The Illegal

by Lawrence Hill

  He finally fell back to sleep, only to dream of having no place to stay in Freedom State and being bounced from flophouse to brothel to park bench until he finally had no choice but to take refuge in a massive sewer. It was a cavernous culvert deep underground. You could sleep in the concrete vault, but you knew that the sewage could come flooding in at any time, and when it came, it came torrentially. Each time he woke, he tried to distract himself so that the nightmares would not resume when he fell asleep. But they kept coming back.

  KEITA ROSE BEFORE DAWN AND RAN FOR TWO HOURS. IT WAS the time of day that police officers and immigration officials were least likely to be looking for Illegals, but he stayed off the roads as much as he could, running instead in Serena and Ruddings Parks. He gradually relaxed and let his mind drift, and he even sang, and began to feel immeasurably calmer.

  By the time he had returned and showered and dressed, Ivernia was making tea and toast, and she invited him to join her. As they talked, she dunked her toast in her tea.

  “The very best thing in the world to dunk is a madeleine,” Keita said. “And Zantorolanders make the best madeleines in the world.”

  “Proust wrote a sort of ode to the madeleine and the way it ignites memory,” Ivernia said. “Did you know that?”

  “Do I know it? My friend, the finest bakery in Yagwa posts quotes from Remembrance of Things Past on its walls. On Main Street, a quote from that very book is etched into a beautiful pedestrian walkway: ‘She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called “petites madeleines,” which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim’s shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake . . .’”

  “The writings of Proust are displayed on the sidewalks of Zantoroland? Imagine!” Ivernia said.

  In this country, they seemed to hang their utensils overhead. Mr. Beech’s ashes were in the urn hanging in the veranda, and here in the kitchen, seven pots and frying pans hung from hooks screwed into a ceiling beam. When Ivernia made tea, she covered the teapot with a sort of woollen coat. You knew you were in a wealthy country when they dressed both dogs and teapots in coats.

  Keita shivered, and Ivernia noticed immediately.

  “You’re cold,” she said.

  Keita said he was frequently cold in this country. Ivernia disappeared for a moment and returned with a yellow long-sleeved cotton sweater with a hood. She said her husband used to wear it when he was sitting on the veranda in cool weather, and she might as well put it to good use.

  “How long ago did he die?” Keita asked.

  “Six years.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She smiled at him. “I’ve gotten used to some things. To getting up and going to bed alone and not having him around.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to not having my parents around.”

  They drank their tea quietly. Silence with another person took a certain depth of trust, and Keita was surprised at how easy it felt with Ivernia.

  USING IVERNIA’S COMPUTER, KEITA EMAILED HIS SISTER AND George Maxwell. No answer. In the afternoon, he went out for his second run of the day and spent an hour stretching to loosen his sore muscles. For dinner that night, he offered to make Poulet Chez Yoyo.

  “What on earth is that?”

  “A dish my father taught me. I need two breasts of chicken, with the bone in. Carrots, potatoes, Spanish onion, garlic, a dozen big ripe tomatoes, olive oil, white wine, fresh basil, rosemary, curry, salt, pepper, two plantains and peanut butter.”

  “Peanut butter?”

  “Trust me.”

  Ivernia had the ingredients delivered to her door. Then she sat in the kitchen and watched intently while he worked. First, he chopped the onions into fine pieces and sautéed them in olive oil. Then he diced the dozen tomatoes—it only took a minute to reduce them to a runny mound—and added them to the frying pan to simmer on a low heat. He browned the chicken breasts in a separate frying pan, put them to the side, and washed and scrubbed the potatoes and carrots and cut them into small pieces. Once the tomatoes had been reduced in volume by about half, he added three tablespoons of peanut butter and stirred in the spices. Then he added the carrots, potatoes and chicken and cooked them until done.

  While they ate the fabulous Poulet Chez Yoyo, Ivernia had two glasses of wine. Keita stuck to water.

