Black Alley

by Mauricio Segura

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so. And I know you well enough to know, I think.”

  The conversation turned to what you were going to do for the summer, then to each of your families.

  “My mother?” Cléo asked. “She’s doing better. The other day, with some girlfriends of hers, we went out to eat. It was the first time she’d been out of the house for weeks. You know, really, it would take a miracle for my mother. . . . Sometimes I think she’ll never really be all right. She’s a depressive.”

  “A what?”

  “A depressive. My father says that’s someone who doesn’t like anything anymore, and who always has strange ideas in their head. You get it?”

  “What kind of strange ideas?”

  “You know, dark thoughts, like they’re sick of living. Anyway, I’m going to try to get a job this summer. That way, I’ll be able to buy what I want without always begging my mother or waiting for my father. I’m going to buy a Super Nintendo, like yours.”

  “If you want to play, all you have to do is call me and come over. You know that, don’t you?”

  Cléo smiled and nodded his head: “Yeah, I’ll call you.”

  At the time, remember, you said to yourself, “Yeah, yeah, so you say.”

  “Anyway,” you cut things off, “I have to go. Otherwise, Serge is gonna have a fit.”

  Together you headed back towards the schoolyard. The students were sitting on the asphalt all around Serge. When he saw the two of you, the teacher broke off what he was saying.

  “Where were you two?”

  “Just in the washroom,” you answered.

  Serge put his fists on his hips, sighed in exasperation and stared at Cléo.

  “For the past three weeks, you’ve been showing up late. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?”

  All heads turned towards Cléo who then craned his own neck and went boo! like he wanted to scare the others.

  “Cléo, I’m talking to you!” said Serge.

  “What?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I dunno.”

  “This is the last time I’ll tolerate you being late. I’m warning you.”

  “Yeah, yeah . . .”

  “What’s this attitude about Cléo? Don’t you care about competitions now, or what?”

  “No, no . . .”

  “You don’t care about them?”

  “No, I’m telling you. I’m just sick of doing warm-up laps and exercises. When you’re good, you’re good. When you’re lousy, you’re lousy. Even if the lousy guy practises his whole life, he’ll never be better than the good guy.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I’d like to tell you that your little theory is pretty pretentious.”

  “It’s true and you know it, Serge.”

  “You do ten laps right now. Or else you’re not going to the Jeux du Québec. Get it?”

  “I can’t believe it! All that just because I say what I think!”

  “No, Cléo, you don’t understand. All that is because you’re getting a big head because you can run fast.”

  Serge had got to him: Cléo was scowling at him, his face was hard, his upper lip trembling. After a moment, loud enough for the teacher to hear, he mumbled, “You can stick your ten laps you-know-where.”

  Then, his arm outstretched, Serge pointed towards the school.

  “To the principal’s office, right now!”

  Cléo got up, and ambled nonchalantly towards the door. They went on without him by putting Sylvain in his place in the relay race. Serge wanted them to practise passing the baton. Later, during recess, Cléo was able to come back to the group. Spring had come early that year and you’d started playing dodge ball again. Near the end, just before the bell rang, you and Cléo ended up alone, against each other. You threw the ball furiously, but neither one of you would die. Recess was over, but there was no winner.

  Cléo came towards you, “Not bad, buddy. Your throws are really good.”

  “Don’t worry, Cléo. You’re still better.”

  “Oh, yeah, I wanted to tell you something. Everybody calls me CB now. You can say it in French or English, I don’t care. But you have to admit it sounds cooler in English.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  All around you, there was a rush to line up.

  “You shouldn’t have given Serge such a hard time. He was really mad at you.”

  “Don’t worry. He likes to win so much he’ll end up coming to me. Remember what I said.”

  You stared at him, amazed.

  “That guy,” Cléo continued, “has no right to talk to me like that. Saying I think I’m someone I’m not. I’m not going to take that. I never had to pay my dues cause I’m a good sprinter. Anyway, you can be sure, he’s not going to push me around like that again.”

