The Illegal (16 page)

Keita didn’t want trouble, so he just said, “I ran faster than him.” He decided to risk the chair. Better to battle the hamstring cramps than to faint dead on the floor. He sipped the sweet liquid again. He wished he could lie down, take the drink in an intravenous line and sleep. He shivered. He just had to collect his prize money and get to the bus. If his hamstring would cooperate, he could sleep for the whole ride.

“Did you hear him insulting you on the course?”

“No.”

“Do you mind me asking where you are from?”

“Kintermore,” Keita said.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” Hitchcock said.

Keita felt it wise not to answer.

“What’s your name?” Hitchcock said. “And don’t waste my time telling me it’s Roger Bannister. I wasn’t born yesterday. Roger Bannister was the fastest miler in the world—about sixty-five years ago.”

“Does my real name matter?” Keita said.

“If you want your prize money.”

“If I tell you my name, will you let the name Roger Bannister stand as the race winner? I mean, in the printed race results?”

“No can do.”

It felt like a clamp fastened itself around Keita’s left buttock and began to tighten. Keita shouted, stood to lessen the pain and saw tiny fragments of light spinning around before his eyes. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor and smelling beer on the breath of Mitch Hitchcock, who was checking for a pulse.

“Talk to me,” Hitchcock said.

“I’m talking,” Keita said.

“Shall I call a paramedic?”

“Please don’t. I’ll answer your questions. No paramedic and no police.”

“Easy there,” Hitchcock said. “I don’t call the cops on my runners. God love ya. Bend your legs.” Keita obeyed. Hitchcock slid a blanket under Keita’s head. “I think we’ll leave you right here. Have another sip.”

Keita turned to the side, sipped the drink and then eased onto his back again.

“I’m Keita Ali. I’m from Zantoroland.”

“I figured as much.”

“A man is looking for me, and I’d rather not have you use my name.”

“If you want the prize money, you’ll have to use your real name.”

“Could I take it in cash?”

“We use cheques. Accountability concerns. And I’m very sorry about this, but if I’m going to give you the prize money, I have to identify you correctly to the media. So you can either take the money and be identified, or decline the money and remain anonymous.”

“I need the money.” Keita sighed. He’d seen a private cheque-cashing service in Clarkson, but it took 15 percent of the total. “Could you cash the cheque for me and give me the money?”

“It would look like I was taking a kickback. The cheque’s good. Don’t you have ID?”

“No.”

“How did you get into this country?”

“I’d rather not say.” Keita finished his drink and asked for another. He felt ready to stand again.

“There are people outside who want to talk to you. Listen.” Hitchcock put a finger to his lips, and they paused for a minute. “That’s the reporter in the wheelchair,” he said under his breath. “Watch out for that one, man. She never gives up. If she had legs, she’d outrun you.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Viola Hill.”

Keita could hear the reporter interviewing Billy Deeds. He was saying that the prize money should be for citizens. They were the ones who were running for this country. They were the ones who would honour the country in the Olympics. They were the ones who relied on prize money to keep up their training regimens.

Viola asked Deeds why he had called the race leader a nigger.

“I didn’t say any such thing.”

“I heard you. He was dropping you on the big hill, and you used a bunch of nasty words on him, so how do you call yourself a sportsman?”

“You’re starting to piss me off.”

“Well,” Viola said, “he sure whipped your ass.”

“Hey,” he said. “I’ve got my citizenship card. Have you seen his? He shouldn’t be taking prize money from legitimate runners unless he has a citizenship card.”

Hitchcock grinned at Keita.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Hitchcock said. “The guy likes to rant. And nobody but me is allowed to rant.”

Keita smiled faintly. He didn’t know why, but he was beginning to like Mitch Hitchcock.

“I also heard him calling you names on the course,” Hitchcock said. “Want to file a complaint?”

“What did you hear?”

“Don’t play me for a fool. Deeds was out of control, ranting and swearing. What was that about, anyway?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t like me.”

“Do you want to file a complaint?”

Keita looked alarmed. “No fuss, please.”

“All right,” Hitchcock said. “No fuss. You look like an honest sort.”

Keita waited for Hitchcock to reveal his intentions.

The race director continued. “Trouble with this country is that decades have gone by since we produced a top-ranked marathon
runner. And how did you get here without ID? Did Anton Hamm bring you in?”

“I’d prefer to collect the prize money and just leave quietly,” Keita said.