  “I see that you eat slowly and chew your food carefully,” she said.

  “Yes, I can appreciate it more that way.”

  “Do you never drink?” she asked.

  “Rarely.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  It would interfere with his training, he said. But in truth, he knew lots of runners who drank, at least from time to time. Mostly, he didn’t drink because he was afraid he would not be in control of his faculties at the very moment he might need them. He couldn’t forget that he was in hiding, and that he might be found at any moment.

  The doorbell rang. Ivernia sighed, pushed herself up from her chair, walked to the door and opened it. Keita heard a voice before he could see the man.

  “Mother, if you just gave me a key, this would not be necessary.”

  “Could you come another time?”

  “Smells good. Who’s cooking? You have company, don’t you? Who is it?”

  “Jimmy—”

  Keita heard footsteps in the hall, and Ivernia’s son walked into the kitchen.

  “Hello,” Keita said to a man with long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  Jimmy wore jeans and a leather motorcycle jacket. His tiny blue eyes were almost buried under a protruding brow. It was as if his brow were a cliff and the eyes were birds hiding underneath the ledge. Keita had imagined that Ivernia’s son would be boyish. But that was silly, of course, because she was an old woman. Though her son was dressed like a busker, he was pushing sixty.

  “Who are you?” the son said.

  “Roger,” Keita said. He stood up to shake the son’s hand, but the man turned away.

  “Mom, who is this?”

  “Ivernia,” Keita said. “Thank you very much for the dinner. I shall leave you to your visitor.” Suddenly, it seemed paramount that the son not discover that Keita was living there.

  Ivernia put her hand on his shoulder. “Sit down. I haven’t served coffee yet. Or dessert.”

  “Mother,” Jimmy said, “what is this man doing here?”

  “I prepared for your mother a delicious dish,” Keita said, “with chicken, vegetables and peanut . . .”

  Jimmy put his palm up. “You ate, I got it. Mother, is this a home invasion?”

  “I’ll show you a home invasion,” Ivernia said. She left the room, returned with a broom and whacked her son on the knee.

  “Ouch. Oh come on, Mom, stop that.”

  “Get out, Jimmy. You cannot bust into my house and boss around my guests.”

  “Okay, okay. Who is he? Just tell me that and I’ll go.”

  “Roger,” she said.

  “Roger who?”

  “Roger Bannister.”

  “Very funny. How did he get in here?”

  “He came up the stairs.”

  “Up the stairs? He broke into the basement and came up to get you?”

  “Jimmy, he lives here. He lives with me. He is renting a room in the basement. And you are on your way out.”

  Ivernia took her son’s arm and led him out the door. Keita was astonished. In his country, you had to worry about thugs and politicians showing up at the door. Here, sons invaded their mothers’ homes, and mothers hit their sons with brooms! Keita did not tell her that in his own country, a son behaving so rudely to his mother would be shunned.

  WHAT IVERNIA DID NOT TELL KEITA WAS THAT HER SON HAD contacted government authorities on numerous occasions. Jimmy had not held a proper job in thirty years, but he could fire off letters of complaint with the best of th
em. And he was not above firing off another.

  After they had finished washing the dishes, Keita said good night and went downstairs to his room. Minutes later, the doorbell rang again. Ivernia went to the door and looked through the peephole. A police officer!

  “Is everything all right?” he said, when she opened the door.

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “We had a report that you were acting irrationally and had an unwelcome visitor.” He checked his notes. “A black man, possibly from AfricTown.”

  “My son must have called you. I am fine, and there is no invasion.”

  “Then why did he call?”

  “My son is angry because I won’t let him stay. He wants to take over my bank accounts and house and run my life. He is pushing sixty years of age, and he has the emotional development of a six-year-old.”

  The officer smiled. “Sounds like my staff sergeant. Sure you’re all right?” He searched her face.

  “I’m just peachy, apart from the fact that I’m five steps from the grave and my arthritis is acting up.” Ivernia did not actually have arthritis, but it seemed like a convincing thing to say.

