Black Alley (23 page)

You hung up and you remained motionless for a long time. Why was Cléo talking to you like that? Why did you have the feeling he was mad at you? Because, yes, there was some resentment, skilfully camouflaged by feigned indifference, that surfaced in the inflections of his voice. At that point, you swore you'd never talk to him again, then the image of Carole in her wheelchair, with arms outstretched, came back to you and shame burned your cheeks. What were you supposed to think about all this? Hey, champ, what are you doing? someone shouted at you, putting an end to your reflection. Enrique and Toño, your two cousins, had just burst into the living room, after slipping into your apartment without knocking. Boy, you're looking pretty down in the dumps, Marcelo! Toño commented. It was nothing, you just hadn't got enough sleep, that's all. Shall we go? You put on your windbreaker, you asked your cousins to wait a minute, then you went to say goodbye to your parents. They asked you what Cléo had said to you. You see, you did the right thing by calling your friend, Carmen approved. Yes, Mom, you were right.

Outside, it was chilly, and Enrique energetically rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his windbreaker: you have no idea how eager I am for summer to get here! Remember: Enrique and Toño, twin brothers, had emigrated to Canada the previous August and, since they'd moved into the neighbourhood a month ago, you'd seen them almost every day. They thought of you as their little brother, and the speed with which they took you under their wing surprised you and made you happy. Anyway, continued Enrique, as far as the weather is concerned, there's no place like Chile! What do you know about it, Toño retorted, since the only places you know are Canada and Chile. Enrique gave him a dark look, but then he softened, as if he'd thought better of it.
You strolled down Légaré acting silly, then you ran across Van Horne and Kent to avoid the cars. On the sidewalk, two girls with sparkling eyes and tight pants passed you. Enrique was quick to whistle, his eyes riveted to their asses as they rose and fell with each step: hey, look at that! Not bad for Asians, eh, Marcelo? Surprised, you didn't answer. Tell me, do you have a girlfriend? Give me a chance, I'm only in primary school. And Toño wiped improbable sweat from his forehead with his forearm and said impatiently: yeah, he's still too young. His face beaming, Enrique put an arm around your shoulders and hugged you both: what are you talking about, guys? In primary school in Chile, he already had lots of girls after him. They'd come by the dozens to knock on his door! Wasn't that true, Toño? Lots of times, it even ended with terrible fights. And when girls fight, they don't fool around, they pulled hair and everything. Here, at the Polyvalente, all he had to do was sit on a bench and they could be sure he attracted them like a magnet! It was simple, he wreaked havoc wherever he went! Grinning, Toño noisily cleared his throat: are you sure you aren't exaggerating just a little? How can you say such a thing! Enrique said, offended. He'd seen them during breaks, hadn't he, there were always two or three of them orbiting around him? Toño sighed: yes, but you're in grade ten and you're always going out with girls in grade seven or eight. How do you explain that? Enrique's face closed up, then, his voice thinner under the effects of increasing irritation, retorted: what does that change? They're still girls, aren't they? It was better than what you were doing anyway, stuck with the same chick since you'd come to Canada. And a Chilean on top of it all! At least he was exploring, he'd tried girls who were Lebanese, Vietnamese. He was adventuresome! Toño exchanged a knowing look with you and shrugged his shoulders in a sign of amused powerlessness.

You entered the underground parking lot at the Plaza Côte-des-Neiges and, a few steps later, you noticed that two boys with jet-black skin, both wearing faded T-shirts, were coming towards
you, laughing loudly. In passing, Enrique lowered an icy gaze on them, as he bit his tongue, and the Black guys, astonished, immediately stopped laughing. Did you see? Enrique asked. What? You asked with a nod. You don't see that those guys were laughing at us. You went through the revolving doors into the mall and, as you went past a hair salon, Enrique said: the other day at the Polyvalente, when I told a Québécois kid I lived around Côte-des-Neiges, you know what he answered? Huh, you know what? He answered: You mean Côte-des-Nègres, that Black alley? There's nothing but immigrants around there. Can you imagine? Enrique energetically shook his head, as if smoke was going to start coming out of his ears, and he added: anyway, one thing's for sure, the neighbourhood's filling up with dirty Blacks faster than you can count them! Toño turned around: man, you're an ass, you're so prejudiced! Then Enrique got mad: we know why you're always defending the Blacks. It's because of your Jamaican friend Andrew. Let me tell you something, they don't need you to defend them, there's enough of them as it is. On the escalator, he was now leaning towards his twin and from time to time he poked him in the chest with his index finger: you know what the teacher said to us after that fight between the Italians and the Latinos? Eh, you know what he said? Please stick with your own people. And to that, just for you, Toño, I'd add: defend your own kind before you defend others!

