The Illegal by Lawrence Hill Page B

Keita’s belly catch Hamm’s eye? In the last few months, his hernia had been sore and had been expanding. In addition, Keita was experiencing bouts of weakness and dizziness. These affected his running only in the unlucky moments that they coincided with a training run. Keita had taken to wearing longer, slightly baggy shirts and hoped that the hernia would cease to grow. He did not know if Hamm required his protégés to submit to medical exams. He hoped not.
    The lobby of the Five Stars International Business Hotel featured a pet monkey for the entertainment of its international business guests, although monkeys were not native to Zantoroland. On a branch of a fake tree in the lobby, the monkey sat leashed, eating a peanut. When Keita walked in the door, a concierge-bouncer the size of a heavyweight boxer bore down on him in three strides.
    “Sir!” he said. “Do you have business here?”
    Keita leaned on the British accent of his former English tutor. “I am meeting one of your guests. Mr. Anton Hamm. You’ll see him inside the café, on the right.” Keita pointed.
    The concierge turned to look, and in that moment, Keita strode past him.
    When Anton Hamm stood in greeting, he towered above Keita and even above the concierge. Hamm’s hand felt like the paw of a bear. He shook Keita’s hand gently but applied enough pressure for Keita to understand how easily his own fingers could be crushed.
    “Coffee?” Hamm said, inviting Keita to take a seat.
    Keita sat and glanced at the menu. Everything in U.S. dollars. Coffee cost twelve.
    “It’s on me,” Hamm said.
    When the waiter came, Keita asked for café au lait and a madeleine.
    “Most of the runners I do business with have never heard of a café au lait,” Hamm mused.
    “It’s good for dunking,” Keita said. He pushed away images of his parents, but they kept coming, like waves on a beach.
    Hamm ordered the same. When the waiter left, he said, “I should give up coffee myself, but I’m saving that for later.”
    “Saving it?” Keita repeated. His voice was emanating from another body.
    Hamm was talking again, but Keita was having trouble paying attention.
    “One day when I’m old,” Hamm said, “a doctor will tell me, ‘If you want to recover your health, there’s something you’ll have to give up.’ So then I’ll be able to offer him coffee. I need to keep something around to give up later.”
    Hamm had a loud laugh. It made Keita imagine the sound of the overfed Zantoroland cabinet ministers who were known to dine at the Five Stars.
    When the café au lait arrived, Keita slid three sugar cubes into his mug. Hamm rocked back slightly in his wooden chair and Keita heard the faint crack of wood. Hamm raised his index finger to summon the waiter and asked for another chair. When it came, Hamm stood and handed the one he had occupied to the waiter.
    “This one needs to be fixed,” he said, easing his weight onto the replacement.
    A mosquito buzzed around Hamm’s head, and his right hand shot up near his ear. He squished the insect between his thumb and forefinger.
    “Fast hands,” Keita said. He played table tennis but had never been able to catch a mosquito like that. His father had taught him table tennis. His father and mother had taught him everything.
    Keita kept his hands flat on the table, so the cracks and the blisters wouldn’t show.
    Hamm looked at Keita and shrugged. “I have little patience for things or people that aggravate me.” Hamm grinned. “By-product of throwing the shot.”
    “Maybe I’ll give up running and take up the shot put,” Keita said.
    “It’s all about explosive energy,” Hamm said. “That, plus head games. Shot putters mess with each other’s heads.”
    Hamm ordered toast and poached eggs. Keita scanned the menu. If his father had interviewed someone in the hotel restaurant, he would have come home with a story about the most expensive item. Steak frites with Belgian hollandaise, with a side of