“I told him a story that didn’t make much sense,” Mixon says with a forced smile, his eyelids half shut. “He didn’t really look like he believed me, but since I pretended to be in pain sometimes, like this, ‘ooowwww!’ he didn’t push too hard.”
The three of them laugh. Mixon can’t help but close his eyes.
“That’s how you have to treat them,” CB says.
“What about the joint?” wonders Ketcia. “Did he ask you anything?”
“Only if I sold it, too. Obviously, I said no. I said to him: I swear, sir, it was the first puff I ever took in my life. I wanted to know what it was like. That’s all. He looked annoyed and he said: all right, all right . . . And he didn’t ask any more questions about it.”
“How do you feel?” Ketcia asks.
“Okay, I guess.”
Mixon glances at his arm and Ketcia has the feeling he’s going to burst out crying. It’s as if he’s using all his strength to control himself.
“I got five stitches. For sure, it hurts when I move. The doctor said I could leave the hospital tomorrow morning unless it’s really serious. Any way, I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I don’t feel like staying here for a week.”
“You look really good,” CB said, “I’m sure they’ll let you go tomorrow. You’ll see, in a few days, you won’t feel anything anymore. You’re going to beat me at arm wrestling.”
CB smiles, looks at him warmly.
“And your parents?” he asks, “they came to see you before, didn’t they? Did they ask you questions about the pot?”
“With them, it’s a little more complicated. I think the doctor told them we’d been smoking. My mother had a freakin’ fit. She said to me: why, Mixon? For the love of God, why are you on drugs? Haven’t we told you enough about how dangerous it is? A bunch of stuff like that.”
“We’ll talk about the drugs at home, if you don’t mind,” his father had cut in. “It’s embarrassing enough as it is, I don’t want to talk about it here. Besides, Mixon has to get better, he has to rest.”
“Okay,” his mother had agreed. “But at least let him tell us who did this to him. Are you in danger, Mixon? Do you owe money? Because of the drugs, right?”
“Wow!” exclaims CB. “Your mother’s really starting to lose it!”
“No, no, Mom,” Mixon had replied. “The guys who did it were thieves. They weren’t even from our school. They were a lot older than us. I think they were professional pickpockets.”
“That’s what you told her?” CB says, “That’s great!”
“But if they wanted to rob you,” his mother said, “why did they do this to you? It doesn’t make sense . . .”
“They stabbed me,” Mixon explained, “because I didn’t want to give them my wallet. First, I fought with one of them, and since I was winning, another came up from behind and shanked me. That’s all.”
“You’ll really never change,” Ketcia comments with a laugh. “You’re the best liar I know.”
“Shanked?” asked his mother. “What do you mean? What does that word mean?”
“Oh, you don’t know anything!” Mixon exclaimed. “It means when someone takes out a pocketknife and stabs you.”
“One thing’s for sure, you’ve learned your lesson,” his father remarked. “Next time just give them your wallet right away. No more playing the hero, get it?”
“Yeah, I get it,” Mixon had answered. “And after that, my father said they shouldn’t tire me out and they left.”
“Your father’s okay,” Ketcia offers. “He’s cooler than your mother, anyway. I’m just afraid once you get home she’s really going to get on your case with all this drug business.”
“Yeah,” sighs Mixon, “she might. But between now and then, she’ll have time to settle down a bit. Well, I hope she will anyway.”
For a while, they don’t say anything.
“Now,” CB says, leaning towards him, “you’re going to tell us what really happened.”
Mixon opens his eyes wide, as if stunned, then, punctuating his sentences with long silences, he describes in detail the events that took place in the coatroom. When he finishes his story, CB places his hands on his cheeks and stays in that position for a long time. Then, in a low, conspiratorial voice: “Latino Power’s main objective was to steal our coats. That much is clear. The fact they shanked you looks like an accident, like it wasn’t part of the plan. You have to understand me, Mixon. I’m not trying to excuse them, I just want to understand what they were up to.”
From one of the beds next to Mixon’s, short syllables filled with o’s reach their eyes, as if someone was talking in their sleep.
“I want to ask you one question,” CB continues. “But I really want you to think hard before you answer me . . . Who shanked you?”
For an instant, Mixon furrows his brow, grimacing as if he can hardly stand the pain anymore.
