Black Alley

by Mauricio Segura

  VII

  When Flaco gets home, and stops in the living room doorway, Carmen is dozing under a grey poncho, and Roberto, sitting in the armchair, his back straight, his arms crossed, keeps his eyes riveted on the TV. Earlier, on the bleachers in Parc Kent, he’d seen his father surrounded by his friends, at the finals of the Coupe Allende as well. When the crowd stood up to give an ovation to a player who had just scored a goal, their eyes met and he thought for an instant that his old man would turn his head, but after a few uneasy seconds, he waved his hand vaguely. Why the hesitation? Was he ashamed of him? For months now, he’s only spoken to him to ask for the salt at dinner, to tell him to make his bed or turn down the volume of his music when he shuts himself up in his room. One day, from the hallway, he overheard part of a muted conversation in the kitchen between his father and his Uncle Juan. Roberto’s voice had become ironic: relationship? what relationship? I prefer not to talk about it, Juanito, believe me, there’s not much to tell. Flaco sits down on the arm of the sofa at Carmen’s feet, while Roberto, determined to ignore him, continues to stare at the screen. Prisoners are digging a tunnel by handing buckets of earth from one man to the next. Carmen stretches, yawns, opens her moist eyes and blinks. She sits up suddenly, looks worried and mutters something he doesn’t catch. She repeats: “Was Teta with you?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him all night.”

  She tells him that Señora Eugenia has called several times. After Mass, Teta was supposed to come over to see him then go right back home for lunch – but he never came home. Does Flaco have any idea where he could be? Flaco’s heart panics, and, for a moment he imagines the worst: a sliced-up body, blood, haggard faces, tears. ¡Pobre Teta! No, Dios mío, let him be safe. He glances at his father who seems hypnotized by the movie.

  “You really don’t know where he could be?” Carmen insists.

  “No, Mom, I swear. We were all at the park. We told him to meet us early in the afternoon but he never came and since he’s always making us wait, we got fed up and left. We figured he’d meet us later.”

  Carmen tells him that Señora Eugenia, gnawed by fear, finally called the police. The old woman is sure something bad has happened, she had all sorts of premonitions that left no room for anything good. He knows what the old woman is like. Who knows if her worry is justified or not. But she’s all worked up!

  “She also mentioned stolen leather coats,” she added. “What’s that all about?”

  Now, Roberto turns and looks at them.

  “Leather coats? What leather coats?”

  “She said she found a bag full of coats with drawings of panthers and English words on them.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I swear to you.”

  “That’s what I thought. I said to her: listen, Señora Eugenia, I’m not stupid, I know our children aren’t saints, but they’re not the kind that would steal either . . . I bet Teta’s probably with a girl while she’s worrying to death.”

  The last sentence’s questioning intonation is not lost on Flaco.

  “Even we were wondering where he could have been,” he offers. “Yeah, maybe he is with a girl, it’s possible. I’ll call Señora Eugenia.”

  He steps over to the little round table where the phone sits and picks up the receiver, which he wedges between his shoulder and his ear.

  “Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” says Carmen. “You got another call. Someone named CB, if I remember right. He wants you to call back. He said it was urgent.”

  ¡Putamadre! Teta’s slashed, demolished, purple body flashes in his mind again. A crust of dried blood under his nose, his T-shirt torn to shreds. He bends his knees, unplugs the cord and takes the phone.

  “Who is he?” she asks.

  “Hmph!” he says, dropping one hand, “just a friend from school.”

  He goes down the hallway, locks his bedroom door, and collapses like a pile of bricks onto his chair. He wraps both hands around his head and lets out a long breath through his mouth: he can’t believe it! They went to church with him just to make sure he didn’t get kidnapped, and that’s exactly what happened. How the hell did they do it? He plugs in the phone, but he hesitates between just dropping the whole mess and calling the old woman. He knew when they all got together in front of Lalo’s building, that it was a mistake not to wait for Teta. He should have insisted they stay there until Teta showed up. Lalo was the first to urge them to leave without him. Then, since the others didn’t want to miss the beginning of the first game, they decided to clear off. He dials the number, it only rings once before a trembling voice answers.

