“We serve lunch here, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, but there are a few rules. You have to wash your hands, be orderly, take only what you are given, not bring any drugs, alcohol or weapons, show up sober, be courteous and help clean up. You also have to bring your own plate and cutlery.”
“What does it cost?” Keita asked.
“It’s free.”
“Who pays for it, then?”
“Lula. She says the rent she charges for the containers includes a food tax, which she uses to pay a team of people to go to market and buy groceries.”
A woman came up and tapped Keita on his shoulder. “Are you Keita, the runner?”
Keita was stunned to be recognized. “I am.”
“I have a teenage son. Thirteen. Very fast runner. Can you teach him? He wants to be a famous marathoner.”
“I would help if I could,” Keita said, “but I don’t have a place to live yet, and I don’t even know if I’ll be living here.”
“Please live here,” the woman said. “We need someone like you to teach our boys to be great. Like you.”
“I’m far from great,” Keita said.
“You won the Buttersby Marathon,” she said. “Two hours, nine minutes and thirty-six seconds!”
“Thank you,” Keita said, “but—”
DeNorval steered Keita away. “Come. Meet Xenia’s mother.”
They approached a young woman serving rice from one of the big cooking pots.
“Maria, meet Keita. Keita, this is Xenia’s mom.”
She had a child’s face, for sure. She smiled shyly at Keita, took Xenia and strapped the baby onto her back.
“DeNorval likes to carry her in the front, where he can see her, but I like to carry her behind me.”
“What did you do in your math lesson?” DeNorval asked her.
“Long division,” she said. “Thank you, DeNorval.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said.
DeNorval led Keita to a chair, where Maria brought him a plate of food. As he ate, children and teenagers gathered around. Touching his running shoes. Admiring his calves. Asking him to teach them to run.
He asked where people could run in AfricTown.
“Nowhere,” DeNorval told him. “There is only AfricTown Road, but cars speed on it, and there’s no shoulder for pedestrians.”
After lunch, they walked out to the road, accompanied by thirty children who walked barefoot or in sandals and tried to impress Keita by sprinting past him and doing pushups and burpees.
“It would take many people to build a running trail beside this road and to see that children trained on it safely,” Keita said. “But it is possible.”
DeNorval smiled, put his hand on Keita’s shoulder and said that it was good to see him thinking.
“By the way,” Keita said. “Who set up that lunch system?”
“It’s a little project of mine,” DeNorval said. “All I have to do is organize the volunteers.”
A TALL YOUNG BOUNCER AT THE PIT RECOGNIZED KEITA’S name. “I heard you tore up all those other runners in the marathon, man,” he said. “Good running. Miss Lula said to take care of you this evening till she is ready to meet you herself.”
The bouncer, whose name was Jake, escorted Keita to his table and told the server that this one was on the queen bee. Keita found himself in a large lounge with a stage for performers and several dozen tables.
“Don’t go near any white customers,” the bouncer said. “They’re here for fun but don’t want to be recognized. If you get within even a few steps of one, I don’t care if you’re a nice guy and Miss Lula’s guest, I’ll have to throw you out.”
“Got it,” Keita said. He looked down into the pit. “Are there rattlers in there?”
“Western diamondbacks. Imported straight from New Mexico.”
“Venomous?”
“Want to jump in and find out?” the bouncer said.
Keita said he would just sit and watch the show. He couldn’t have approached a white man even if he wanted to. They sat together in a cordoned-off area, ringed by security guards.
Now the wrestlers caught Keita’s eye. They locked arms, pulled, pushed and tried to knock each other off balance, until one tripped the other and sent him sailing into the pit. The loser screamed as he disappeared into the bed of writhing snakes. After they fished him out, a man injected serum into his flank, and four helpers carted him away on a stretcher. A few spectators threw money at the victor, which he snatched up while strutting and waving to the crowd. Keita wondered when the victor would wrestle again—and when he would lose. Even the best wrestler must lose eventually.
A tall, medium-set black woman in her late fifties approached the table. She bent down and kissed Keita on the cheek.
“I’m Lula DiStefano. Welcome!”
She had trim abs and arms, and she looked like she ate salads and went to the gym every day. She had eyes like drills that bored into Keita.
She reached out her hand to shake Keita’s and held it a moment longer than necessary. She was sizing up his hand, his grip, his fingers. Keita had the sensation that she could read his thoughts just by squeezing his fingers. But he was unsure.
“Thank you for letting me come to AfricTown.”
“I hear you beat two thousand runners in the Buttersby Marathon. That you set a course record. And that you are some hot thing in a race.”
Keita smiled.
“I never met a marathon man before. Does it hurt much, running that fast for so long?”
“It’s all about how well you tolerate pain,” Keita said.
Lula let out a barking laugh. “I hate pain, but I ain’t averse to dishing it out.”
“I have never intentionally dished it out,” Keita said, “except to beat other runners.”
“Tell me about that!” Lula said. “How do you beat them?”
“You wear a runner down, and just when he or she is nearing the point of cracking, you sing. If a runner is suffering and you can sing to him, I can pretty well guarantee you will break his spirit.”
