Black Alley (28 page)

When Barbeau appears at the podium scattered boos and whistles ring out, but they fade almost immediately. This time they're acting up more to make fun of his affected manners than to communicate any real discontent or frustration. The director has no need to look stern or to clap his hands to impose silence. After his usual long introduction, he expresses his most “sincere sympathy” for the Bastide family, and for the family of the police officer, Guy Phaneuf, too. In addition, today he is feeling “deep sadness” and “indescribable bitterness.” He hopes that the events will offer “everyone here today” something to think
about and that from this day forward the students will understand the “disastrous consequences” of racial gangs. For anyone who feels the need, the school psychologist and nurse will be available to discuss the shock that can be caused by such events. Also, he wants to warn them: in the upcoming days, the media, indiscreet as always, will undoubtedly come ask them questions. They must tell the truth! he booms. Give them “the exact time”! They mustn't forget, they are each responsible for their school's image! Do they understand? He stops, visibly pleased with his tirade. Additionally, and he agrees this is unfortunate, such events force the administration to undertake supplementary measures to avoid any similar confrontations occurring at the school in the future. That's why, beginning next week – they made this decision for everyone's well-being – metal detectors will be installed at all the entrances to the school. A wave of protest spreads, but there's still no real, rowdy heart in it.

Already Ketcia has stopped listening. She feels exhausted, tired of going over and over what happened last night. During the night, when she tried to get some sleep, she convinced herself, for a good half hour, that CB rose like a zombie and took off after his attackers. More clearheaded now, no longer pretending just to make herself feel better, she's certain of one thing: an unjust act of barbarism was committed. After CB's death was announced at the police station, the thought of revenge ate into her. But this morning, staring into the whites of her eyes in the mirror, she could see it wouldn't do any good. No fight, no murder, no fleeting dream would bring CB back. It's so strange: she feels like she's aged terribly in the space of one night. In the bathroom, her features seemed more severe, more oval, as if a Haitian mask had been placed over her face. Come hell or high water, she's sworn to go on fighting: the story of the Bad Boys will not end here.

Flaco, withdrawn in the back of the gym, in the middle of Latino Power, stares into the distance as he chews on air. He's thinking about Lalo, who will have to appear in court for
stabbing Mixon, and trying to fend off a growing sense of guilt. Then he sees Roberto's disappointed face at the police station: like there was a chance you'd take my advice, he says sarcastically. Also, painfully, he remembers how his father refused to talk about it later in the car. He's tortured by a pang of anguish for a moment, and he sees Paulina step out of the crowd and come towards him.

“Hi,” she says quietly.

He turns his head away.

“You still want to talk to me?”

His first reflex is to tell her to go the hell away. But, deep down, he knows he's happy she's come to see him.

“You can stay if you want,” he mutters, feigning casual detachment.

The principal is interrupted by a few boos, and two monitors back a handful of students up against the wall. A long stretch of time goes by as Flaco feels the weight of Paulina's eyes on his burning cheeks.

“How are you doing?” he asks, without looking at her.

She sighs, places a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, Flaco. Are you going to stay mad at me like this for a long time? It was really the only thing to do. And you know it, too. . . .”

“I told you, you should have warned me before you called them. I thought I made myself pretty clear, didn't I? You know I've never wanted you to get mixed up in our problems.”

“You have to understand me, Flaco. It had got much too dangerous. I was scared to death. Imagine what could have happened to you if the police hadn't shown up. . . .”

Since he hasn't been listening to what Barbeau's been talking about for several minutes, Flaco is surprised to suddenly see him gesticulating emphatically. Again, as has been happening frequently since last night, his thoughts plunge into a well. It's always the same scene: late for a class, he rushes up the stairs and
comes face to face with CB smoking a cigarette, his elbow on the window ledge. Flaco is overjoyed: oh, man, he's so happy to see him, he can't imagine. He wants to talk to him, they have so many things to work out together, doesn't he agree? Then he feels arms slipping around his waist and hugging him tenderly. He opens his eyes and breathes in the fleeting perfume of her chestnut hair.

“It's over now,” she whispers. “You're going to be able to move on to something else: move out of your house, the neighbourhood, like you wanted.”

