Black Alley (26 page)

Just before the intersection, Enrique motioned for you to stop and hide behind a van. Observe,
compadre
. Isn't she just a tiny bit magnificent? Stretched out on a lounge chair on the second floor balcony, with her shirt open, a young girl, with her eyes closed, directed her face towards the sun. She's Argentinian, Enrique said enthusiastically, her name is Gladys. After a few seconds of stupefied contemplation, Enrique bit his fist: so, what do you think, champ? And you said, she's pretty, all right. Pretty? said the other boy, amused, and he sniggered. That,
compadre
, is not pretty, she's an
hostie de pétard
, as the Québécois say, she's fucking hot. Enrique took several long breaths, like a swimmer preparing to dive in, then, relaxed, he stepped towards the balcony, and you followed him: hola, Gladys,
¿qué tal?
The girl sat up, blinked her eyes several times, then offered you her most beautiful smile:
¡hola, Enrique! ¿Cómo estás?
You know me, he puffed out his chest, his smile so broad it looked like a grimace, I'm always great! He introduced his
little cousin, Marcelo, and Gladys said, hola and you replied hola. Do you live on Rue Linton, too? Yeah, just a little farther up, and Gladys, who was now fanning herself with a magazine, frowned slightly: that was strange, she'd never run into you. Do you go to Saint-Luc? Enrique coughed slightly: let him finish public school first.

There followed a long exchange between Gladys and Enrique. They asked about such-and-such a person who went to such-and-such a school, then they took turns sharing information about future parties thrown by mutual friends. After a little while, from the darkness of the apartment, there appeared a young girl in a navy blue dress, with chestnut brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Gladys slipped one arm around her waist and hugged her: she wanted to introduce her little sister. I didn't know you had a sister, Enrique said in surprise. You both said hello and Enrique whistled: I see you have some competition, Gladys, for the title of Prettiest Girl on the Street. Isn't she pretty, said Gladys, examining her from head to foot. And top of her class, too! But she's not interested in boys yet, she's too young. In any case, she was going to protect her from vultures like him, Enrique. And the four of you laughed joyfully.

Remember, Marcelo, Enrique nudged you discretely, while you, still in shock, couldn't keep from following her slightest movements with fascination. That first time, from those very first instants, you'd noticed her big light eyes, sometimes gentle and frank, sometimes sly and mischievous. What's your name, asked Enrique. Paulina. What are your names, she asked as she leaned on the railing. Enrique told her his name, and you pronounced your own and, strangely, those three syllables gave you the feeling they described someone else. Then, was it your imagination or had she really repeated your name in a low voice as if she was trying to memorize it? What school did she go to? asked Enrique. She pointed to a brown brick building on the corner: her public school was called Roberval. He had a super idea, Enrique
bragged, why didn't they come with them to visit his brother Toño at the video store? What did they think? Gladys gave a start: I didn't know your brother worked at a video store. Yeah, you know, the one on Victoria. Okay, good idea, she answered hurriedly, I'll get dressed and we'll be down. You want to, Paulina?

Enrique and Gladys walked in front of you, as, at Paulina's side, you couldn't keep from glancing sidelong at her profile when she was looking straight ahead. How long had she been going to Roberval? you asked, and you gave a long fake yawn to hide your unease, your stomach was all turned upside-down. She'd hardly been able to answer before you jumped on her with another question: how long had she been in Canada? Who were her favourite actors? What group did she listen to most? What sports did she like to play? Not so fast, she interrupted you, she couldn't answer all your questions at once. And continuously, obsessively, you kept a close eye on her turned-up nose, her light lips, the beauty mark on her cheek.
¡Ay, ay, ay, Marcelito!
The rustling of new sensations. At the time, as you felt a familiar confidence settle over you, you thought Toño was right when he said it was easier to talk to Latin American girls.

When he saw you coming, Toño came out from behind the counter, looking delighted: okay, here we go, he'd buy them all a Coke! What did they say to that? Okay, good. You stepped close to the shelves against the wall: most of the boxes advertised Hollywood movies dubbed in Spanish, though every once in a while, there were the old Mexican melodramas your mother liked, with Dolores del Rio or Jorge Negrete, Venezuelan action movies, and comedies starring the indescribable Catinflas. Enrique showed you the foosball table at the back of the store: why didn't he play a game with Paulina? And she said, good idea! How much time did you spend at the foosball table that first time, Marcelo? Three, four hours? From time to time, you'd look up at her quickly, and that would give her the chance to score a goal: I told
you not to let me win, Marcelo. And you were fascinated by the way she said your name.

