Black Alley (19 page)

What about you, how were you doing? Okay, I guess. The other night, Akira and I went to a hockey game with his father. Yeah, Akira said excitedly, you should have been there, Cléo!
The Canadiens trounced the Flyers, five to nothing! Then you noticed the condor was hanging from his neck. I see you're still wearing it. He touched it, held it between his fingers: yeah, it brings me luck. Then the rest of the conversation unfolded like when two old friends meet again and promise to keep in touch although they both know it's no longer possible. Yes, you were sitting there with him, he was talking to you over the shouting and excitement bubbling around you both, and you kept asking yourself, obsessively, what could have happened between you.
Dios mío
, where did this dark, sneaky force separating you come from? You had the feeling, yes, he was looking down on you and Akira, that he didn't think much of you, that he though he was more mature than you. He climbed the stairs and went to sit back down with Carl and the rest of the
classe d'accueil
.

A little before noon, Cléo won the fifty-metre final, which made him the fastest grade five boy in Montreal. Serge hugged him and kept running his hand through his hair. Throughout the afternoon, he lavished him with all sorts of advice and tricks to get him ready for the relay race. One by one, the boys came to shake his hand, you're the next Carl Lewis, Cléo, while the girls elbowed each other and cooed, hi, Cléo, you cutie. Saint-Pascal-Baylon picked up three other medals in the individual competitions, but no other golds, which left Serge dumbfounded for a good part of the day. A teacher-friend of his, who'd come to watch the competition, consoled him with an arm around his shoulders, his voice gentle: the relay races are this afternoon, and that's where they had the best chance of picking up medals, wasn't it?

Around four o'clock, after some exhausting qualifying races, there were only eight teams left in the finals, including Saint-Pascal-Baylon, for the 4 x 50 metre grade five relay. You had a great start, Marcelo. That day, carried by the crowd, you felt light as a bird. Coming out of the turn, you had a good lead and you were first to pass the baton to the second runner, who happened
to be Akira and, despite his disorderly way of running, he managed to further increase the distance between you and the other team. Then, completely unexpectedly, Akira fell. Shit! For a long moment, he writhed in pain on the track. Two runners jumped over him so they wouldn't trample him. Remember: he'd sprained his ankle. All the runners passed him, he got up and limped to Yuri, who, by increasingly lengthening his strides, managed to get back into sixth position. Then Cléo got the baton and was off like a shot: he astonished the crowd and cheered Serge, who was stubbornly chewing his fingernails. At the first turn, he passed the fifth runner; ten metres farther, the fourth; he had a hard time getting ahead of the third runner, in slow motion. There were only twenty metres left and the second runner was maintaining a surprising rhythm. Just as Cléo was about to pass his rival, the finish line caught him. The opposing team began to jump and raise their arms in the air, confident that they'd won the silver medal. Serge rushed over to Cléo, they talked a bit then headed over to the officials, comparing their stopwatches. You didn't care about winning, all you were interested in was second place because it would allow you to move on the Jeux du Québec. After a few minutes, it was Cléo and Serge's turn to jump up and down, and the reaction of Saint-Pascal-Baylon wasn't far behind: beneath an avalanche of liberating shouts, confetti and streamers dotted the stadium.

You four runners were hugging each other, shaking hands firmly, and Akira, his ankle soaking in a bucket filled with ice, was consoled. Happy, but wound tight as a spring, Serge was checking his own heart rate, two fingers pressed against the angle of his chin, as he spoke: the important thing, my friends, is that we qualified for the Jeux du Québec, for the first time ever for their school. So they were going to show all of Quebec what they were made of! And, all of you added in unison, you got it! After the medal ceremony, when Carl and Cléo left by the back door of the gym, Carl's brother honked his horn, his elbow out the
window of a sky blue Dodge: come on, move your ass, he had other things to do! They got into the back seat, put down the windows and, as the car accelerated, stuck out their heads: we won! At the apartment, Carl's mother heard about Cléo's victories and, as she set the table, she looked at him, her eyes sparkling with admiration: achievements like that would get the Haitian community accepted once and for all. She stepped closer to where he was already seated at the table, bent her knees and smiled generously: if you keep it up, you could go far, you know. But Cléo simply shrugged his shoulders: yeah, I don't know. They ate roast beef with Haitian rice, discussed all the details of the competition and imagined the upcoming ones. That night, since Carl's parents were going out to the movies, the brothers sweetly asked their mother if they could have a party. Okay, but please, boys, don't break my glasses this time, and she followed her husband to the door. We'll be good, Mom, we promise. As soon as they were gone, Carl's big brother turned towards them curtly: see, I told you she'd notice the broken glasses. They went into the living room: the brothers stretched out to their full length on the sofa, while Cléo sat in the chair, with his arms folded. Your mother's cool, she lets you do what you want. And Carl began to blow on his nails and polish them on his T-shirt: it's just that my parents are modern!

