You and Akira each shoved a mask into your school bag: okay, you’d show your parents, you promised. Then, Cléo showed off his porcelain marbles, decorated with spellbinding spirals and eccentric arabesques, in rare, exotic colours. They’re fantastic, Akira said excitedly. Check out this one! To which you replied, “Wow!” Cléo gave you each a bag, he had lots more. Thanks, Cléo! Thanks a lot! Why don’t we play a little now, on the rug? Now? No, no, you couldn’t, he’d already told you why.
“Cléo!” boomed a gravely voice. “Va ten dewò!”
For an instant, you looked at each other intently. The voice sounded like it had a cold, it was changing, drunken.
“But, Mom. . . .”
A long exasperated sigh, then footsteps caused the wooden parquet flooring to creak. Then the sound of broken glass rang out, it sounded like a lamp had been thrown on the floor. A few seconds passed, then the voice continued, “M ap bezwin dòmi! Yo pa fè com toujou ak done tout jwè la!”
You tried to hand the bag of marbles back to him, but Cléo shook his head no, with his index fingers in front of his lips once again. Then he quietly asked you to get your school bags, you’d better leave. Outside, the three of you stood there looking at your shoes for quite a long time. It’s no big deal, Cléo said, my mother was taking a nap, that’s all. She works a lot at night and has to rest during the day. Akira looked at his watch: in any case, he should go, the Power Rangers show started at four-thirty. Yeah, you said, I’m gonna go, too. You and Akira began to move away but, after a little while, you turned around and saw that Cléo hadn’t moved a centimetre, so you shouted: after dinner, you want to play hockey with us? The Haitian boy’s face lit up: okay. But there was a problem, he didn’t have a hockey stick. No problem, you’d lend him one. Seven o’clock, in front of his building? Okay, okay, and each of you went home.
II
“You’re always out!” his mother shouts. “What’s going on with you, Flaco? Can’t even spend one night at home . . . ¡No sé para qué tuve un hijo!”
Standing in the doorway to the living room, his hands in his pockets, Flaco rocks back and forth in his sneakers as she stares at him and shakes her head, as if she’s trying to knock loose any sad thoughts. Opposite the TV with the sound way too loud, she’s lying on the sofa cleaning her toenails. It’s only eight in the evening and she’s already in her beige pyjamas and her pink synthetic wool slippers, as always. Why does she resent me so much? thinks Flaco. Why won’t she just let people live in peace? His mother’s eyes make him uncomfortable. He runs a hand through his hair.
“You’re so disrespectful,” she goes on. “You know I don’t like it when you look at me with that sarcastic smile. You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
She turns her eyes away and fixes them on the TV screen, her lips pursed. Les Héritiers du rêve or something else along those lines. Sometimes, he feels like shaking her, but he ends up asking himself, what good would it do? He won’t change her. At other times, he’s overcome by a pressing desire to show her his world. Why does he always postpone these urges until later? He’s sure about just one thing, in the end: he only has one life to live and he’s not going to miss out on it. No one is going to hold him back, not even his parents.
He turns around and walks back to his bedroom with careful steps. After he turns on the lights, he opens the top dresser drawer, takes out a black headband and leather gloves with the fingertips cut off, and he puts them on. He looks up to examine himself in the mirror. He wants only one thing: for people to respect him. He lets out a long breath that fogs up the mirror, but after a few seconds his face reappears. Why can’t he ever talk to her when she’s right there? For the first time in his life things are getting serious with a girl, and his mother doesn’t even know it! But she would hardly even listen to him, she has enough problems of her own, she’s not going to start getting mixed up in other people’s business, no, really, what’s Flaco thinking?
He shuts off the light and feels his way to the front door.
“I’ll be back in an hour!” he shouts. “No later, okay?”
“Please, Flaco. The least you could do is not take me for a fool. I know perfectly well that last night you came in at two in the morning. And drunk, too . . .”
