Black Alley (10 page)

Two kisses smacked on your cheeks, and she looked at you for a long time, her face beaming. Remember, Marcelo: with her black, slightly almond shaped eyes, her graciously curved forehead, and her tiny mouth framed by fleshy lips, she was a beautiful woman, despite her look of exhaustion. Around her eyes and on her forehead, tiny wrinkles were appearing, and her expression, even when she smiled, looked somehow tragic. She took you by the neck, leaned close to your ear: thanks for being so good to Cléo. She hugged you against her for a long time. You knew how to open up to friendship, Marcelo. Yes, that was about the time that your friendship with Cléo turned into a mission. Taking care
of him, being responsible for him, became an obligation. She placed one hand on her chest, her name was Carole, but you could call her “Auntie” if you wanted to. She kissed Akira, and, frozen in disbelief, you were thinking, this is her? It can't be! You couldn't keep from staring at the wheels on her chair and her lifeless legs.

Chairs had been placed around the living room and, as soon as you and Akira were seated, you were served some orange juice in little blue tinted glasses, then the conversations started up again in Creole, that funny language you sometimes managed to catch a word of. You looked up at the brightly coloured paintings, you could still smell the fresh paint, and the adults intimidated you: they were talking loudly, moving their hands emphatically. Once in a while, someone, a woman usually, would turn towards you: how long had you been in Canada? What country were you from? Where did you live? What did your father do? And your mother? Your answers were never longer than one syllable, Marcelo.

A woman in her thirties, her hair pulled up in a bun, stood, with a glass in her hand: shouldn't the conversation be in French so our two friends can follow? That's when something strange occurred. Carole rolled to the centre of the room, ready to talk, but then was speechless, as if she'd had a memory lapse. All the daylight was reflected in her sad eyes. What was wrong with her? What was going on? Finally, she gathered her wits back around her: yes, of course they should speak French, please forgive her. It's just that everything was done in French in this country and it made her feel better to speak Creole. Another rather heavy woman seemed annoyed: she didn't mind doing her shopping in French, she really didn't mind at all. As if she hadn't heard, Carole now laughed and looked around, confused, amazed, delighted, as the others looked on, embarrassed: to think that sometimes in Haiti, she'd found the winters tough!

Finally, it seemed that Carole deliberately retreated to a corner. What exactly was wrong with her? It was as if she needed to withdraw from everyone, to regain her strength alone with her conscience. After a while, her unoiled wheels started to squeak and she came towards you. And she hugged you in her arms, and in a conspiratorial tone, she said, you and I understand each other, don't we, Marcelo. Like a little girl, she repeated: we don't need them! Then she fell silent, as if she'd had a marvellous idea, she said:
¿Cléo te dijo que yo hablaba español?
Yes, yes, in Haiti lots of people spoke Spanish, because they were so close to the Dominican Republic.
Dios mío
, she spoke your language! Then, feeling like you were opening some sort of secret interview, you asked her why she'd left Haiti. She sighed: it wasn't easy to explain. First of all, Haiti's not an easy country to live in, she didn't want to go into details, but the political situation wasn't very rosy. Nonetheless, you see, she said she sometimes thought she'd made a mistake by coming to Canada. Her love life really wasn't going well lately. Cléo's father was a difficult man. . . .

“He's not interested in that, Mom!”

Remember, Marcelo, Cléo's trembling voice brought everyone to a halt. The conversations stopped as Cléo stared at his mother, his face hard, his gaze piercing. Carole looked around as if searching for approval from the other guests, then her eyes came back to Cléo: what's got into you? He didn't answer, a thread of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth. Then, as if nothing had happened, she turned her back on him and started up a conversation with her neighbour.

Later on, the woman with the bun served you some more juice, insisting that everyone raise their glass in a toast to Cléo, who'd been sitting there the whole time, his arms crossed, pouting. “
Happy birthday!
” you all shouted together. Okay, that's better, smiled the woman. She leaned towards you to introduce herself: her name was Maryse. Then, delicately, as if to avoid
jostling him or making him even angrier, she went over to Cléo: come on now, my boy, this is no time to sulk. Since Cléo was pretending not to hear, Carole, who'd been watching the scene from a distance, interrupted, they should leave him alone, if he wanted to spoil his own birthday, that was his problem!

