Black Alley

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

I Wrote Stone: The Selected Poetry of Ryszard Kapuściński
(Poland)

Translated by Diana Kuprel and Marek Kusiba

 

 

Good Morning Comrades
by Ondjaki (Angola)

Translated by Stephen Henighan

 

 

Kahn & Engelmann
by Hans Eichner (Austria-Canada)

Translated by Jean M. Snook

 

 

Dance With Snakes
by Horacio Castellanos Moya (El Salvador)

Translated by Lee Paula Springer

 

 

Black Alley
by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

Translated by Dawn M. Cornelio

 

 

 

The Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which mortals had built. And the Lord said, ‘Look, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let us go down, and confuse their language there, so that they will not understand one another's speech.

Genesis 11, 5-7

T
he crowd in the gym spills out into the hallway. A roar of voices climbs towards the ceiling: the students, amazed to leave their desks and notebooks behind, chatter in a frenzy. Twenty-five minutes have already passed and the air is getting stale. To the right, all the way at the back, one of the basketball nets has been raised and in its place is the familiar black podium used only for the principal's speeches. Everything is ready: the microphone, the speakers, a stool with a pitcher of water and a glass. The hall monitors hurry along the stragglers, push everybody inside, lock the doors with a slam and take up their positions at the front: arms crossed, legs spread. Students are standing on tiptoe, looking around with impatient glances. At Polyvalente Saint-Luc, it's a well-known fact that the principal likes to keep them waiting.

At the opposite end of the gym, near the mats and nets, where the crowd isn't so thick, a squabble breaks out. Two monitors, with their scarlet vests and armbands, chase two boys. The culprits cut a path through the crowd, knocking over two girls who let out sharp shrieks. One of them gets up, rushes one of the boys and grabs him by the collar. What the fuck . . . ? Does he think he can get away with that? No way! The monitors jump
them and break it up, then they tell the boys to go kneel down and face the wall, in the left corner, got it? The two of them curse each other under their breath and slouch to the wall. One of the monitors grabs the girl by the shoulders and holds her still: are you gonna settle down or what? She looks at him, startled, like she's paralyzed, then with a brusque movement, shakes herself loose.

Then it's done: the principal takes the three steps leading to the podium in a single stride. Applause and boos rise from the rabble below. The commotion echoes off the walls. The principal stands at the microphone, taking in the sea of heads with a lively look. He pushes back a lock of grey hair and pulls at the knot on his tie. In quick succession, “Barbeau, you asshole!”, and “Fucking jerk!” shoot up from the crowd, loud and clear. He opens his mouth, but, knowing better, closes it again. He smiles and ceremoniously raises his arms: “My friends . . .” The gym begins to quiver! The conversations stop, but in the back a girl bursts out laughing: hilarity shakes her flabby stomach and double chin, while another girl tries to help her get a grip. A monitor with a crewcut rushes them, grabs their arms and backs them up against the wall. The principal's smile has faded and he is waving and waving his hand: “Hello, my friends.”

With his hand over his mouth, he coughs once, twice. Immediately, dozens of little coughs explode. “Please!” he says, his face tense. He slowly lowers his big, open hands to encourage self-control in his audience. “I want to talk to you about some serious matters. . . .” He takes a sip of water and puffs out his cheeks as though he's gargling. “As you know, over the past few months acts of violence have been committed in our school.” He squints his eyes for a moment, as if to measure the effect of his words. “I've already told you that such acts will never be tolerated here.” His grandstanding tone surprises the students: contagious joy takes over part of the crowd. “We're here to learn, aren't we? Aren't we?”

A “yes” rings out in unison from the front rows, then a few shouts of “no” crop up here and there, setting off more crazy laughter. It's obvious that the principal only takes in the first answer, “That's right! That's what I thought!”

In the middle of the gym, two boys start to move out of the crowd. They're wearing fluorescent T-shirts and roll their shoulders as they walk. They head for the door, glancing around them. A monitor in the doorway blocks them with his arm.

“And where are you two going?”

He has a big grin. The boys exchange a nervous look, then the taller one's eyes dip low and he gives a bored sigh.

“To the washroom. Where do you think we're going?”

The monitor doesn't answer, his smile widens. The boy puts his hand on his hips and, again, he sighs.

“Don't be stupid, Gino. You're afraid we'll take off, right?”

“You got it, you wuss.”

Gino's eyes dart from one boy to the other. Their faces become impassive. The monitor draws closer to the taller one and, tapping on his cheek as if he were a baby, says, “What are you up to this time, Pato?”

The boy ducks away from his hand and pretends to be exasperated. “Can't you see we have to piss! Stop hassling us!”

Gino's face relaxes. He looks both hesitant and slightly ashamed. Here we go, thinks Pato. Yep, he's the easiest of the monitors. No doubt, he'll give in. Gino looks at his watch then he looks Pato straight in the eye.

“Okay,” he mutters. “But make it fast. If you're not back in three minutes, I'll cut off your dicks!”

Both boys smile.