He opens the door a bit, makes his way out, grips the knob, then slams it loudly behind him: anyway, he can’t do anything with her! He makes his way along the corridor, with its eternal stink of spices, and then he goes down the stairs: sometimes, he wonders if all parents are like that – forcing their children to feel guilty. The truth is, he can’t stand them anymore. At the end of the school year, when he finishes high school, he’ll find some two-room apartment or something, looking out on a park and, most of all, in some other neighbourhood, maybe Notre-Dame-de-Grâce. He sighs: it really is time to move on. Plus, his older friends have told him, since he’ll only see his parents when he wants to, his relationship with them will certainly get better. And, for about a year or so, he’s been telling Paulina, his love, and a few close friends, that he wants to become a writer, but he hasn’t done much to make it happen. On his own, he’ll have peace and quiet and then he’ll see if he’s got what it takes.
It’s a cool night on Rue Linton. He sees them from a distance, about a dozen of them at least, under the usual streetlight, across from Lalo’s building. They’ve been drinking, it’s obvious: music rings out: “We’ll hang out in the clouds, then we’ll come down, have a hangover. . . .” And they double over laughing. He tries to pick her out: it’s strange, he can’t find her, but all her girlfriends are there. He crosses the median and whistles as he raises his arm: heads turn towards him, hola, Flaco, where were you?, we were waiting for you, compadre. He shakes hands with the guys, hi, everybody, and kisses the girls on each cheek, did anyone happen to see Paulina? They elbow each other, and cluck like chickens, ¡huy! Flaco’s looking worried!
After a minute, he feels someone squeeze his shoulders, stroke his chest, give him little kisses on the neck. He recognizes the delicate fingers and their manicured nails, the smell of her peach-scented soap and turns towards her. Without giving him a chance to say a word, she whispers in his ear not to get mad, she wanted to see if he really cared about her, and she gives him a wink, she’s satisfied now, corazón. He studies her face for a moment, unsure if he should get angry or laugh. Finally, he takes her by the waist and kisses her right on the mouth. Around them, there’s whistling and clapping, and Teta dances his way over: hey, you lovebirds, cut it out, you’re making me wanna do it myself! The others laugh good naturedly, and Flaco and Paulina step back from each other, lowering their eyes, their arms around one another’s waists. He smiles: this is his real family! Then he sees Lalo, with a beer in his hand, as he walks, unsteadily, to sit away from the group on the grass. He’s completely out of it, he thinks.
All of a sudden, above the Nirvana guitar solo and the rapid, wet-sounding noise of the passing cars, people are murmuring around him. Flaco turns around: with lowered heads and hunched shoulders, Pato and Alfonso are making their way towards them. Something’s not right, that much is obvious. As they come to a stop in the light of the streetlamp, Flaco notices Pato’s nose is dripping blood and Alfonso has a black eye. Their arrival brings Lalo back to life: someone turns down the radio, and he rushes over to his brother. Despite his sniffling, Pato tells them what happened somewhat proudly, although Alfonso continues to whine. When Pato says they hit them, Lalo turns towards Flaco: did you hear that? A moment later, staggering like he just got off a ride in an amusement park, Lalo finally slumps down onto the grass.
Pato’s news surprises them. Not even two weeks ago, Latino Power signed a peace treaty with the Bad Boys. It was getting so you couldn’t be out in the neighbourhood without worrying about getting hit over the head with a baseball bat. The two sides had agreed there’d be no more stealing from each other, no more fighting, no more rivalry over girls or territory – they’d continue to share Parc Kent, as they had
for the last year or so. Now Pato, in an astonishingly clear voice, tells them how he broke into CB’s locker and robbed him. Ah, that makes things clearer. Alfonso, who still hasn’t said a word, explains that the Bad Boys beat them up because they’d laughed at a joke about Blacks in Vietnam. Flaco finally gets it, he’s well acquainted with CB’s little games.
“And you say you gave him back his cap and his sunglasses?” he asks.
They answer yes. With the blood now partly coagulated under his nose, Pato stares at him again, looking strangely sure of himself. Without undoing his pants, he shoves his hand in like he’s going to scratch his dick, making the others laugh. What the hell’s he doing? The half-circle that had formed around the boy tightens. He pulls out a chain and waves it under Flaco’s nose. Flaco takes it in his hand and contemplates its weight for a long time, like he’s hypnotized.
