father’s life only if he put twenty thousand U.S. dollars in an envelope and deposited it on the counter by municipal tax wicket number 5 at the town hall before the end of the business day.
Keita had no possibility of raising twenty thousand dollars in hours. His father, if he were still alive, would know it, and so would his father’s captors. Still, Keita tried everything. He spent two hours at his father’s bank in Yagwa, trying to persuade them to let him have access to his father’s funds. Finally, a woman who had difficulty holding back her tears took him into her office and said that even if they could allow Keita to take the money—which they couldn’t—his father’s accounts had dwindled and there weren’t more than a thousand dollars left. Keita had noticed that his father no longer wore new clothes or used their car, which sat dormant outside their house, or ate much beyond a bit of boiled rice or an orange picked from a park tree.
As a nationally ranked marathoner in Zantoroland, Keita had access to free cafeteria meals each day, and he received shoes, shorts and shirts. But he was given no cash and had no savings, and in a country where the average annual income was three thousand dollars, Keita couldn’t find a single person to help him come up with the money. He emailed Charity at Harvard but got no response. He tried calling her apartment number but could not get through. A call to her cellphone led straight to voice mail. Keita did reach Charity’s landlord in Boston. He had no idea where she was but promised to leave an urgent note on her door. Keita spoke to every one of their neighbours on Blossom Street, but nobody had money to spare.
Keita knew all this was part of the technique used to break the will of the people attached to those who fell victim to The Tax. Theywere meant to feel that nothing could be done for their loved ones and that nothing would be done for them either, if their turn came.
Keita tried to imagine what his father would say to him now. Be calm, and be strong, and be sure to take care of yourself. You have a full life ahead of you to live, so do everything you can to have that life and to live it lovingly.
Keita spent hours at his father’s desk with the lamp burning. He read through Yoyo’s newspaper and magazine articles, which were stacked in a neat pile. He rummaged through the teapots and extracted his father’s notes. Deportees from Freedom State? All Faloo? Money laundering? Keita could not figure out exactly what his father had been working on, but he kept reading his words over and over again. He read them aloud, in his father’s voice and accent, to comfort himself. He read them as the ransom deadline came and went. Then he carefully put them away.
Keita knew what he had to do next. He rummaged through the closet for a spade, and went out the back door and dug a grave next to his mother’s plot. He dug until his hands bled, and he kept digging until he had dug enough.
At dawn, Keita took the blanket from his father’s bed, borrowed a wagon from the market and pulled it to the town square, where he found his father lying naked and dead at the Fountain of Independence.
K EITA KNEW EXACTLY WHAT HIS FATHER WOULD SAY. I F Keita stayed in Zantoroland, he would die. He was his father’s son, and that in itself would be a death sentence. He had to get out and stay alive and find his sister. Charity was the last person in the world who truly knew and loved him. She was all he had. Keita would rebuild his life with his sister in another land. It didn’t really matter where they went, as long as it was far from Zantoroland.
Keita called the hotel where Hamm always stayed, and agreed to meet the agent for lunch. Then he bathed, scrubbed the dirt from hisnails, put on his best shoes, pants and shirt, packed essential clothes and running gear into one large and one small knapsack, and locked the door to the family bungalow.
Would the little trouble with
Keita had no possibility of raising twenty thousand dollars in hours. His father, if he were still alive, would know it, and so would his father’s captors. Still, Keita tried everything. He spent two hours at his father’s bank in Yagwa, trying to persuade them to let him have access to his father’s funds. Finally, a woman who had difficulty holding back her tears took him into her office and said that even if they could allow Keita to take the money—which they couldn’t—his father’s accounts had dwindled and there weren’t more than a thousand dollars left. Keita had noticed that his father no longer wore new clothes or used their car, which sat dormant outside their house, or ate much beyond a bit of boiled rice or an orange picked from a park tree.
As a nationally ranked marathoner in Zantoroland, Keita had access to free cafeteria meals each day, and he received shoes, shorts and shirts. But he was given no cash and had no savings, and in a country where the average annual income was three thousand dollars, Keita couldn’t find a single person to help him come up with the money. He emailed Charity at Harvard but got no response. He tried calling her apartment number but could not get through. A call to her cellphone led straight to voice mail. Keita did reach Charity’s landlord in Boston. He had no idea where she was but promised to leave an urgent note on her door. Keita spoke to every one of their neighbours on Blossom Street, but nobody had money to spare.
Keita knew all this was part of the technique used to break the will of the people attached to those who fell victim to The Tax. Theywere meant to feel that nothing could be done for their loved ones and that nothing would be done for them either, if their turn came.
Keita tried to imagine what his father would say to him now. Be calm, and be strong, and be sure to take care of yourself. You have a full life ahead of you to live, so do everything you can to have that life and to live it lovingly.
Keita spent hours at his father’s desk with the lamp burning. He read through Yoyo’s newspaper and magazine articles, which were stacked in a neat pile. He rummaged through the teapots and extracted his father’s notes. Deportees from Freedom State? All Faloo? Money laundering? Keita could not figure out exactly what his father had been working on, but he kept reading his words over and over again. He read them aloud, in his father’s voice and accent, to comfort himself. He read them as the ransom deadline came and went. Then he carefully put them away.
Keita knew what he had to do next. He rummaged through the closet for a spade, and went out the back door and dug a grave next to his mother’s plot. He dug until his hands bled, and he kept digging until he had dug enough.
At dawn, Keita took the blanket from his father’s bed, borrowed a wagon from the market and pulled it to the town square, where he found his father lying naked and dead at the Fountain of Independence.
K EITA KNEW EXACTLY WHAT HIS FATHER WOULD SAY. I F Keita stayed in Zantoroland, he would die. He was his father’s son, and that in itself would be a death sentence. He had to get out and stay alive and find his sister. Charity was the last person in the world who truly knew and loved him. She was all he had. Keita would rebuild his life with his sister in another land. It didn’t really matter where they went, as long as it was far from Zantoroland.
Keita called the hotel where Hamm always stayed, and agreed to meet the agent for lunch. Then he bathed, scrubbed the dirt from hisnails, put on his best shoes, pants and shirt, packed essential clothes and running gear into one large and one small knapsack, and locked the door to the family bungalow.
Would the little trouble with
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