Black Alley Read online

  In the afternoon, a few buildings away, groups of teenagers would appear, cleverly scattered around, boys and girls mixed together, passing the time having a smoke, chatting amongst themselves and getting high on rap, rock or heavy metal. They hardly seemed to notice the hockey game going on a few metres away, though you observed their world of flirting, cigarettes and alcohol attentively, knowing that when you got to high school it would be your turn to taste all these things. To all this would be added the comings and goings of Guylain, the acid-faced wino, who always wore his Montreal Canadiens jersey and who’d been deep in discussion with himself forever. He’d look up at you, like he was coming out of a dream, and, for no apparent reason, he’d threaten you with his fist and mutter racist insults. It had become such a custom, that you waited for his visits almost impatiently, they’d become something of an inoffensive, comical distraction.

  After Randy moved away, you, Marcelo, started delivering the Gazette on Rue Linton, from Côte-des-Neiges to Avenue Victoria. On Saturdays, the papers were thicker and Cléo, always at the ready, helped you. Often, still bathed in the hostile darkness, you’d meet outside his building and walk side by side, yawning, famished, in the quiet, morning cold, and you’d each pull one of the carts your mother used for her shopping. Each one was responsible for one side of the street and you’d compete against each other: you’d fling the papers and climb the stairs four at a time, occasionally, corpse-like faces appeared at the window to gaze at you, and one of you would get scared. When the other heard the shout, he’d come running: what happened? He’d put an arm around his friend’s shoulders: don’t be afraid, it’s just an old man who can’t sleep. When the work was done, Cléo would refuse the seven or eight dollars you’d hold out to him, and you’d end up buying him breakfast at McDonald’s. Deal? And Cléo said, with a huge smile, deal, and you’d shake hands.

  At school, you were almost always on the same dodge ball team. Luck even had it that your desks in school were right next to each other. But remember how many times Cléo had to go stand in the corner, because he got caught in the middle of a conversation with his neighbour or hadn’t done his homework right? With his hands behind his back, right next to the crank-handled pencil sharpener, he’d keep his eyes on the wall, fascinated, as if he had an unfathomable painting before his eyes. After a half hour the teacher would let him sit back down: she hoped he’d learned his lesson, this time. At the end of the day, they’d ask him why he’d only done half the problems on the math homework and he’d explain in a low voice that it wasn’t his fault, he’d fallen asleep.

  It’s true that it was pretty easy to fall asleep at Cléo’s, an oppressive silence always reigned there. Even though you’d gone back a few more times, you still hadn’t met Cléo’s mother: your curiosity about her absorbed you more and more, Marcelo. For a long time, you didn’t know what was wrong with her. One thing was for sure, it always happened the same way: she’d call Cléo, always in that same gravelly voice, he’d go see and then you’d just hear their murmurs. Didn’t she ever get up? Why was her voice so tired? Because she paints at night and needs to sleep during the day, Cléo invariably answered. And why wasn’t his father ever there? How many times did he have to tell him! His father was on a business trip. What kind of business? His father had told him, but it was hard to remember, he’d forgotten. Come on, we’re going to miss the Power Rangers.

  One Sunday morning since it was raining and the hockey game outside had been postponed, you’d gone into the kitchen to see your parents and your Uncle Juan, who generally came over to have lunch with you on Sundays. Your father had made sopaipillas and your mother, whipped cream and bananas and some carrot juice squeezed in a sock. Since the conversation revolved around Cléo, you went to your room to get the mask sculpted by your friend’s mother so your uncle could take a look at it. It was an oblong face, made from black-painted wood, and the lips were in the shape of an O. Your uncle looked at it for a long time, in an amused way, turning it this way and that.

  “Compadre, can you believe it? I paid forty dollars for that damn mask!”

  Your uncle bit his lip to keep from laughing.

  “Don’t be narrow-minded, Roberto,” he said. “What would a Haitian think of a Temuco poncho, eh? He’d probably think it was ugly, or, at the very least, utterly useless.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” your mother said. “I wouldn’t put it up in my room. It scares me. But I can recognize art when I see it.”

