The Pub Across the Pond by Mary Carter Page A

great-great-great-great-grandfather—is that right? Four greats? Anyway, he joined the IRA when Mary Margaret was only sixteen—”
    Carlene stopped. Was she allowed to say IRA in the airport? Was that like joking you had a bomb? Because even though her great-to-the-fourth-power grandfather died trying to protect Ireland, a proud IRA member himself, she didn’t want to come off as political—at heart she was more of a Gandhi follower—peaceful revolutions and the like. Although now the Troubles had calmed down quite a bit, Belfast was the new Barcelona, and everyone was trying to play nice—
    Still, she had better change the subject before she got herself in trouble.
    â€œThe Philadelphia Irish,” Carlene exclaimed. “ ‘Complaining with a ham under each arm,’ my grandmother used to say.” The officer was openly staring at her now. Apparently, that wasn’t a good thing to say either. “Did you know there are a lot of Jews in Cork City?” Carlene said. The officer suddenly stood up. She grabbed the sides of her shirt, near her massive bosoms, and leaned forward like a gorilla showing her dominance. Carlene waited for her to flash teeth. People around them were starting to stare.
    â€œReason. For. Coming. To. Ireland!” the officer shouted. But before Carlene could respond again, the woman slammed her hands against the pane of glass. “And I don’t want to hear about your great-great-great-can of beans, so.”
    There was a long moment of silence.
    â€œI won,” Carlene said. Just say you’re on holiday . “A pub.”
    â€œYou what a what?” the woman said. She sounded quite alarmed, on the verge of panic, actually.
    â€œI won a pub in Ballybeog,” Carlene said. There, she’d said it. The officer leaned forward and exhaled on the glass. A small cloud of breath obscured her mustached mouth for a moment.
    â€œYou won a pub in Ballybeog?” the officer said. She hit each word with equal force.
    â€œYes,” Carlene said with slightly more conviction. “I won a pub in Ballybeog.”
    â€œYou’re the raffle winner?” the woman said. Carlene was by no means an expert on the Irish brogue, but the stress had definitely been on the word “you’re.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Carlene said. “I’m a winner.”
    â€œHow in heaven’s name did ye win it?” the officer asked. Again, there was no opportunity for Carlene to actually answer. The officer kept talking. “Me niece entered that raffle. She bought ten tickets. She lives in New York. I wouldn’t a mind winning it meself but it was only open to the Yanks, can you believe that? I said, now, wouldn’t it be great, thanks be to God, if I could sit back and have a do-nothing job like running somebody else’s pub? And I wouldn’t be wasting company resources either because I’ve never had a sip of an alcoholic beverage in me life. I wouldn’t have to sit here all day with yokes who sashay through here like they own the place due to some great-great-great-can of beans, so.” She leaned forward and punctuated the end of her outburst with another exhalation of breath. “I wouldn’t have to wear this outfit. It pinches me in the middle, it does. And did ye know I only get until half past for lunch? That’s only thirty minutes, lad. Ah, stop now. How many tickets did ye buy? Cleaned ’em out, did ye?”
    â€œOne ticket,” Carlene said. “I only bought one.”
    â€œHmmph,” the officer said. “I wouldn’t be tellin’ many people that, I wouldn’t be tellin’ ’em that a’t’all. And you shouldn’t say—you know—around here.”
    â€œIRA?” Carlene whispered. The officer shook her head. Jew, she mouthed. Then, with a disgusted shake of her head, she stamped Carlene through.

C HAPTER 8
    The Ambassador of