  Without saying goodbye, you separated and each went off to join his own line.

  “We’ve been waiting for you to call for hours,” CB states, trying to control himself. “We were starting to think you didn’t care about Teta anymore.”

  “What do you want?” Flaco asks. “What have you done to him?”

  “What have we done to him? Oh, we’ve just been sitting here playing Monopoly with him for hours. What do you think we want?”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “Let’s get something straight, Flaco. We’re the ones who have a hostage, we’re the ones who set the conditions.”

  Flaco decides not to answer.

  “The police came earlier,” explains CB. “This situation is getting pretty heavy, as you can see. So you’d better not be a smart ass. I want a clean trade, you understand?”

  “I want the same thing.”

  “Two pairs of sneakers, a watch, a knife and Teta, for the leather coats. Does that work for you?”

  “Yeah, that works.”

  He notices unusual eagerness in CB’s voice.

  “The exchange will take place in Parc Kent at the top of the hill, between the baseball diamond and the running track. At exactly midnight. Okay?”

  “Okay, but on one condition. I want to talk to Teta.”

  “What? You don’t trust me?”

  His voice betrays a suspicious hesitation. Yes, he’s hiding something, but what?

  “I want to talk to him. I insist on it.”

  “Ask me the questions and I’ll tell him.”

  “Put him on or the deal’s off!”

  A long moment goes by during which CB seems to be weighing the options he has before him.

  “Okay, but you talk to each other in French and we listen on the other line.”

  Once again, Flaco prefers not to contradict him: he knows they’d listen even if he said no. He hears steps, then Teta’s voice: shit, he’s groaning when he talks.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

  “Me? Nothing.”

  Teta can’t talk. Thoughts are racing through his head. He remembers the codes they set up in case of emergency.

  “Teta, tell me one thing. Did the Canadiens win yesterday or not?”

  “They lost, Flaco.”

  “How many goals did the other team score?”

  “Three.”

  He’s been punched in the face three times.

  “Any breakaways?”

  “None.”

  He hasn’t been stabbed.

  “And the trade they announced with the Bruins?”

  Suddenly confused noise comes through the line, sounding like someone trying to grab the phone out of Teta’s hands, then the receiver hitting the ground.

  “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” CB growls. “You want me to tell you? If you’re straight on your side, nobody will get screwed. And another thing, your little friend here only got a few scratches compared to what you did to Mixon.”

  He paused as if he was hesitating about adding something else.

  “You attacked him five against one! I’ll remember that, Flaco. It was so heroic of you. Really heroic. What ca
n I say, you’re a man.”

  “I didn’t attack Mixon, for your information.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Besides, at this point, it’s not really that important anymore.”

  “Do you really think I’d do something like that?”

  “I think you’d do anything at all. You’re a coward. The only time you strike is when you’ve got your gang around you.”

  “How long have you known me?”

  CB doesn’t answer, then he laughs in strange, exaggerated, throaty way.

  “That’s another problem of yours. . . .”

  “. . . .”

  “You think too much about the past, man. You’re obsessed with it. Get this into your head: as far as I’m concerned, I don’t know you and I never knew you. All I know is you’re against my gang. Can you get that through your thick skull?”

  Flaco doesn’t really know why, but the effect of all this brings him back down to earth, violently. An attack of sadness veils his thoughts.

  “There’ll be four of us,” CB goes on. “Me, Ketcia, Richard and Max. What about you?”

  “Four, too. Don’t worry.”

  “I don’t want any low blows. Understand?”

  “Nothing sneaky. Same goes for you.”

  “See you later.”

  Flaco sighs like a locomotive and, in a daze, starts playing with the phone cord. Just who does CB think he’s dealing with? A coward? He’s going to have to go through with it, either you’re a man or you’re not. He looks up at the flowered wallpaper and sees Paulina’s worried face: no, the cops are not the solution. He has no choice but to be loyal to his gang. Yes, after the exchange, they’ll let Teta go and the nightmare will be over. He calls the members of his group, wakes up some of them and tells them to meet him at quarter to twelve, in front of his place. With their knives, just in case.