Carl's big brother went to the kitchen and came back a few moments later with glasses and some beer. Frightened, Cléo glanced nervously at Carl: all right, okay, just a little, I don't feel like getting a headache. Carl took the caps off two Molson Drys, poured them into the glasses, and took a long drink, as if it were a habit with him and, with a dreamy look, examined the ceiling. Then, as he handed Cléo a glass, he asked: where are the most beautiful girls in the world? The most beautiful beaches, eh? Cléo dipped his lips into the beer, the foam gave him a moustache, and his eyes stirred restlessly: wait, let me think. Idiot, Carl shouted, in your own country! And Cléo replied, is that true? You sure?
That's when Carl's big brother rushed at him and, half kidding, half joking pointed his finger in Cléo's face: don't ever question anything like that in my house again! The next time you do, I'll kick your ass, then I'll throw you out, head first! Understand? Carl's brother went towards the portable radio, shoved in a tape and, with his back turned, asked, tell me one thing, do you think of yourself as Haitian or Canadian? I don't know. Some of both. The brothers lowered their heads and shook them theatrically. The older one came and sat near Cléo, put an arm around his shoulders and spoke to him solemnly: there's nothing sadder in the world than someone who doesn't know where he comes from. You have to know your country well, little boy, get it? Cléo slowly shook his head yes, his eyes worried. Another thing, you have to be proud of your origins. Repeat after me: I'm-proud-to-be-Haitian. . . .

As the evening drew on, the living room filled up with more and more young people. Carl's big brother was the deejay, and most of the others were wriggling as they danced, casually holding their beers. Around ten o'clock, a few joints were lit. When a hand held one out to him, Cléo sharply shook his head no. Carl sat down near him on the arm of his chair, and Cléo swallowed another sip of beer: buddy, it's like there's a merry-go-round spinning in my head. Soon he was laughing about anything and everything, clinking glasses with Carl before they both downed their glasses in one swallow. Should I dance or not, he asked Carl. You should, there's nothing to be embarrassed about, you're just with us and we're like family. They ogled the girls, and imitating the older boys, commented on their bodies. From time to time, Carl's brother would come up behind them and stand between them: some of them aren't bad, eh, guys? Which one do you like, little brother? Carl had spotted a girl with long legs, moving languorously on the opposite side of the room. The big brother laughed in both satisfaction and surprise: I see you like older women. If you want her, I mean, if you really want her, you can have her. What
about you, Cléo? Me, uh, I don't know. What am I hearing there? You're trying to get me to believe there's not a single one you like?! It can't be! Either you're sick in the head or . . . and Cléo quickly pointed out a girl who was seated alone, not particularly pretty, but who kept turning her head towards him: her. Carl's big brother's hand squeezed his shoulder: well then, you shall have her, buddy, I promise! He went to talk with the two girls in question and, after a few minutes, they came over to them: so, looks like you're shy, eh, boys? They exchanged a surprised look, and the girls each took them by the hand and pulled them to the dance floor: come on, come on, now's no time to be sitting down.

