd been in Dublin for a while.

—You theeek fockeeng eeee-jit, he roared as he dashed across to Marlborough Street.

Jimmy's head was hopping as he stood up, helped by the Romanian kid and a big African woman. His hand was in a bad way too, fuckin' killing him. But he was grinning.

Jimmy had his group.

He typed, one-handed, onto his laptop. 'Brothers and Sisters, Welcome to Ireland. Do you want the Celtic Tiger to dance to your music? If yes, The World's Hardest-Working Band is looking for you. Contact J. Rabbitte at 089-22524242 or [email protected]. White Irish need not apply.'

Could he write that? He didn't see why not. It was his fuckin' band. But he deleted the last sentence. A couple of old-fashioned Irish rockers would look good onstage with the rest, especially when they were touring abroad. Touring abroad – Jesus. Jimmy could hardly stay sitting at the kitchen table. He read over the ad again. It was going into the
Hot Press
classifieds, where the Commitments ad had gone.

He'd explained it all when he'd got home that night – about the wigs and the Romanian kid and the Italian prick on the bike.

—How did you know he was Romanian? said Aoife.

—His jumper, said Jimmy.

The kids admired the tyre-tracks running across the back of his left hand.

—It must have been a good bike, said Marvin.

—Only the best, said Jimmy.

He got Marvin and Jimmy Two to design a flyer and an A4 poster for him. And, while the lads got dug into the artwork and Mahalia annoyed them while they did it, Jimmy stuck on Ruben Gonzalez and he danced with Aoife in the space between the table and the door, and between them, seven months of unborn Rabbitte, give or take a week.

—What's the weather like over there? said Jimmy.

—Lovely, said Aoife. —Grand. But I'll have to sit down in a minute.

—D'yis like the music, kids? said Jimmy as they swung by the laptop.

—Cwap, said Jimmy Two.

—Poo, said Mahalia.

And Marvin didn't disagree.

But Marvin had a great head on him, a genuine chip off his da's block.

—How will we get people to stop and read it? Jimmy asked him as he looked over his shoulder at the poster.

—Put a picture of a nudie woman on it, said Marvin.

—You will not, said Aoife.

—Nudie man then.

—No, said Aoife.

She was having a breather; the trot around the kitchen had flaked her. And she'd stood in the cat's litter tray. The cat, Babyface, had died a month ago – lung cancer, God love him – but the kids wouldn't let Aoife get rid of the tray.

—Nudie nothing, said Aoife.

But, even as she laid down the law, Marvin was putting the word
nudie,
repeated, red blue, red blue, in a glowing rectangle around the ad copy. Jimmy took up the laptop and showed it to Aoife.

—Does that pass?

—Okay.

She laughed, and hugged Marvin and Jimmy Two and Mahalia's imaginary friend, Darndale.

It was three more weeks before the
Hot Press
ad would become public. But he spent the next Saturday with Marvin and Jimmy Two, with Mahalia in her buggy, sticking the A4 nudie ads on poles in Temple Bar, in the African shops on Parnell Street, in any pubs they passed, on DART station doors, anywhere they were likely to be seen and gawked at. They were still sticking up posters, on Molly Malone's bronze arse at the bottom of Grafton Street, when Jimmy got his first call.

—Mine!

Mahalia wouldn't give him the mobile. Jimmy gave her his keys and guaranteed her two Loop-the-Loops, one each for herself and Darndale. She let go of the phone.

—Hello, said Jimmy.

—Nudie? said a male voice – on the DART, Jimmy guessed.

—Rabbitte Talent Management. How can I help you?

—Interested in the band, said the voice.

An Irish voice, vaguely Dublin, vaguely MTV.

—What instrument d'yeh play? said Jimmy.

—Guitar, vocals. Drums, a bit.

—D'yeh like The Corrs?

—Yeah, sure; cool.

—Fuck off, so, said Jimmy, and he handed the phone back to Mahalia.

A disappointing start maybe, but Jimmy was on his way. He needed coffee.

—D'yis want a cake, kids?

—Yeah!

—Cool!

—Big cake, this big.

—Okay, he said. —Let's go to Bewley's and terrify the tourists.

He'd just pointed the buggy at the caffeine when he got the second call. Mahalia threw the mobile at him.

—Thanks, love. Hello?

—Yes, said the voice.

Jimmy waited, but there was no more.

—Are yeh ringin' about the band? said Jimmy.

—Exactly, said the voice.

It was an African voice, kind of southside African.

—Are yeh interested? said Jimmy.

—Yes.

—D'yeh like The Corrs?

—We are not acquainted.

Jimmy's phone hand was shaking.

—What instrument do yeh play?

—To whom do I speak?

