Meon Gaelach: The original Derek as described by Flann O'Brien's brother

Ciarán Ó Nualláin's satire of the "Efficiency Expert" is more relevant than ever.

Dereks and “efficiency experts”

Flor this week’s Meon Gaelach we are going with a first: translating a fictional piece of Gaelic writing. Though we have mostly covered theorycel prose works so far, I think is just as, if not more important, to cover Gaelic fiction, poetry and creative writing more broadly. Certainly the author of this piece, Ciarán Ó Nualláin, would agree with that. Brother of the great satirist Flann O’Brien (real name Brian Ó Nualláin), he is one of the 20th Century’s great Irish-language writers, especially in the realm of short-story writing, mirroring much of the satirical spin which his brother became famous for.

While Flann O'Brien, or Myles na gCopaleen (another of his pen names), took the Joycean, modernist approach to satirist writing as Gaeilge, his brother Ciarán are more direct, and easier to follow. Perhaps this owes to his Gaelic activist career in writing. Starting in the same dissident branch of the Conradh na Gaeilge, Craobh na hAiséirí, with a young Máirtín Ó Direáin among others, Ó Nualláin became disillusioned with its polarising leader, and went on to be an instrumental leader of Glúin na Buaidhe and the famous accompanying paper Inniu. Ó Nualláin’s motto in all this writing was to ‘scríobh as Gaeilge agus ná scríobh faoin Ghaeilge’ (‘write in Irish, not about Irish’) — and he certainly achieves that here.

The story I’ve chosen here is from his 1953 collection of short stories, Amaidí (Idiots). It tells the story of a Kafkaesque workplace in which an “Efficiency Expert” was brought in to reorganise the work-duties of all the employees, but due to oversight, he took away the jobs of one of the workers, making it so that one man called Berkin — the dimmest man there — was made irrelevant. Due to this the boss of the office started creating made up work for Berkin to do, but it is so convoluted that he essentially dies of wagiedom.

A cautionary tale about the threat of data-driven ‘efficiency expert’ Dereks!

THE “EFFICIENCY EXPERT’S” RETRIBUTION

MYSELF and the other director, Ó Smochlasaigh, were arranging other things in the General Office when a messenger came to the house with a letter. When I had read it I picked up the phone and asked to speak to Ó Gráíscin.

"Here is a letter from a man called Berkin. He is very unhappy with us and he is talking about quitting his job.”

"What job? Is he working for us?"

"I hope you are working for us! He is part of your team, if he speaks truthfully."

"Oh! Wait a minute. I'll check. I'll yell back at you."

The bell rang a little later.

"Yes, that’s right actually. When the efficiency expert set up a new system for us over what had been working for two years, we found that there was one section that he had forgotten to include in the scheme. That is the section that Berkin is working on, he and two typists. The work he has to do has nothing to do with this place now, since the reorganization. He is a very hard worker, but he is thick in the head and there was no other suitable job we could give him."

"What did you do with him?"

"I hope this doesn't hurt you, but we decided to let him work with us without telling him his section is not relevant anymore."

"I understand. And what happens to the work he puts in completed every day, he and his two typists?"

"There is a man whose job it is to collect the letters, memos and everything every evening, carry them down to the stove and burn them."

"I understand.”

"We were supposed to break it to him? We can break it to him now.”

"Don't break it to him. You might break someone's heart in the process. He complained, in this letter that I have received, that he has too much work to do.”

"That's the complaint of the man who burns the letters too."

"Lighten up his workload a little and give him a small salary increase. Right?"

"Right."

That night as I was driving home in the Rolls I couldn't help but think about the kind of life Berkin must have had at home.

"Are you tired, Michael?" his wife would tell him when he would fall heavily exhausted in the chair. "We had a very hard day at the office today, Mary."

"You are your own killer, Michael."

"Don't I know that? What can I do? But something has to be done or another nervous breakdown is threatening me."

"It's not right or fair that you have to take that much work home with you after a hard day's work at the office. It scares me to see you come to me every night with that bag in a bursting state. You must complain to him. the boss, Michael."

"I think it must be, because there is nothing good to talk about with Ó Gráíscin. Do you remember those accounts that have been giving me so much trouble for a week and I didn't know what to do with them? I mentioned the issue to Ó Gráíscin. 'What are the accounts?' he said. Lord, what are the accounts! And that is a man who is above me!"

"You have to talk to the boss, Michael."

*I thought I would explain the situation to the man who is two steps above Ui Gráiscin, since everything happened to be so important. From Pritín I say. I brought all the fighters in to him and explained everything to him in detail. 'Yes, yes, without a doubt,' he said. That's what he had to say. A blind man could see that he understood nothing of what I had explained to him and it seemed to him."

"You have to write to the boss, Michael."

"I fought the flu on my feet last year so that the same accounts would not be delayed and I have had this cough ever since.”

"You must write to the boss himself, Michael."

Oh poor Berkin! It's a pity that he didn't get a chance to be relieved with the lightened workload I ordered before he was sent to the infirmary. The stories of his death this morning reminded me of everything.

