VI
One by one, the Latino Powers emerge from a building with peeling green paint and, grouped around an old woman Teta has given his arm to, look up and down the street in both directions. The air is warm and on this last Sunday in April, the bright blue of the sky makes them flutter their eyelids like Barbie dolls. Flaco notices the Bad Boys at a window on the other side of the open space: they laugh and wave at him. When Teta and the old woman step forward, leading the group, he points his finger at the window for the rest of Latino Powers to see and, when they do, they give them the finger and carry on with their escort.
Since the party in the church basement, things have gone way downhill. Mixon’s stabbing confirmed Flaco’s decision to leave the gang for good. At the movies last night with Paulina, he just couldn’t get interested in Schwarzenegger’s mission, no matter how action-packed and sexy it was. It was as if in the darkness he’d found the courage to confess and had only one desire: to tell Paulina everything. It soothed him to share his fears, it made him more clear-headed. Several times, she insisted that he put an end to the war, but he shook his head: I’m not in the habit of doing things halfway. Since the beating Pato and Alfonso had been given, he’d promised them no one would show them a lack of respect again, and he wasn’t going to renege on that promise. Hadn’t she been there that day? She turned her head away and pretended to be absorbed in the movie, her arms crossed, her lips pursed. Other parts of this business preyed on his mind, too. Even Lalo, since the incident in the church basement, had admitted he’d been having bloody dreams. Flaco is angry with him for acting like an animal, especially since he was always bragging about it to the others. What could he possibly have in common with a guy who’s capable of such a thing? At least, he thinks to himself in consolation, the police don’t seem to suspect them and the Haitians, rather surprisingly, seem to have upheld the tacit agreement to solve their problems on their own.
On the other hand, the Bad Boys are harassing them wherever they go. Early one evening, Teta had gone out on the balcony to get some air and Ketcia, who was passing by, shouted to him: if you all think you’re going to get away with just a couple scratches, you’re in for a big surprise. A piece of advice, keep your eyes peeled, we’re going to strike when you least expect it, whether there’s anybody else around or not. Since Teta was the youngest of a family of eight, and his brothers had left the house a while ago, all married or out on their own, he’d inherited the responsibility of looking after his mother, Señora Eugenia – a widow whose face was crisscrossed by wrinkles, who always wore a silk scarf on her head, and aviator-style smoked classes to hide a corneal oedema. Since one of Teta’s sacred obligations was to escort her to church, Ketcia’s threats had scared him to death and he’d phoned Flaco: could the gang escort his mother and him on Sunday? The prospect of not sleeping in and losing part of his day didn’t exactly delight Flaco, but he knew only too well that Ketcia hadn’t been joking, he’d even been warned himself in an incredibly terse letter: watch out for your sheep, if you don’t want us to bleed them. Before he’d gone to bed yesterday, he’d called all the other members of the gang and wound his alarm clock so he’d get up on time.
Señora Eugenia, with a toothless smile, leans towards her son. “For once your friends are being nice.”
Then extending her chin towards the others in a circular motion, “But they didn’t all have to come.”
With his eyes, Flaco runs the street through a fine-toothed comb and smiles back.
“No, really, Señora Eugenia, it’s a pleasure for us to do it.”
“Muchas gracias, niño.”
Flaco’s smile turns into a clownish grimace: he hates being treated like a child. When they reach Côte-des-Neiges, they pass by McDonald’s, Lebanese, Vietnamese, Chinese restaurants, then they go by the swings in Parc Kent that are already being attacked by a crowd of brats. When they turn onto the path leading to the Église-Saint-Pascal, to his dismay Flaco recognizes the Bad Boys, dressed all in black, hiding behind some bushes around the rectory. If they’re already here, they must have taken a short cut, probably via Lavoie and Plamondon. They can’t be planning on attacking them in the church! The other Latinos notice them, too, and Flaco signals to them to keep cool. He assists Teta in helping Señora Eugenia as she climbs the stairs and, as they go in, they lower their heads and make the sign of the cross, some even go so far as to genuflect. Men and women, mostly in their fifties, in their Sunday clothes, are chatting casually in the pews or in the centre aisle. Flaco knows them, he’s been around them since he was a child, and, as is his duty, he greets several of them with excessive politeness. A short Guatemalan man with a puffy face, a friend of his father’s, comes towards him with a big smile, hola niño, offers his hand, say hello to your parents, and then he gets lost in the crowd gathering in the front rows. Then Lalo comes towards him and, in a worried voice, whispers in his ear, “Don’t tell me we’re going to have to stay for the whole Mass?”
