In the bleachers, where shouts and applause rose up in waves, students waved banners bearing the names of their schools. One of the organizers of the Jeux, a ruddy, corpulent man, decked out in a straw hat, gave a long whistle: runners, it’s time to take your marks. Remember, Marcelo: since your team had had the best time, you’d got one of the centre lanes, the fourth one. You delicately placed your fingers on the starting line, the official raised the starting pistol and the explosion rang through the stadium. As usual, the crowd’s encouragement was immediately transformed into a lion’s roar. As you entered the turn, you noticed you were already ahead of the runner in lane five, and that boosted your confidence: you went faster. You closed your eyes and, even though the taste of blood had risen in your mouth, its effect on you was calming. After a moment, you heard nothing but your own breathing, the beating of your heart, your steps, and the droning of the wind. When you opened your eyes coming out of the curve, you almost stopped, thinking you’d made a false start: no one was on your heels and, the deserted, desolate track seemed to take on gigantic proportions.
Just when Akira, his eyes half closed, took hold of the baton, was it your imagination?, an expression of fear passed over his face. But he ran like a shot, like you’d never seen him run before. You stood still, the opposing runners closed in around you, and you began again to hear the cheers and the laughing that Akira’s comical way of running drew from the crowd. Near the end of his run, he was at least ten metres ahead of his nearest rival, and, as he came out of the turn, Yuri, the baton in hand, his blond hair exposing his rounded forehead, had doubled the lead Akira had gained.
Under the growing ovation, Cléo grabbed onto the baton and once and for all lost his opponents. His head surged forward as if someone inside him was trying to go even faster. The distance was so great that the organizers, who were usually quite jaded, actually looked up. On its feet, the crowd was frozen like a stone statue, and silence like a threatening cloud passed over the stadium. Cléo cut through the finish line, and thunderous shouting split the June air. He came to a stop, his hands on his hips, still breathing hard. Catching him unaware, Serge jumped on his neck, excited as a child. Soon there was such a crowd, strangers were hugging you like they’d known you forever.
Then, remember the photo, Marcelo: since you didn’t fit in the frame, Serge, euphoric, asked you to squeeze together. A little more! But without pushing! You still have that black and white photo, now yellow and wrinkled: Akira, with a serious face is staring into the lens; Yuri is pensively looking at the ground; Cléo is looking for someone outside the frame; and you, looking bothered, have your eyes closed. No one was smiling. It doesn’t look like a victory, Marcelo.
After the medal ceremony, when you went back up into the bleachers, Paulina came to congratulate you and she sat between Akira and you. But, to your great chagrin, the four winners were asked to please go to the locker room at Serge’s request. You took a shower and put on clean clothes, finally ready to leave. But Serge, moved to his very core, red as a rooster, climbed on a stool and spoke in a confused way, repeating three times in a row how proud he was of you. Then he finished with a convoluted ode to teamwork that bored you to death, anxious as you all were to go out and meet your friends.
As you left the locker room, you noticed Paulina and her cousins waiting for you. You got the customary pats on the back and Enrique asked you to show him your medal. Houaououh, es bonita, and he pretended to bite into it: don’t worry, champ, it’s just to be sure it’s not made out of plastic. Now that you’re a great athlete, Toño teased you, were you going to start turning your nose up at them? And you said, no, you jerk, don’t be stupid. Despite her disappointment in the long jump, Paulina’s light eyes were sparkling when she met yours. You were on your way out of the stadium when you noticed Cléo waving at you from the other end of the corridor, near the vending machines. Half-heartedly, you waved back at him. In the company of Carl and the others, he was walking in the opposite direction, and twice you saw him turn around. But you soon forgot his insistent looks.
Beneath the gaze of the monitors which, for once, is indulgent, the students flow slowly into the gym, almost lazily, like a wine stain spreading across a tablecloth. Though it’s almost the end of the school day, no one is running or shoving, and they’re certainly not joking or laughing. Everyone in the school knew CB, and across the faces float expressions that are sometimes distressed or horrified, sometimes indifferent. As usual, the director appears late, building up the crowd’s impatience. They discreetly pull on their neighbours’ sleeves, and ask in low voices: is it true he got shot by a cop? That he stabbed another cop? How many were on the Bad Boys’ side? What about Latino Power’s? What were they doing in the park so late at night? Why were the two gangs fighting?
With their backs to the wall, surrounded by Mixon, Richard and Max, Ketcia is sick of avoiding the other students’ indiscreet looks. Yes, she has puffy eyes. Feeling her legs grow heavy, she lets herself slip to the floor and concentrates her attention on a point on floor. No, she’s never cried so much in her life. And so what? Most of the students only knew CB’s façade, she may be the only one to know who he really was. Despite herself, last night’s interrogation parades in front of her eyes once again. With their morale at zero, intimidated by the slamming of the police station doors as the cops moved from one room to another, the Bad Boys couldn’t help but expose precious information about Carl and his brother, to the point that the police are sure to get their hands on them soon. It looks like they’ve been searching for them for four months already, for the armed robbery of a convenience store. At the end of the interrogations, to everyone’s surprise, both gangs were released, on the condition they appear before the Youth Court in exactly one month. Between now and then, each of them must, every three days, meet with a police officer, a social worker and a psychologist for rehabilitation. The outcome of the shooting: the police officer died at the hospital from his injuries, while CB, who was shot very near the heart, died at the scene.