  The officer smiled. “Well, madam, it’s good to know you’re okay, and now I have one less thing to do.”

  “Always good to hack away at that to-do list,” she said.

  “Keep your doors locked,” the officer said. “You can never be too safe.”

  “I’ve never felt safer. Good night.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IN THE COMMUNITY PAPER AT IVERNIA’S HOUSE, KEITA noticed an advertisement for the 5K Clarkson City Fun Run, which offered each of the top male and female runners a five-hundred-dollar gift certificate to a running equipment store. That seemed like a good bet, and a place to start.

  Anton Hamm would have to wait. First, Keita had to rescue Charity. He would make a bit from his monthly salary from Ivernia Beech, but that was far from enough. To earn the rest from races, he would have to keep well fed, rested and fit. Keita needed new shoes and knew they would help him avoid injury, but he didn’t want to touch his savings.

  The next day, Keita paid ten dollars to enter the race and get a bib and a computer chip for his running shoe. He edged to the starting line, where a thousand runners waited for the starter’s gun. The key to a local race was to win, but not by such a margin that he drew much attention.

  The gun went off, and Keita spotted a lithe black man among the front runners. Smooth stride. Landing easily on the balls of his feet. Damn. Keita had competition. He ran right behind the pack of front runners to get a good look at them. He could tell almost everything he needed to know by watching the runners for four hundred metres. Two looked like high school students who would fall off the pace within a kilometre. Two others were already breathing hard and slapping the pavement. But the lithe runner meant business. No socks in his racing shoes. An easy, smooth gait. Arms pumping efficiently. Keita couldn’t hear his breath.

  By the second kilometre, the four Freedom Statonians had fallen off the lead, and it was just the African, with Keita keeping watch a few metres behind. At the midpoint of the race, Keita decided to surge up a hill and throw in a 2:45 kilometre, to see if his competitor could follow. The man was young. He looked like a university student, perhaps brought over on scholarship. He stuck right to Keita’s shoulder. Keita then ran a 2:40 kilometre, and he was hurting, and when it was nearly done, with just five hundred metres to go, the competitor was still on his shoulder. One hundred metres from the finishing line, the opponent kicked and Keita could not respond. The other runner pulled ten metres ahead and crossed the finish line first. The winner fell into a light jog after the race, heading back out in the direction of the finishing runners—the third-place runner was more than a minute behind. Keita ran out with him and shook his hand.

  “Good race,” Keita said.

  “Thanks, man, you’re damn fit too.”

  “On scholarship?”

  “Yes, in Texas. I flew into Freedom State for a week, to visit my aunt. She paid for the trip.”

  “What do you run in Texas?”

  “The 5K is my specialty,” the fellow said.

  “Just my luck,” Keita said. “Where are you from?”

  “Kenya. You?”

  “Zantoroland.”

  “On scholarship?” the fellow asked.

  “Just living here now, trying to stay fit.”

  “Well, take my word for it, you made me run hard today.”

  “Obviously, I didn’t make you run hard enough.”

  “You’re the marathoner who won at Buttersby, aren’t you?”

  Keita nodded.

  “Runners are talking about you. You’re the one who skipped out on Anton Hamm, right?”

  “He isn’t too pleased,” Keita said.

  “Well, he has a terrible reputation, so you did well to leave him.”

  The Kenyan from Texas scooped up the prize. Unfortunately, there was no second prize, although volunteers barbecued hamburgers and served coffee and pop.

  A woman moved in beside Keita to take a hamburger and gave him a smile. He had seen her before. Young, confident, coffee-coloured complexion. He had seen her cross the finish line: first female finisher and fourth overall.

  “Good run,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  “Right back at you. You were second, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What time did you run?”

  “Thirteen minutes, fifty-six seconds,” Keita said.

  “You broke the course record by almost four minutes,” she said.