“I don’t know,” he answers. “It was too confused.”
“Was it Flaco?” CB presses him.
“I don’t think so. Maybe.”
“We have to act now,” Ketcia suggests. “It’s urgent, if we want to get our coats back. And you know, if we don’t do anything, they’ll think we’re just a bunch of chickenshits.”
“I already have an idea,” CB says rubbing his hands. “Every Sunday, I’ve noticed something about the fat one in their gang. What do they call him again?”
“You mean Teta?” Ketcia asks.
“Yeah, that’s it. Teta.”
Did the Centre Pierre-Marquette really host the Jeux de Montréal that year or was your memory failing you, Marcelo? What’s for sure is that the stadiums looked alike and that children don’t pay much attention to place names, and even less to architecture or decor. Early in the morning, amazed and excited, you’d paraded in and greeted the crowd, which was principally composed of students who’d come to support their schools. In the bleachers, they stood, they shouted, they did the wave. But the procession went on forever, tempers flared and right in the middle of track, a fight broke out. The music was interrupted and you stopped moving. A feverish crowd formed around two students trying to see who could punch the other’s face the hardest. There was so much confusion the monitors couldn’t get their hands on them. The crowd was fired up: with insults and provocations, they encouraged the brawl. Finally, the monitors got their hands on them. They appeared in front of everyone: not embarrassed at all, they were laughing to themselves, proud of having screwed everything up. The organisers had the players leave the field. They’d wasted enough time already. Come on, let’s go!
You and Akira climbed up to the top of the bleachers, where your school’s supporters were. The only topic of conversation was the fight. To avoid any other similar incidents, half the monitors took positions in the stairways, and the other half spread out along the track. With booming messages from the loudspeakers, you were constantly reminded to settle down. Finally, the qualifying races started, and as a result the crowd was re-energized and started shouting even louder. From one school to another, students threw confetti and balled up paper at each other, and then the monitors would rush over right away. The Phys. Ed. teachers sometimes got involved and when they lost patience, they’d order the rowdiest students to do push-ups.
You and Akira picked out Cléo at the other end of the red benches, making his way through the confusion on the stairway. When he went by École-Saint-Antonin, someone chucked a water balloon and it burst against his chest. The whole school was laughing and pointing at him. He wiped his T-shirt at length, looked at them for a moment, then shouted: screw you, morons! The students were momentarily stunned then they rained balled-up paper down on him. But Cléo casually went on his way down the stairs, stopped in front of a vending machine, bought himself a Coke, and, in an effort to avoid his attackers, climbed back up the other side, where you and Akira were sitting. In passing, Akira offered him a T-shirt to change into, Cléo accepted. He changed right there and sat down with you for a l
ittle while. So, you asked, what have you been up to? We hardly ever see each other anymore. Oh, nothing special. His parents were getting a divorce, but he didn’t really care, it had been coming for such a long time now. Other than that, his mother was working a lot, and giving him more freedom. Remember, Marcelo, it was like he was telling you about someone else’s life.
What about you, how were you doing? Okay, I guess. The other night, Akira and I went to a hockey game with his father. Yeah, Akira said excitedly, you should have been there, Cléo! The Canadiens trounced the Flyers, five to nothing! Then you noticed the condor was hanging from his neck. I see you’re still wearing it. He touched it, held it between his fingers: yeah, it brings me luck. Then the rest of the conversation unfolded like when two old friends meet again and promise to keep in touch although they both know it’s no longer possible. Yes, you were sitting there with him, he was talking to you over the shouting and excitement bubbling around you both, and you kept asking yourself, obsessively, what could have happened between you. Dios mío, where did this dark, sneaky force separating you come from? You had the feeling, yes, he was looking down on you and Akira, that he didn’t think much of you, that he though he was more mature than you. He climbed the stairs and went to sit back down with Carl and the rest of the classe d’accueil.
A little before noon, Cléo won the fifty-metre final, which made him the fastest grade five boy in Montreal. Serge hugged him and kept running his hand through his hair. Throughout the afternoon, he lavished him with all sorts of advice and tricks to get him ready for the relay race. One by one, the boys came to shake his hand, you’re the next Carl Lewis, Cléo, while the girls elbowed each other and cooed, hi, Cléo, you cutie. Saint-Pascal-Baylon picked up three other medals in the individual competitions, but no other golds, which left Serge dumbfounded for a good part of the day. A teacher-friend of his, who’d come to watch the competition, consoled him with an arm around his shoulders, his voice gentle: the relay races are this afternoon, and that’s where they had the best chance of picking up medals, wasn’t it?
