The Illegal (36 page)

L
ULA
D
I
S
TEFANO WOULD BE
V
IOLA’S LAST INTERVIEW.
Viola had spent three days in the National Citizenship Registration Office making absolutely sure there was no mistake. There was no record of DiStefano being born in Freedom State. And there was no record of her having obtained citizenship in the country either. Viola had hired a genealogist to review her history. If Lula had a birth certificate from Freedom State, the genealogist would have found it.

“So she came from Zantoroland when she was young,” Viola said. “And she stayed, illegally.”

“You’re playing with fire,” the genealogist said.

“I’m a journalist, and this is what we do,” Viola said.

Lula was pushing sixty, but she looked fabulous. Trim and fit. Firm arms and calves. Slim face. Regal bearing. Purple sash over a red dress, wild red lipstick, hot red pumps. The woman looked like she owned the world. This did not surprise Viola, who had read in
Forbes
magazine that Lula was worth twenty million dollars.

Lula received Viola in a private lounge usually reserved for Bombay Booty customers. It was 10:30 a.m., so they had the place to themselves, apart from Lula’s minions. The woman had people checking up on her every minute. Viola glanced at the TV screen. She let out a shout when she saw Keita in the pack of five runners leading the marathon. The camera switched to the leading female runners. There were two out front. A third about fifteen metres back. And a
fourth, right behind her. The fourth-place runner was Candace. The lead runners were twenty-eight kilometres into the race.

“That man and his girlfriend are quite the celebrity couple,” Lula said. “How come they don’t visit me anymore?”

Viola let the question hang in the air. They both knew—and Viola had already written—that Lula had planned to turn Keita over to the prime minister after the Clarkson Ten-Miler.

An assistant brought in tea and shortbread cookies. Tea with the queen. Lula dismissed her assistant.

“His girlfriend grew up here,” Lula said, “and she did okay for herself. Big promotion after that shooting incident last year.”

“Yes,” Viola said, “she’s the real thing.” She let a moment go by, took in a breath and spoke again. “I want to ask you something.”

“Off the record?”

“Not this time,” Viola said. “This time whatever you say is on the goddamn record. Just like everyone else.”

Lula leapt up from the table, knocking over the tea and cookies. In a flash she had her hands around Viola’s neck.

“Listen, you bitch. I could bury you right now, and your bones would never be found. No one in the world would know where you were.”

Viola stared into the older woman’s eyes, clawing and scratching. It wasn’t getting her anywhere, so she cocked her arm and slugged Lula in the eye. Lula finally let go. Viola gasped and slumped back into her chair. Lula fell back too and had trouble catching her breath.

“First time I’ve been punched in forty-five years,” Lula said.

“I’m pleased to have the honour,” Viola said.

Lula exhaled at great length. She looked worn out. Her eyes roamed over to the TV screen. She turned up the volume. The runners had passed the thirty-kilometre mark. Keita was on the leader’s shoulder. They were on pace to break the national marathon record of 2:09. In the women’s race, Candace had moved up to third.

“About Yvette Peters,” Viola said.

“I knew you were coming for that.”

“I know the prime minister didn’t send her away. I know you did it. I was glad to see the PM sent to prison. I feel no pity for him. But I can’t figure out how you framed him. And didn’t you know Yvette would be killed in Zantoroland?”

Lula sighed, stood and walked to the window. Viola wheeled over and joined her. Outside were dozens of shipping containers, each painted a vibrant colour, each with its own water tap.

“I did that.”

“What?”

“Two hundred new taps last year alone. At times, I feared we would have a cholera outbreak in AfricTown. But no longer. In addition to the taps, we have a thousand new portable toilets, with state funding to have them cleaned weekly. I also pay for a hot lunch program. People eat lunch there, for free. Three times a week. And I hire dancers, sex workers, cooks, plumbers, electricians—where else do you see black folks working in Freedom State? I deserve the fucking Nobel Peace Prize.”

“You’re a powerful queen, Lula,” Viola said. “But why’d you put it on the PM?”

“I was wondering when someone would get to that. You are the first person to ask. I’ll say this for Graeme. He took his lumps with dignity. He didn’t try to smear me.”

In the articles that followed the shooting, Viola had already written that the PM and Lula were rumoured to have been lovers decades earlier. But Viola did not raise this matter now.