“I don't want to have the principal on my ass,” explains the monitor. “
Capito
?”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” says Pato. “You're a good guy, Gino.”

The monitor opens the door and, as they go by, the boys give him a few pats on the back. “Okay, okay,” says Gino. It's not like
he's letting them go out of Christian charity or anything! They hug the wall, certain that Gino's watching them with his piggy eyes and, as soon as they turn the corner, they start to run. As fast as he can, Pato speeds by the boys' washroom. Each of his steps kicks up oversized echoes. He hisses, “
¡Apúrate, Alfonso!
” They travel down several long hallways that end at metal doors. The farther they go on, the longer Pato's strides become and the more he outdistances the other boy. “Hey,” shouts Alfonso, panting, “not too fast!” Behind one door, Pato runs into two Black boys sitting on the ground, moving their heads to the rhythm of their Walkmans. A cloud of smoke surrounds them, a gentle lethargy crowns their movements and reddens their eyes. They don't seem surprised by his sudden appearance. Nonetheless, Pato slows down. When Alfonso catches up, without lowering the volume of his music, one of the Black boys shouts at the top of his lungs, “Look at that, man! Two Latinos playing tag!”

“That is so cute!” yells his neighbour.

The two Latinos hurry away. Behind them they hear the Black boys' tired laughter. Pato's heart rips a drum solo, he turns around: the two Black boys blow him kisses and snigger. Are they going to follow them? Probably not, they're too stoned. Haitians are all the same, always high.

“The problem is the small number of students who are not here to learn, but just to have fun. Of course, I know, everyone likes to have fun. Including me. But that cannot be all a student thinks about. That's where things get dangerous . . .” The students are now listening to the principal without grumbling. It looks like he's taking it easy on them. The last time he talked to them like this, he'd announced that after three suspensions expulsion was automatic.

The two boys push through the last two doors before the basement and run down the stairs four at a time. They arrive at last among the billiard tables and, farther along, the long rows of lockers forming sinister corridors, with dozens of cones of light
filtering in at an angle through the dirty window panes. Pato crosses the room, stops in front of one of the lockers and quickly dials the combination on the lock. Never again. They'll never again be able to say that I'm just a good-for-nothing little shit, that I'm scared, that I'm too young. Never again . . . Soaked in sweat, Alfonso drifts over. Pato opens the locker door and grabs a metal tool. When he sees the set of red bolt cutters almost a metre long, Alfonso panics and looks around: there's nobody there.

“Pato? What if you wait and do this some other day?”

The question startles Pato. He notices that Alfonso's eyes are wide and staring, his lips trembling. No way, he's going to cry! The same second, he realizes his heart is pounding inside his chest. Now Alfonso lowers his head and covers his eyes with his forearm.

“Relax,” Pato whispers. “The important thing is not to panic. That's what Flaco always says. Right? Tell me that's right.”

Alfonso nods his head: yes. They stand there for a moment without talking. Alfonso's tears and his innocent face are irritating Pato more and more, the odour of his sweat nips at his nostrils. Pato's upset at himself for choosing Alfonso for the job. But now isn't the time to get mad. He motions for him to follow and starts running again. A moment goes by before the echo of Alfonso's steps can be heard, as if his heart wasn't in it.

“Every Friday,” continues the principal, “for the last three months, I've been meeting with the monitors. They give me a summary of what's gone on during the week. Which individuals have got the most detentions? What did they do? Who did they do it to? Where do they commit these acts of aggression? And do you know what we've realized? Most offences happen during recess.” He stops and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Yes, the time has come, he's going to spill the beans, they can feel it. “It wasn't an easy decision to make, my friends. And don't forget: you can't be angry with us, just with the few bad apples who
are ruining the atmosphere at this school. So, to ensure that these unfortunate incidents no longer occur, we – the administration, the monitors, and I – have decided to eliminate afternoon recess.”

At first, a grumbling hovers over the crowd, as if they're not sure they've really understood, then a rumble arises. At last protests shower down on the principal: the crowd is shouting at the top of their voices, here and there students raise their middle fingers. Standing rigid behind the microphone, the principal shrugs his shoulders. His pretending he doesn't care makes the booing louder.

They've finally made it: they're in front of the most famous locker in the school. It's covered with black, red, green, purple graffiti:
Propriété des Bad Boys
,
Public Enemy Number 1
,
Cop Killer
,
Fuck Barbeau
,
Sex, drugs and rap
. . . In the centre, the Bad Boys' symbol: a panther seen from behind, with its head turned back and its mouth wide open. Alfonso's the lookout, his face scarlet. Pato takes a deep breath, snares the lock with the bolt cutters and, with his eyes shut as if he's trying to forget what he's doing, forces it. He can already see Flaco's and his brother's astonished, delighted faces: no way! Not CB's locker! You? You're the one who ripped him off? Really? C'mon, spit it out, tell us how you did it. And he would tell them everything. Flaco would put an arm around his shoulders: I can see CB's face when he finds out a little grade-seven kid broke into his locker! He wouldn't miss it for anything! The lock hits the ground and Pato rushes to open the locker.