“You showed up at my race at the last minute,” Hitchcock said. “That’s right, it’s
my
race. I started this race thirty years ago. I have fought for every cent of its funding. I don’t care if you’re a Zantorolander, Egyptian, Algerian, Moroccan, Ethiopian or Kenyan. I give you a drink when you faint in my tent, hold off this pack of first-rate angry assholes outside so you can rehydrate in peace—and you want to avoid my questions?”

Keita smiled. He was able to get up to a chair and sit down without a resurgence in his hamstring. “I’m sorry if I was rude.”

“You can stay in my tent until the prize ceremony, and I’ll keep the devils out.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you even know who Roger Bannister was?”

“He ran the first sub-four-minute mile in 3:59:04 on May 6, 1954, in Oxford, England.”

“Why’d you take his name?”

“When I was a boy, we had back issues of
Track and Field News
at my school.”

“I’ll be damned. Back issues of
Track and Field News
in Zantoro-land. Regardless, because you are unknown to us and because you were running under an absurd pseudonym, three race officials insisted that you couldn’t possibly have won this race legitimately in two hours, nine minutes and thirty-six seconds. It’s the fastest time posted this year in the country. I had to go back to the computer to check your progress over the checkpoints.”

Thank God for computer chips, Keita thought. The computer chip attached to his shoelace had tracked him as he ran across all twenty of the computerized rubber mats placed along the marathon route.

“I didn’t believe you could have run that fast either. I guessed
you were a cheater,” said Hitchcock. “But your chip turned up good. You passed every single time check. Did you drink during the race?”

“Some.”

“Not good enough. You need electrolytes. You need a coach.”

“I run for pleasure.”

“The pleasure of money.”

Hitchcock let Keita stay in the tent. Keita heard him hollering out the door that the winner was recovering from dehydration.

When the time came to receive his medal and cheque, Keita followed Hitchcock outside. He looked to his left and then his right, took a step and walked right into Anton Hamm. The man had a chin that pointed sharply, like an accusation.

Keita drew in a quick breath. He tried to step back, but Hitchcock was right behind him.

“You little fucker,” Hamm said.

“I’ll make it up to you later,” Keita said.

“Nobody takes off on me when I’ve flown them around the world,” Hamm said.

“Language, language,” Hitchcock said.

Hamm snatched Keita’s forearm and twisted the skin to make it burn. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Hey,” Hitchcock said. He came up beside Keita.

“Look,” Keita said, “I have some problems, but I will—”

“Problems indeed,” Hamm said. “You owe me ten grand.”

“Let go of him or I’ll call security,” Hitchcock said.

“No security, please,” Keita said.

Hamm squeezed sufficiently to show Keita how easily his wrist could snap. “I’m warning you, and just this one time. Ten grand. In U.S. dollars. To cover my expenses and my trouble. I want four K by April 25 and the rest by July 1.”

“Hey, hey, hey, no touching the runners,” Hitchcock said. “I’ll have a police officer here in seconds if you don’t leave the premises this instant.”

Hitchcock was a small man, no larger than Keita, but when he
gave Hamm a forceful shove, the giant let go of Keita’s wrist and backed off.

“Ten grand,” Hamm said. “Ninety days. Are you getting my message?”

“Last warning, or I use the radio right here on my hip and call the police,” Hitchcock said. “There are fifty of them right over there. So leave, and leave now.”

To Keita’s astonishment and relief, Hamm turned and left.

“No police, please,” Keita said to Hitchcock.

“No need for them now,” Hitchcock said.

A
FTER THE PRIZE CEREMONY, THEY RETURNED TO THE TENT.
Hitchcock gave Keita an envelope.

“Don’t lose it,” he said. “It’s your cheque.”

“Thanks.” Keita borrowed the race director’s phone and tried one more time to call his sister. Still no answer.

Hitchcock grabbed another bottle of sports drink and led Keita out the back door of his tent. Viola Hill was waiting.

“Here comes trouble,” Hitchcock said.

“Keita, I need to know. Are you from Zantoroland? Or an African country?”

Keita smiled and walked past her. She spun in her chair and caught up to him.

“Keita. Listen. I will lose my job if I can’t answer the basic questions. You won that race, and sports fans deserve an answer. Are you an African?”

“No,” he said.

“Then Zantoroland,” she said. “Just look at me for a moment, and smile if you are from Zantoroland.”

He looked at her. He smiled.

“Thank you,” she said. “How can I reach you?”