In the middle of the living room, Carl was doing all he could to look natural to a Bob Marley song, while keeping an eye on his friend the whole time. Barely a month ago, Cléo never would have agreed to dance like that, as a couple with a girl. No matter what they said, alcohol had its good sides. It looked like he was in seventh heaven, freed from something that had been weighing on him for too long. Cléo, who at the beginning of their friendship had suffered from such shyness, was unrecognizable today. From time to time, the girl would turn her back to him, bend her knees and swing her rear end, and Cléo would follow the movements of her hips, his eyes popping out of his head. Later the couples sat back down and Carl's brother came by to give them more beer. Carl, who had already watched how his brother acted with girls, imitated him: he told joke after joke, eliciting cascades of laughter from his partner. In Cléo's corner, as things were going rather silently and he wouldn't stop scratching his neck and his arms like he had the hives, the girl who was with him turned towards Carl: was it true Cléo was in grade nine? And Carl, sensing his friend had been acting, understood: yes, yes, he goes to the Polyvalente Saint-Luc. A half hour later, Cléo was still chatting with the girl as if they'd known each other for ever. He was drinking his beer in such gulps that Carl had to confiscate the bottle. With his hands now free, he got it into his head that he should
kiss the girl. Noticing he was drunk, she pushed him away nicely. Instead, she asked him to dance and, enthusiastically, he clapped his hands: whatever you say! But he had an awfully hard time standing up, and he leaned on the other dancers' arms and shoulders. Soon, they had to sit back down, and Carl heard him telling the girl he loved her, that he'd do anything, that he'd kill for her. She was laughing heartily, giving him little slaps on the cheeks: you're a real lady-killer. Okay, all right, she said, and she deposited a kiss upon his cheek, then a short one on his lips, like this, mouah. Soon, nobody could get them apart.

O
ne by one, the Latino Powers emerge from a building with peeling green paint and, grouped around an old woman Teta has given his arm to, look up and down the street in both directions. The air is warm and on this last Sunday in April, the bright blue of the sky makes them flutter their eyelids like Barbie dolls. Flaco notices the Bad Boys at a window on the other side of the open space: they laugh and wave at him. When Teta and the old woman step forward, leading the group, he points his finger at the window for the rest of Latino Powers to see and, when they do, they give them the finger and carry on with their escort.

Since the party in the church basement, things have gone way downhill. Mixon's stabbing confirmed Flaco's decision to leave the gang for good. At the movies last night with Paulina, he just couldn't get interested in Schwarzenegger's mission, no matter how action-packed and sexy it was. It was as if in the darkness he'd found the courage to confess and had only one desire: to tell Paulina everything. It soothed him to share his fears, it made him more clear-headed. Several times, she insisted that he put an end to the war, but he shook his head: I'm not in the habit of doing things halfway. Since the beating Pato and Alfonso had been given, he'd promised them no one would show them a lack of
respect again, and he wasn't going to renege on that promise. Hadn't she been there that day? She turned her head away and pretended to be absorbed in the movie, her arms crossed, her lips pursed. Other parts of this business preyed on his mind, too. Even Lalo, since the incident in the church basement, had admitted he'd been having bloody dreams. Flaco is angry with him for acting like an animal, especially since he was always bragging about it to the others. What could he possibly have in common with a guy who's capable of such a thing? At least, he thinks to himself in consolation, the police don't seem to suspect them and the Haitians, rather surprisingly, seem to have upheld the tacit agreement to solve their problems on their own.

On the other hand, the Bad Boys are harassing them wherever they go. Early one evening, Teta had gone out on the balcony to get some air and Ketcia, who was passing by, shouted to him: if you all think you're going to get away with just a couple scratches, you're in for a big surprise. A piece of advice, keep your eyes peeled, we're going to strike when you least expect it, whether there's anybody else around or not. Since Teta was the youngest of a family of eight, and his brothers had left the house a while ago, all married or out on their own, he'd inherited the responsibility of looking after his mother, Señora Eugenia – a widow whose face was crisscrossed by wrinkles, who always wore a silk scarf on her head, and aviator-style smoked classes to hide a corneal oedema. Since one of Teta's sacred obligations was to escort her to church, Ketcia's threats had scared him to death and he'd phoned Flaco: could the gang escort his mother and him on Sunday? The prospect of not sleeping in and losing part of his day didn't exactly delight Flaco, but he knew only too well that Ketcia hadn't been joking, he'd even been warned himself in an incredibly terse letter:
watch out for your sheep, if you don't want us to bleed them
. Before he'd gone to bed yesterday, he'd called all the other members of the gang and wound his alarm clock so he'd get up on time.