They went into the kitchen, a Black Forest birthday cake stood in the middle of the table. Small and round, it had been placed with care on a white tablecloth, and adorned with a huge bouquet of daffodils. Only the children could sit down, the adults stood all around with their plates in their hands. The cake was set in front of Cléo, the ten candles were lit and everyone sang
Happy Birthday
. Kneeling on his chair, with his hands flat on the table, Cléo blew them all out with one breath: he received a long round of applause. Carole cut the cake into slices and sent around the first plate, which quickly made its way into Cléo's hands. With no hesitation at all, he handed it to you, Marcelo. Then, without making a sound, Carole set down the knife and spoke in a voice she struggled to control: Cléo, please, you know we serve the girls first. Cléo, already holding a second plate in his hands, avoided her eyes: no, it's my birthday, I get to decide. You, Marcelo, would get the first plate, Akira the second and then the others. Cléo, stop being stubborn and give that plate to one of the girls, now. He replied, no, no, no! They're my real friends. You could see the fury in his eyes, and Carole lost her temper: if that's how you're going to act, you can go calm down in your bedroom! That's all you ever do, Cléo defended himself, send me to my room while you cry all day! He ran away and slammed a door noisily.

Silence passed through like a cold draught and Carole started sending plates around again. You'd barely tasted the cake, when she came over to you discreetly: could she talk to you? She took you over to the refrigerator, bent over, with her hands in her lap: would you please do her a favour and try to get Cléo to come back? I know he won't listen to me. As a last resort, you could just
tell him it'll soon be time for presents and he'll have to come out to get them.

Remember the closed door to his room in the middle of the dark hallway. You knocked once, twice, you turned the knob and slowly pushed the door which seemed almost to open on its own. Surrounded by darkness, crying like a fountain, Cléo was stretched out on his bed, his face buried in a pillow. With tiny steps, you made your way over to the bed and Cléo's face appeared, as sad as a guitar without strings. Your mother wants you to come back out. He shook his head no. Come on, don't be like that, it's almost time to get your presents. I don't care. Okay, whatever you say. Can I at least give you my present? You didn't wait for him to answer and you took a little square box out of the pocket of your pants. He sat up, took it and shook it vigorously beside his ear. Go on, open it up. He ripped off the wrapping, opened the box and looked for a long time at his gift, his mouth slightly open. Thank you, and you replied, you're welcome, happy birthday. Now he was smiling weakly: you were his best friend, Marcelo. He was your best friend, too. Cléo's eyes looked panicky: it's just that sometimes he hated his mother. She corrected him all the time, and it tired him out. Then, as you remained silent, standing there in the midst of all the objects enveloped by the soft light filtering in through the blinds, he slipped on the chain. The condor shone against the blue of his tie.

 

Standing in front of the living room window, Ketcia follows the cars filing down Rue Linton in the twilight. From now on, she's well aware, she won't be able to walk around alone. She'll always have to have someone with her. In the last two days, each member of the Bad Boys has got a call where a voice, intentionally deepened and distorted, has repeated two or three times: you're dead, buddy! Or else: watch out, if you don't want to end up with two broken legs! The Bad Boys talked it over at CB's for a long time and agreed they had to act quickly, to take advantage of the
element of surprise. The idea worked, and in his opinion, their scheme was more imaginative than the one Latino Power came up with: they slipped threats written on bits of paper into the Latinos' lockers. Seeing them read the insults was something else, they looked stunned.