“That’s quite enough, Miss Hill,” Hitchcock said. He gave the handle of her wheelchair a little shake.

Then he put Keita in a car and drove him to the bus station. There, he bought the ticket for Keita. One hundred and thirty dollars for the eight-hour bus trip to Clarkson, leaving at 11 p.m.

“Got any money, other than that cheque you don’t know how to cash?” Hitchcock asked.

“There is food in my bag.”

Hitchcock stuffed some bills into Keita’s hand and suggested the pub beside the bus station. “Try the shepherd’s pie.”

“Thanks.”

“Remember. When you’re back in Clarkson, get in touch with me. I’ll introduce you to the national team. They train in Ruddings Park. Weekend mornings, seven o’clock.”

“I’ll think it over,” Keita said.

Hitchcock paused for a moment, letting his eyes rest on Keita. “For an uncoached runner, you’ve got potential. Nobody just goes out there and posts a 2:09 marathon. No team, no coach, no backup. Come on. Run with the team!”

Hitchcock gave Keita his business card, shook his hand and left.

There were decent folks around. Keita felt lucky to meet them. He could use a little good fortune, and he could use a friend.

W
EEKS EARLIER, AFTER
K
EITA’S FIRST NIGHT
in Clarkson—in a forty-dollar-a-night motel that did not demand ID because he paid cash up front—he had gone running in Ruddings Park. A jogger recognized him as being of the same Faloo ethnicity and asked him to stop. Keita did so briefly, but he didn’t give his name or tell the man where he was staying. He listened, though, when the man told him not to travel in cars. Not if he wanted to avoid the immigration cops. They stopped people in cars all the time, the man said, and always demanded the national citizenship card. If you didn’t have it, they detained you until they could figure out where to deport you. Some people, he said, spent years in detention centres.

Keita thanked the man and said he had to keep moving. The man asked if he could run with Keita, just for a kilometre. He hadn’t run with anyone since leaving Zantoroland, he said, and he missed it. Sure, Keita said. He began running again, slowly to accommodate the fellow.

“So,” the jogger said, “have you heard of ZRA?”

Keita said he hadn’t.

“It’s Zantorolanders Refugee Association. We want the government of Freedom State to hear our voices and to stop deporting people who are found without papers.” The jogger tapped his shoulder familiarly, like a friend might have done back home. “We need people in the movement.”

Keita nodded noncommittally.

“By the way, you run beautifully. Are you an elite marathoner?”

“I was. Now I’m just running to stay alive.”

“You could be a role model for our cause.”

“Sorry,” Keita repeated, “but I can’t help you right now.” And with that, he accelerated and left the jogger behind.

K
EITA WAS HEEDING THE ADVICE NOT TO TRAVEL BY CAR.
Though his muscles were aching, he was sitting at the back of a bus in the Buttersby station, waiting for it to depart for Clarkson. He had killed several hours in the pub, where he sat in a corner, facing a wall, nursing tea and shepherd’s pie and hoping to avoid attention. Nobody knew his name or a thing about him, or cared if he was cold or hungry or afraid, but he feared that everyone noticed him.

Keita had boarded the bus the minute the doors opened. The less he was in public view, the better. He chose a window seat near the back. He had barely sat down when a boy—perhaps only twelve years old but travelling alone—took the seat beside him.

To take his mind off his troubles, Keita had turned on his iPod, put the buds in his ears and listened to a country song about a man with a broken heart.

I got the gotta have you

God I want you

Don’t you wanna love me blues

Wait all day for you to call my name

But baby baby baby baby

You ain’t got the blues the same

No

You ain’t got the same.

Keita found it odd that here, in one of the richest nations of the world, bad grammar seemed acceptable in music. Still, the words and
music were catchy, and he hummed along until a woman across the aisle gave him a nasty look. He stopped and unplugged the iPod. He had to be careful. One did not hum or sing in public in Freedom State—neither while walking around the street nor while sitting on a bus. People in this country took it as a sign of mental imbalance. To Keita, that itself was insanity.

Keita opened the
Clarkson Evening Telegram
he had bought before boarding and flipped through the news. He scanned an editorial that criticized the government for having curried votes during the election campaign by promising something that it must have known would be impossible to deliver: the bulldozing of AfricTown and the deportation of every Illegal in Freedom State. On the back page, Keita found a story by Viola Hill, the woman who had tried to interview him after the race, about a seventeen-year-old girl named Yvette Peters who had been deported to Zantoroland even though she was born in Freedom State. One line stood out: “An official from the notorious Pink Palace, who identified himself as Mr. Chelsea, claimed that the young girl died of natural causes.”

