Black Alley Page 12

  The rest of the evening Cléo stayed in his corner and whenever someone came over to offer him juice or a dessert he’d reply by shaking his head. At about two o’clock, Roberto rushed in holding the four coats at the end of his arm: it was time to go. In the car, with the heater on high, he abruptly turned towards Carmen: you see, I told you it was a mistake! At the first traffic light, he hit the steering wheel several times and turned his head towards the frosty car window: but no, you always have to have things your way! Without replying, looking straight ahead of her as the snowflakes, as bristly as stars, flattened against the windshield, Carmen shook her head as if to say no, no, no. In the back seat, you and Cléo remained silent as well. The car stopped in front of his building and, as he pulled the handle to open the door, you put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off: shut up, I don’t want to hear anything from you. Yes, remember: from that moment, something – what exactly? – broke forever.

  V

  His head is spinning, pain drills his temples, and his eyes follow the cars sweeping their headlights along Côte-des-Neiges. On the other side of the street, his primary school, surrounded by a metal fence, hidden by leafless trees. Flaco thinks: at night it looks like a prison. Sister Cécile comes to his mind, with her slightly wavy grey hair, her sky blue smock and her thin-framed glasses. Is she still alive? She really used to bore them to death with her religious obsessions. And what about Akira, how was he doing in New York? And that disrespectful Sylvain? A number of families, more clear-headed than his own, had moved out of the neighbourhood. That was the solution. Someone tugs on the sleeve of his sweater, the bottle of wine has come around to him again. A few members of Latino Power are sitting comfortably on the bench, while others like him are standing and from time to time they shift the weight of their bodies from one foot to the other. Flaco considers them: does he look as disillusioned as they do? He tilts the bottle up over his mouth and takes a long gulp. On a bench to the left, a dozen metres away, some East Indians or Pakistanis have been watching them, as if they were trying to follow their conversation. They’re the latest arrivals in the neighbourhood: they don’t know what lies ahead, poor guys.

  Lalo steps forward to speak, but for a moment he remains unable to string words together, wipes his red-wine-stained mouth with his palm. He stammers: he can’t wait for the robbery. Yesterday and today, he’d had to let some Haitians make fun of him about Sunday’s extortion, and he wasn’t able to fight back. Teta suddenly straightens up and adds: he can’t wait to see their faces after the robbery. My leather jacket! he wails, my leather jacket!

  The others laugh half-heartedly, stiffly. Lalo upends the empty bottle and reddish foam trickles from its mouth. He pretends to take aim and throws the bottle hard. It hits the metal rim of the trash can, smashing into a thousand pieces. The East Indians mutter some guttural sounds. Right away Lalo gives them the finger. The East Indians hesitate, then give him one back. The two groups insult each other for a little while, everything’s fair game, their mothers, their countries, their race, the Latinos in French, the East Indians in English. And Flaco gestures to his group: that’s enough, guys, it’s time to go.

  They step off the grass and onto the sidewalk, skirt around Parc Kent. How many bottles did they drink? Three, four? In the darkness, they advance side by side, some keep their heads down, others puff out their chests and inhale the cold air. Despite the wine, their aggressive manners and pitiless words, Flaco knows their guts are squirming with fear. He starts to cross the road and, when he reaches the yellow line down the middle, bravado pushes him to take long strides towards the cars, whose horns start to howl on the spot. Yes, these are the times when he feels alive, when his existence is transformed into an unpredictable adventure. Outside the entrance to the Église-Saint-Pascal, dozens of students are already gathering. Some are smoking in groups, others wait in the lineup. Muted pounding, coming from inside, keeps the beat. Flaco steps into the lineup, the others follow suit. Carefree, it seems to them their happiness could last. Around him, rockers, rappers, straight kids, alternative kids, punks, skins, no sign of the Bad Boys.