“The condor was in his locker, too,” Pato explains. “As soon as I saw it, I figured it was something that had been stolen from a Latino. I did the right thing when I kept it, didn’t I?”
How many years has it been since the last time he saw that condor, Flaco wonders. He’d completely forgotten about it. He turns towards Alfonso. “See, what did I tell you? He can’t believe that a couple of wusses like us pulled it off!”
Flaco examines the boy’s face: his scratches, his bloody nose, and his smile, all make him look sinister. They really roughed them up! They sure didn’t hold back!
“So, Flaco, it’s good I brought it back, right?”
“Yes, you did the right thing.”
Flaco stuffs the condor into his pocket. He runs his hand through Pato’s hair and wipes the blood off his face with his shirt.
“So you wanted to impress us with this?”
The boy nods his head.
“I already told you that you had nothing to prove,” Flaco continues. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this kind of thing. But I’ll tell you something: we all know Pato is a real fighter. Right, everybody?”
Flaco turns towards the others: they nod their heads. Pato can’t keep from smiling proudly.
“It really is true,” Flaco goes on, “what you did was very brave. You, too, Alfonso. But I’m going to ask you both a favour. From now on, you check with us before you do something. Get it?”
Yes, they got it, Flaco.
“And I promise that from now on, we’ll take you wherever we go. And first thing tomorrow, at school, we’ll have a talk with the Bad Boys.”
The boys look at each other and smile.
“You’ve got it, compadre, we’ll have a real good talk with them!” shouts Lalo, raising his beer in the air. “We’re gonna pound those Blacks! What the hell do they think?”
He tries to stand up, but he can’t. He sits back down despite himself, and, punctuating it all with hiccups, he continues to grumble and complain.
“One last thing,” Flaco adds. “Don’t tell your parents a thing. You were both playing soccer. You fell and you got kicked in the face, by accident. That part is very important – ac-ci-dent-al-ly. We really don’t want them getting mixed up in this, they might lose it and call the police. And we don’t have anything to do with the cops. ¿Está claro?”
“Yes, it’s clear.” Flaco gets back up and looks at the two faces, one at a time, shifting his head now and then to get a different angle.
“You don’t look too badly hurt. Nothing’s broken, that’s the main thing. In a week, you’ll be good as new. And don’t worry if every colour in the rainbow shows up on your face. It’s normal.”
Flaco smiles at them, slips away from the group, leans on a car fender and lights a match, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The music’s stopped, the conversations are picking up again at a slightly lower volume. One by one, they examine Pato’s and Alfonso’s wounds. That CB is a mental case! someone shouts. Mixon? Nothing but the worst kind of lazy! And what about Ketcia? She acts like a boy! The girl with three balls! A few of them burst out laughing, but the sound melts into the stubborn buzzing of mosquitoes in the light of the streetlamp.
The music starts up again and Teta turns up the volume till it’s blasting wildly. Let’s change the tape, Nena suggests. She’s tired of always listening to Nirvana. And Teta says Okay, but watch out, he’s going to surprise them. Suddenly, with a squeal, the radio spits out a crazy cumbia. Oh, no! Nena complains, take that off right now! He should stop being such a pain in the ass! She’s sick of cumbias and salsas, she can’t take it anymore! That’s all her parents listen to! Teta imitates the frenetic, syncopated movements of a Caribbean dancer, shaking an imaginary pair of maracas in his hands, but no one laughs. He’s so fat that his breasts jiggle back and forth, back and forth, beneath his sweater. There’s a good reason we nicknamed him Teta, Flaco thinks, his eyes following his dance steps. The breast! Teta now grabs Nena’s arm, she tries to get away, he pulls her towards the sidewalk, why so glum, Nena? and they dance cheek to cheek, as if it were a tango.
Paulina, who’s remained off to the side, steps closer to Flaco. A black nylon suit hugs her body from her neck to her heels. The first time he met her, a day he still remembers like yesterday, even though it’s been six years now, he was struck by the fact that she had an unusual look for a Latina. Her light brown hair was always pulled up in a ponytail, her face was delicate with slightly dark skin, and she always looked slender, athletic. With one hand on her hip, she’s rocking back and forth on her Adidas, looking mischevious.
“So, the fighting’s going to start up again?”