In the meantime, since the twins' parents were going to visit family in Toronto, Gladys, sitting on a stool between the two of them, was trying to convince them to have a party at their place the next weekend. I think it's a good idea, Enrique stated, because with Gladys, we're sure to get all the Latin American girls from Saint-Luc. Don't exaggerate, she contradicted him. Then the conversation turned to the Jeux du Québec, which were taking place in three weeks at the Centre Claude-Robillard. And, at the foosball table, you were surprised, you thought they were only for primary schools. No, no, Enrique specified, Toño was on the grade ten relay team. Really, Gladys said, looking over Toño's athletic body with admiration. Tall and strong as he was, that didn't surprise her at all, and she laughed nervously. Hey, are you still going out with the same girl, she ventured. You looked up at Enrique: he was furious with her. This wasn't the first time you'd been present at a scene where a girl preferred Toño over him. As a distraction, Toño turned his head and asked you, though he'd posed the question before: which event were you representing your school in, in the Jeux du Québec? And you answered, the relay team and Paulina said, Really? She was on the long jump team. You'd certainly see each other there.

Around three o'clock, when he realized Gladys had eyes only for his brother, Enrique got up with stiff movements: bye, everybody, he was going to go hang out with his friends. Half an hour later, now realizing that Toño was only replying to her advances in monosyllables, Gladys got up and waved at them: don't come home too late, eh, little sister? Remember, you'd spent almost the whole afternoon drinking Coke and playing foosball, a game which, until then, hadn't really interested you. When he wasn't serving customers, Toño was absorbed by a novel he was reading as he balanced on the stool behind the cash register. After many hesitations, you let go of the levers and summoned up your
courage: would you like to go practise for the Jeux in Parc Kent some day? Her face turned serious, then she smiled discreetly: yes, okay. You left the video store, as twilight extended its domain and an attention-grabbing wind blew. At the door to her building, you said goodbye to each other and, as you moved away, she came running back down the stairs: she wanted to give you her phone number. You searched your pockets, crap, you didn't have a pencil. No problem, you'd memorize it, you reassured her. You repeated it out loud several times. Anyway, if you forget it, you know where I live, it's apartment two. With a kiss on each cheek, you went back up Linton. Continuously repeating the number to yourself, you barely answered friends who shouted hello. When you got home, you conscientiously wrote it down on a piece of paper. That night, you hardly slept a wink, and the next morning, you woke up with a terrible headache. You went into the bathroom to wash up, and, with a frown, your mother stopped you in the hallway to examine your face:
Dios mío
, Marcelo, are you sick? You're so pale! It looks like you've just seen a ghost!

T
he lights around the baseball diamond go out, darkness settles on Parc Kent and Flaco takes advantage of the gloom to make the sign of the cross. He watches everyone who walks down Côte-des-Neiges, he will not be surprised by the Bad Boys. A breeze offers its coolness and rustles the straggly bushes, and he glances behind him one last time: the tip of Lalo's cigarette is glowing brighter, Pato is firmly seated on the garbage bag, one hand beneath his chin, his elbow on his knee, and, beside him, Alfonso yawns so widely he could dislocate his jaw. Earlier, since his parents won't let him out after eleven, he escaped through his second-storey window. Flaco pushes up his sweater sleeve: it's ten past twelve, where the hell are they? Hearing steps, he turns around and sharpens his gaze: a couple walks slowly by, arm in arm. At the same time, a sugary tune can be heard, carried by a nasal, Asian voice, and a few cars, following one behind the other, thunderously disrupt the calm street. Lalo steps over to him and, without looking at him, exhales the smoke from his cigarette. He says: “What if they decided not to come? What if it's a trap, eh?”

