Black Alley

by Mauricio Segura

  Enrique and Gladys walked in front of you, as, at Paulina’s side, you couldn’t keep from glancing sidelong at her profile when she was looking straight ahead. How long had she been going to Roberval? you asked, and you gave a long fake yawn to hide your unease, your stomach was all turned upside-down. She’d hardly been able to answer before you jumped on her with another question: how long had she been in Canada? Who were her favourite actors? What group did she listen to most? What sports did she like to play? Not so fast, she interrupted you, she couldn’t answer all your questions at once. And continuously, obsessively, you kept a close eye on her turned-up nose, her light lips, the beauty mark on her cheek. ¡Ay, ay, ay, Marcelito! The rustling of new sensations. At the time, as you felt a familiar confidence settle over you, you thought Toño was right when he said it was easier to talk to Latin American girls.

  When he saw you coming, Toño came out from behind the counter, looking delighted: okay, here we go, he’d buy them all a Coke! What did they say to that? Okay, good. You stepped close to the shelves against the wall: most of the boxes advertised Hollywood movies dubbed in Spanish, though every once in a while, there were the old Mexican melodramas your mother liked, with Dolores del Rio or Jorge Negrete, Venezuelan action movies, and comedies starring the indescribable Catinflas. Enrique showed you the foosball table at the back of the store: why didn’t he play a game with Paulina? And she said, good idea! How much time did you spend at the foosball table that first time, Marcelo? Three, four hours? From time to time, you’d look up at her quickly, and that would give her the chance to score a goal: I told you not to let me win, Marcelo. And you were fascinated by the way she said your name.

  In the meantime, since the twins’ parents were going to visit family in Toronto, Gladys, sitting on a stool between the two of them, was trying to convince them to have a party at their place the next weekend. I think it’s a good idea, Enrique stated, because with Gladys, we’re sure to get all the Latin American girls from Saint-Luc. Don’t exaggerate, she contradicted him. Then the conversation turned to the Jeux du Québec, which were taking place in three weeks at the Centre Claude-Robillard. And, at the foosball table, you were surprised, you thought they were only for primary schools. No, no, Enrique specified, Toño was on the grade ten relay team. Really, Gladys said, looking over Toño’s athletic body with admiration. Tall and strong as he was, that didn’t surprise her at all, and she laughed nervously. Hey, are you still going out with the same girl, she ventured. You looked up at Enrique: he was furious with her. This wasn’t the first time you’d been present at a scene where a girl preferred Toño over him. As a distraction, Toño turned his head and asked you, though he’d posed the question before: which event were you representing your school in, in the Jeux du Québec? And you answered, the relay team and Paulina said, Really? She was on the long jump team. You’d certainly see each other there.

  Around three o’clock, when he realized Gladys had eyes only for his brother, Enrique got up with stiff movements: bye, everybody, he was going to go hang out with his friends. Half an hour later, now realizing that Toño was only replying to her advances in monosyllables, Gladys got up and waved at them: don’t come home too late, eh, little sister? Remember, you’d spent almost the whole afternoon drinking Coke and playing foosball, a game which, until then, hadn’t really interested you. When he wasn’t serving customers, Toño was absorbed by a novel he was reading as he balanced on the stool behind the cash register. After many hesitations, you let go of the levers and summoned up your courage: would you like to go practise for the Jeux in Parc Kent some day? Her face turned serious, then she smiled discreetly: yes, okay. You left the video store, as twilight extended its domain and an attention-grabbing wind blew. At the door to her building, you said goodbye to each other and, as you moved away, she came running back down the stairs: she wanted to give you her phone number. You searched your pockets, crap, you didn’t have a pencil. No problem, you’d memorize it, you reassured her. You repeated it out loud several times. Anyway, if you forget it, you know where I live, it’s apartment two. With a kiss on each cheek, you went back up Linton. Continuously repeating the number to yourself, you barely answered friends who shouted hello. When you got home, you conscientiously wrote it down on a piece of paper. That night, you hardly slept a wink, and the next morning, you woke up with a terrible headache. You went into the bathroom to wash up, and, with a frown, your mother stopped you in the hallway to examine your face: Dios mío, Marcelo, are you sick? You’re so pale! It looks like you’ve just seen a ghost!