For an instant, he examines her. She surprises him.
“Don’t worry about it. What I told you still stands: at the end of the school year, I’m done with the gang. Tomorrow, we’ll straighten this whole thing out rápido. It has to be a mistake.”
He’s annoyed with himself for lying: tomorrow, he won’t forgive them for anything. He has no choice, he must be respected, keep them from starting up again. Besides, he can’t lose face among the members of his own gang. He knows very well they were shocked when they saw Pato and Alfonso’s faces. To disguise his uneasiness, he takes a drag off his cigarette.
“I saw how you reacted when you saw the condor,” she goes on.
He turns his head towards her and slowly lowers it a notch, to indicate she should talk in a lower voice.
“I’ll tell you about it when we’re alone. Not now.”
She shakes her head, “It’s always the same with you guys. It’s always about honour and courage.”
“I’ll tell you about it when we’re alone,” he repeats in a low voice.
After a little while, as if she’s agreed to change the subject, she takes him by the waist with a little smile, then, with a roaming hand, tousles his hair. He takes one last drag off his cigarette and then sends it flying onto the roadway, near the open space. He still isn’t completely used to the idea that he can kiss her whenever he wants. Sometimes, when he’s walking down the street, he stops suddenly: he can’t believe he’s going out with her. She puts her arms around his neck, then strokes his face. She, his childhood friend, the only girl he ever dared flirt with, the only girl he can’t think about when he masturbates because he immediately feels like he has to piss. It’s so new it feels like he’s dreaming. It was like a revelation. He’d invited her to the park, and, just like that, point blank, he’d declared his love for her. Calmly sitting on a bench, she replied that she, too, had been trying to get him off her mind for a long time, afraid that he thought of her just as a friend. But she hadn’t had any luck. A long kiss followed, it wasn’t feverish like he’d imagined it. Yes, it was the first time he’d fallen in love. Today, compared to her, all the girls he’d known seemed unimportant. He looks into her sparkling eyes, and she licks her lips: “The other day you where asking me when. . . .”
For a moment, their eyes meet.
“I think it’s time.”
Now it’s his turn to slip his arms around her: is she sure? With her high cheekbones, she offers him
a radiant smile: she’s never been so sure of anything in her life. Good, Flaco brings his face close to hers, whenever she wants. Nervously they laugh, then suddenly Paulina’s face becomes serious, almost fearful: he knows it’s the first time she’s going to make love, right? He says yes, he knows. Does it make her nervous? No, not really, she feels so good when she’s with him, Flaco. He presses his lips against hers and feels a warm tongue slip between his teeth.
Weekdays, before supper, you’d play hockey in the entrance to your building’s garage, for an hour or two, never more: when October came, the darkness fell early in the evening and then the goalie couldn’t see the tennis ball anymore. You were already wearing wool sweaters and mittens and sometimes a toque, but no coats or scarves yet. Then your mother would sweep out onto the balcony and lean against the rail: and when do you think you’re going to do your homework, Marcelo? You turned a deaf ear, pretended to be absorbed in the game, and your mother would end up losing her patience: okay, then, no supper! And she’d slam the door. Regretting it, you’d stop playing, you had to go. Akira would stop, hesitating, then he’d pick up his equipment, too. All this time, Cléo was sweating buckets: crap, just when he was starting to get warmed up! Akira? Would he lend him the tennis ball? Marcelo? The hockey stick? Thanks, guys, and he’d go practise against the wall. Sometimes he’d stay there until the night swallowed him up.
On weekends, sometimes as early as the first uncertain light of dawn, you’d organize long hockey tournaments and you wouldn’t go home till evening. You’d skip meals, you’d slip away to piss in the courtyard of some building under a balcony, so that the game wouldn’t be interrupted too long. Alongside you were Alberto the Italian, check out my wrist action, man, Glenn the English Canadian, look at my goalie pads, my father bought them in Boston, Danny the Haitian, why do you always have to hit me in the butt with the ball! and still others, pupils of both Francophone and Anglophone schools. Some times there were so many of you that a group of onlookers would gather around you: they’d spot the good players and cheer when someone scored a goal.
Black Alley Page 4