“It looks that way, man.”
They exchange a defeated look. The priest climbs the sanctuary stairs, takes his place behind the altar, and, Señora Eugenia insists in her whining voice, attracting everyone’s attention, that they all come sit with her in front, in the very first pew. To be as close to God as possible, she adds. Feeling the weight of dozens of reproachful eyes on him, Flaco coughs, informs her they’d rather stay in the back, and that they’ll see her after the Mass. She shakes her head to show her disapproval, and Teta makes a face as he realizes he’ll have to accompany his mother up to the front alone. Latino Power squeezes into the last pew in the back of the church, after welcoming everyone, Father Cardinal, his eyebrows raised, immediately motions his hand towards them: why don’t these young people in the back come closer? There are some excellent seats here in front. Furiously rubbing the back of their necks, the gang gets up as one and comes to sit with Señora Eugenia, as joy flashes across her face. They’ll see, they’ll feel much better up here. When the sermon is good, you feel the thrill!
The Mass goes on forever. For Flaco, it’s an irritating succession of unexpected moments where you have to sit, stand, sit back down and kneel. It’s said in Spanish and twice when Father Cardinal can’t find his words, the parishioners whisper to him. When it’s time for communion, at Señora Eugenia’s request, the members of Latino Power get in line. One by one, they murmur, “Amen,” open their mouths and, when the host is placed on their tongues, even though they know it’s forbidden, they chew. When Mass is over, the short Guatemalan hurries to speak in front of the altar: amigos y amigas, if they’d be so kind as to sit down again, please. He just wants to remind them that the soccer tournament, the Coupe Allende, is taking place in Parc Kent all day today. The best teams in the community will be facing off, it’s a must-see. If they’re busy, they should at least come to the finals tonight. Es imperativo . . . Latino Power heads towards the door, but Señora Eugenia stops them in the middle of the aisle, like a stubborn mule.
“Now what?” Teta asks through clenched teeth.
“Before, at home, you promised you’d go to confession. And now you’ve changed your mind. ¿Cómo es eso?”
“I just said that so you’d leave me alone,” he pouts. “Anyways, I went to confession less than a month ago. I swear, I haven’t done anything bad since.”
With her fists on her hips, she breathes through her nose and slowly shakes her head, as if she were trying to convince herself of something evident.
“You know what,” she proposes, “you should all go to confession.”
“Why do you say that?” Flaco asks. “Anyway, what would we tell the Father?”
“Son, I may be old, but I’m not stupid. You think I don’t know you’re up to no good?”
She turns her head and levels her sightless eyes on Lalo.
“Señora,” he says, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t!”
Secretively, the members of Latino Power exchange worried look
s.
“Children, I will not leave here until you’ve all gone to confession.”
A collective, “Oh no!” greets her warning.
“Or else,” she continues, “I’ll make a scene and I’ll tell everything I know.”
Her words chill them. All around, people are leaving the church, saying goodbye. Just what does she know? Is she bluffing? Flaco has to know for sure.
“I think you’re making things up just to get us to go to confession,” he states, almost mockingly. “I’m telling you, we have nothing to be sorry for. And, with all the respect I owe you, Señora Eugenia, I really don’t like your trying to blackmail us like this.”
Her composure unruffled, the old woman felt her way forward, stopping a few centimetres in front of him, and breathed her bad breath into his face.
“Listen to me, my boy. In one way, I can forgive you for not telling me the truth. But not telling the Lord the truth is serious. I won’t stand for it . . .”
“What are you going to do?” asks Flaco. “Turn us in to God the Almighty?”
He gives a little laugh.
