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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WEEKS EARLIER, AFTER KEITA’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.
KEITA 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.
“Is she proud of you?”
“She would say I frittered away my youth in pursuit of an adolescent dream.”
“That’s rough. But you are both pursuing your dreams.”
“Charity is. I will never be able to run for my country again, nor will I be in the Olympics.”
“Why not?”
“To do so, you need a country.”
“Maybe this will become your country.”
“Unlikely,” Keita said.
“Tell me more about what you miss. What was fun about your childhood?”
Keita sat back in his chair. “Once a week,” he said, “we would deliver a newspaper all over the city. We had to carry it everywhere, jumping on and off the tro-tro—a cross between a bush taxi and a bus—to drop it off at stores and newsstands. Our last stop was always at the Yagwa market, where we would each buy a mango and eat it right there. We had to wait until after we’d delivered the last newspaper, because the juice made our hands so messy. As we ate, we would watch women carrying fruit on platters on their heads, and Charity would usually find a reason to chide me. Older sisters are like that. ‘Running is useless,’ she would say. ‘The most famous Zantorolanders are runners,’ I would reply, ‘and th
ey ran their way into fame and jobs.’ And then she would stun me with some line that seemed to come straight from a textbook: ‘You are more than just another black male body. Use your mind. Elevate yourself.’ And I would say, ‘Would you just elevate that half of the mango into my hand, if you are not going to eat it?’”
John laughed. “At least you have a sister.”
Keita paused and looked out the window. Dawn had broken. The highway was getting busier, and instead of farmland, he now saw office towers and apartment buildings. All the tall buildings in the city of Yagwa were confined to less than a couple of square kilometres. Here, they stretched endlessly.
“How long before we get to Clarkson?” Keita asked.
“About forty-five minutes.”
“Do you think I could borrow your laptop?” Keita asked. “I want to see if my sister has emailed me.”
John turned it on, entered a password and handed over the laptop. Keita opened his email, expecting nothing. Instead, he found two messages sent earlier in the day. Each had been sent by one George Maxwell in Zantoroland, and each had the subject line “Re: Charity.” Keita sat up, startled. He quickly opened the first message.
Dear Brother Keita,
I am required by my jailers in Zantoroland to write to you.
In case you need convincing that this is me, when you were ten years old, you received a brand new pair of Meb Supreme track shoes. You were not allowed to wear them except when you ran, although you wore them to sweep the church the day Deacon Andrews was killed.
Keita, someone in the Pink Palace impersonated Dad and sent me an email from his computer, saying there was an emergency and he needed me immediately. I used up my savings to fly home but was arrested at the airport and have been detained for weeks.
I am using my jailers’ computer and am not at liberty to say much. But I need your help and know you will do all that you can.
Charity
His sister, in Zantoroland? Jailers? Not possible! Keita desperately hoped this was a prank, but he feared—somehow he knew—that it was not. And he believed he knew what was coming next. He checked the second email.
Dear Mr. Ali,
The Republic of Zantoroland has detained your sister, Charity Ali, on suspicion of treason. I have been asked to act as an intermediary. Should you wish to secure her release, you must wire $15,000 in U.S. funds to us, at a bank account to be provided later, with a payment deadline of June 22, 2018. Please confirm that you have received this communication. Undoubtedly, you desire to ensure your sister’s safety.
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