His eyes mist up, he has a hard time seeing.

“Don't worry, I'm here.”

He rubs his eyes and contemplates her well-formed lips, her straight teeth. He wants to ask her to come with him, tell her that without her, his plan to write is meaningless, that she is the most precious thing in the world to him. But he settles for hugging her back, and he drops back down into the gaping well. CB, still standing, meets his gaze and lights up with a smile: just like that, he asks mockingly, he has a lot to tell him? He's told him before, but he'll tell him again: you're too sentimental, Flaco, you're too obsessed by the past. And he can't get over seeing him there: maybe I am, buddy, I'm sentimental, naïve, anything you say. But you know what? I don't care. What matters to me is that you're here. And CB takes a long drag on his cigarette: okay, I'll listen to you. But watch it, just because he was listening, it didn't mean he agreed with him. He bursts out laughing and the metallic, resonant sound is distinct in Flaco's ears. A stream of white light comes in through the window, outlining CB's shape, and Flaco feels someone hugging him very tightly again.

 

You stretched out your arm and you grabbed the can of Coca-Cola and, your throat parched, you took a long drink. Since early June, the days were following one after the other, splendid and restful, just like this one, and you went out on the balcony for a
breath of air and to say hello to your friends, or just to watch what was going on on Rue Linton. Laughter cascaded down from the balcony above you, then came an indiscriminate exchange in a language you didn't understand but that you often heard. It was the three brothers of Indian origin who lived on the second floor: they enjoyed spending the afternoon on the balcony soaking up the sun like lizards, as well. You would have liked to have known what made them laugh, yes, you would have liked to have someone tell you a good joke.

You'd been on vacation for three days. You were now going into grade six, but you were dreaming about the day when the big doors of high school would be opened to you. That was when life really started, Enrique, condescending, constantly reminded you. You'd got good grades and your parents had given you your freedom for the summer, but in return you had to clean your room every weekend and take out the garbage on Mondays and Thursdays. You deserved it, Flaco, you'd worked hard all year, your father said to you one day in your room, tousling your hair. You couldn't keep from smiling: since your cousins had bestowed that nickname on you, Flaco, Skinny, even your father had started calling you that. Oh, yeah, he'd added, about the trip to Chile, they were putting it off until next year. Your grandparents were going to be disappointed, but they didn't really have much choice. They didn't have the money, Flaco. But don't worry, we'll at least go to the beach in the U.S., where the Québécois people I work with go. They called it Old Orchard.

It wasn't until the second police car parked, with one tire on the sidewalk, just behind the first one, two buildings to the left of yours, on the other side of the street, that you came out of your daydream. Remember, the second car had stopped facing the wrong way. The officers got out pulling up their belts and went into the building lethargically. Soon, an ambulance appeared and stopped with its bumper against the police car's. Pushing a gurney, two men with beards headed towards the building, too.
The police, ambulances and firefighters came and went so often in your street, that dazed as you were by the heat, you only paid vague attention to the scene. Probably another domestic dispute that had turned ugly.

You saw the three Indians from your building cross the street and join the growing crowd on the other sidewalk. When the police officers came back out, they stuck to them like flies. One was answering the onlookers' questions, but after a while, he made an abrupt gesture with his arm and, in a deep baritone, ordered them to move along. A tall Black man came out of the building and rushed towards the officer. He was constantly running his hand down his face, through his hair. When the police officer moved, he followed, opened his arms wide and continued to talk to him. Then you noticed Enrique in the crowd. You called to him, your cousin trotted across the yard and approached the balcony.

“What happened?” you asked.

“A suicide.”

You looked up at the building.

“It's your Black friend's mother . . . Cléo's mother.”

You started to say something, but you were speechless, unable to articulate. The words got stuck in your throat, Marcelo.

“Looks like she hanged herself, man. In the bathroom.”

Enrique shook his head. Then, as if he was talking to himself, he added, “What a day to commit suicide.”

Now you were looking for Cléo, but all you could see was the tall man pacing back and forth with long steps, his back curved, gesturing desperately. And then you understood: it was the father. That was the first time you'd seen him.