  “Anyway,” Roberto clarified, “we didn’t buy it because we thought it was pretty. Since it was made by the mother of a friend of Marcelo’s, it was the right thing to do.”

  “But, Dad,” you joined in, “I thought you liked the mask. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” Roberto answered, “I don’t hate it, but I can’t say I really like it either. What do you want, I mostly bought it because Cléo is your friend. And because we felt bad for that woman – she really seems to be a hard worker.”

  “If immigrants don’t help each other out,” Carmen went on, “who’s going to give them a hand? Eh? That’s what I think.”

  “And would you please tell me what this woman does for a living?” Juan inquired. “Is she an artist?”

  “Yes. She makes paintings and masks. She mostly works at night.”

  “Well, that’s a well known fact,” Juan commented, “inspiration comes at night. If I could have, I would have been a writer. I would have written the story of my life. People would turn around when they saw me in the street, they just wouldn’t be able to get over all I’d have to tell . . . Artists have a good life. Those people have more fun – .”

  “In any case,” said Carmen, “Cléo’s mother isn’t the kind to spend her time in salons and at cocktail parties. According to what Marcelo tells us, she doesn’t sell many paintings. She’s just like us, she arrived in a completely new country and you know how that can slow you down, how it can knock the stuffing out of you.”

  “But Haitians have a big advantage over us, Carmen,” Roberto said. “They already know French. I see them at Phillips, they get along with no problem. Plus, you have to admit, there’s a difference between painting and packing computers all day long. I’ll grant you that she probably doesn’t make much money, just like us, but at least she’s doing what she likes.”

  “What about the father?” Juan asked. “What does your friend’s father do?”

  You repeated what Cléo always said about his father’s business trips and all the presents he promised him. Roberto let out an exasperated sigh and stiffened.

  “Marcelo, listen to me carefully. Dads don’t leave for months and months on business trips. You’re big enough now not to believe everything people tell you. Don’t you think?”

  “Roberto, please!” Carmen cut in. “Leave him alone. He’s just a boy!”

  Roberto stared at the tablecloth for a minute, as if he was thinking deeply, then he turned towards his wife, “Why should Marcelo believe this guy’s lies, too? Why doesn’t he have the right to know the truth?”

  Remember the discussion that followed, Marcelo: you felt like you’d been swallowed up by a black hole, you felt strangely dizzy. Then your father spoke to you again. “What’s wrong? Listen, I thought it was better to start telling you the truth about things like that. Or would you rather we continue to hide them from you?”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Dad?” you shouted. “Eh? Say it! You think I don’t know he’s gone off with another woman? You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know anything about it?”

  Without really knowing why, despite your best efforts, you were unable to deflect the emotion swelling up in your throat like a ball. Why did your tears always appear at the worst time? Why did they bother you so much? When they saw you like that, they were silent, surprised, nervously watching you. And Carmen said in a low voice, “God, that boy is sensitive! See? You see what you did, Roberto? Are you proud of yourself now? You’re so cruel!”
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  She came over to console you: she held you against her stomach, rubbed your back. Then Juan remarked, “Those Haitians are awful! There are two of them at the restaurant. They’re married and they both have children. Every Monday, I swear, they tell me about all the screwing they did all weekend. We laugh like crazy, because they’re like us, they tell everything, with lots of details. . . .”

  Then, getting hold of himself: “Yeah, but I also figure it must not be a lot of fun for their wives.”

  He immediately moved his head closer to Roberto, touched his arm, and whispered, “Those Haitians have quite an appetite for sex! Oof! They’re worse than us, compadre!”

  Roberto and Juan laughed without holding back and looked around for approval.

  “And it’s not racist to say that,” Juan added, “it’s a fact.”

  You’d stopped crying. Carmen had got up, picked up the plates and placed them in the sink.

