Sali and The Five Kingdoms

by Oumar Dieng

  No vans with tinted windows, I thought before backing into a parking space. In case I have to get out in a hurry, I reasoned.

  The glass doors of the pizzeria swung open. A jovial and effervescent group of teenagers emerged from the store in rapid succession and headed toward the parking lot. A large green-and-white sign hung above the entrance. Through the glass door, I could see patrons seated sparsely in the café. An overwhelming smell of pizza dough and spices tickled my nostrils as I pushed through the door and stepped into the café. The room was well lit; half a dozen dome-shaped chandeliers hung from the warehouse-style ceiling.

  My entrance did not seem to attract anyone’s attention. I scanned the room, convinced that somehow I would be able to identify who this mysterious man was. In the center of the room, two men were talking and laughing loudly over a half-eaten pepperoni pizza. To my left a woman sitting across from two petulant children was fending off a third child in soccer gear who was reaching over the table, trying to get at the condiments the woman was protecting. The child yelled, “Gimme it! Gimme it!” to which the woman, who I presumed was their mother, fired back, “No. You stop it this instant!”

  A trio of young men who looked like high school students was hanging out at a corner table off to the right. Two workers behind the counter were busy attending to the freshly baked sizzling pizzas and organizing delivery boxes. The various appliances surrounding them were hissing, buzzing, and beeping loudly.

  After a moment of indecision, I found a table at the end of the room, directly under one of the chandeliers. From my vantage point, I could see the entire room, including the exit and a good portion of the parking lot. I don’t know what this man looks like, I thought. He is going to have to find me.

  I had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity. Every time someone walked into the room, I stared at them, paying attention to every aspect of their appearance, trying to tie their demeanor to the fictive image I had in my head of what this man might looked like based on his succinct words in the note. As I watched people in the room come and go, time seemed to stand still.

  People came in the café, ordered food from the counter, picked up the food, and walked out or sat down to eat. Then they left. It was a rhythmic choreography of life driven by the primary urge to soothe one’s hunger, and a sense of community that pushed us to want to be in a public place with people that we thought mattered. This is not gonna last, I thought to myself. Everyone eventually leaves, goes away or disappears. Like my parents did. It’s all ephemeral …

  My observations turned into annoyance. “Where the hell is this man!” I whispered while looking at the clock on the wall. Eight fifteen, the clock read. “This is ridiculous,” I continued to whisper under my breath. “I am out of here!” I got up and pushed my chair back in.

  Suddenly a hand gripped my forearm firmly.

  “Hey! What the hell!” I yelled. “Let go of me!” I made a fist, quickly moved my arm forward, then swiftly pulled it downward, escaping the man’s grip. Muscle memory took over. I immediately planted my foot forward, knee bent forward, shifting my full weight while simultaneously extending both palms forward, striking the man in the chest. He stumbled backward, tripped over a chair, and fell to the floor. A folder he was holding slammed to the floor and opened, exposing several pages of hand-drawn graphics with mathematical formulas and illegible scribbles.

  The café was dead quiet. The brouhaha I’d caused drew everyone’s attention. The two men who were seated at the center of the room stood up.

  “Is everything OK, miss?” one of them asked.

  “Yes, I’m OK.”

  Not convinced, he insisted. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks for asking.”

  My heart was beating fast, my muscles tense from the adrenaline rush. I turned to look at the man, my fists raised. The man was more preoccupied with the folder and papers on the floor than me. He frantically picked up the pages and stuffed them erratically back into the brown folder. No longer feeling threatened, I headed for the exit but heard my name. “Sali. Wait!”

  I turned around, surprised. The man held the folder against his chest with both arms as if to protect it from someone.

  “Wait. Are you the one who left me the note?” I asked.

  He put his index finger to his lips. “Shh, not so loud,” he said, nearly whispering. “Yes, that was me.”

  “Shoot. I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was you. You’re late!”

  The man sat down at the table I had just left. I joined him. He looked like he was in his fifties. He appeared frazzled. His hair was uncombed and gray. His clothes were untidy, much like his short beard. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him for the life of me.

  “Who are you?” I asked the man.

  He grinned nervously, reached over the table, and extended his hand, causing me to flinch. “I am Dr. Freitz. Simon Freitz. Geologist.”

  I looked at the scars on his extended hand, then carefully shook it. “Listen,” I began. “I almost did not come. But if there is a chance that …” I stopped mid-sentence, realizing that I was about to share with a stranger too much of my emotions. I didn’t want him to know just how desperate I was to learn the truth about Mom. I rephrased my question. “You said you know what happened to my mother. What do you know? Why have you waited for so long to come forward?”

  The man looked around and leaned in. “I used to work with your father …”

  “You know my father? Are you friends?”

  “Well,” the man continued, “I was his mentor. When your father started working at Galactic Teranga, I took him under my wing and taught him everything I know.”

  Impatient, I interrupted the man again. “What does this have to do with my mother?” The man hesitated, leading me to plead. “Please. If you know anything, please tell me!”

  “Alright. I will tell you what I know, but you must promise to keep it to yourself.” He paused and waited for me to agree.

  “Fine!”