Remember, Marcelo: in front of the chrome turnstiles of Zellers, you quickly felt something wasn't quite right, that Enrique was getting dangerously angry. He turned and stared at every passerby and, when you asked him a question, he'd answer without looking at you: what? what did you say? Okay, said Toño, I'm going to the sports store downstairs, I think they have soccer balls. We'll look at the prices and we'll meet up back here, near Pick-Nick. He disappeared behind the tables where dozen of boys in basketball clothes were devouring hotdogs, but he came back a few seconds later, tapping his finger against his temple: look at
the quality and the brand of the balls, too. Yeah, yeah, Enrique answered, exasperated. When his brother had gone, he started looking around, as if he was looking for someone, and then he leaned towards you: listen good, little cousin. You stay here, he said, articulating each syllable meticulously, and if you see anything unusual, you meet me in the store right away. Enrique was already walking away when you held him back by tail of his windbreaker: I don't understand. If I see what that's unusual? Enrique stared at the elevator in the distance as if it was the other end of the world and, with a discouraged grimace twisting his face, he grumbled: use your brain once in a while, Marcelo. Don't be
huevón
! And he went through the turnstiles, as you stood there swallowing your saliva with difficulty and wondering: what should I do? Should I stay or should I go?

After five long minutes, Toño reappeared. The balls were either monstrously expensive or of poor quality, like they were made out of plastic, but you couldn't really tell. All the better to screw you, kiddo, Toño added. Three times more expensive than in Chile, can you imagine? Now he was nervously tapping his foot, and he kept checking his watch. Then you saw Enrique coming towards you at top speed, slaloming through the multicoloured crowd. Time to go, guys. He wasn't kidding. Toño, humming a meandering tune, asked him with a nod of his head: so, did you find anything? I hope you had better luck than I did. But Enrique was already heading for the door with long strides: you deaf? He just said it was time to go! You fell into step behind him and, once you were outside, in silent agreement, you all began to run as fast as you could. Once you made it to Rue Barclay, Enrique slipped like an eel into the lobby of an apartment building, and you followed him, pushed by a sort of automatic reflex. With one hand against the wall, a grimace of pain twisting his face, Toño kept repeating, shaking his head: tell me it's not true, tell me you didn't do anything, Enrique, tell me it's just a joke . . . With lightning speed, Enrique pulled down the zipper on his
windbreaker, dropped his pants and, pulled a deflated ball out of his T-shirt and underwear. Victoriously, he waved it under his brother's nose. Toño remained silent, furiously running one hand through his hair. If it makes you feel any better, Enrique said, it's not the best one they had. Now Toño was looking him up and down severely, squinting: you're really an idiot! What's your problem? Why do you always have to steal? You. . . . you. . . . He didn't finish his sentence, he lowered his arms and turned toward the glass door. Remember, Marcelo: thunderstruck, you were thinking that you'd been right, in front of the department store, to think what you'd been thinking.