  VIII

  The lights around the baseball diamond go out, darkness settles on Parc Kent and Flaco takes advantage of the gloom to make the sign of the cross. He watches everyone who walks down Côte-des-Neiges, he will not be surprised by the Bad Boys. A breeze offers its coolness and rustles the straggly bushes, and he glances behind him one last time: the tip of Lalo’s cigarette is glowing brighter, Pato is firmly seated on the garbage bag, one hand beneath his chin, his elbow on his knee, and, beside him, Alfonso yawns so widely he could dislocate his jaw. Earlier, since his parents won’t let him out after eleven, he escaped through his second-storey window. Flaco pushes up his sweater sleeve: it’s ten past twelve, where the hell are they? Hearing steps, he turns around and sharpens his gaze: a couple walks slowly by, arm in arm. At the same time, a sugary tune can be heard, carried by a nasal, Asian voice, and a few cars, following one behind the other, thunderously disrupt the calm street. Lalo steps over to him and, without looking at him, exhales the smoke from his cigarette. He says: “What if they decided not to come? What if it’s a trap, eh?”

  It’s true, how else can this lateness be explained? Lalo blows little smoke rings and, seeing that the other boy offers no reply, goes back over to Pato. Flaco checks his watch, examines Côte-des-Neiges’s dimly lit sidewalks, then, again his watch, then Côte-des-Neiges. Finally, there they are, they’re walking past the Provi-Soir: counting Teta, there are five of them. After the swings, they cut across the park, go around the baseball field, climb the hill and stop nearby. Richard and Max, their eyes full of spite, are positioned behind Teta, holding him firmly by the arms. Where do they think they are, in an action movie? In the semi-darkness, it looks to him like Teta’s face is stained by a black-and-blue mark distorting his cheek. All this time, CB, two steps away, is being a smart aleck: his sniggering reveals his pink gums. Suddenly Flaco turns on his flashlight: none of the Bad Boys has brought the items for the exchange. He clenches his fist.

  Flaco hears steps behind him. Two Black guys are coming towards them with bouncing, rhythmic steps. When they come to a stop, he recognizes their dark-rimmed eyes, their large lips, their features carved into bone and ebony: Carl and his big brother. Putamadre, it’s a set-up! No, his intuition wasn’t wrong, CB came with reinforcements. For a year, the two brothers have been living in a one-bedroom apartment and are now head of another gang, the Panthers. Physically, compared to Carl, Flaco measures up, but the other one, despite his neck being strangely crammed into his shoulders, is like a refrigerator, both taller and wider than they are. Flaco has heard stories about them that would make your hair stand on end: armed robbery, intense drug trafficking, corruption of minors, pimping – the list is long and impressive. Disheartened, Lalo stubs out his cigarette and whispers, in a broken voice, “What are we going to do?”

  Again, Flaco doesn’t reply, concentrating as he is on staring into the whites of CB’s eyes. Calm down! he repeats to himself. No time to panic. And above all, no false moves. CB steps forward, his face crossed by a triumphant irony.

  “I’m disappointed in you. Very disappointed. I’m amazed how easy it is to con you.”

  Flaco continues to look at him, without moving even a centimetre.

  “We even brought Mixon with us so he could watch the show that’s going to take place in his honour.”

  Indeed, the injured boy, his arm in a sling, is standing proudly off to one side. Amused, CB turns toward
s him, “So, Mix’, which one shall we bump off first?”

  “You’re not going to do that, are you?” Carl’s big brother interjects in an effeminate voice, “No, CB, please, don’t bump them off!”

  All the Haitians laugh heartily, except Carl’s brother, who begins to click his tongue, his little eyes shine because he is feverishly drunk, Flaco notices. Though a shiver of terror is rising from the pit of his stomach to his chest, he thinks, thinks, and finally says, “We don’t have time to fool around. We came here for an exchange. Is it still on, or was that just bullshit?”

  CB points his thumb at Flaco and calls to Carl and his brother, “Did you see that, guys? What a man! Now that’s the voice of a leader!”

  And he releases a big laugh and, as he tries to keep it going, he momentarily loses his balance.

