The Illegal

by Lawrence Hill

  “No wonder,” she said. “I hear you broke the course record.”

  “Uh-huh.” Keita had wanted to set the record. Now all he had to do was collect his winnings and get out of town before anybody caught up with him. But after marathons, race officials took their time about handing out prize money. They wanted to have most of the runners across the finish line before they held the prize ceremony. For Keita, that would mean a two-hour wait. As much as Keita found the marathon a dance with death—an exploration of just how much pain a person could tolerate—the suffering lasted only a little more than two hours. He couldn’t understand how any recreational runner could keep going for four hours.

  Paula leaned deeper into his upper leg. Keita groaned.

  “You’ve got a sore ham,” she said.

  As she massaged, Keita relaxed under the pressure of her hands. He thought of his mother and father and the last time he’d seen them together. They were having tea on the two chairs on the front porch, debating about whether plane trees were native to Zantoroland or a foreign species. Yoyo said he could spot an invader any day of the week. What did he know, his mother said, being a foreign interloper himself? Keita remembered the sound of their laughter. It was like a duet. The laugh they made together was Keita’s purest notion of home. Home had a door, and as it opened and Keita walked through it, he felt an ocean of tears welling inside him. So he walked back out and closed the door gently behind him, and he came back to Paula, who was talking still about the tightness in his hamstrings.

  “The left is tighter than the right,” she said. He sank into the pressure and allowed her to cause him pain without tensing his muscles.

  “When I run hard, it tightens up and starts to cramp,” he said.

  Paula slicked her hands with massage oil. It sounded like people doing it in bed. He hadn’t been with a woman in ages. In this country, he wondered if he ever would. She slipped over to his other leg. The one that didn’t hurt.

  “So are you on the national team?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you beat all of them today. Just exactly where are you—?”

  “Kintermore,” he lied. Kintermore was located one hour to the west. Whenever people asked where he was from, he named a different city in Freedom State—but never Clarkson.

  “Kintermore? And before that?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said.

  “We’ve got time,” she said, but he did not reply. She spent a few minutes working on his good hamstring and then asked if he wanted her to return to the sore leg.

  “Sure,” he said. He could feel her palm digging into a knot at the top of his thigh.

  “So, have you been saved?” she said.

  “Mmm,” he moaned. Keita wondered if Paula would be interested in seeing him later that day.

  Miraculously, she asked, “Are you free this evening?”

  “I believe so,” Keita said. He had been planning to leave town on the eastbound intercity bus leaving that night, but if luck smiled down on him, he could always leave in the morning.

  Her hands slid down to his calves. “This calf is quite loose,” she said. “Amazing, after a marathon. You should see the calves I meet up with.”

  “Only the hamstrings cause me trouble.”

  “There is a solution,” she said.

  “And that is?”

  “Are you ready to take Jesus into your heart?”

  Keita flipped over on the table and looked straight at Paula. She was smiling and confident. Just behind her was a large poster on a stand. He had missed it earlier: Christian Massage Centre.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Are you ready for Jesus? There’s a gathering at the Church of the Redeemer tonight.”

  His twitching hamstring escalated into a full-blown cramp. He was low on liquids. That was the problem. Dehydrated. As they said in this country, short on electrolytes. He swung his legs off the table and put his weight on the cramping leg.

  “I just came for the massage,” he said. “I didn’t see your sign.”

  Her mouth collapsed into a frown.

  “Is Roger Bannister in there?” A loud male voice announced itself outside the curtain.

  It startled Keita, but at least it was not the voice he had been fearing.

  “Is that you?” Paula asked him.

  Before Keita could answer, the voice continued. “The race winner. I want the race winner. Is he in there?”

  “He’ll be out in a jiffy,” Paula said.

  Keita would leave on the night bus, after all. “Thanks for the massage,” he said.

  Paula pulled back the curtain.

  THE RACE DIRECTOR HAD LONG GREY HAIR AND WORE JEANS and sandals. He was slim, tanned and wrinkled. The word “hippie” came to mind. When he was a boy, Keita had heard from Yoyo that hippies were long-haired, anti-war Americans and Canadians who in the 1960s and 1970s ditched their jobs, took drugs, listened to electric music and believed in “free love.” Hitchcock directed Keita to his tent nearby and offered a chair. But sitting would pitch his hamstring into a full-fledged revolt. Keita couldn’t afford to fall. Someone might call an ambulance. And then there would be questions: Who was he? Where were his papers?

  “Could I have a drink with fruit, sugar, something with . . .”

  “Electrolytes,” Hitchcock said.

  “Exactly,” Keita said. “My hamstring is revolting.”

  “Hamstring revolting, is it?” Hitchcock chuckled. “Right, then.” He ripped open his tent flap and shouted for his aide to bring him three bottles of electrolytes. They came in a minute. Hitchcock put one bottle in Keita’s hand, but Keita hesitated, so Hitchcock took the bottle, unscrewed the cap and handed it back. “Drink, man,” he said. “And sit down.”

  Hitchcock studied Keita intently. He reached forward. Keita flinched as if he were expecting to be hit and dropped the bottle.

  “Take it easy there. I couldn’t hurt a flea,” Hitchcock said. “Steady. I’m going to help you.” He opened another bottle of the drink, placed it in Keita’s hand and brought it gently but firmly to Keita’s mouth. Tipping the bottle up, he told him to drink.

  Keita felt hot. He felt cold. He couldn’t control the trembling. His vision was blurry.

  “We’ve got one or two angry people outside,” Hitchcock said. “Because you swept in and scooped up the prize money. But it’s a free country. Prize goes to the fittest, and you were that today. The second-place finisher is the third-ranked marathoner in this country. Ran in the last Olympic Games. The guy who finished fourth, Billy Deeds—he was the one bad-mouthing you up the big hill—is the best ten-thousand-metre runner in this country. He’s one helluva runner, but he blew a gasket today. What did you do to him out there?”

  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 an
d 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 r
ight 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.

  AFTER 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!”