  “How much do you know about your father’s work?” asked the man.

  “Not a lot. I know that he works in a lab and does experiments on plants.”

  “Your father is one of the leading geneticists at GT. He was part of my team.”

  “Your team?” I asked, trying to figure out where he was going with the story.

  “A team of four: a biochemist, a botanist, a plant geneticist, and me, a geologist. Each of us had a specific task to do. Together we were working to come up with a way to enhance a wheat seed so that it could resist harsh weather conditions.”

  “You mean like a super-seed?” I said.

  “Yes, exactly! Only these seeds would survive the harshest conditions, like the ones found in space. After years of research, we managed to make some progress and extended the life of a wheat seed without water to up to three weeks, under extreme heat and temperatures below freezing. But ultimately the company felt the project was too costly, so they decided to pull the plug. Two years ago we received soil samples from our office in Costa Rica for analysis. Your father oversaw testing the samples. He used the enhanced seed with the soil, and something unbelievable happened: the seed grew!”

  “But wasn’t the seed supposed to grow?” I asked. “Seeds do grow when you put them in soil. That’s kinda how it works.”

  The man put his hands on top of mine and pulled me in and whispered, “He did it! Your father succeeded!” His eyes were wide open. His eyelids pushed up his hairy eyebrows, defining them even more.

  I traced the three profound horizontal wrinkles on his forehead before shrugging my shoulders. “I am sorry. I don’t get it.”

  “Your father managed to make the enhanced seed work.”

  I pulled my hands back from his and buried them under the table. “My father created a super-seed?” I repeated, somewhat incredulous.

  “Yes! That’s what I am telling you. He tested it too. He exposed it to a battery of tests that we designed, and it exc
eeded expectations!”

  “Well, that’s great news for GT. I am sure they will sell it at a premium and make billions.”

  “No! You don’t get it, do you?” said the man, somewhat agitated, and looking around the room. His excitement turned. “Imagine a seed that’s resistant to anything: radiation, fire, the Arctic, lack of oxygen, hell, even floods. It would mean the end of hunger and famine for billions of people!” He stopped to catch his breath, his voice oddly full of fear. “GT does not want to sell the super-seed.” He looked up at my forehead. I felt myself frowning.

  “Why would they keep something like that to themselves? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Sure, it does!” insisted the man. “If you were running a global research company and you had not had any significant breakthroughs or any notable innovations, but you discover something that would give you a strong competitive advantage and put every product on the market to shame, would you just release it?”

  I hesitated to answer, unsure if this was a rhetorical question.

  He continued. “Of course not! You would release it at the perfect time. After you made sure that no one else has the knowledge to do what you did.”

  As I listened to the man talk, I began to wonder if he truly knew anything about Mom. “This is great and all, but what about my mom?”

  “I am getting to that,” he said, putting the folder in front of him on the table. He dug through the bag, pulling out a piece of paper and putting it in front of me. “You see this? This is what makes it all possible.”

  I turned and adjusted the paper to take a closer look. “A chemical formula?”

  “Yes!” he said. “Your father and his team came up with it. But this is just part of the formula.”

  “What happened to the rest?” I asked.

  The man paused and looked around once more before speaking. “The complete formula was broken down into three pieces …”

  “Why?”

  “Two words: corporate greed,” he continued. “Whoever has the missing formulas knows where your mom is.”

  “How did you get this formula? How do I know this isn’t a made-up story?”

  The man looked at me, visibly offended. He snatched the formula out of my hands, placed it in his folder, and stood up. “Look, kid. I am trying to help, but if you don’t believe me, talk to your dad. Make sure you ask him about CR-17.” He quickly stood up and headed for the door. “By the way, the soil samples were collected and sent by your mother, from Costa Rica.” He stormed out.

  “Wait, what about Costa Rica?” I said while going after him. “My mother did not work for GT, my father did. Did you even work with my father?”

  The man stopped briefly, looked back, and repeated, “You really need to talk to your father.” He ran his arm across his chest where I had struck him. He then pulled his sleeve up and pushed the tiny button on the side of his digital watch. He carefully reset another watch and silenced a third from which an ear-piercing beep emanated. “You know,” he said, “you really should talk to your father.”

  5

  Orientation

  I was moving quickly through a strange landscape, covering a long distance, and it felt odd, fuzzy and disorientating. I looked down at my elongated feet, which weren’t touching the ground, floating. I couldn’t quite make out my surroundings, but the environment felt strangely familiar. The wind was blowing gently across my face, soothingly. The sky was changing from day to night. It was filled with stars and unfamiliar constellations. The green and lush landscape turned red and transformed into red mountains and tumbling rocks; fire was falling from the sky. I felt a presence behind me; it was as though someone was watching. I turned around and looked at the horizon. The moon! It’s so big! So close to the horizon.

  Suddenly the landscape disappeared, and I found myself floating over a large body of water. The moon, the sky, the trees, and the mountains were gone. I saw the moon out of the corner of my eye, and my senses tingle in a premonitory prelude; I felt as though something was out of place. I began to fall into the water; I began to drown. It was never-ending; it was painful. I was out of breath. Something was pulling me in and I couldn’t fight it. It was getting stronger and stronger. Everything was turning black when a pasty white creature with a strange, slightly elongated figure swam to me. I felt safe for a moment and saw a familiar and safe place. But it was too late; I lost consciousness as the creature tried to reach me.