  Outside, the cold wind stings his face, and the rustling of the leaves frightens him. He follows the sidewalk, with the bag on his back, and turns his head at the slightest sound. He stops in front of a sewer drain and puts down the bag. He takes the condor out of his pocket, weighs it in his hand for a moment, and with a disgusted pout, throws it in. He waits for the splash, but all he hears is the drone of the wind in his ears. Suddenly he rushes to the grate and gets down on all fours. Dios mío, what has he done? Through the spaces in the grate, his eyes peer into an unfathomable black hole. What did he do? What a jerk he is! He lifts his head and sees the thin chain hanging from one of the crossbars. With a trembling hand, he retrieves the object and examines it at length, as if he’d never seen it before. The condor has lost one of its wings. ¡Putamadre! For a long time, he tries to find the missing bit of metal by feeling around on the metal grate and on the asphalt. But with no success. He gets back up, worriedly looking around in embarrassment, and stuffs the condor into his pocket. He sees Lalo and Pato hurrying towards him, then Alfonso crossing the street.

  When you came out of the house, Enrique, sitting on the hood of a car, flattened by the heat, jumped off and landed on both feet: what were you doing? He came towards you tapping the tip of his finger against his watch, I’ve been waiting for you for fifteen minutes, and he stood motionless, his hands on his hips. A friend wanted to know if I felt like going to the movies, you explained with a shrug. What did you expect me to do? Hang up on him? Not that friend you used to have . . . what was his name again? You know, the Black kid? No, not him. He was talking to Akira, a Japanese kid. Japanese, eh? Did he have any sisters? No, he was an only child. Too bad, that’s one nationality I’ve never tried, and Enrique licked his chops. You laughed and your cousin became serious again: did you eat? Yeah, by himself: his parents had got into another fight. As usual, they’d closed the door to their room so you couldn’t hear. I bet they were fighting over stupid stuff again, right? Yeah, it was all because your father had told your mother her caldo was cold. Enrique laughed sardonically. Fighting over cold soup! he said shaking his head. He thought it was pathetic. No, he’d recently decided he was never getting married. Anyway, it was old-fashioned. You just had to ask Toño what he thought. Even Mr. Intellectual-and-All-That said marriage had no future.

  Lazily, you went down Linton towards Victoria. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, with a blue sky and small, bright white clouds. You were both wearing long T-shirts that covered your shorts, Enrique’s had a picture of a Ferrari, yours had the Power Rangers. Earlier this morning, Enrique had called to see if you felt like keeping Toño company at the video store where he’d been working for a week, because he was bored all alone. You’d immediately said yes, what else could you do: you were so jealous of Toño because of his job. You thought your cousin was lucky, because now he could buy almost anything he wanted: sports equipment, music cassettes, clothes. When you heard about it, you even thought to yourself: and what am I doing here with my newspapers? You’d talked to your mother about it, but she didn’t share your worries at all: you know what your problem is? You compare yourself with your cousins too much. Don’t forget, they’re a lot older than you are. You’re certainly not going to start working at eleven years old!

  On the way, in front of an unpaved driveway, you bumped into some Latino friends, all wearing black shorts, high white socks that came up to their knees and cleated shoes, and you shook their hands enthusiastically. They invited you to join them for a soccer match against a Portuguese team in the Parc Vézina. But Enrique stiffened and tried to look important: not today, compadres, they had things to do. At the corner of Lavoie, Enrique filled his lungs as if he were out in the countryside, and sighed: if the weather was like this all year round, Montreal would be a cool city. Poetically, he added, a melancholy wind sometimes rose up within him and homesickness sometimes haunted his nights like a ghost, my friend. He remembered the delicious Santiago summers, ay, ay, ay, when the girls in miniskirts made you walk around with a hard-on all day. Again, he licked his chops, very slowly this time. Because the most beautiful girls were where, eh? With their golden skin, their round asses, and their angelic little faces? In slow motion, as a joke, he pretended to punch you on the chin: I know you know the answer, champ.