  “Buenas noches, Señora Eugenia. It’s Flaco.”

  “Dios mío . . . Is Teta with you?”

  “No, señora. He didn’t come meet us at the park.”

  A long wail comes down the line, then she begs God’s mercy in returning her son to her. The old woman is short of breath, as if she were asthmatic,. He tries to calm her down, but he also admits he doesn’t know where Teta is.

  “I’ve been tolerant enough with you all. Now stop lying to me and tell me where my son is.”

  “Listen to me. I don’t know. And that’s the absolute truth. I’m as surprised by all of this as you are. But I think I have an idea where he might be.”

  “Tell me right now, niñito!” she begs. “Or I’m going to have to tell the police all about the coats! Don’t force me to do something like that, Flaco, don’t force me to do it!”

  “Calm down and listen to everything I’m going to say. I need you to trust me, do you understand? I’m asking you to give me till one AM. If you don’t hear from me by then, you can tell whoever you want whatever you want. You have to give me that much time to keep this situation from blowing up.”

  Flaco hears her moan and cluck. He adds in a sweet tone, “I’m sure nothing’s happened to him, that he’s safe and sound.”

  “That’s not what I think, Flaco. . . .”

  At the other end of the line, sniffles punctuate the silence, and the old woman gives her nose a good blow, but a whistle continues to accompany her breathing.

  “What do you mean?” Flaco asks.

  “I see all kinds of things I don’t like, Flaco,” she sobs. “I see shadows, a lot of red, and it’s all a bad sign. I’m afraid. Very afraid.”

  “Calm down, señora. I’ll bring him back to you before one AM, I promise. But you have to trust me. You have to.”

  The old woman erupts in a frenetic fit of tears that sounds like a tumultuous laugh. Little by little, she gets hold of herself.

  “Of all Teta’s friends, I’ve always liked you best, Flaco. You’ve always been good to him. You’re a loyal young man.”

  “I treat my friends as if they were my brothers, señora.”

  “Don’t disappoint me, please, don’t disappoint me.”

  “You won’t regret this, Señora Eugenia. I give you my word of honour.”

  Half-heartedly, still sniffling melodramatically, she tells him it’s okay, she accepts, she’ll wait for his call. Flaco comforts her one last time, then hangs up. For a good minute, he’s in such a state of confusion that as he stares at the alarm clock on his nightstand, he’s conscious that, one by one, the seconds are slipping away. He gets up, staggers, runs his hands across his face. Now what? He stands there, unmoving, for a long time. He goes towards the dresser, pulls out the top drawer, takes out the condor and shoves it in his pocket. He looks into the living room: his father is in there alone, still absorbed by the movie.

  “Can I talk to you?” Flaco asks.

  For a moment, Roberto pretends not to hear, then he levels his black eyes on him. Flaco sits very close to him, on the couch. They watch each other intently without speaking. Flaco looks into his hard face, his hollow cheeks, his straight nose, his drooping moustache. His eyes are overly narrow: is he just tired or is it a sign he’s on his guard? Roberto picks up the remote control and lowers the volume on the TV.

  “Listen,” Flaco begins. “I don’t kn
ow how to explain this. But I have to talk to you about something that’s going on. It’s about Teta.”

  Roberto follows his hand movements with suspicious attention.

  “I think I know where he is. But I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m caught in a trap and I want. . . .”

  With a gesture, Roberto stops him, clears his throat.

  “I want you to understand one thing. You may not have to explain as much as you think to me. I know more than you think.”

  Flaco looks taken aback.

  “You’re surprised? What did you think? That I was never young?”

  His eyes suddenly lose their tired look.

  “You think I didn’t know you were lying before about the coats? You can hide a lot from your mother, but not from me, Flaco. Don’t forget that.”

  “But that’s why I came to talk to you.”

  An annoyed look hardens Roberto’s face. Then for several seconds he blinks his eyes as if thinking intensely.