  Suddenly, from behind the church, Paulina and Nena appear. The latter is smoking a cigarette, but not Paulina. They wave at a group of Vietnamese girls, chat with them for a moment and, noticing the others, walk over with slow, deliberate steps. Flaco studies Paulina and, suddenly, he thinks her delicate features seem identical to a little girl’s. He kisses her and leans heavily on her. You’ve been drinking! She wipes her mouth and he smiles, shrugging his shoulders. She shakes her head as if she’s about to get angry, but finally she smiles, too. Doesn’t he have a coat, she worries. It’s chilly out, no? No, it’s right in the middle of spring, can’t she see? She gives him a funny look: you’re really drunk, Flaco. As the line advances, he turns his back to her, stares at the cross on the church façade, and feels a burn of reproach on the back of his neck.

  When he turns around again, she and Nena have disappeared. Did she leave or has she gone into the basement? Harassed by remorse, he forces himself to get it out of his mind by thinking of something else. They wait a while and, just before they go in, to mask their breath, Teta hands out gum. At the till, Gino sniffs them, is he dreaming or does he smell alcohol? He looks like a bulldog, Flaco thinks, taking care to keep his distance and pretending to be annoyed: of course you’re dreaming, man. Gino looks them over and points his finger at them: no trouble today, get it? Flaco pays, don’t worry, takes his change, we’ll be good as gold, and extends the back of his hand to be stamped. The others snigger and Gino bristles: at the first sign of anything, I’m throwing you out, capito? Lalo goes in first and turns away to hide his irresistible desire to laugh: no need to get hysterical yet, at least wait until we do something wrong. Gino meets his eyes for a moment and in one voice Latino Power erupts in ¡ay ay ay! Gino ain’t in a good mood today! You’re tough, you’re tough! No kidding, you look like a killer, Gino!

  It’s dark and dry ice floats above the dance floor. Flaco can just make out the faces of a few shadows moving like bats between the cones of red, green and blue lights. They walk past the coatroom, and behind the counter, a little Vietnamese girl with smooth hair waves her hand when she notices Pato. He waves back, walks on with the others towards the dance floor and makes his way through the crowd. Two huge speakers, reigning over each side of the entrance, are making the floor vibrate. Latino Power forms a circle and begins to dance discreetly, then Teta shakes his head, pretending to hold an electric guitar in his hands. Then they get rowdy, just for fun. Paulina, with three other girls on her heels, enters the room, but doesn’t join them: the girls dance together near the speaker in the back. Where had she gone? Is she mad at him, or what?

  Half an hour passes and Flaco feels his headache getting worse. I’m starting to get sick of dancing. Suddenly, Lalo puts one arm around his shoulders: compadre, look who’s going up to the coatroom. Through a haze of smoke tinted by the different lights, Flaco can make out CB and his associates taking off their leather jackets. See, Flaco says, I was sure they’d be wearing them. One by one, the Bad Boys start towards the dance floor, notice the members of Latino Power and turn back to confer with each other. What can they be saying to each other? B.S., probably, but he’d still give anything to be able to listen in. Finally, all of them, including Ketcia, head towards the men’s washroom. They’re going to smoke a joint. Okay, it’s the perfect moment.

  Flaco gives Pato a discreet signal and he heads off to the coatroom, climbing the stairs two by two, then he orders Teta to get into position opposite the washroom door, so he can warn them when the Bad Boys come out. The plan’s in motion, there’s no going back now. Flaco sees Pato lean over the counter and whisper sweet things in the Vietnamese girl’s ear. She can’t stop smiling. He hadn’t lied, she really looks like she’s in love with him. But is he going to be able to get her away from there? He takes her by the shoulders and tries to kiss her on the neck, but she shakes her head no three, four ti
mes and pushes him away with a laugh. Pato laughs, too, the way he doubles over is a bad sign: he’s too drunk to be a great ladies’ man. He whispers something in her ear, points to the exit and, a few seconds later, comes towards Flaco: I told her I had something important to tell her, but I could only say it outside, alone. As soon as the coatroom clears out, she promised to come. Flaco gives the thumbs up: Okay, hurry up.