“I never thought it would escalate the way it did,” Lula said. “The shooting and all that. Who could have known? But framing Graeme was the only way to get him to back off the raids and give me what I wanted. What the people of AfricTown needed. If he had to deal with the fallout over the deportation of a teenage prostitute, then he would have to negotiate. He had been threatening to shut me down. Can you believe it? He and his Family Party cronies were actually talking about bulldozing AfricTown. He was saying the voters demanded it and that he meant business. I invited him over so
that we could try to resolve the problem amicably. I set him up with Yvette because she was our best-looking girl. I happen to know the kind of lady he likes.”

Viola hoped the recording device hidden in her jacket was working. “Don’t tell her I gave this to you,” John had said to her as he hooked it up. He’d wanted to come with her, but he was busy with full-time classes—and boarding at the school, too.

“Framing him was easy,” Lula said. “I heard about the authorization levels when the PM began deporting people aggressively. I heard that he was paying off folks in Zantoroland. Honey, I come from Zantoroland.”

“And you’re still undocumented, if my research is correct.”

“I’m not going to dignify that comment with a response,” Lula said.

“All right,” Viola said, “about the deportations.”

“I knew the score. I found out who the PM was using. One man would take deportees to the airport and another would take them on the planes and escort them home. All I had to do was find the men, offer them pleasures on the house and find out how they worked. For the new deportation deal, the PM just issued verbal orders. So once I knew the men and had catered to their needs, I just called them up and told them what the PM had said to do.”

Viola put down her notebook. She had what she needed.

“Go ahead,” Lula said. “Tell the world. But just make sure you put in about the water taps, the lunch program and the sewers. Make sure you tell the whole story.”

T
HREE WEEKS LATER,
V
IOLA PUBLISHED AN ARTICLE AS A
special report on the front page of the
Clarkson Evening Telegram
. The headline read, “AfricTown Queen Admits to Deporting Prostitute.” And under that: “Never admitted as citizen, holding fraudulent passport, Lula DiStefano sent teen to death in Zantoroland.” The article
was tight and nuanced, and the whole world wanted more from journalist Viola Hill.

The Clarkson Police Department sent five cars to AfricTown to arrest Lula. But she had disappeared—and was never found.

David Steen, my first track coach, was a two-time Commonwealth Games gold medallist in the shot put, and a
Toronto Star
reporter. The first person I met who made his living as a writer, David has been a friend for more than forty years. Any commonalities between David and the fictional character Anton Hamm begin and end with two mundane points: physical size and the ability to hurl sixteen-pound balls astounding distances. David created the Victoria Park Track Club, which gave me a reason to exist, a passionate focus and sense of belonging throughout my teenage years. The other runners in that club ran faster than me. Far faster. One, the late Brian Maxwell, became one of the top marathoners in the world. Another, Paul Craig, ran in the Montreal Olympics and set the Canadian record for the 1,500 metres. Another, John Craig, worked for decades as a senior administrator at Athletics Ontario. As a teenager, another clubmate and friend, Donald Corbett, won numerous Ontario and Canadian steeplechase championships for his age class. They became friends decades ago, and remain friends, and I thought of the Victoria Park Track Club athletes—and the runs we shared and the dogs that chased us over the hilly back roads of southern Ontario—as I wrote
The Illegal
.

I have always found it comforting to write under the same roof as loved ones, so I thank the folks who read drafts and encouraged me throughout the five years I spent on this book. Among
the children: Geneviève and Caroline commented on early drafts, Andrew Hill and Beatrice Freedman nudged me all along the whole way, and Evangeline Freedman commented on the last draft and permitted the use of her middle name for the creation of Viola Hill. There is much of Evangeline’s spirit in Viola and vice versa, although the resemblance ends there. My sister, Karen, introduced me to the world of undocumented refugees when she invited me several times to stay with her in West Berlin in the 1980s, and she loved and encouraged me until her unexpected death in 2014. Dan—also a runner and a writer—has shared insights about everything I’ve written, and he came through again this time—thanks, brother. Hats off as well to my mother, Donna Hill, for inspiring—and then accepting—the creation of the character Ivernia Beech in this novel. My mother also gave me her L.C. Smith typewriter when I was seventeen. I lugged that beast around the country when I first plunged into daily writing. The L.C. Smith doesn’t get much use these days, but I’ve been threatening to dust it off for the next novel. My wife, Miranda, has stood beside me and cheered along every page of the journey, always knowing—as only a spouse and writer can know—how essential the creative process is to a novelist’s well-being. No page of mine moves into the world without the benefit of Miranda’s sharp eye. Were she not busy writing her own books, she could be a phenomenal editor.