  “It doesn’t work like that, Flaco. Don’t you know that? I don’t even know who you are. If you want to know, you’re like a stranger to me now. You think it didn’t hurt me in the beginning? But to tell the truth, I’m not even mad at you about it anymore.”

  He smoothes his moustache.

  “You wanted to live your own life, put up a barrier between you and us? Well, go ahead, see it through now.”

  “But, Dad, that’s just it, I want things between us to be like they used to be.”

  “Today, because you’re in a jam, you’re coming to see me. No, Flaco. You’re an adult now. You’re going to have to make your decisions on your own.”

  For a long moment, Flaco is silent, flabbergasted. Ready-made sentences, full of desperate sincerity, pop into his mind, but he can’t bring himself to utter them. Roberto grabs the remote to shut off the TV, stands, and heads towards the living room doorway. Already in the darkness of the foyer, he stops and slowly turns around.

  “I’ll give you one piece of advice, Flaco. Just one. If there’s any possible way, avoid a bloodbath.”

  Then, lowering a finger at him, “I know that’s how bad it is now.”

  He shakes his head, purses his lips and disappears into the darkness of the hallway. Flaco feels like he wants to cry but then, after a moment, his sadness makes him angry and it takes all his strength to hold back his tears: now is not the time. He goes out quickly, he needs some fresh air. Outside, he takes a few steps, realizes he’s shaking, his teeth are chattering. He crosses the yard, passes under two streetlights and goes around one building: okay, there’s light in the windows on the second floor. Climbing the stairs, he hears the cheerful voice of a TV announcer and a shower of applause. He raps on the door three times. The wide smile of a little boy appears in the narrow space the door has opened: what do you want? You’re here to see my sister, right? Out of bravado, the boy opens the door a bit, he’s wearing blue pyjamas covered with all kinds of trucks. And he says, I don’t have time to play, Diego, I’m not kidding around. Is she here? And the little boy answers, I don’t know, maybe, and he gives a high-pitched laugh. Steps approach and Paulina appears. She gives the boy a little tap on the bum: go on, go on, children your age are all in bed by now!

  Flaco slips into the foyer, tells her he has to talk to her. She runs her fingers across his face, you’re all pale, takes his hand, what’s wrong? Come on, let’s go into the kitchen, he answers. They go past the living room, Flaco nods hello to Paulina’s parents, and her father, taking drag after drag off his cigarette, waves at him, hola, pibe. In the kitchen she turns on the lights and the yellowish glow from the naked bulb, suspended over the table, is reflected off the greasy walls. They sit diagonally across from each other, she observes him and continues to caress his hands. When he finishes telling her, he arches his eyebrows into a point: what does she think? She pulls back her hands, gets up and looks deeply into his eyes: he knows what she’s going to advise him to do. Is she sure? Yes, Flaco, it’s the only thing to do. What else is there? Right now, he sighs, he’s not sure of anything. No, he’s sure of one thing, he needs her. Really. Once again she covers his hands with her own and squeezes them, a kind smile on her lips: of course, he can count on her. First he has to go get the bag of coats at Teta’s he explains. The problem is, since he has to get them without the old woman knowing, he needs someone to distract her. She tells him he can count on her to help, and she says it with such spontaneity that he wraps his arms around her. They go back to the living room and Paulina steps over to her parents: I’ll be right back. ¡Un momento, niñita! says her mother snapping her fingers. Where are you going at this hour? I’m going out, not for long, Mom. But it’s late, Paulina. Come on, just fifteen minutes, please. Let her go out, the father intervenes, points a pistol-shaped finger at Flaco, and winks his goodbye. Bring her back safe and sound, pibe. I promise, Flaco smiles, and he thinks: her old man really likes me.