“A man in the streets of AfricTown comes to beat you up and take your money, singing won’t get you far. In fact, if you open your mouth to sing, he’ll spot your gold fillings and steal them too.”
“Singing and running are my only weapons.”
She frowned and played with her fingernails.
“Not much of an arsenal. You good enough to win the Olympics?”
“No. And I’m not thinking Olympics. I’m thinking day to day.”
“John Falconer, is he a friend of yours?”
“We met on the bus.”
“He sure runs his mouth. Sometimes I think there’s a prime minister fixing to bust out of his pint-sized body.”
“He is eloquent, that’s for sure,” Keita said.
“I take care of him, now. His mama ain’t well. So every day, I make him sit his ass down in my office and do his homework. But I’m the last thing anyone wants for a mama. Never had children, never wanted them and would have kilt them if I had had them anyway.”
Keita laughed uneasily. Lula DiStefano exuded endless energy, but it was hard to tell how she channelled it: to love people, or to harm them.
Lula caught the waiter’s eye. He came over and asked what they’d have. When Keita hesitated, Lula stepped in for him. “A grand Caesar salad and steak frites for monsieur. Medium, Keita?”
“Pardon me?”
“Do you take your steak rare, medium or well done?”
Keita had never ordered a steak in his life, so he guessed: “Medium, please.”
When they were alone again at the table, Lula took his hand. She examined his palm and fingers. “You got perfect skin. As we say, black don’t crack. But you’re too young for even the tiniest crack. You are not a day over twenty-five. Right?”
“That’s right. I’m twenty-four.”
“And you have never done one whit of farming. Boy, you ain’t even dug yams.”
“I
grew up in the city. Yagwa. We didn’t have any land.”
“Your momma and daddy? Still on this earth?”
“No,” Keita said.
“Siblings?”
“One.”
“Where she at?”
“She was studying till recently at Harvard.” His voice caught when he thought of Charity and how she might be suffering.
“Smart one. But, hey. I’m smart too.” Lula sat up and cleared her throat. “So what can I do for you?”
Keita hesitated. Whatever favours Lula granted would come at a cost. But what choice did he have? He asked if he could stay in AfricTown and whether Lula could assist him in cashing a cheque.
“Are you illegal?”
“Yes.”
“Zantoroland?”
“Yes.”
“Faloo.”
“Yes.”
“In trouble at home?”
“I haven’t committed any crimes, if that’s what you mean.”
“How much is the cheque for?”
“Four thousand dollars.”
“From whom?”
“Buttersby Marathon.”
“Very good,” she said, smiling. “I can cash that for you. From you, I’ll just take five percent. And I’ll set you up for a few nights, at no charge.”
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful. But I cannot afford to give away even five percent of the cheque.”
Lula removed her glasses and stared down the rim of her nose at Keita. “You’re pushing it. I’m letting you stay here because you’re young, polite, good-looking and you kicked some Freedom State ass in that marathon. I’ll cash your cheque for a one percent fee. This time. You would pay twenty-five times more on the street.”
“I know. And I do appreciate—”
“Where is it?”
Keita pulled it from his backpack and gave it to her. Lula reached into her purse and removed a wad of cash. She peeled off forty one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them over.
“After you finish dining on my tab, leave a forty-dollar tip for the server.”
Keita promised to do so.
“After three nights here, you need to find somewhere else to hide. You’ll have some profile, having won that race. I can’t afford to have you bringing trouble to AfricTown.”
“I’ll get a place to stay soon,” he said.
“For a fee, I could arrange a passport for you.”
“Passport?”
“Making you a citizen of Freedom State.”
Keita’s only illegal act ever was existing in Freedom State without a right to do so. He didn’t feel right about buying a phony passport, but he couldn’t help asking.
“How much would it cost?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“I can’t afford that. I have urgent business with the little money I do have.”
“Well, keep it in mind. In the meantime, keep your eyes open, young man.”
“What do you mean?”
“People are pissed about that working girl who got deported,” she said. “Problem was, she was born here. But she died in Zantoroland, in custody. You hear about her?”
Keita said he had seen the item in the newspaper.
“Top is gonna blow,” Lula said. “People gonna rise up. You seen a volcano? Watch out for a human eruption, soon. There will be more raids here, of that I am sure. And we will be in the streets, marching and demonstrating.”
The last place in the world Keita needed to be was in the middle of a political demonstration ringed by police officers.
Lula seemed to sense his reticence.
“When you leave here,” Lula said, “go uptown and find some sweet woman in the suburbs. You’re gorgeous and pure. She’ll fall for you. Take my word for it. White women in Freedom State are always falling for authentic black males. Even when they ain’t authentic.”
Lula reached over the table and stroked his cheek briefly, then she stood to leave. Keita placed the fingers of his right hand gently on her sleeve. She pivoted to face him.
“Lula, I need to make some money.”
“Don’t we all?”
“I need to make it urgently. It’s not for me. It’s for someone else.”
“Heard that before, honey. Didn’t you just make four grand winning that race?”
“But I must make much more, and soon.”