  I woke up gasping for air and felt a sharp pain as I sat up. “Ow! What the heck was that?” I said under my breath, grimacing in pain as I touched my temple, head down. I opened my eyes, and slowly three words imprinted on the bedsheet came into focus: “Solar Ionization Reactor,” a nomenclature describing a key feature of the TIE fighter on my Star Wars–themed bedsheets. A bright light illuminating the bed drew my attention. I looked at my feet, still under the sheets, and followed the rays’ ascending trajectory to the gap between the curtains, gently flapping in the morning breeze ushered in by the half-open window.

  Underneath the window, my collection of crystals that Mom had given me was brighter than usual. They must have caught the light from the window, I thought. I touched my neck to make sure that the crystal pendant necklace Mom had also given me was still there. Mom had had one just like it and I couldn’t stand losing it. I felt connected to her wearing it.

  I looked around the room and sighed in relief once I realized that I was still in my bedroom. “It was just a dream,” I muttered. “The same fricking dream!” I leaned back and purposely collapsed onto my bed covers.

  Suddenly a knock echoed through the door.

  “Sali, are you awake? You’re gonna be late for your first day!” warned Grandma. Seconds later she knocked again and stridently rushed into the room. “Did you hear me? I’m coming in.” She walked into the room and headed straight for the window, pulled open the curtain, and turned around to face me. “My goodness, child,” she said, “you look like you’ve just seen a ghost! Are you alright?”

  “It’s nothing, Grandma. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure don’t look like you’re fine. Another bad dream?”

  “Yes, Grandma. The very same one.”

  Grandma softened her tone as she sat down on the edge of the bed. I sat up as well, sheets twisted to my waist, and my back against the headboard. Grandma placed the back of her hand on my forehead, took my head in her hands, and brought her face within inches of mine. She studied my eyes meticulously and delivered a diagnosis. “You are a tad warm,” she said. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

  “No, Grandma. Besides, I just woke up. You know I’m not a morning person.”

  “You poor child, God knows you’ve suffered enough.”

  “They’re happening more often, Grandma … a lot more often,” I admitted.

  When I made my way down the stairs, Grandma was busy making breakfast, while Grandpa was sitting at the dining-room table, his favorite coffee mug in hand. It was a white porcelain mug with an artistic rendering of the Eiffel Tower on its side. I greeted Grandpa and headed into the kitchen, which opened up into the dining room. Grandma rushed toward me and blocked the way. “Don’t come in!” she said. “I have a surprise for you. I made you one of your favorite foods.”

  I could see that she was determined not to let me in the kitchen, her hand still in the way. “OK. I will go sit down.”

  Moments later Grandma came into the dining room holding two plates. She announced solemnly, “Crêpes aux fraises!” She put one plate in front of me and the other in front of Grandpa. “Bon appétit!” she said as she put down the last plate. I grabbed a fork and sliced through the thin pancake and drowned it in maple syrup before I took a bite. “So?” said Grandma, who had been waiting for either Grandpa or me to give her feedback on her cooking.

  “I like the strawberries,” I said.

  “What about the crêpes?”

  “I like them too. They’re good. Thank you, Grandma.”

  She loo
ked at Grandpa, who nodded in agreement.

  I ate crêpes when Mom made them. They were her favorite food, not mine. But there was no point hurting Grandma’s feelings after she’d gone to the trouble of making the food.

  “Sali, could you turn that up?”

  “Yes, Grandpa.” I stood up and waved my hand in front of the control panel built into the dining-room wall, activating the artificial-intelligence control. I then issued a command. “Alex? Increase volume in zone one.” The volume increasingly went up. Grandpa liked having the news on in the background in case any newsworthy headlines came across the projected screen.

  A headline was flashing on the screen: “WORKER HOSPITALIZED AFTER BEE STRING.” The news station had a “breaking news” panel discussing the issue. “… in a surprising turn of events, local authorities discovered a beehive at a local construction site in downtown Minneapolis. The colony was discovered after a worker disturbed what he thought was a bird’s nest. The worker suffered several bee strings and was taken to a local hospital. Scientists are baffled by the sudden reappearance of the bees that were thought to be extinct thirty-nine years ago …”

  “Isn’t this unbelievable?” said Grandpa.

  “I wonder where they could have gone all this time? Thirty-nine years, can you imagine? I can’t imagine that some people have never seen a bee before,” added Grandma.

  “That is amazing,” I said, watching the footage. Several ambulances were on the scene, and men in hazmat suits. The footage showed them carefully moving the bees into a container and into the back of a CDC vehicle, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

  “Thank God! Maybe now we will get some real honey instead of the synthetic stuff they make in labs,” said Grandpa.

  The news coverage went on in the background, with the anchorman saying, “Joining us now is Dr. Fawaz, professor of apiology at the University of Minnesota. Professor, welcome to the show. What do you make of the return of the bees? Were the bees really extinct, or did we get that wrong?”