A few times a year, I escape to writing retreats—always by the generosity of people who are kind to artists. Stella Trainor and Gayle Waters let me borrow their homes, asking only that I get on with it and finish the damn book. The Writers’ Trust of Canada offered the Berton House in Dawson City; the Banff Centre provided a Leighton Studio; Max Blouw, Carol Duncan and their colleagues at Wilfrid Laurier University provided the Lucinda House; Louise Cooper, Karen Smereka and Rena Upitis welcomed me to the Wintergreen Studios. The owners and staff of the Black Dog Village Pub and Bistro and the Little Inn, both in Bayfield, Ontario, offered meals and encouragement. Thanks to my friends Stephen Brunt,
Jeanie MacFarlane, Diane Martin and Dave Stromberg for cajoling Miranda and me to buy a house in Woody Point, Newfoundland—a fabulous hideout where I finished this novel.

For friendship, sympathetic ears, sharp eyes, critical readings and assistance on all fronts imaginable, thanks to Philip Adams, Kathy and Barney Bentall, Marie Carrière, Daniel Coleman, Jennifer Conkie, John Craig, Diana Davidson, Ron Davis, Elya Durisin, Cole Gately, Hope Kamin, David Kent, Joanne McKay, Desiré Mention, David Morton, Damon D’Oliveira, Michael Peterman, Marie-Madeleine Raoult, Jana Rieger, Margaret Rosling, Alicia Snell, Agnès Van’t Bosch, Marilyn Verghis, Jack Veugelers, Clement Virgo and Ing Wong-Ward.

I also thank Lauren Repei for reading drafts and helping in countless ways as my assistant, and Chelsey Catterall for being a reading consultant.

After I invented the countries of Freedom State and Zantoroland, as well as the Ortiz Sea that envelops them, cartographer and friend Graham Dudley helped me figure out where to locate them in the Indian Ocean. The cartographer Dawn Huck rendered them in final form for the book.

Thanks to the physicians who read drafts or answered questions about amputation, diabetes and other medical issues: Elaine Desnoyers, Nancy Dudek, Hertzel Gerstein, David Price and Raj Waghmare.

Anton Chekov is credited with saying that if you introduce a pistol in drama, it has to go off. So I thank Fred Braley for explaining just exactly what sort of pistol to place in the hands of Saunders, who is up to no good in this novel.

Friends also advised me about matters pertaining to refugees: Sarah Hipworth, Audrey Macklin, Alyssa Manning, Noa Mendelsohn Aviv and Sukanya Pillay.

Jennifer Larson, formerly of the Canadian Paralympic Committee, led me to two athletes who shared details about life and competition in wheelchairs: Josh Cassidy and Theo Geeve. I thank them both for taking the time to meet with me.

Two friends drew upon their extensive experiences as runners to share suggestions about the world of marathoning: Reid Coolsaet and John Craig.

Thanks to the Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for grants that helped me while writing this novel, and for all the ways that they support writers and publishers in this country.

Thanks to my editor, Amy Cherry, at W.W. Norton & Co, and to my agent, Ellen Levine, at Trident Media Group, both of whom waited for years for this novel—politely, encouragingly, but tapping the desk just enough so that I would never give up.

Thanks to freelance editors Allyson Latta, Helen Reeves and Sarah Wight and HarperCollins Canada editor Lorissa Sengara for their many suggestions, and to the people at HarperCollins who have been unfailingly helpful: Cory Beatty, Norma Cody, Rob Firing, Michael Guy-Haddock, Alan Jones, Jennifer Lambert, Sandra Leef, Leo MacDonald, Lauren Morocco, Colleen Simpson, Terry Toews, Kathryn Wardropper, Brad Wilson, Noelle Zitzer and all of their colleagues. A very special thanks to my friend and editor, Iris Tupholme, publisher and editor-in-chief at HarperCollins Canada, who has stood by me over many years and through several books not merely to offer praise, but to push me through draft after draft until she believed that I had done my best work. A good editor is like a running coach: always expecting more, and making you believe that you can do it. Iris is one of the greats.