  You crossed right in the middle of the street, without looking left or right. On the sidewalk, you walked past a sagging mattress – with a visible yellow circle right in the middle – and some garbage bags that were giving off a rotting odour that made you nauseous. Enrique held his nose and started walking faster, you did the same. About your Black friend, your cousin said, a few metres farther on, he’d seen him at the Plamondon station, stretched out with his friends. Cléo? you’d asked. Without answering, the other boy stared at the end of the street, took a breath: I walked past them and they squinted at me, as if little jerks their age could scare me. I didn’t say anything, I was in a hurry. Then, from a distance, they started shouting: Latino this, Latino that, I don’t remember what. You can be sure that next time I’ll teach them a lesson they’ll remember for a long time. You know in Santiago, I did karate for three years. Suddenly, he came to a stop, bent his knees, got into an attack position and sliced the air as he let out a sharp cry. But you know the rules, he went on, the demonstration completed, you can only use your karate when someone attacks you.

  Just before the intersection, Enrique motioned for you to stop and hide behind a van. Observe, compadre. Isn’t she just a tiny bit magnificent? Stretched out on a lounge chair on the second floor balcony, with her shirt open, a young girl, with her eyes closed, directed her face towards the sun. She’s Argentinian, Enrique said enthusiastically, her name is Gladys. After a few seconds of stupefied contemplation, Enrique bit his fist: so, what do you think, champ? And you said, she’s pretty, all right. Pretty? said the other boy, amused, and he sniggered. That, compadre, is not pretty, she’s an hostie de pétard, as the Québécois say, she’s fucking hot. Enrique took several long breaths, like a swimmer preparing to dive in, then, relaxed, he stepped towards the balcony, and you followed him: hola, Gladys, ¿qué tal? The girl sat up
, blinked her eyes several times, then offered you her most beautiful smile: ¡hola, Enrique! ¿Cómo estás? You know me, he puffed out his chest, his smile so broad it looked like a grimace, I’m always great! He introduced his little cousin, Marcelo, and Gladys said, hola and you replied hola. Do you live on Rue Linton, too? Yeah, just a little farther up, and Gladys, who was now fanning herself with a magazine, frowned slightly: that was strange, she’d never run into you. Do you go to Saint-Luc? Enrique coughed slightly: let him finish public school first.

  There followed a long exchange between Gladys and Enrique. They asked about such-and-such a person who went to such-and-such a school, then they took turns sharing information about future parties thrown by mutual friends. After a little while, from the darkness of the apartment, there appeared a young girl in a navy blue dress, with chestnut brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Gladys slipped one arm around her waist and hugged her: she wanted to introduce her little sister. I didn’t know you had a sister, Enrique said in surprise. You both said hello and Enrique whistled: I see you have some competition, Gladys, for the title of Prettiest Girl on the Street. Isn’t she pretty, said Gladys, examining her from head to foot. And top of her class, too! But she’s not interested in boys yet, she’s too young. In any case, she was going to protect her from vultures like him, Enrique. And the four of you laughed joyfully.

  Remember, Marcelo, Enrique nudged you discretely, while you, still in shock, couldn’t keep from following her slightest movements with fascination. That first time, from those very first instants, you’d noticed her big light eyes, sometimes gentle and frank, sometimes sly and mischievous. What’s your name, asked Enrique. Paulina. What are your names, she asked as she leaned on the railing. Enrique told her his name, and you pronounced your own and, strangely, those three syllables gave you the feeling they described someone else. Then, was it your imagination or had she really repeated your name in a low voice as if she was trying to memorize it? What school did she go to? asked Enrique. She pointed to a brown brick building on the corner: her public school was called Roberval. He had a super idea, Enrique bragged, why didn’t they come with them to visit his brother Toño at the video store? What did they think? Gladys gave a start: I didn’t know your brother worked at a video store. Yeah, you know, the one on Victoria. Okay, good idea, she answered hurriedly, I’ll get dressed and we’ll be down. You want to, Paulina?