Keita studied one of the photos of the girl, taken when she was ten or so. Pretty. Brown complexion. A wary smile. Another photo showed her at age twelve, standing with her mother. The girl probably died in the same building as his father.

Keita wondered how many people had been killed in the Pink Palace, and how many loved ones—like Yvette’s mother, and like him—had to go on living anyway. Keita did not want to look at the photos anymore, but he was drawn back into the details of the story. There wasn’t much. The mother said the girl had run away from home at the age of sixteen. Strange. In Zantoroland, children often lost their homes or their parents; they did not run away from them.

A line in the story riveted Keita.

“Immigration Minister Rocco Calder, who was interviewed after finishing the Buttersby Marathon, said he had no comment on the matter. Asked if he had any knowledge about how Yvette Peters had come to leave Freedom State, he said, ‘Absolutely none, and I
can guarantee you that.’ As for whether the mother had a right to an answer about what happened to her daughter, he said only, ‘In such circumstances, it is only natural that a mother would want answers.’”

Answers. Keita had not been able to ask any questions about his father’s death, let alone get answers. He knew he had escaped Zantoroland just in time. In Freedom State, he had kept trying to get in touch with his sister, but he had received no replies to emails sent from Internet cafés. Anxiety knotted like a ball under his sternum. He found it easiest not to think about all that he had been through. Thinking could be detrimental to purpose. Sometimes it was better just to carry on. Usually he could avoid thoughts about his mother and father, but it was impossible to not think of Charity, because she was his only family, and she was still alive. Somewhere. But where? And why wasn’t she responding to his messages?

Keita put down the news section and picked up the sports pages. There was rugby on the front page, football and cricket on the next, a bit of tennis, and when he turned to the back page, Keita found two photos of himself at the Buttersby Marathon. In one, he was high-fiving a recreational runner. In the caption, Keita read:

Federal Immigration Minister Rocco Calder encourages winner Keita Ali, who registered under the alias “Roger Bannister.” The minister finished more than an hour behind Ali, in a time of 3:15:29. Calder placed twentieth out of 825 runners in his 50 to 55 age category, but as he stood after the race with a beer in one hand and a bagel with cream cheese in the other, he muttered that he owed five 750-millilitre bottles of single-malt scotch to friends who had bet he wouldn’t crack 3:15.

Above the main article was a photograph of Keita with his head turned as he crossed the finish line. He appeared to be looking for someone. His face didn’t reflect the thrill of victory. Worry framed his eyes and furrowed his brow.

It had not occurred to Keita that people in this country would
fuss over the alias he had chosen. He realized he’d been naive. Just a few weeks in the country and he’d already been photographed and named in a newspaper. It was going to be hard for him to stay hidden long. He wanted to hide as long as he could. He wanted to stay alive. But he had doubts about how long he could manage that, given that racing made him visible.

Keita stretched out and dozed off. When he awoke, he smiled at the boy sitting beside him. There was something comforting about being beside the youngster. Keita fell asleep again and woke hours later to the odd sensation that he was being examined. He cracked open an eye. He was slumped in his seat and his T-shirt had pulled slightly up, leaving his lower belly exposed. The boy had turned on the overhead light, and was peering at the golf-ball-sized lump of flesh protruding from Keita’s navel.

Keita sat up and tugged down his shirt.

“What’s that?” the boy said.

“A hernia,” Keita said. “A little bit of my insides sticking out at the navel.”

“Does it hurt?”

“A bit.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Gonna get it fixed?”

“What’s the big deal?” Keita said. “Don’t you have a navel?”

“Yeah, but mine doesn’t look like that. It’s flat. That’s you, isn’t it?” The boy was pointing to the back of the sports section on Keita’s lap.

Keita spoke quietly. “I’ll tell you a secret, if you promise not to tell anyone.”

“Let me guess,” the boy said. “You won that race?”

“It is me. But as I said, that’s a secret.”

“Not much of a secret, if it’s in the newspaper.”

“It’s a secret that the guy in the newspaper is me.”

“Huh. Anybody could see that. Does anybody else on this bus look like they’re straight out of Africa?”

“I’m not from Africa.”

“I’m making a documentary film on AfricTown and Zantorolanders in Freedom State. Want to be in it?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“You already are. I already filmed you.”