“What about the leather coats my son has hidden in his closet? I suppose you bought them? No,” she answers her own question. “You stole them!”
Flaco’s heart skips a beat. The old woman isn’t bluffing. ¡Putamadre! And now what? Admit everything? Do what she wants? Almost against his own will, he says in astonishment, “Leather coats?”
“Stop fooling around, my boy. I’m old, I know when I’m being lied to.”
Flaco glances at the others: their fists in their pockets, they turn their heads. Lalo and Pato whistle a tuneless song. It’s always the same old story! They always wait for him, the leader to pull them out of the fire. He turns back to the old woman, “What else do you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. I promise not to tell anyone as long as you go to confession.”
“And if we go to confession, you’ll leave us alone, is that it?”
She nods yes. Flaco hesitates, takes a deep breath.
“All right, okay.”
Delighted, Señora Eugenia asks Teta to tell Father Cardinal, and indicates to the others, swearing under their breath, to go one at a time to the confessional. It’s almost unbelievable! Flaco thinks. They come with the best intentions in the world, and now they’re being told what to do by this old woman, while the Bad Boys are waiting outside, hiding, ready to jump on them like wild beasts. That takes the cake! As soon as the priest finishes putting things away in the sacristy, he comes down the middle aisle and, without looking at them, is swallowed up by the confessional. At his mother’s request, Teta goes first and it takes an eternity, which worries Flaco: what if that idiot was really telling the priest everything, eh? What will I do? Twice he hears Teta’s hysterical laughter and it gives him goosebumps. When Teta comes out, he and Lalo give him a furious look, and Teta reassures them, I made up a story, what did you think? So when Lalo’s turn comes, he takes forever, too. He opens the door and brushes against Flaco whispering: I got three Hail Marys. Then Alfonso goes, and then Pato. When he comes out, Pato whispers in Flaco’s ear that he didn’t say anything, not a thing, boss, I swear. Flaco gives himself a good shake as he goes towards the confessional, closes the creaking door and places his bum on the austere little pew, as comfortable as a stone. Father Cardinal opens the screen, murmurs some words in Latin and crosses himself.
“Which language would you like to use for your confession? French or Spanish?”
“I don’t care. We can do it in French if it’s easier for you.”
“Le Seigneur est prêt à entendre vos péchés,” the priest says.
“Before I begin, I’d like to be sure of one thing. I want to be certain that everything is confidential.”
“Absolutely, my boy. Just consider me a simple intermediary between the Lord and you.”
“Okay. But I have another question, then. How can I explain this . . . What good does it do me to tell all this stuff to God? I mean, what’s the advantage?”
For a moment, the priest doesn’t answer.
“My boy, what’s your first name?”
“Marcelo. But everyone calls me Flaco.”
“Listen to me carefully, Marcelo. Two things. First, when you go to confession, it’s so that the Lord forgives you for your sins. That’s the ‘advantage,’ as you call it. The Lord listens to you then He gives you absolution. But if you’re unsure about what you’re doing, if you’re hesitating, I’d suggest you go and reflect on your own and say a prayer.”
“Okay, okay. But one last question. Let’s say I play the game and everything. Can you give me advice . . . sorry, I mean, can God give me advice if I ask him to help me?”
“Of course,” says Père Cardinal, enthusiastically. “That’s what he’s there for, for you to talk to him. You can think of him as a friend.”
Flaco coughs and looks through the screen: the priest’s head is lowered and his eyes are closed.
“Did you hear about Mixon, the boy whose arm was hurt last Friday?”
“Of course, it happened in the basement of our church. . . .”
“Well, Father, I think I’m partly responsible for what happened.”
“What are you saying, my boy?”
Feeling himself abandon his uneasiness little by little, Flaco starts to tell him everything in detail. Along the way, he even finds the exercise somehow soothing, a little like when he confides in Paulina. But after a few minutes, Father Cardinal interrupts him with a cough and straightens up in his chair.
“Listen to me carefully. If you want to tell me things that would compromise you with the justice of men, my boy, that’s something else.”
“But I thought I could ask his advice.”
“You can do that by simply praying. Gather your thoughts alone, in the quiet of your room, for example.”
