Black Alley (2 page)

Spit wads beat down on the principal's suit vest. He glances at the teachers lined up like soldiers near the podium then lets out a long breath into the microphone. “My friends, please . . . we made this decision for your own good.” Now some groups are slow-clapping, stamping their feet. Speaking over the din, he starts again, “One last thing, my friends . . . listen to me, please . . .” With one voice, the room chants, “Nooo, noooo,
nooooo!” Despite it all, he continues, “I'm told the tension is caused by supposed ethnic conflicts . . . On that matter, I have only one thing to say . . . listen to me, for heaven's sake!” Again, he turns his head towards the teachers, puckers his lips and angrily runs a hand through his hair. For an instant, he sways, as if dizzy: he is the loneliest man in the world. Then, in a low voice, he grumbles, “Little bastards. . . .”

The teachers exchange shocked looks. The students laugh helplessly, slapping their thighs: that's a good one! Ah! Ah! Ah! Barbeau tries to explain himself: “For several months, a few individuals have been trying to divide us into ghettos . . . We won't let them do that to us . . . The important thing, my friends, is that there are no Italians . . . no Haitians . . . no Latinos . . . no Jews . . . no Asians . . . not even any Québécois, do you hear me? . . . There's no one here except students, students who will persevere, who are hungry for knowledge! Deep down inside, we're all brothers!” At one end of the gym, an entire row pretends to coax long wails out of imaginary violins. Some hug each other melodramatically, others shout, “Brother!” and pretend to sob convulsively. The principal leaves the podium without looking back. The students shout in victory. Ah! Ah!

The quantity of items in the locker leaves them speechless. It's papered with pictures of rappers and Black women in bikinis. On the door, a mirror, and, once again, the Bad Boys' symbol. On the upper shelf, a long-toothed comb, sunglasses and a cap. Pato grabs the glasses and the cap, something falls to the ground. It's a little chain with a silver bird. The bird's beak is twisted and its heavy wings are spread as if it's just taking flight. Pato recognizes it – it's a condor. His father has told him about the intelligence and cruelty of this bird that is feared throughout South America. But what's a Haitian doing with a condor? Something that belongs to a Latino! Flaco and his brother are going to be happy, he's just recovered a stolen article. Quickly, he stuffs the condor
inside his shorts and feels the animal come into icy contact with his testicles. ¡
Vámonos
!

The students are all blabbing with one another, not in the least hurry to move on. Two monitors open the doors: “C'mon, everybody, show's over!” Perched on a stool, his feet on the crossbar, Gino watches the students flow by, but his mind is elsewhere. He steals a glance at his digital watch: it's four-thirty-five, ten minutes have already gone by since the Latinos went to the washroom. Deep down, he knew they'd take off. The school has become impossible. The kids do whatever they feel like. Today Barbeau definitely lost it. There's no excuse. . . . It's not the first time a principal or teacher has lost control like that. In class it happens all the time. Pfff, personally, as long as he gets his cheque every Thursday, he doesn't really give a shit. . . . The crowd spills out into the hallway.

In the distance, steps echo like in a church. Pato rushes to his locker and dials the combination so quickly he makes a mistake. Alfonso's face twists like he has cramps. Finally, the lock opens. Flaco and his brother cross his mind again: You're a first-class thief, Pato! That was something else! Robbing the leader of the Bad Boys gang! That'll show that fucking Haitian! You're the kind of guy we need in Latino Power, Pato! He can't hold back a smile. He leaves the cap, the sunglasses and the bolt cutters in his locker, then he closes it. After everyone leaves, he'll put each item in his school bag and that'll be that. He suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns around: it's the two Haitians from before. No way! What does this mean? They're older and taller by at least a head. A shiver runs down his spine. The Black boys' faces harden.

“If it was that easy to rob us,” says one of them, “there wouldn't be much left in our lockers by now.”

The one who spoke laughs as if he didn't care. “What did I tell you? Those Latinos are born thieves!”