“Your friend's got really lousy luck. Imagine: your mother kills herself and you find her hanging from the shower curtain rod. What do you do? . . . Hmmm? . . . What can you do?”

You turned your head towards him and he answered himself: “Nothing. You take it. That's all . . .
Así es la vida
.”

A growing number of curious people came out onto the
balconies or stood in the building entryways, with their arms crossed.

“To do a thing like that,” Enrique continued, “you really have to be desperate. The way I see it, there are just two reasons to commit suicide. All the rest is just variations on the same two problems. Either you're having trouble in your love life or you're in the hole, financially.”

But you'd already stopped listening to your cousin because Cléo had just come outside. He zigzagged forward, his arms swinging, apparently surprised to see such a crowd in front of his building. He sat on the grass and started to swing his head back and forth, back and forth, then he buried it between his knees. His father sat next to him, sweeping his eyes across the activity going on all around, put an arm around Cléo's shoulders and held him close for some time. You got up, having decided to jump from the balcony, but you saw Carl and his big brother rushing towards father and son. They chatted quite a while, occasionally bringing a hand to their forehead and shaking their head. The paramedics came out with the body hidden under a grey blanket, hurried it into the ambulance, and one of them stepped over towards the little group. Cléo and his father got into the vehicle. The police officers dispersed the crowd. The ambulance sped away.

“I'm going home,” Enrique announced. “We'll do something this afternoon. Okay? I'll call you.”

Your eyes followed your cousin as he trotted away like a soccer player. Despite the heat, a shiver went down your spine. You felt excluded, disoriented, crushed. Why, why? Suddenly your name rang out, your mother was calling you. In the kitchen, you sat down in front of a plate laid out with little fried
empanadas
. You let your mother know you weren't hungry. What do you mean, Marcelo? Have you started eating junk between meals again? No, Mom, and you told her what you'd just witnessed.
¡Madre mía!
she shouted, covering her mouth with the towel she
used to dry the dishes. What could you say about such a thing? In any case, she'd seen it coming.
¡Pobre niñito!

You went into the living room, dropped down in the chair and put on the TV while you waited for Enrique's call. An episode of
The Flintstones
was just finishing. During the first set of commercials, even though you were making an effort to think of other things, you remembered the day of Cléo's birthday, when Carole had spoken to you in Spanish. Remember how it had surprised you. She'd immediately won your confidence. You spent a good part of the afternoon channel surfing, then you finally called Enrique yourself, but he'd gone to help out Toño at the video store. A headache was starting to make your temples pound when the phone rang: it was Paulina! It was the first time she'd called since you'd given her your number. Did you have any plans for today? And, happy she'd asked, you answered, no, not really. Did she have anything in mind? And she said, what did you think about going to the pool? Why not, you said with some hesitation in your voice, because you were happy she'd called and everything, although you didn't really feel like going swimming. Really, do you want to? she insisted. Yes, really, you reassured her, torn between the dark thoughts that were worrying you and your burning desire to see her. Gladys, her sister, was there already. In five minutes in front of your building? Okay, see you there.

You stuffed a bathing suit and towel any old way into your backpack, you went downstairs and sat down on the top step to wait, as the sun beat javelins down on you. When she arrived, you were breathing like a chicken on a rotisserie. You kissed each other on both cheeks and you walked side by side as the dense humidity made your joints swell. On the corner of Kent, you stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and confided to her that you really weren't feeling very well at all. She asked you about it, arching her eyebrows, and you explained what was wrong. She cried out in astonishment and then it was her turn to keep apologizing. She suggested you go to the park and you agreed, though
your voice felt strangled. You walked silently over to a bench. After you told her all the details you knew of Cléo's mother, you felt the sadness slowly leaving you, like a spirit that was tired of living in you. She looked at you and occasionally brushed a hand across your hands, your knees, your cheeks: she was glad you'd told her. You felt better when you talked to her. You now had a friend for life, she assured you. She took your hands without embarrassment and squeezed them, and, for a moment, clearheaded, you wondered if you loved her. You didn't really know, you only knew you couldn't do without her anymore, even if you had to settle for just having her as a friend. She asked you what you wanted to do and, with a weak smile, you said, we can go to the pool now if you want.