Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
Copyright Page
Biblioasis International Translation Series
General Editor: Stephen Henighan
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
To Marie-Josée
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
I
The 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.
Spit wads beat down on the principal’s suit vest. He glances at the teachers lined up like soldiers near the podium then lets out a long breath into the microphone. “My friends, please . . . we made this decision for your own good.” Now some groups are slow-clapping, stamping their feet. Speaking over the din, he starts again, “One last thing, my friends . . . listen to me, please . . .” With one voice, the room chants, “Nooo, noooo, nooooo!” Despite it all, he continues, “I’m told the tension is caused by supposed ethnic conflicts . . . On that matter, I have only one thing to say . . . listen to me, for heaven’s sake!” Again, he turns his head towards the teachers, puckers his lips and angrily runs a hand through his hair. For an instant, he sways, as if dizzy: he is the loneliest man in the world. Then, in a low voice, he grumbles, “Little bastards. . . .”
The teachers exchange shocked looks. The students laugh helplessly, slapping their thighs: that’s a good one! Ah! Ah! Ah! Barbeau tries to explain himself: “For several months, a few individuals have been trying to divide us into ghettos . . . We won’t let them do that to us . . . The important thing, my friends, is that there are no Italians . . . no Haitians . . . no Latinos . . . no Jews . . . no Asians . . . not even any Québécois, do you hear me? . . . There’s no one here except students, students who will persevere, who are hungry for knowledge! Deep down inside, we’re all brothers!” At one end of the gym, an entire row pretends to coax long wails out of imaginary violins. Some hug each other melodramatically, others shout, “Brother!” and pretend to sob convulsively. The principal leaves the podium without looking back. The students shout in victory. Ah! Ah!
The quantity of items in the locker leaves them speechless. It’s papered with pictures of rappers and Black women in bikinis. On the door, a mirror, and, once again, the Bad Boys’ symbol. On the upper shelf, a long-toothed comb, sunglasses and a cap. Pato grabs the glasses and the cap, something falls to the ground. It’s a little chain with a silver bird. The bird’s beak is twisted and its heavy wings are spread as if it’s just taking flight. Pato recognizes it – it’s a condor. His father has told him about the intelligence and cruelty of this bird that is feared throughout South America. But what’s a Haitian doing with a condor? Something that belongs to a Latino! Flaco and his brother are going to be happy, he’s just recovered a stolen article. Quickly, he stuffs the condor inside his shorts and feels the animal come into icy contact with his testicles. ¡Vámonos!
The students are all blabbing with one another, not in the least hurry to move on. Two monitors open the doors: “C’mon, everybody, show’s over!” Perched on a stool, his feet on the crossbar, Gino watches the students flow by, but his mind is elsewhere. He steals a glance at his digital watch: it’s four-thirty-five, ten minutes have already gone by since the Latinos went to the washroom. Deep down, he knew they’d take off. The school has become impossible. The kids do whatever they feel like. Today Barbeau definitely lost it. There’s no excuse. . . . It’s not the first time a principal or teacher has lost control like that. In class it happens all the time. Pfff, personally, as long as he gets his cheque every Thursday, he doesn’t really give a shit. . . . The crowd spills out into the hallway.
In the distance, steps echo like in a church. Pato rushes to his locker and dials the combination so quickly he makes a mistake. Alfonso’s face twists like he has cramps. Finally, the lock opens. Flaco and his brother cross his mind again: You’re a first-class thief, Pato! That was something else! Robbing the leader of the Bad Boys gang! That’ll show that fucking Haitian! You’re the kind of guy we need in Latino Power, Pato! He can’t hold back a smile. He leaves the cap, the sunglasses and the bolt cutters in his locker, then he closes it. After everyone leaves, he’ll put each item in his school bag and that’ll be that. He suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns around: it’s the two Haitians from before. No way! What does this mean? They’re older and taller by at least a head. A shiver runs down his spine. The Black boys’ faces harden.
“If it was th
at easy to rob us,” says one of them, “there wouldn’t be much left in our lockers by now.”
The one who spoke laughs as if he didn’t care. “What did I tell you? Those Latinos are born thieves!”
In the boys’ washroom at École-Saint-Pascal-Baylon, there was a long wooden bench where we got changed before gym class. Some kids, already wearing their Phys. Ed. outfits under their street clothes, proudly dropped their pants; others discreetly went and put on their shorts and T-shirt in the stalls. We didn’t talk much: Serge, the Phys. Ed. teacher, only gave the boys five minutes to get ready, and when time was up, the high-pitched sound of his whistle came through the half-open windows. All we heard was the rustling of clothes and, from time to time, the water washing through the urinals.
When the new boy came in, we all stopped for a moment, looked him over, then deliberately finished slipping on our socks or tying up our laces. Seeing that no one said a word to him, the boy went towards the urinals and stood there, looking awkward. He was Black, short, with a slim body. His delicate features and long eyelashes made him look like a girl. He was wearing a blue striped T-shirt. Remember, Marcelo: sitting there at the end of the bench, near the new boy, already in your PE clothes, you looked up at him. Since he kept standing there looking at the ceiling, you asked him, “Aren’t you going to put on your shorts?”
The boy looked at you, then lowered his head.
“Nobody told me it was Phys. Ed . . .”
There were discreet coughs. One student, in the back, repeated the sentence softly, omitting the d’s as he had. You all wagged your heads, trying to stifle your laughter. Just like with you the first time, Marcelo: they were making fun of his accent.
Black Alley Page 1