In the boys' washroom at École-Saint-Pascal-Baylon, there was a long wooden bench where we got changed before gym class. Some kids, already wearing their Phys. Ed. outfits under their street clothes, proudly dropped their pants; others discreetly went and put on their shorts and T-shirt in the stalls. We didn't talk much: Serge, the Phys. Ed. teacher, only gave the boys five minutes to get ready, and when time was up, the high-pitched sound of his whistle came through the half-open windows. All we heard was the rustling of clothes and, from time to time, the water washing through the urinals.

When the new boy came in, we all stopped for a moment, looked him over, then deliberately finished slipping on our socks or tying up our laces. Seeing that no one said a word to him, the boy went towards the urinals and stood there, looking awkward. He was Black, short, with a slim body. His delicate features and long eyelashes made him look like a girl. He was wearing a blue striped T-shirt. Remember, Marcelo: sitting there at the end of the bench, near the new boy, already in your PE clothes, you looked up at him. Since he kept standing there looking at the ceiling, you asked him, “Aren't you going to put on your shorts?”

The boy looked at you, then lowered his head.

“Nobody told me it was Phys. Ed . . .”

There were discreet coughs. One student, in the back, repeated the sentence softly, omitting the d's as he had. You all wagged your heads, trying to stifle your laughter. Just like with you the first time, Marcelo: they were making fun of his accent.

“What's your name?” you ventured.

Without giving him time to answer, Sylvain, who had got up to do his warm-up exercises, shouted, “Chocolate Bar!”

The whole class burst out laughing. Even the two Black boys at the other end of the bench guffawed. And, to everyone's surprise, the new boy joined the concert. He had a strange, joyful laugh, that unfurled in an uninterrupted series of i's. No, no, he
explained. His name wasn't Chocolate Bar. How silly! His name was Cléo. Akira, next to you, asked him if he was Haitian. Yes, he was born in Port-au-Prince. Akira pointed his index finger towards the two Black boys at the end of the bench: they're Haitian, too.

“You good at sports?” Sylvain asked.

He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say he did all right, but that was about it. Sylvain kept his eyes on him, as he continued to warm up: touching the tip of his sneakers with his left hand, then with his right, going from one foot to the other more and more quickly.

“Have you ever slept with a girl?” Sylvain continued.

This time a chuckle arose, then greedy eyes settled on the new boy.

“Oh, sure!” he exclaimed, as if there was nothing more natural in the world. “That kind of thing happens all the time where I'm from.”

First, there was some hesitation, as if you only half believed him, then there was a howl:
wowowowowo
! The class was amazed. We examined him from his head down to his feet, but differently this time, kind of like we looked at high-school boys. The new boy smiled broadly, displaying a mouth full of uneven teeth. Motionless now, Sylvain stared at him, breathing hard, his mouth open.

“Come on! Tell us how it happened!”

“What? We slept together, that's it.”

“You want to keep it to yourself? I get it. I'm the same way.”

“You never slept with anyone!” shouted Akira. “Don't even start!”

Woooow
! On the bench, the members of the class sniggered, lifting their feet off the floor, covering their mouths with their hands: Akira, you're gonna get it. We glanced at Sylvain: there was no question the Jap was going to get a beating. Sylvain was furious. He pounced on Akira and grabbed him by the collar.

“Who was talking to you? Answer me!”

“Okay, okay, I didn't mean anything.”

Cléo stepped closer to them, “Okay, I'll tell you. But I don't see what you think is so interesting about it.”

Remember, Marcelo: all eyes were on Cléo. Again, you could hear water flowing through the urinals. Remember his childish face, his urgent desire to be accepted. Like you, on your first day. We'd all thought he was more mature than the rest of us.
¡Ay, Marcelito!

“In Haiti,” Cléo began, tugging on his T-shirt, “I used to go to see my grandmother a lot out in the country. My family and I would spend the night there. And since there was only one bedroom, I'd sleep in the same bed as my little cousins. That's all. I told you there wasn't anything interesting about it.”