It's true, how else can this lateness be explained? Lalo blows little smoke rings and, seeing that the other boy offers no reply,
goes back over to Pato. Flaco checks his watch, examines Côte-des-Neiges's dimly lit sidewalks, then, again his watch, then Côte-des-Neiges. Finally, there they are, they're walking past the Provi-Soir: counting Teta, there are five of them. After the swings, they cut across the park, go around the baseball field, climb the hill and stop nearby. Richard and Max, their eyes full of spite, are positioned behind Teta, holding him firmly by the arms. Where do they think they are, in an action movie? In the semi-darkness, it looks to him like Teta's face is stained by a black-and-blue mark distorting his cheek. All this time, CB, two steps away, is being a smart aleck: his sniggering reveals his pink gums. Suddenly Flaco turns on his flashlight: none of the Bad Boys has brought the items for the exchange. He clenches his fist.

Flaco hears steps behind him. Two Black guys are coming towards them with bouncing, rhythmic steps. When they come to a stop, he recognizes their dark-rimmed eyes, their large lips, their features carved into bone and ebony: Carl and his big brother.
Putamadre,
it's a set-up! No, his intuition wasn't wrong, CB came with reinforcements. For a year, the two brothers have been living in a one-bedroom apartment and are now head of another gang, the Panthers. Physically, compared to Carl, Flaco measures up, but the other one, despite his neck being strangely crammed into his shoulders, is like a refrigerator, both taller and wider than they are. Flaco has heard stories about them that would make your hair stand on end: armed robbery, intense drug trafficking, corruption of minors, pimping – the list is long and impressive. Disheartened, Lalo stubs out his cigarette and whispers, in a broken voice, “What are we going to do?”

Again, Flaco doesn't reply, concentrating as he is on staring into the whites of CB's eyes. Calm down! he repeats to himself. No time to panic. And above all, no false moves. CB steps forward, his face crossed by a triumphant irony.

“I'm disappointed in you. Very disappointed. I'm amazed how easy it is to con you.”

Flaco continues to look at him, without moving even a centimetre.

“We even brought Mixon with us so he could watch the show that's going to take place in his honour.”

Indeed, the injured boy, his arm in a sling, is standing proudly off to one side. Amused, CB turns towards him, “So, Mix', which one shall we bump off first?”

“You're not going to do that, are you?” Carl's big brother interjects in an effeminate voice, “No, CB, please, don't bump them off!”

All the Haitians laugh heartily, except Carl's brother, who begins to click his tongue, his little eyes shine because he is feverishly drunk, Flaco notices. Though a shiver of terror is rising from the pit of his stomach to his chest, he thinks, thinks, and finally says, “We don't have time to fool around. We came here for an exchange. Is it still on, or was that just bullshit?”

CB points his thumb at Flaco and calls to Carl and his brother, “Did you see that, guys? What a man! Now that's the voice of a leader!”

And he releases a big laugh and, as he tries to keep it going, he momentarily loses his balance.

“I think you're the one who's going to get the first taste of it,” he adds, becoming serious once again.

Curling his finger at him, Flaco signals for Pato to come over. Pato brings over the garbage bags and he immediately hands them over to CB.

“What an idiot!” exclaims the leader of the Bad Boys, tossing the bag at Ketcia.

Then, rolling menacing eyes, Carl's brother takes out a knife and pops open the blade. All the others, Haitians and Latinos both, imitate his action: the blades sparkle in the moonlight, arched and thin as freshly clipped fingernails. The Haitians surround the Latinos, tighten their circle little by little, and, impassive, Carl's brother lets out a huge burp that provokes
infectious laughter. Above the sound of their hilarity, Flaco again hears the sound of the Asian's sharp tremolos. He feels pressure upon his arm and immediately turns his head, his heart in his throat: Alfonso is hanging on to him, his face pleading. Suddenly, Carl and his big brother take to their heels, go over the metal fence surrounding the running track and disappear behind the bleachers. The others, as if dazed, turn towards the hedge-lined hill: four uniformed men are rushing towards them. Instantly, two of them climb over the fence and take off after the brothers. CB tries to run for it, too, but one of the officers grabs him by the leg and topples him to the ground, immobilizing him with a knee on his chest. The police? What's this about? Who . . . The other officer undoes the holder on his right hip, removes his revolver and orders everyone, in a powerful voice, to lie down flat on the ground. And he's not going to say it again! All of them, their hands in the air and their heads pointed down, comply. In the meantime, the corpulent officer, his face red as a lobster, is holding CB's wrists and pushing down even harder on his stomach with his knee.