  “I think you’re the one who’s going to get the first taste of it,” he adds, becoming serious once again.

  Curling his finger at him, Flaco signals for Pato to come over. Pato brings over the garbage bags and he immediately hands them over to CB.

  “What an idiot!” exclaims the leader of the Bad Boys, tossing the bag at Ketcia.

  Then, rolling menacing eyes, Carl’s brother takes out a knife and pops open the blade. All the others, Haitians and Latinos both, imitate his action: the blades sparkle in the moonlight, arched and thin as freshly clipped fingernails. The Haitians surround the Latinos, tighten their circle little by little, and, impassive, Carl’s brother lets out a huge burp that provokes infectious laughter. Above the sound of their hilarity, Flaco again hears the sound of the Asian’s sharp tremolos. He feels pressure upon his arm and immediately turns his head, his heart in his throat: Alfonso is hanging on to him, his face pleading. Suddenly, Carl and his big brother take to their heels, go over the metal fence surrounding the running track and disappear behind the bleachers. The others, as if dazed, turn towards the hedge-lined hill: four uniformed men are rushing towards them. Instantly, two of them climb over the fence and take off after the brothers. CB tries to run for it, too, but one of the officers grabs him by the leg and topples him to the ground, immobilizing him with a knee on his chest. The police? What’s this about? Who . . . The other officer undoes the holder on his right hip, removes his revolver and orders everyone, in a powerful voice, to lie down flat on the ground. And he’s not going to say it again! All of them, their hands in the air and their heads pointed down, comply. In the meantime, the corpulent officer, his face red as a lobster, is holding CB’s wrists and pushing down even harder on his stomach with his knee.

  “Fat pig,” CB says indignantly, “I can’t breathe.”

  “Stay still or I’ll break your arm.”

  Freeing his hands, CB lets fly with punches that hit the officer in the sides, as the cop struggles to keep him under control. A long time goes by, during which Flaco, with his ear against the grass, watches them battle without blinking. Losing his balance, puffing like a locomotive, the officer shouts to his younger colleague: “Come help me, dammit!”

  The younger one is still pointing his revolver at them and wiping the dampness from his free hand on the thigh of his pants.

  “If I turn my back on them, they might jump us, don’t you see?”

  The fighting between CB and the officer intensifies, their blows more brutal, more rapid. Flaco hears their grunts and sharp, little cries. The officer snorts excessively and bursts out laughing, half amused, half disgusted.

  “Christ! The little brat won’t give up!”

  “Stop hitting my butt, you disgusting pervert!”

  “That’s right, that’s right! I love you too, my handsome little Black friend!”

  Then, coming out of nowhere, the knife pierces the officer’s stomach four times. The movement is quick and clean: the blade goes in and out, in and out. The return movement makes an unmistakable gurgle: his eyes glaring with pain, the officer opens his mouth wide and tumbles head first onto CB who pushes off the body and tries to stand up, letting out a frightened moan. On his knees, his face gripped by a tremor, he raises his hands as if to surrender, murmurs a series of confused words in Creole, and then the shot is heard. For a moment, his body remains in the same position, as if balanced, and his face looks both stunned and afraid. Then he drops down and rolls onto his right side. Flaco’s eyes return to the young, motionless officer, with his cap pulled half-way down his forehead: the barrel of his gun is still smoking. In the distance, a dog barks, whiningly, as if the shot had hit him.

  With one hand, the officer takes out a walkie-talkie while, with the other, he continues to hold his revolver. His voice breaking, he repeats three times loudly and clearly that one of his colleagues has been stabbed. Around him, the ten teenagers, flat on their stomachs, their hands behind their backs, follow his movements without budging. The dog has again fallen silent and the park is as quiet as a cemetery. At last, sirens, coming from all directions, pierce the night. Three police cars stop with squealing tires on Rue Appleton, several uniformed men and women get out and rush towards them. As they begin fitful conversations on their walkie-talkies, they stand everyone up and handcuff them all. As soon as the ambulance arrives, two men in shirt sleeves get out, pushing gurneys. Flaco feels a cold hand on his forearm indicating he should hurry up, then, at the police car, the same hand touches his neck and lowers his head. He inches his way to the end of the back seat, turns towards the window and stares at the ambulance’s red lights. Barely aware that Lalo is being pushed in next to him, he tries to convince himself that what just happened is nothing but a dream.