Around four o’clock, after some exhausting qualifying races, there were only eight teams left in the finals, including Saint-Pascal-Baylon, for the 4 x 50 metre grade five relay. You had a great start, Marcelo. That day, carried by the crowd, you felt light as a bird. Coming out of the turn, you had a good lead and you were first to pass the baton to the second runner, who happened to be Akira and, despite his disorderly way of running, he managed to further increase the distance between you and the other team. Then, completely unexpectedly, Akira fell. Shit! For a long moment, he writhed in pain on the track. Two runners jumped over him so they wouldn’t trample him. Remember: he’d sprained his ankle. All the runners passed him, he got up and limped to Yuri, who, by increasingly lengthening his strides, managed to get back into sixth position. Then Cléo got the baton and was off like a shot: he astonished the crowd and cheered Serge, who was stubbornly chewing his fingernails. At the first turn, he passed the fifth runner; ten metres farther, the fourth; he had a hard time getting ahead of the third runner, in slow motion. There were only twenty metres left and the second runner was maintaining a surprising rhythm. Just as Cléo was about to pass his rival, the finish line caught him. The opposing team began to jump and raise their arms in the air, confident that they’d won the silver medal. Serge rushed over to Cléo, they talked a bit then headed over to the officials, comparing their stopwatches. You didn’t care about winning, all you were interested in was second place because it would allow you to move on the Jeux du Québec. After a few minutes, it was Cléo and Serge’s turn to jump up and down, and the reaction of Saint-Pascal-Baylon wasn’t far behind: beneath an avalanche of liberating shouts, confetti and streamers dotted the stadium.
You four runners were hugging each other, shaking hands firmly, and Akira, his ankle soaking in a bucket filled with ice, was consoled. Happy, but wound tight as a spring, Serge was checking his own heart rate, two fingers pressed against the angle of his chin, as he spoke: the important thing, my friends, is that we qualified for the Jeux du Québec, for the first time ever for their school. So they were going to show all of Quebec what they were made of! And, all of you added in unison, you got it! After the medal ceremony, when Carl and Cléo left by the back door of the gym, Carl’s brother honked his horn, his elbow out the window of a sky blue Dodge: come on, move your ass, he had other things to do! They got into the back seat, put down the windows and, as the car accelerated, stuck out their heads: we won! At the apartment, Carl’s mother heard about Cléo’s victories and, as she set the table, she looked at him, her eyes sparkling with admiration: achievements like that would get the Haitian community accepted once and for all. She stepped closer to where he was already seated at the table, bent her knees and smiled generously: if you keep it up, you could go far, you know. But Cléo simply shrugged his shoulders: yeah, I don’t know. They ate roast beef with Haitian rice, discussed all the details of the competition and imagined the upcoming ones. That night, since Carl’s parents were going out to the movies, the brothers sweetly asked their mother if they could have a party. Okay, but please, boys, don’t break my glasses this time, and she followed her husband to the door. We’ll be good, Mom, we promise. As soon as they were gone, Carl’s big brother turned towards them curtly: see, I told you she’d notice the broken glasses. They went into the living room: the brothers stretched out to their full length on the sofa, while Cléo sat in the chair, with his arms folded. Your mother’s cool, she lets you do what you want. And Carl began to blow on his nails and polish them on his T-shirt: it’s just that my parents are modern!