  Five, six interminable minutes go by, and the Vietnamese girl still hasn’t left her post. To think that from one second to the next the Haitians could come out of the washroom and screw everything up. Dios mío, really, wanting to steal their coats is crazy! What a stupid idea! What got into him? But now the Asian girl is climbing the stairs leading to the entrance. She’s running to meet her sweet little Pato in seventh heaven, Flaco thinks. Over by Teta, everything’s looking great. Perfect! The members of Latino Power quickly join up, then walk to the coatroom, hugging the wall. They jump the counter and Flaco shuts off the lights to avoid attracting attention. On all fours, they look for the coats, but it’s so dark they can hardly make out their own feet. Flaco is angry with himself for not foreseeing this inconvenience, a flashlight would have been a good idea. This slows them down terribly: in order to see them, they have to bring the coats over to the light one by one. Finally, Lalo whispers, almost choking: ¡aqui están! He takes a garbage bag out of his pocket and slides the coats in. There’s no one else around except Teta, who’s still standing guard outside the washroom, his arms crossed.

  At the very back of the coatroom, Lalo and Flaco pull up the blinds. Each one of them tries to open one of the big wooden windows. With all his might, Flaco tries to turn the latch. It doesn’t budge. The two of them have to work on one window together. There, the latch is giving way! When they motion for Teta to come closer, Mixon comes out of the washroom, looking like a surprised bird. He eyes Teta, insults him, and the Latino, keeping cool, motions with his hands for the other boy to stay calm. Still, Mixon keeps insulting him heartily, as if he suspected something was going on behind his back. He glances again at the coatroom, ventures over to the counter, places his hands on it, stretches his neck, but he can’t make them out: on all fours on the ground, they force themselves not to move, holding their breath in the darkness. Mixon turns back towards Teta, bellows in his face, sends him flying with a push, but, surprisingly, Teta keeps his cool. Again, his eyes are drawn towards the coatroom and, again, he steps over to the counter. Flaco looks up: ¡putamadre! one of the blinds keeps banging in the wind.

  Teta tries to hold him back, but Mixon eludes him like a cat and jumps the counter. Desperate, Teta shouts in his direction, waving his arms as if he’s directing traffic, but the other feels his way forward, drawn on by the moving blind. Despite the frantic rhythm of the music in the background, despite the intense buzzing in his ears, Flaco distinctly hears the blind beating against the window above his head ever more loudly. Mixon is searching through the coats, knocking more and more of them to the floor. He stumbles over someone’s leg – is it Lalo’s? – but he doesn’t fall. That’s it, he looks down and Lalo grabs his hand and pulls him towards them on the floor. Teta comes over and they jump on Mixon like piranhas: they put a hand over his mouth, and pin his arms and his feet. He struggles, he tries to bite, but Flaco notices he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Yeah, he was right, they were smoking up. He keeps fighting to free his hands and, exasperated, Flaco puts a hand on his throat and squeezes: calm down for Christ’s sake! If he does what they say, nothing will happen to him!