“When?”

“Okay, full disclosure,” the boy said. “I’m not a stalker or anything, but I said hello the other week when you were running in Ruddings Park. I watched you win that marathon today and filmed you while you were standing beside that woman in a wheelchair who works for the
Clarkson Evening Telegram
. And I just used the term ‘straight out of Africa’ to get you going. To break the ice. My teacher says that a good interviewer should strike with a question that’s so uncomfortable it is virtually incendiary.”

Keita took a second look at the boy.
Incendiary
. “Any other ‘incendiary’ questions?”

“Did you know you were high-fiving the federal minister of immigration?” The boy unfolded the newspaper and pointed to the photo.

“I saw that photo,” Keita said.

“He’s a refugee cowboy.”

“What?”

“He’s the guy who goes after illegal refugees. I had to do a project on him for our civics course. Given how fast you left that race, I’m figuring you don’t want to be high-fiving Rocco Calder. He is not your friend. But he’s a jock, so he’ll respect you for having beaten him.”

Keita studied the photo. The camera had caught the minister smiling, one hand high-fiving Keita and the other giving a thumbs-up. In the background, behind the minister and just entering the photo frame, was the woman who had also high-fived Keita.

“Since you know all about me, tell me your name.”

“John Falconer.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“This term, I’m making a film.”

“And in this country, children are allowed to travel unaccompanied?”

“I’m fifteen.”

Keita could see there would be no debating with this boy.

“Where do you study?”

“I attend a gifted school in Clarkson. But I live with my mom in AfricTown.”

“In AfricTown? With your mother?”

“Sure. When she’s well. It’s not just black folks in AfricTown. Others live there too. A few other white people. Mixed, too, like me. And it’s not all people without legal documentation, you know.”

“And your mother. You say she’s not well?”

“She’s in a psychiatric hospital.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Keita said. In his childhood, he had imagined Freedom State to be a land of riches and comfort where people had big houses, luxury cars and more than enough food.

“We’ll get through it,” John said. “What about your family in Zantoroland?”

“I don’t have any family left in Zantoroland,” Keita said.

The boy nodded quietly and gave him a sympathetic look.

“Gifted,” Keita said. “What does that mean?”

“You have to be smart to get into it.”

“You’re not shy about it.”

“I’d be a misfit in a normal school,” John said, then returned to his line of questioning. “Do you have a place to live?”

“Here and there,” Keita said.

“Why don’t you come to AfricTown? Are you, like, without documentation?”

“That’s a personal question.”

“If you need to hide,” John said, “it’s the place to go. Thousands of people who look just like you—though you have to watch out for police raids.”

“The police raid AfricTown?” Keita asked.

“Sometimes. But we can usually see them coming.” John explained that sentries with walkie-talkies kept watch over the road from Clarkson to AfricTown. “If you came to AfricTown, you could fit right in. Some hide there for years. Others, for a lifetime. I could show you around.”

“I’ll think it over,” Keita said.

“I will tell Lula DiStefano all about you. She’s the furthest thing from an angel, but she runs AfricTown, and I bet she would let you stay.”

Keita had heard of her. Even in Zantoroland, people knew of the so-called queen of AfricTown.

When he first got on the bus, Keita had hoped that the seat beside him would remain empty, so he could take some time to think quietly about how to locate his sister. But the boy brimmed with such energy that it comforted Keita. His last unhurried chat had been with his father, when Yoyo had told him to contact the marathon agent. But what would he say now?

Keita was sure of only two things. His father would have wanted him to do whatever was necessary to stay alive. And to find his sister.

“So why did you leave Zantoroland?” John asked.

“Political violence.”

“Care to elaborate?” John asked.

“Against dissidents, and against the Faloo people.” Keita swallowed.

“Are you a Faloo?”

“Yes, through my mother. But my father was a Bamileke, from Cameroon.”

“What happened to them?”

“Not . . . not right now.”

“What about other family members? Siblings?”

He paused again. “My sister, Charity, is studying at Harvard University, but I have not been able to reach her lately.”

“I’ve got a cell,” John said. “Why don’t I try her for you right
now?” Keita gave him Charity’s number. John dialed, but the phone just went straight to voice mail, as it always did.

“What do you miss about Zantoroland?”

Keita had to hand it to the kid—he was persistent. Keita shared a memory of watching his sister copy-edit the articles their father wrote for international newspapers and being offered five cents for each typo she corrected.