Carl’s big brother went to the kitchen and came back a few moments later with glasses and some beer. Frightened, Cléo glanced nervously at Carl: all right, okay, just a little, I don’t feel like getting a headache. Carl took the caps off two Molson Drys, poured them into the glasses, and took a long drink, as if it were a habit with him and, with a dreamy look, examined the ceiling. Then, as he handed Cléo a glass, he asked: where are the most beautiful girls in the world? The most beautiful beaches, eh? Cléo dipped his lips into the beer, the foam gave him a moustache, and his eyes stirred restlessly: wait, let me think. Idiot, Carl shouted, in your own country! And Cléo replied, is that true? You sure? That’s when Carl’s big brother rushed at him and, half kidding, half joking pointed his finger in Cléo’s face: don’t ever question anything like that in my house again! The next time you do, I’ll kick your ass, then I’ll throw you out, head first! Understand? Carl’s brother went towards the portable radio, shoved in a tape and, with his back turned, asked, tell me one thing, do you think of yourself as Haitian or Canadian? I don’t know. Some of both. The brothers lowered their heads and shook them theatrically. The older one came and sat near Cléo, put an arm around his shoulders and spoke to him solemnly: there’s nothing sadder in the world than someone who doesn’t know where he comes from. You have to know your country well, little boy, get it? Cléo slowly shook his head yes, his eyes worried. Another thing, you have to be proud of your origins. Repeat after me: I’m-proud-to-be-Haitian. . . .
As the evening drew on, the living room filled up with more and more young people. Carl’s big brother was the deejay, and most of the others were wriggling as they danced, casually holding their beers. Around ten o’clock, a few joints were lit. When a hand held one out to him, Cléo sharply shook his head no. Carl sat down near him on the arm of his chair, and Cléo swallowed another sip of beer: buddy, it’s like there’s a merry-go-round spinning in my head. Soon he was laughing about anything and everything, clinking glasses with Carl before they both downed their glasses in one swallow. Should I dance or not, he asked Carl. You should, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, you’re just with us and we’re like family. They ogled the girls, and imitating the older boys, commented on their bodies. From time to time, Carl’s brother would come up behind them and stand between them: some of them aren’t bad, eh, guys? Which one do you like, lit
tle brother? Carl had spotted a girl with long legs, moving languorously on the opposite side of the room. The big brother laughed in both satisfaction and surprise: I see you like older women. If you want her, I mean, if you really want her, you can have her. What about you, Cléo? Me, uh, I don’t know. What am I hearing there? You’re trying to get me to believe there’s not a single one you like?! It can’t be! Either you’re sick in the head or . . . and Cléo quickly pointed out a girl who was seated alone, not particularly pretty, but who kept turning her head towards him: her. Carl’s big brother’s hand squeezed his shoulder: well then, you shall have her, buddy, I promise! He went to talk with the two girls in question and, after a few minutes, they came over to them: so, looks like you’re shy, eh, boys? They exchanged a surprised look, and the girls each took them by the hand and pulled them to the dance floor: come on, come on, now’s no time to be sitting down.
In the middle of the living room, Carl was doing all he could to look natural to a Bob Marley song, while keeping an eye on his friend the whole time. Barely a month ago, Cléo never would have agreed to dance like that, as a couple with a girl. No matter what they said, alcohol had its good sides. It looked like he was in seventh heaven, freed from something that had been weighing on him for too long. Cléo, who at the beginning of their friendship had suffered from such shyness, was unrecognizable today. From time to time, the girl would turn her back to him, bend her knees and swing her rear end, and Cléo would follow the movements of her hips, his eyes popping out of his head. Later the couples sat back down and Carl’s brother came by to give them more beer. Carl, who had already watched how his brother acted with girls, imitated him: he told joke after joke, eliciting cascades of laughter from his partner. In Cléo’s corner, as things were going rather silently and he wouldn’t stop scratching his neck and his arms like he had the hives, the girl who was with him turned towards Carl: was it true Cléo was in grade nine? And Carl, sensing his friend had been acting, understood: yes, yes, he goes to the Polyvalente Saint-Luc. A half hour later, Cléo was still chatting with the girl as if they’d known each other for ever. He was drinking his beer in such gulps that Carl had to confiscate the bottle. With his hands now free, he got it into his head that he should kiss the girl. Noticing he was drunk, she pushed him away nicely. Instead, she asked him to dance and, enthusiastically, he clapped his hands: whatever you say! But he had an awfully hard time standing up, and he leaned on the other dancers’ arms and shoulders. Soon, they had to sit back down, and Carl heard him telling the girl he loved her, that he’d do anything, that he’d kill for her. She was laughing heartily, giving him little slaps on the cheeks: you’re a real lady-killer. Okay, all right, she said, and she deposited a kiss upon his cheek, then a short one on his lips, like this, mouah. Soon, nobody could get them apart.
Black Alley Page 14