W
hen Flaco gets home, and stops in the living room doorway, Carmen is dozing under a grey poncho, and Roberto, sitting in the armchair, his back straight, his arms crossed, keeps his eyes riveted on the TV. Earlier, on the bleachers in Parc Kent, he'd seen his father surrounded by his friends, at the finals of the Coupe Allende as well. When the crowd stood up to give an ovation to a player who had just scored a goal, their eyes met and he thought for an instant that his old man would turn his head, but after a few uneasy seconds, he waved his hand vaguely. Why the hesitation? Was he ashamed of him? For months now, he's only spoken to him to ask for the salt at dinner, to tell him to make his bed or turn down the volume of his music when he shuts himself up in his room. One day, from the hallway, he overheard part of a muted conversation in the kitchen between his father and his Uncle Juan. Roberto's voice had become ironic: relationship? what relationship? I prefer not to talk about it, Juanito, believe me, there's not much to tell. Flaco sits down on the arm of the sofa at Carmen's feet, while Roberto, determined to ignore him, continues to stare at the screen. Prisoners are digging a tunnel by handing buckets of earth from one man to the next. Carmen stretches, yawns, opens her moist eyes and blinks. She
sits up suddenly, looks worried and mutters something he doesn't catch. She repeats: “Was Teta with you?”

“No. I haven't seen him all night.”

She tells him that Señora Eugenia has called several times. After Mass, Teta was supposed to come over to see him then go right back home for lunch – but he never came home. Does Flaco have any idea where he could be? Flaco's heart panics, and, for a moment he imagines the worst: a sliced-up body, blood, haggard faces, tears.
¡Pobre Teta! No, Dios mío
, let him be safe. He glances at his father who seems hypnotized by the movie.

“You really don't know where he could be?” Carmen insists.

“No, Mom, I swear. We were all at the park. We told him to meet us early in the afternoon but he never came and since he's always making us wait, we got fed up and left. We figured he'd meet us later.”

Carmen tells him that Señora Eugenia, gnawed by fear, finally called the police. The old woman is sure something bad has happened, she had all sorts of premonitions that left no room for anything good. He knows what the old woman is like. Who knows if her worry is justified or not. But she's all worked up!

“She also mentioned stolen leather coats,” she added. “What's that all about?”

Now, Roberto turns and looks at them.

“Leather coats? What leather coats?”

“She said she found a bag full of coats with drawings of panthers and English words on them.”

“I don't know anything about it. I swear to you.”

“That's what I thought. I said to her: listen, Señora Eugenia, I'm not stupid, I know our children aren't saints, but they're not the kind that would steal either . . . I bet Teta's probably with a girl while she's worrying to death.”

The last sentence's questioning intonation is not lost on Flaco.

“Even we were wondering where he could have been,” he offers. “Yeah, maybe he is with a girl, it's possible. I'll call Señora Eugenia.”

He steps over to the little round table where the phone sits and picks up the receiver, which he wedges between his shoulder and his ear.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” says Carmen. “You got another call. Someone named CB, if I remember right. He wants you to call back. He said it was urgent.”

¡Putamadre!
Teta's slashed, demolished, purple body flashes in his mind again. A crust of dried blood under his nose, his T-shirt torn to shreds. He bends his knees, unplugs the cord and takes the phone.

“Who is he?” she asks.

“Hmph!” he says, dropping one hand, “just a friend from school.”

He goes down the hallway, locks his bedroom door, and collapses like a pile of bricks onto his chair. He wraps both hands around his head and lets out a long breath through his mouth: he can't believe it! They went to church with him just to make sure he didn't get kidnapped, and that's exactly what happened. How the hell did they do it? He plugs in the phone, but he hesitates between just dropping the whole mess and calling the old woman. He knew when they all got together in front of Lalo's building, that it was a mistake not to wait for Teta. He should have insisted they stay there until Teta showed up. Lalo was the first to urge them to leave without him. Then, since the others didn't want to miss the beginning of the first game, they decided to clear off. He dials the number, it only rings once before a trembling voice answers.

“
Buenas noches, Señora Eugenia
. It's Flaco.”

“
Dios mío
. . . Is Teta with you?”

“No, señora. He didn't come meet us at the park.”

A long wail comes down the line, then she begs God's mercy in returning her son to her. The old woman is short of breath, as if
she were asthmatic,. He tries to calm her down, but he also admits he doesn't know where Teta is.

“I've been tolerant enough with you all. Now stop lying to me and tell me where my son is.”

“Listen to me. I don't know. And that's the absolute truth. I'm as surprised by all of this as you are. But I think I have an idea where he might be.”