  How easy it is to remember that morning and its creamy light, Marcelo: for the children you were then, it was, literally, the most highly anticipated day of the whole school year. You’d spent part of the night tossing and turning in your bed, and you’d gone into your parents’ room to wake up your mother, who, sullen and with tousled hair, had agreed to make you a hot chocolate. Still, the warm milk and the long lecture had got you nothing but a stubborn headache, sleep hadn’t come to envelop you until several hours later. The next morning, when the alarm went off, you didn’t budge – your mother even had to come and shut off the ringer herself, she’d told you later. When you opened your eyes, you felt a light wind on your ankles: your mother had pulled the covers all the way down to the bottom of the bed, and she was shaking you by the shoulder. Now, sitting there on the platform, next to Akira, you felt torn between the desire to sleep and the excitement of the competitions.

  Early in the morning, in the finals of the grade five 500 metres, Cléo had pulled off a perfect start, getting a good distance ahead of his opponents after only twenty metres. Even so, it wouldn’t have taken much for another Haitian boy, this one from Quebec City, equally fast, to beat him out at the finish line. Still, there was something unbelievable about it: Cléo was the fastest ten-year-old boy in the province. His prediction had come true, quite easily it appeared. Serge had indeed come and made up with him, his tail between his legs: they weren’t really going to get angry over such a little thing, were they? You’d overheard Cléo telling Carl what had happened when they’d talked: according to him, it would have taken just a little more for the teacher to get down on his knees and beg.

  At noon the sun, round and bursting on that humid June day, seemed to halt in its exhausting course at its zenith. The Centre Claude-Robillard, full to bursting, was decorated with crepe paper and balloons, and, in stands set up here and there, university students served orange juice and plastic cups of milk, as they distributed posters about the food groups. Most of the students strolled around the track in tank tops and shorts, since they weren’t allowed to go topless. Girls in bathing suits, on the other side of the cement platform, were sunbathing, glistening with coconut oil, dark glasses on their noses. You kept looking for Paulina. Why wasn’t she with the others from her school, on the bleachers? Crap, maybe she’d got sick? Still, the night before, when you’d both practised for the last time before the Jeux, as she perfected her techni
que, she’d achieved her best results in the long jump. At lunch time, you went to wait for Enrique and Toño at the edge of the track and you went upstairs to the cafeteria. Enrique was just there to keep Toño company, his relay team hadn’t qualified for the finals that morning. Next year, Toño had said, a good sport, shrugging his shoulders.

  Late in the afternoon, Serge motioned for the grade five relay team to come down and warm up. You and Akira stretched your thigh muscles, lying out on the grass near the pads for the high jump, when you heard a voice chanting your name. In the middle of the bleachers, leaning over the metal railing, Paulina, on her toes in her running shoes, was waving her arms at you: ¡buena suerte, Marcelo! Remember how your heart beat like a drum when you waved at her. Cléo came up on you from behind, turned on his heels and fell to the ground on his hands, ready to do a set of push-ups: that your girlfriend? And you, presently stretching your calves, frowned with your whole face: no, she’s just a friend. How that remark had made you clench your teeth, Marcelo! Cléo stood back up and, maintaining a surprising rhythm, ran in place for quite a while, lifting his knees higher and higher: I didn’t know you were interested in girls now! You didn’t answer and, since it was one of the few times where you bumped into each other, you talked about what you’d been up to, but that time, remember, you did it more to be polite than out of real interest. Cléo, standing up very straight, with his legs spread, started doing waist rotations. He was still having problems with his dear old mother. She’d stopped working and was living on social assistance, so now she spent the whole day hanging around the apartment with the drapes drawn. But, most of all, Cléo made clear, she hardly ever talked to him any more: he reminded her too much of his father, she said. To tell the truth, lately, he’d only had one thing on his mind: getting out of the apartment. Going to live with his father, maybe. Suddenly, without giving you a warning, he again turned on his heels and sprinted, as if his behind was on fire, to the other end of the track.