Still, and he should have expected this, Latino Power didn't waste any time either. She's still wondering how they did it, the bastards. Every Saturday she slept late, then took her shower and went to the kitchen where her two younger brothers and her parents were already at the table. Today the door to the courtyard was half open and, as if moved by a premonition, she went out onto the balcony. It was cool out, but it wasn't unpleasant. It took a while for her to notice the cat, stretched out on its side, its eyes open. Since it sometimes gets hot in the spring and since Vaudou is usually incurably lazy, at first she thought the animal had lain down just to be more comfortable. She stroked his grey fur but immediately jerked back her hand. His mouth was half open, his canines exposed. Frightened, she screamed, and her father came running. He examined Vaudou: sweet Jesus, what does this mean? He's dead. Slowly, he drew one hand along his beard, then put his finger to his lips: her brothers mustn't see the cat, it would be too painful for them. She should go get a plastic bag. When Ketcia came back out onto the balcony, her father winked: Vaudou ran away, okay? Okay, she agreed. As they lifted the cat to place him in the bag, a thread of blood came from his mouth and then everything had to be cleaned up. Ketcia carried the bag downstairs to the trash. She felt funny leaving Vaudou there. When she went back up to the apartment, her father took her aside: did she have any idea who could have done such a thing? It wasn't normal, cats don't just die like that. He had been killed, that much was obvious. Already she was thinking it was the Latinos, but she held back her anger: no idea, Dad, I really don't get it.

Outside, there was still no sign of the Bad Boys, only three boys tossing a ball back and forth in front of the building across
the street. But yesterday CB had said that they'd get together at about seven, seven-thirty. Finally, she sees them coming up the sidewalk, one behind the other, she waves to them and, as usual, they reply by making faces at her and waving for her to come down. With light steps, to avoid attracting her parents' attention, she slips on her Bad Boys jacket and goes out, being careful to close the door behind her without making a sound. Sitting on the yellow grass, or leaning against her father's old red pickup truck, they're smoking with their legs crossed and surveying the neighbourhood as if a threat could arise any second.

She shakes everyone's hand, the way the Bad Boys do, in a complicated series of finger snaps and hand slaps. Every single one of them is wearing a black coat that comes half way down their thighs, with an artistic drawing of the Bad Boys' logo on the back. Several of them, thoughtful and impassioned, swear to avenge Vaudou's death. Eh? says Mixon, his eyebrows transformed into upside down v's. He hadn't heard about it! Shit, why is he always the last to know, eh? And, without losing a beat, Ketcia imitates Mixon's voice and intonation: why don't you ever listen when people talk to you, eh? No one speaks for a moment, and Mixon suggests a moment of silence. Ketcia, both surprised and touched, smiles weakly: Mixon, what's got into you? You had a good idea! You sick? For a few long seconds, they all lower their eyes, contemplative, like in church, but suddenly, on the balcony of the building on the other side of the street, a woman in her sixties, her hair a mess, puts out a garbage bag. They know her, she came from Hungary or Czechoslovakia, and she's always grumbling about everything and anything. Mixon steps towards the balcony, a mocking smile on his lips: hello, Mrs. Masaryk, how are you? What can we do for you today? She stares at him, purses her lips as if to control her anger and, before going back into her apartment shouts in a nasal voice:
Bunch of delinquents! Get a job!
There follows an explosion of laughter, then Mixon rejoins
the group, shaking his head, amused, Christ, I love that old woman!

Then he starts blowing on his nails and polishing them on his long, black T-shirt. With affected manners, he coughs several times and tells them that last night he went to Flaco's building and, with a little help from a can of black spray paint, wrote
Death to the Latinos!
on the garage door. What do they say about that, guys? Euphoric acclamations and warm handshakes congratulate him. Only CB doesn't look cheerful, Ketcia notices, something's on his mind. The others also become aware of this and little by little they fall silent. CB looks up at the sky, stuffs his hands in his pockets and kicks at a cigarette pack lying on the ground. Yesterday, his father got a call from the principal telling him about his week's suspension and there followed an animated conversation between him and his old man, and, he swears to them, his old man doesn't think it's funny at all to see him mixed up in this.

“You wanted to hit a teacher?” asked his father in a voice that was almost more amused than worried. “What got into you? You should know you never win when you lose your cool.”

“It's nothing,” replied CB. “He's an old racist who was trying to get on my nerves. But what's it to you? Don't you always say you don't give a crap about what happens to me?”