ÉIRIC AN 'EFFICIENCY EXPERT'

BHÍ MÉ FÉIN agus an stiúrthóir eile, Ó Smochlasaigh, ag socrú rudaí eile san Ard-Oifig nuair a tháinig teachtaire is teach le litir. Nuair a bhí sí léite agam thóg mé cluasán an teileafóin tí agus d'iarr mé labhairt le Ó Gráiscín.

"Litir anseo ó fhear darb ainm Ó Bearcáin. Tá sé an mhíshásta linn agus é ag caint ar éirí as a phost."

"Cén post? An dúinne atá sé ag obair?"

"Tá súil agam gur ag obair dúinn atá tusa. Is duine den fhoireann fútsa é, más fíor dó féin."

"Ó! Fan nóiméad. Fiosróidh mé. Scairtfidh mé ar ais ort."

Bhuail an cloigín ar ball beag.

"Sea, tá a leithéid ann. Nuair a bhí an córas a shocraigh an efficiency expert dúinn ar obair dhá bhliain fuair muid go raibh rannóigín amháin a ndearna sé dearmad é thabhairt isteach sa scéim. Sin an rannóigín a bhfuil Ó Bearcáin ina bhun, é féin agus beirt chlóscríobhaí. Níl baint dá laghad ag an obair a bhíonn sé a dhéanamh leis an sir anois, ó rinneadh an t-atheagrú. Oibrí an-dúthrachtach é, ach tá sé tiubh sa chloigeann agus ní raibh aon phost oirjúnach eile a d'fhéadfaimis a thabhairt dó."

"Cad é a rinne sibh leis?"

"Tá súil agam nach ngoillfidh seo ort, ach shocraigh muid ligean dó obair leis gan rud ar bith insint dó."

"Chím. Agus cad é a tharlaíonn don obair a chuireann sé i gcrích gach lá, é féin agus a bheirt chlóscríobhaí?"

"Tá fear a bhfuil sé de chúram air na litreacha, na memos agus gach rud a bhailiú gach tráthnóna, iad a iompar síos go dtí an sorn agus iad a dhó."

"Chím."

"Bhí sé ceart againn é a bhriseadh? Is féidir linn é a bhriseadh anois.

"Ná bris. B'fhéidir go mbrisfeá croí duine éigin lena linn. Sé a ghearán, sa litir seo atá mé i ndiaidh a fháil, go mbíonn an iomarca ar fad oibre le déanamh aige.

"Sin an gearán atá ag an fhear a dhónn na litreacha freisin."

"Éadromaigh a chuid oibre rud beag agus tabhair ardú beag tuarastail dó. Right?"

"Right."

An oíche sin agus mé ag gluaiseacht abhaile sa Rolls ni thiocfadh liom gan machnamh ar an chineál saoil ab éigean a bheith ag Ó Bearcáin sa bhaile.

"Tá tuirse ort, a Mhíchíl?" a déarfadh a bhean leis nuair a thitfeadh sé go trom traochta sa chathaoir.

"Bhí lá an-dian againn san oifig inniu, a Mháire."

"Do mharú féin atá tú, a Mhíchíl."

"Nach bhfuil fhios agam sin? Cad é is féidir liom a dhéanamh? Ach caithfear rud éigin a dhéanamh. Ta nervous breakdown eile ag bagairt orm."

"Nil sé ceart ná cóir go gcaithfeá an méid sin oibre thabhairt abhaile leat i ndiaidh lá dianoibre san oifig. Scanraionn sé mé thú a fheiceáil chugam gach oíche leis an mhála sin agus é i riocht pléasctha. Caithfidh tú gearán a dhéanamh leis an Boss, a Mhíchíl."

"Sílim go gcaithfidh, óir nil faic de mhaith labhairt le Ó Gráiscín. Is cuimhin leat na cuntais sin a bhí ag tabhairt oiread sin crá dom le seachtain agus nach raibh fhios agam cad é a dhéanfainn leo? Luaigh mé an cheist le Ó Gráiscin. 'Cad é na cuntais?' ar seisean. A Thiarna, cad é na cuntais!a Agus sin fear atá in ainm is bheith os mo chionn!"

"Caithfidh tú labhairt leis an Boss, a Mhíchíl."

"Shíl mé go míneoinn an scéal don fhear atá dhá chéim os cionn Uí Ghráiscín, ó tharla an rud uilig a bheith chomh tábhachtach sin. Ó Pritín atá mé a rá. Thug mé na trodáin uilig isteach chuige agus mhínigh mé gach rud go mion dó. 'Sea, sea, gan amhras,' ar seisean. Sin a raibh le rá aige. D'fhéadfadh fear dall a fheiceáil nár thuig sé faic dá raibh mínithe agam dó agus gur chuma leis."

"Caithfidh tú scríobh chuig an Boss, a Mhíchil."

"Throid mé an fliú ar mo chosa anuraidh sa dóigh is nach mbeadh moill ar na cuntais chéanna agus tá an chasachtach seo orm ó shin."

"Caithfidh tú scríobh chuig an Boss é féin, a Mhíchíl."

Ó Bearcáin bocht! Trua nach bhfuair sé faill faoiseamh bhaint as an éadromú oibre a d'ordaigh mé sular cuireadh chun na hotharlainne é. Scéala a bháis ar maidin a chuir an rud uilig i gcuimhne dom.