“In my room? What good does that do, if I’m all alone?”
“You don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you, my boy. Try to understand my position. I’ve had quarrels with the police before, because someone’s told me things I’d rather not hear. Do you get my drift now?”
“But, Father, who can help me then?”
“As I just said, if you talk to him, God can help you. But you can find yourself another kind of help, too, the help of the authorities. Sincerely, my boy, I think a police officer could help you better than I could.”
Without protesting, Flaco leaves the confessional and, before rejoining the others, he turns around a moment: what do you think of that? When she sees him, Señora Eugenia approaches, thanks him, taking his hands in hers. Flaco pulls them away suddenly and says it’s time to go. Outside, there’s not a single Bad Boy in sight, they probably got bored. Maybe going to confession wasn’t a waste of time, after all, he says to himself bitterly. They advance in silence and, claiming her knees are burning, Señora Eugenia asks them to stop to rest from time to time.
They stop in front of Teta’s building: everything looks calm. Still, Flaco orders Pato, just for safety, to go with Teta and his mother upstairs to their door. We’ll wait for you, he adds. Before he leaves them, Teta asks if this afternoon, after lunch, they want to go to Parc Kent to watch the soccer tournament. Good idea! the others shout. Lalo suggests they meet in front of his house at about one-thirty. Chao, Señora Eugenia. Hasta luego, niñitos. ¡Un millón de gracias! Again, Teta gives his arm to his mother, as Pato runs ahead to open the doors for them. Señora Eugenia climbs up one stair at a time and stops for long breaks. It’s dark, the landlord doesn’t replace the fluorescent tubes anymore since people started stealing them. When they make it to the third floor, Señora Eugenia, breathing hard, searches her purse, pulls out a set of keys and feels around for the lock. Okay, you can go now, says Teta, see you later. Pato says goodbye to Señora Eugenia and climbs down the stairs two by two. When his mother opens the door, Teta feels someone grab his arm and pin him from behind. He tries to get free, but immediately feels
a sharp object prick his back. He wants to shout, but a hand is clamped down on his mouth.
“Are you coming?” his mother asks, already inside the apartment.
Teta recognizes CB’s slow speech urging him, in a low tone, to remain calm. Then the hand comes off his mouth. For a long moment, his frightened eyes follow his mother’s wavering profile and he finally says, “I’ll be right back.”
Señora Eugenia takes off her dark glasses, puts her head out the door and rubs her eyes.
“Where are you going?”
“I forgot to give something to Flaco.”
“It can certainly wait till later, can’t it?”
“No, Mom. I’m afraid it can’t.”
She raises her arms towards the heavens, “Oh, Lord! The street’s the only thing they’re interested in! . . . Don’t forget to come home for lunch, niñito! I’ll wait for you.”
He sees his mother close the door and hears her mutter words he can’t quite grasp.
When Cléo woke up with a start, Carl, his hands behind his head, was replaying the film of the previous night’s party in his head. Cléo was lying on the floor under a woollen blanket, parallel to the bed, from which Carl was now languidly observing him. Cléo sniffed his white T-shirt and closed his eyes in delight, a smile swelling his cheeks: it smelled like the girl’s perfume, man. Carl laughed heartily, while the other sat up, his back against the wall: do you remember the party at your place after the Jeux de Montréal? Carl rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, nodded yes, and Cléo livened up: do you remember the girl I was kissing all night? Why didn’t they see her anymore, eh? At the next two parties he hadn’t seen her, and she wasn’t there yesterday either. Carl sat up on his bed, the box spring creaked, and he shivered from his toes to the roots of his hair: it’s because she’s going out with someone now. A guy in grade nine, I think. What do you care? Anyway, last night, you didn’t seem to miss her much, you spent the whole night feeling Marjorie’s breasts. It wasn’t that he missed her, Cléo responded, as he ran a finger along the skin of his arm, it was just that he wondered where she was, that’s all. Carl looked him in the eye: what, you just want them all to yourself, or what? Cléo shrugged his shoulders and let out an embarrassed laugh, and Carl shook his head, amused: you Don Juan!
Black Alley Page 15