  “If I was in your shoes,” she retorted as she ran the water, “I wouldn’t laugh too hard. Neither one of you has any reason to make fun of anyone else. None at all, and you know it!”

  The men’s joking mood disappeared.

  “Well now, that’s just like you, Carmen,” Roberto muttered. “Waking up old demons. And in front of the boy . . . How many times do I have to explain it to you: all men occasionally have ‘little indiscretions.’”

  Roberto and Juan exchanged an amused look and then shrugged their shoulders. Carmen turned her head and went back to scrubbing the glass she had in her hands.

  “But don’t go telling those things to your little friend,” Roberto said, seeking out your eyes. “You might hurt his feelings.”

  You didn’t answer him, you hated him, and your uncle and Cléo’s father. You were angry at all men. You jumped up and ran to your room. Before you slammed your door, you heard your father’s rushed, low voice: “You satisfied now? Look what you’ve done. And then you say I’m cruel!”

  Along the cafeteria wall, Ketcia paces back and forth, eyes fixed on the ground, hands behind her back. From time to time she looks at the students flowing towards the entrance with carefree, smiling faces, carrying their lunch trays. She, though, is so nervous that she’s not hungry. Her black corduroy pants and her Chicago Bulls cap, turned backwards, are giving her hot flashes, and her sneakers, which come up to her ankles, are like a ball and chain. As they go by, some of the students respectfully call out Hi, Ketcia, or even What’s up, Ketcia? but she’s happy just to reply with a nod of her head. What’s that idiot up to? It’s always the same old story! For the past few weeks, she’s noticed that his newest technique for getting attention is arriving late on purpose. She’s always said that guy became a member of the Bad Boys for the wrong reasons: to have fun and to avoid getting beat up at school. At the end of the hall, in the midst of a rainbow-coloured crowd, she thinks she recognizes Mixon’s lazy gait. Yes, it’s him: he’s the only one with a black T-shirt that has a picture of the members of Public Enemy on it. With a sharp wave, she motions for him to hurry up. Oh my God, even when he runs he looks like he’s asleep. He comes to a stop in front of her, a stupid smile on his lips.

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been standing here waiting for you?” she says. “More than twenty minutes.”

  She looks him over.

  “I told you to meet me right after your class. Why don’t you ever listen to what people are saying to you? An order is an order, Mixon! How many times do I have to tell you!”

  Mixon looks down and, when he looks back up, she notices he’s still got that annoying smile.

  “Chill,” he defends himself. “I was catching some rays outside with the girls. A guy has the right to do some cruising, doesn’t he?”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets, looks around in amusement. She thinks, I ought to wipe that smile off your face with a good punch! Of course, she doesn’t do anything of the sort and settles for snapping, “CB’s going to get expelled!”

  The statement takes immediate effect: the smile disappears. Mixon’s forehead wrinkles, as if he wants to know more but is afraid to ask her.

  “I bet you didn’t even know,” she goes on. “Everybody in the whole school knows, except you. Where were you this morning? How come you didn’t get to school until eleven o’clock?”

  Ketcia stares at him with disgust, as if she’s trying to force a reply out of him. Mixon lets out a long sigh as if to relax a bit.

  “Okay, all right, I’m sorry. It’s just that I had a really bad headache this morning. I think I had too much to drink last night with my brother, and since my alarm goes off every fifteen minutes after it goes off the first time, well, I put it in a drawer and went back to sleep. . . .”

  He cuts his story short when he realizes Ketcia couldn’t care less about his morning difficulties. Then he tries, “Tell me what happened.”

  Okay, he’s finally realizing how serious the situation is. Ketcia’s face relaxes. She takes off her cap, furiously runs one hand through her hair and then puts it back on.

  “It’s completely ridiculous! Right this minute, CB is in the principal’s office. But he should be here soon.”

  “How long’s he expelled for?”

  “That’s what we’re waiting to find out.”

  “What did he do?”

  Ketcia glances around suspiciously, then brings her gaze back to Mixon.