“Are you willing to kill?”
“No, of course not.”
“Steal?”
“No.”
“Carry drugs across borders?”
“No.”
“Are you willing to break any kind of law?”
“My existence is a violation of the law.”
“Other than existing. Which you can’t help.”
“I need to make thousands of dollars, quickly.”
“Then win some more races. Your salad is here. And your steak is coming. When you finish, ask the waiter to have someone escort you back to DeNorval’s place.”
AS HE PREPARED TO LEAVE THE PIT BETWEEN WRESTLING matches, Keita saw a middle-aged white man get up from his table and walk to the edge of the snakepit. He walked with an athletic confidence that seemed familiar. Keita had seen the man before. He was a runner, Keita was sure of it. But he had no time to give it more thought. A man from the restaurant escorted Keita south past stalls of women selling grilled fish, men selling watches and clocks, and boys selling soap and hot water to people who wanted to stand in a curtained bathtub and wash. They passed more shipping containers, these ones interspersed with wooden shacks with corrugated tin roofs.
They stopped at two containers joined to make an L. One was painted purple, the other orange.
“It’s here,” the man said.
Keita knocked at the door. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He let himself in and found that he could turn left toward a door marked Strictly Private or right toward one marked Health Adviser. He knocked on the door to the right, but still there was no answer. He pushed the door open and stepped into a sitting area: four empty chairs. Old magazines on the coffee table. A cloth screen blocked off access to the room beyond. Keita pushed it aside.
A man was lying on his side, knees curled up around his chest, while DeNorval wiggled a finger deep inside his ass. Keita let out a shout.
“Knock next time,” DeNorval said. “Step back and wait in the waiting room.”
From the sitting room, Keita heard the patient gasping.
“All done,” DeNorval said. “You can wipe yourself with this and get dressed.”
The man grunted. “So, Doc. Find anything in there?”
“I don’t like the feel of your prostate,” DeNorval said.
“And I don’t like you feeling it, Doc.”
“What is your status?”
“Same as yours, Doc. Why the hell else would I be seeing you?”
“Do you have any money?”
“No.”
“Some say saw palmetto can help control prostate size.”
“What the hell is a saw palmetto?”
“A small palm. From its fruit, you can take an extract used for medicinal purposes.”
“Fucking AfricTown. You see a fucking doctor without papers who tells you to fix a pain in the ass by sucking on a palm tree.”
“So you don’t want me to get you some sample capsules?”
“What the fuck. Go ahead and order them.”
“Come back in a week. That will be ten dollars.”
“For sticking your finger up my ass and promising a palm tree?”
“Ten dollars. We all have to eat.”
“Well, I don’t have ten dollars.”
“Then I won’t have any saw palmetto for your enlarged prostate, and don’t come here next time you need stitches, or antibiotics, or dressing for cuts, or a tooth pulled. You or your kids.”
There was a pause. The patient swore softly. “Here. Take your goddamn bill. How fucked up is that? Ten dollars for a poke up the ass.”
E
merging through the curtains, the patient stopped and took a look at Keita. Sandals, black gym pants and a T-shirt that said Go F Yourself. Clean-shaven. Buzz cut. Brown eyes. He was a light-skinned black man—clearly of mixed race. About thirty years old. Skinny as a hydro wire, walking with a limp.
“Ten dollars,” the man said.
Keita looked at him quizzically.
“Ten dollars, I said. You watched the peep show. It oughta be worth that.”
Keita shook his head. He had no intention of giving the man ten dollars.
“If you don’t give me ten dollars, I’ll mash your fucking face into a pulp.”
“Well, then, at least I’m in a doctor’s office.”
“Smart one, are you? What’s a matter? You’re not from around here. It won’t kill you to part with ten dollars.”
“I don’t have any money to spare.”
“Look at your shoes. Now look at mine. See this hole here at my big toe? Now look at this heel. Worn right through. Do you got that? Hunh? Tell me. Who’s in the more urgent need here? What we need here is a redistribution of wealth. So how about that fucking ten dollars?”
DeNorval came from behind the curtains. “Howard, no harassing my patients. Get out of here.”
“Some shithole office,” Howard said, “and you’re not even a fucking doctor.” He left the office, still ranting.
“Sorry about that,” DeNorval said. “You’ve just seen the underside of my work.”
“Looks like you know all about prostates, anyway,” Keita said.
DeNorval grinned. “But how can I help you? It’s not a medical matter, is it?”
“Well, there is the small matter of a hernia.”
“Let’s take a look.”
DeNorval gestured him into the examining area, and Keita stood with shirt raised. The health adviser prodded, poked and tapped the golf-ball-sized protuberance. He asked if it had changed size or shape lately. Keita explained that it had grown over the last few months.
“You should get this fixed, but it can wait,” DeNorval said. “I couldn’t do anything for you here. You would need surgery. But you would have to pay.”
Keita asked how much it might cost. DeNorval said he could be looking at ten thousand dollars, easily. Keita explained his other problems: how while running, he sometimes became dizzy, or faint, or completely ran out of energy, or felt an uncharacteristically intense thirst.