  “Technically, the guy who broke the course record was the winner.”

  “You broke it too; you just didn’t win.”

  “What was your time?” Keita asked.

  “Seventeen minutes, fifty-seven seconds.”

  “So you broke the course record too.”

  “I did.”

  “So you get the five-hundred-dollar gift certificate?”

  “Actually, eight hundred. They threw in another three hundred for breaking the record.”

  “You can get a whole lot of stuff with that.”

  She smiled. “It’s a good prize. But I’ve pretty well got the shoes and stuff I need.”

  “I’d been hoping for that prize too, but a better man came out today.”

  She smiled and put her hands on her hips. “Didn’t you win the Buttersby Marathon in some crazy record time? You high-fived me on the big hill. I was fifty minutes behind you at the finish line.”

  Keita suddenly remembered her and the way her hand touched his during the marathon. He laughed. “Are you training for a particular race?”

  “I’ve got my eye on a fifteen hundred metres later this summer. I’m doing some longer races these days, for endurance.”

  “Do you get much for winning?” he said.

  “Kudos from all my bosses and hopefully a promotion down the road. Got any tips for me? On how to run faster?” She gave a friendly smile.

  “Sure. When you are tired and ready to give up? That’s the time to go faster.”

  She touched his elbow. “You’re funny.”

  “Or you could follow a strategy that works well for me,” he said.

  “And what might that be?”

  “Start out real slow, and then slow down.”

  “Right, like you know anything about that.” She laughed easily and energetically in a way that caused a stirring in Keita’s groin. “Say, would you like to go out for an easy jog sometime? On a weekend, maybe?”

  “Perhaps sometime,” Keita said.

  “Okay, perhaps I’ll catch you a bit later,” she said, sliding away into the crowd.

  Keita ate another hamburger, drank three bottles of water, and left.

  Later that day, he found a handwritten note in the open, outside pocket of his knapsack. Congrats again on the run. Give me a call if you’d like to go for an easy jog sometime. Saturday mornings are good. I don’t need t
his, so enjoy. Candace Freixa, 555-588-2345. Folded into the note was her gift certificate to the running equipment store.

  CANDACE DIDN’T THINK HE WOULD CALL. HE HAD SEEMED shy, and he had given the impression that he barely noticed her. Guys talked her up all the time. They stared at her breasts, checked out her ass, but that’s all they cared about. If a guy was hitting on Candace Freixa, then he was almost certainly the wrong type of guy. But something in the way the marathoner held himself, looking into her eyes, not gazing at her chest, and the way he laughed when she said she knew he had won the Buttersby Marathon, made her think he would be fun to get to know. Okay, that might have been too much, folding the gift certificate into his pocket. But no harm done.

  Candace had grown up in AfricTown among pickpockets and had picked a few dozen pockets herself by the time she got caught at age thirteen and taken to youth court. Fortunately, she was let off with a warning and paired with the world’s best social worker. If it hadn’t been for that social worker, Candace might never have joined a track club or even finished high school. Or studied criminology. Or become a police officer, with a decent salary, on the community patrol. Riding a bike. Riding a horse. Walking the streets. They used her for all the roles that made her visible. See? her police force seemed desperate to trumpet. See the black woman in uniform? See how we are a multicultural police force?

  Candace had been on the force for five years and had made sergeant. Well, with some luck, she’d get off the security detail soon. People often assumed she was Portuguese, like her mother. But her looks worked in the police force. They loved the black in her. She was ethnic, young, had a BA and an MA, and knew lots of people in the worst parts of town—all these things made her a catch in their eyes. These days they had her attending some press conferences, and she assumed they were grooming her for a role as a public face of the police force. Already, she had taken advantage of professional development opportunities to ride a horse, learn martial arts and pass a test as an advanced markswoman. She would bide her time until they let her transfer. Public Affairs. That would be an ideal job for a people person like Candace. Staff sergeant of Public Affairs in five years—that was her goal!