  When they get outside, they hurry across the street and step into the building where Teta lives. When they get to the third floor, they inhale deeply trying to calm their breathing, and Flaco hides on the stairs while Paulina rings the bell. Señora Eugenia’s slow steps make the floor creak, she asks who it is, unlocks the door when she hears the answer, and Paulina flashes a charming smile: buenas noches, she’s come to keep her company for a little while. She heard what’s happened. The old woman’s sagging face smiles weakly: that’s so nice of you, niñita! Of course, come in, and the door closes. Since it’s taking Paulina quite a while to come back to let him in, Flaco finally sits down on the stairs. The fluorescent tubes above his head go on and off unexpectedly, buzzing like a regiment of furious wasps. Finally, Paulina opens the door a crack, just barely enough for him to get in. Flaco slips into the darkness of the entryway, and she whispers to him: there’s no danger, she’s in the living room. To be on the safe side, Flaco removes his shoes, carries them in his hand, and heads for Teta’s room, while Paulina goes back to the living room to start up a conversation with Señora Eugenia. Without turning on the light, he goes straight to the closet, which exhales a nauseating odour of old socks, and sticks in his head. The bag doesn’t appear to be in there. He rushes to the dresser and pulls open all the drawers, but nothing. Under the bed? Not there either? In the four corners of the room? No luck. ¡Putamadre! That’s all he needs!

  Suddenly, he hears steps: it’s not possible! He stretches out on his stomach under the bed, the door opens and a bright ray of light slices the floor. Someone turns on the light: Flaco? He recognizes Paulina’s running shoes, standing there before him holding the garbage bag. It was in the kitchen pantry, she whispers. He jumps to his feet and opens the bag: the coats really are in there. It’s okay, he grabs the bag, swings it across his shoulder and heads towards the entrance, followed by Paulina. At the door, as he’s putting his shoes back on, she tells him she’s going to stay a little while longer. They kiss on the mouth and for a moment she holds him back. He frees himself and she asks, in an evasive voice: and now? He gives her a sorry look, then his face closes up and he doesn’t respond. Anyway, don’t be a hero, okay, Flaco?

  At his place, everything’s dark, his father’s probably gone to bed. In his room, he puts down the bag, takes a couple of breaths, sits on the chair at his desk and, having made a decision, picks up the telephone.

  You were beginning your second warm-up lap, jogging side by side with Akira and inhaling the cool morning air, when you quietly forked off towards the back door to the school. You crossed the silent, deserted gym, and you pushed open the door to the boys’ washroom. You rushed towards one of the urinals holding your crotch with both hands.

  “Who’s there?”

  You looked all around: strange, you couldn’t see anyone. Who could it be? When you finished going to the bathroom, you pulled the lever, water ran through the urinal, and you took several steps towards the place where the voice had seemed to come from.

  “Cléo, is that you?”

  Some cou
ghing sounds could be heard, then a voice spoke as best it could, “Hi, Marcelo. You’re not with the others?”

  “I had to go to the washroom, but I made sure Serge didn’t see me.”

  “Don’t you think he’s a pain with all his rules?”

  “He doesn’t want us to waste any time. You know how serious the competitions are for him.”

  You noticed a thread of bluish smoke rising from the stall where Cléo was.

  “So,” he asked. “What’s new with you?”

  You told him about how a few times you’d gone out with your cousins, who, older than you, were teaching you all kinds of sports like soccer and table tennis. Then he opened the door and came forward holding a cigarette between his first two fingers. He was wearing an oversized T-shirt marked Public Enemy and thick-soled basketball shoes, with thick red laces that went all the way up to his ankles. He started to cough, lowered his eyes, then leaned one hand against the wall.

  “Well,” he said, “lately, I’ve been taking it easy.”

  He went back into the stall, threw his cigarette in the toilet, flushed and came back towards you.

  “Now I know that I used to just be a little twerp. Do you remember my first day at this school? The first Phys. Ed. class?”

  In a neutral voice, you answered yes, you remembered.

  “It seems so long ago . . . Today nobody would dare give me a hard time.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” you commented, “you’re a real tough guy now.”

  Your statement hit its mark: Cléo gave a lazy laugh, a laugh you’d never heard from him before, Marcelo.

  “You know what,” he remarked, “you’re the only guy I couldn’t beat up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. You’re too good a guy.”

  “Too good?”

  “Yeah, everybody likes you, you never try to pick fights.”

  “Maybe I’m tougher than you think.”