—Eh. Jimmy Rabbitte.

—Mister Rabbitte, said the voice. —I am my own instrument.

Jimmy punched the air.

—We'd better meet, said Jimmy.

—Exactly, said the voice.

The Forum was a surprise. Jimmy had walked and driven past it but he'd never seen it. It didn't look like a pub; it was more like a cafe and, as far as Jimmy was concerned, there were enough of those things in Dublin already. But, once he was inside, it was a real pub, and a good one.

Portuguese-looking barman, Spanish-looking lounge-girl, Chinese-looking girl on the stool beside him, good-looking pint settling in front of him, REM's new album on the sound system – sounded good, although maybe a bit
too
like an REM album – African locals chatting and laughing, Irish locals chatting and laughing. Jimmy tasted his pint. Grand – and just as well, because it wasn't fuckin' cheap.

—Mister Rabbitte, said the voice.

Jimmy turned on his stool. He was looking up at a tall black man.

—You are Mister Rabbitte, the man told Jimmy.

—Yeah, said Jimmy. —That's me. Jimmy.

They shook hands. It was hard to put an age on him. Late twenties, Jimmy reckoned, but he could have been older or younger. Serious looking. The man didn't smile.

—You know my name, said Jimmy. —But I don't know yours yet.

—Robert.

He stared at Jimmy.

—King Robert.

Jimmy did well; he didn't laugh or even smile.

—Will you have a pint, Your Majesty?

No smile from your man.

—Yes.

—Guinness?

—Exactly.

Jimmy ordered the pint from the Latvian-looking barman who'd joined the Portuguese-looking one. The place was getting busy, beginning to nicely hop. Jimmy turned back to King Robert.

—Your English is very good, by the way.

—As is yours, Mister Rabbitte. You speak it like a native.

And now Jimmy stared at
him.

—I will now sing, said King Robert.

And it happened. After the births of his kids and maybe, just maybe, the third time he'd ever had sex, this was the best, the most fantastic fuckin' moment in Jimmy's life. A black man standing six inches from him opened his mouth and sang 'Many Rivers to Cross'. Jimmy died and went straight up to heaven.

And when he came down back to Dublin three days later he had the rough makings of a band. He had King Robert on vocals. The man was probably mad, but he'd bought his round and he'd sung 'Many Rivers to Cross' so well and convincingly that, for three great minutes, Jimmy had forgotten that the nearest river to them was actually the Liffey.

He had a drummer from Moscow; Jimmy had his name written down somewhere – a student in Trinity. He'd played for Jimmy over the phone. An hour later, he had a girl from New York who'd said she could play the bass, preferred guitar, sounded gorgeous over the phone, and promised him that she wasn't white.

—D'yeh like The Corrs? he asked her.

—No, I do not.

—You're in, said Jimmy.

—That it?

—Yeah, said Jimmy. —As long as you're on the level about not being white.

—I have got to say, she said. —This is not a conversation I have had before.

—Welcome to Ireland, love, said Jimmy.

So, three down, eleven or twelve to go. Jimmy was beginning to see and hear the band. And the phone kept hopping.

—Droms.

—Sorry, pal, you're too late. We already have a Russian drummer.

By the end of the fourth day, post-King Robert, he'd added a djembe drummer from Nigeria, and another singer, a young one from Spain.

—What was her voice like? said Aoife.

—Don't know, bitch. But her name is Rosalita.

—So what?

—Springsteen wrote a song about her.

—Did she tell you that?

—No, said Jimmy. —I told her.

Aoife's laugh had little sharp corners on it.

—I'm only messing, said Jimmy. —Her name's Agnes.

And Aoife went to sleep.

The latest addition, half an hour ago, while he was lying here on the bed, was a guitarist from Roscommon.

—D'yeh like The Corrs?

—Fuckin' hate them, boy.

—D'you like black music?

—Fuckin' love it, boy. Not the rappin' though; fuck that.

Jimmy lay beside Aoife. He was buzzing, way too excited. He wouldn't sleep.

But he was well gone, fast asleep, when the phone rang, the mobile on his chest, where he'd parked it after he'd recruited your man from Roscommon.

Aoife was digging him with her elbow.

—Jimmy!

—Wha'?

The phone, he heard it.

—Jesus; sorry.

It must have been two or three in the morning.

—Hello? said Jimmy.

Nothing.

—Hello?

—Nigger lover.

—Who is it? said Aoife.

Nothing else. No more words. Just the horrible space at the other end of the line, and someone waiting there.

Jimmy turned it off.

—Who was it?

—Just a playback message; sorry.

—For God's sake.

—Sorry.

Aoife was asleep again.

But Jimmy wasn't.