  Mixon frees one of his arms and, in a lucky break, punches Lalo right in the face. The Latino goes still for a moment, tears come to his eyes, pain contorts his features, blood spurts from his nose. On edge, Flaco slaps Mixon: calm down right now, will you! He climbs onto his stomach, face to face with him, while, behind him, Lalo holds his arms as best he can. Suddenly, Mixon writhes in pain, as if he were shaken by a sharp, tenacious, devastating spasm. Dios mío, what happened to him? For an instant, Flaco thinks he’s having an attack, that he can’t breathe. Dammit, he’s stopped moving! He places one hand flat on his chest: his heart is still beating. That’s when he sees Lalo putting his knife back in his pocket: that’ll teach you, you Black bastard, that’ll teach you. No way! It’s not true, right? Teta steps back, as if terrified: you crazy or what? And Lalo tries to explain: he kicked my ass, he made me bleed, the bastard! Flaco is paralyzed, dizzying images are flying through his mind. Moron! he finally roars in a low voice. You didn’t have to do that, ¡huevón! Lalo suddenly loses his heroic look. Flaco shakes Mixon to wake him up, but he’s probably fainted. Now what are they going to do, putamadre? What can they do? He takes a deep breath, blots his forehead with his sweater. Lalo looks sorry: I made sure just to shank him in the arm. Flaco starts to insult him, but he gets hold of himself. One thing’s for sure, they have no time to lose. He jumps up: come on, hurry up, we’re outa here, we have no choice. He picks up the garbage bag, looks back at Mixon one last time, the Black boy is lying on the floor, his mouth half open, his legs spread apart, as a puddle of blood grows around him. One after the other, they climb up on the radiator and slip outside. Flaco hides the bag in the bushes next to the church. No, he shouldn’t think about it, but he keeps seeing Mixon’s broken body. He looks at Lalo, as he staggers, pale, strangely hugging his chest with his arms. They walk around the church, looking for Pato, but they bump into a group of Paulina’s friends. But neither she nor Nena are there, they must have gone home. There, sitting on the church steps, Pato’s chatting naturally as anything with the Vietnamese girl. They climb the stairs, lean towards him and whisper that it’s time to go, but he’s so drunk he doesn’t seem to understand what they’re telling him. Off to one side, the Vietnamese girl suggests to Flaco that he take Pato home. They take him by the shoulders and they go down the stairs one at a time. They go back around the church in the opposite direction, retrieve the bag, and take off as fast as they can. On the way, Flaco realizes he’s shivering, that his sweater is soaked with sweat. After they’ve covered a good distance, made it to Rue Barclay and the church is far behind them, Lalo asks them to take a break for a minute: he doesn’t feel right, guys. He leans against a car and, after a few dry heaves, pressing his arms against his stomach, he pukes his guts out.

  On Saturday the lanes at Barclay Bowling and its recently opened arcade were crawling with people. Retired people, mostly Jewish, played games of ten-pin that would stretch for whole afternoons, while the teens, whether they were Latinos or Arabs or Haitians or Asians, huddled around the video games. Since you were able to practise at home with your Super Nintendo, you were one notch better than Akira at Mortal Kombat. You won another game and when Akira saw his warrior’s remains catch fire, he gave the machine a violent kick. Afraid he’d been seen, he looked worriedly around: with his back to them, the owner was chewing out one of his employees as he made a long serious of hand gestures. Akira asked you what time it was and, having slipped another two quarters into the machine, you quickly glanced at your watch before you started the next game: it was four in the afternoon. Can you believe it, Akira sighed, the guy was an hour and a half late.

  You answered simply with a nod: it was by no means the first time Cléo had done this to you. Let’s see, twice last week, one other time this week, yeah, that was right, this was the fourth time he’d left you hanging like this. Since January, although you called each other every two or three days, you saw him less often. According to what he said, Cléo didn’t have a second to himself anymore: either he had to help his mother with the housework or go with her to do the shopping, or finish his homework, or go visit his father, and on and on. One night, he went so far as to say he had to walk his neighbour Mrs. Masaryk’s dog. That was the last straw. You knew for a fact that Cléo and his mother hated the woman since, as soon as they put on a little music, she’d start relentlessly beating on the wall with her broom. Who knows, he may even have told you another lie this morning: at his teacher’
s request, he had to go to makeup classes . . . on weekends. As soon as he was done, he’d come meet you at Barclay Bowling, cross his heart and hope to die. It was hard to sort things out, because, after all, there had to be a little truth in what he said, didn’t there? Since his mother had found a job in a factory on the Main that made baby clothes, it’s true, she demanded his help more frequently, so she’d have time to paint at night.