Laughter burst out around him. Some of the boys put their heads in their hands and shook back and forth, others hid their faces in a towel, still others pretended to beat their foreheads against the wall. Finally, everyone calmed down, and Sylvain came and stood, with his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest, a few centimetres from Cléo.

“I don't think you understood my question. I'll try to be more clear. Have you ever put your dick inside your cousin's pussy?”

After snapping out the words, Sylvain ran a proud gaze around the room. Now, impassive, he waited for the reply, while the others giggled, and squirmed. You saw Cléo frown, like he was trying to figure out the meaning of the new words he'd just heard. His pupils darted about and he clenched his hands as if he was squeezing lemons. His face tensed: he was going to cry.

Serge's whistle rang out.

“We're not done with you,” Sylvain warned, leaning over him. “We still have one more test to give you.”

Oh, yes, the famous test, Marcelo. Remember your first day: c'mon, new kid, pull down your shorts. Your underwear, too, what do you think? You felt a tingling in your cheeks, as if a fine
rain was falling on your face. You forced yourself to hold back your tears so they wouldn't laugh even more. At first, you didn't understand what they were asking you to do. How could you understand, since you couldn't grasp the words coming from their mouths like balls of fire. Then, it was like a revelation: you were supposed to pee from the bench to the urinals. Your stream reached the target. What luck! A salute of applause followed. What a baptism! Later, you witnessed what they did to anyone who didn't succeed on the first try: they pissed on them, can you imagine?

Swallowing their smiles, the boys formed a long line, began to trot in place and jogged out. As for Cléo, he didn't appear in the playground until a little while later, and Serge motioned for him to come closer: come on, hurry up! A new boy showing up with his hands in his pockets wasn't a good sign. He spoke to him for a moment, then the boy started jogging with the others. He performed the warm-up laps unenthusiastically. When Serge had his back turned, Sylvain and Evangelos, two boys who were inseparable, came up to Cléo from behind and hit him repeatedly on the neck: hey, Caramilk! Cléo would turn around and they'd shout at him, oh! you know your name! Each time the new boy started to laugh, leaving the other two speechless.

Remember the beginning of that school year, Marcelo: it was September and already the sun only appeared on rare occasions. Now and then a cold wind blew, you could feel it on your legs, and you ran faster to keep from shivering. Yes, the leaves of the spiral-barked maple tree in the playground, as tall as the school, had already turned yellow and purple. But the school . . . Was there a single other building in the neighbourhood that was any drabber? ¡
Ay Marcelito
! The warm-ups were done, the group moved towards Serge, who was standing on the stairs with his stopwatch in his hand. He always, always looked severe, military, but, they had to admit, passionate, too. That day his long speech
was about relay races, about how important it was for them to be the best so the school could improve its image. Despite it all, it's strange, isn't it, how his fanaticism was contagious? How they would play along with him! Immense hope swelled their hearts. Yes, Serge, we'll practise. No, we won't eat any more junk food. First, we have to beat the other schools in the neighbourhood, then it would be the Jeux de Montréal, then, if all went according to plan, the team would go to the Jeux du Québec. Today, they were going to choose the teams for the grade-five relay. It wasn't only about getting the four best times in the class, but the best times for the whole of grade five. Everyone understand? Okay, now let's get to work.

Serge inspired such admiration that the other teachers were jealous. Whenever the kids spotted him, they'd run towards him and hang from his neck – especially the girls. They'd throw themselves into his arms, give him kisses, tell him secrets. He was a sort of larger-than-life hero for the boys, and the first love of most of the girls. But only races and practice interested him: come on, come on, what did they think, that he was just some sort of entertainer? He'd extricate himself from their hugs and blow a lungful of air through his whistle. Even though there was no chance most of the students would participate in the competition, they would all run, impassioned, trying to outdo each other in the hope of winning his esteem. After a race, it was something to see the losers trying to swallow their sadness.