  “Everything started this morning, when we got to CB’s locker. The lock had been forced, but we already knew about that. I knew there was something else bothering CB and I asked him what was wrong.”

  “Just think,” CB said as he closed his locker, “I was feeling bad after that lesson we taught him. I thought maybe the wuss had been telling the truth after all. Just think, I felt bad about beating up that lying little shit!”

  “What?” Ketcia had asked. “He stole something else from you?”

  “The chain,” CB answered, as if he were talking to himself. “I should have guessed it.”

  “A chain?” asks Mixon. “I never saw him wearing one. I didn’t know he liked jewellery. Once, I think he even said jewellery was only for girls and fags.”

  “It’s cause he never wears it,” Ketcia explains, “but I’d already noticed that every time he opens his locker, he checks to make sure it’s still there. I always wondered what that chain meant to him. But you know how CB is, he doesn’t like people sticking their nose in his business.”

  “I’m sure it’s something personal,” says Mixon. “I know: it was a gift from a girl he was in love with, but she broke up with him. The memory of the chick still causes him pain today. Unbelievable! Our CB is a romantic!”

  “It was a gift,” CB had continued.

  “No way, I got it right?” asks Mixon. “I was kidding! It’s really about a girl?”

  “A gift from your parents?” Ketcia ventured.

  “No. From a friend I used to have.”

  “A guy?” says Mixon. “Oh, that’s a disappointment! Did he at least tell you who it was?”

  “He was my best friend,” CB had explained. “But that’s not the case anymore. We’ve both changed.”

  “Who was it?” asks Mixon.

  “No,” CB had said “I’d rather not tell you his name right now. You all know him. But I promise to tell you everything one of these days. But just you, no one else in the gang. Only a girl can understand this kind of thing.”

  “He said that?” asks Mixon. “He really said that? I can’t believe it!”

  Mixon falls silent, hurt, then he adds, “He’s always treated you better than the rest of us, just because you’re a girl. I’m starting to get sick of it . . . But, just so it’s clear between us, I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at him.”

  For once, thinks Ketcia, raising her cap a bit and wiping her forearm across her damp brow, Mixon isn’t wrong. It’s true, CB’s always a real gentleman with her: he takes her opinion into account and, often he even makes sure she agrees with him. Before she became a memb
er of the Bad Boys, she watched him from a distance when he defended the Haitians in the schoolyard and she’d secretly admired him. Then, when she’d joined the gang, she didn’t know what to expect with him. But the facts proved her right: under his hard exterior, he was a good guy. She loves him, she means, she’s not in love with him, but as a friend. Of course, there are plenty of idiots around who think she joined the gang because she is in love with him. But she couldn’t care less about that kind of rumour. Besides, she’s not pretty and she knows it, and she doesn’t try to fool herself. She understood that if you run as fast as the boys, if you drink as much beer as them and if you walk around with a knife like they do, they stop looking at your breasts when they’re talking to you and start looking at your eyes. And CB’s the one who seems to appreciate her the most for what she is. In fact, he’s like the big brother she’d always wanted.

  “So what happened?” asks Mixon. “I don’t understand why he’s still in the office.”

  “Wait a minute and I’ll tell you.”

  As usual, at eight-thirty, the alarm sounds and a mob forms at the foot of the stairs. Without a word to Ketcia, CB hurtles forward after the other students, as they climb the steps in drowsy silence. He turns a few of them around to look at their faces. Ketcia catches up and tries to grab him by the arm: where’s he going like that? They’ll settle it later, outside, one on one with the Latinos. This is no time to act crazy, CB! But he evades her: let him go, he knows perfectly well what he’s doing. When he gets to the third floor, he zigzags between the students and steps into each classroom. Sitting at their desks or on the radiators near the windows, the students stop chatting when they see him and focus their eyes on him: Hi, CB! Hey, man, how you doing? Is he looking for someone? Does he need some help? He doesn’t respond, then he sees Pato at the end of the hallway, walking with another boy. They go into the classroom and CB quickens his step, jostling another group of students.