When Barbeau appears at the podium scattered boos and whistles ring out, but they fade almost immediately. This time they’re acting up more to make fun of his affected manners than to communicate any real discontent or frustration. The director has no need to look stern or to clap his hands to impose silence. After his usual long introduction, he expresses his most “sincere sympathy” for the Bastide family, and for the family of the police officer, Guy Phaneuf, too. In addition, today he is feeling “deep sadness” and “indescribable bitterness.” He hopes that the events will offer “everyone here today” something to think about and that from this day forward the students will understand the “disastrous consequences” of racial gangs. For anyone who feels the need, the school psychologist and nurse will be available to discuss the shock that can be caused by such events. Also, he wants to warn them: in the upcoming days, the media, indiscreet as always, will undoubtedly come ask them questions. They must tell the truth! he booms. Give them “the exact time”! They mustn’t forget, they are each responsible for their school’s image! Do they understand? He stops, visibly pleased with his tirade. Additionally, and he agrees this is unfortunate, such events force the administration to undertake supplementary measures to avoid any similar confrontations occurring at the school in the future. That’s why, beginning next week – they made this decision for everyone’s well-being – metal detectors will be installed at all the entrances to the school. A wave of protest spreads, but there’s still no real, rowdy heart in it.
Already Ketcia has stopped listening. She feels exhausted, tired of going over and over what happened last night. During the night, when she tried to get some sleep, she convinced herself, for a good half hour, that CB rose like a zombie and took off after his attackers. More clearheaded now, no longer pretending just to make herself feel better, she’s certain of one thing: an unjust act of barbarism was committed. After CB’s death was announced at the police station, the thought of revenge ate into
her. But this morning, staring into the whites of her eyes in the mirror, she could see it wouldn’t do any good. No fight, no murder, no fleeting dream would bring CB back. It’s so strange: she feels like she’s aged terribly in the space of one night. In the bathroom, her features seemed more severe, more oval, as if a Haitian mask had been placed over her face. Come hell or high water, she’s sworn to go on fighting: the story of the Bad Boys will not end here.
Flaco, withdrawn in the back of the gym, in the middle of Latino Power, stares into the distance as he chews on air. He’s thinking about Lalo, who will have to appear in court for stabbing Mixon, and trying to fend off a growing sense of guilt. Then he sees Roberto’s disappointed face at the police station: like there was a chance you’d take my advice, he says sarcastically. Also, painfully, he remembers how his father refused to talk about it later in the car. He’s tortured by a pang of anguish for a moment, and he sees Paulina step out of the crowd and come towards him.
“Hi,” she says quietly.
He turns his head away.
“You still want to talk to me?”
His first reflex is to tell her to go the hell away. But, deep down, he knows he’s happy she’s come to see him.
“You can stay if you want,” he mutters, feigning casual detachment.
The principal is interrupted by a few boos, and two monitors back a handful of students up against the wall. A long stretch of time goes by as Flaco feels the weight of Paulina’s eyes on his burning cheeks.
“How are you doing?” he asks, without looking at her.
She sighs, places a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen, Flaco. Are you going to stay mad at me like this for a long time? It was really the only thing to do. And you know it, too. . . .”
“I told you, you should have warned me before you called them. I thought I made myself pretty clear, didn’t I? You know I’ve never wanted you to get mixed up in our problems.”
“You have to understand me, Flaco. It had got much too dangerous. I was scared to death. Imagine what could have happened to you if the police hadn’t shown up. . . .”
Since he hasn’t been listening to what Barbeau’s been talking about for several minutes, Flaco is surprised to suddenly see him gesticulating emphatically. Again, as has been happening frequently since last night, his thoughts plunge into a well. It’s always the same scene: late for a class, he rushes up the stairs and comes face to face with CB smoking a cigarette, his elbow on the window ledge. Flaco is overjoyed: oh, man, he’s so happy to see him, he can’t imagine. He wants to talk to him, they have so many things to work out together, doesn’t he agree? Then he feels arms slipping around his waist and hugging him tenderly. He opens his eyes and breathes in the fleeting perfume of her chestnut hair.
“It’s over now,” she whispers. “You’re going to be able to move on to something else: move out of your house, the neighbourhood, like you wanted.”
His eyes mist up, he has a hard time seeing.
“Don’t worry, I’m here.”
He rubs his eyes and contemplates her well-formed lips, her straight teeth. He wants to ask her to come with him, tell her that without her, his plan to write is meaningless, that she is the most precious thing in the world to him. But he settles for hugging her back, and he drops back down into the gaping well. CB, still standing, meets his gaze and lights up with a smile: just like that, he asks mockingly, he has a lot to tell him? He’s told him before, but he’ll tell him again: you’re too sentimental, Flaco, you’re too obsessed by the past. And he can’t get over seeing him there: maybe I am, buddy, I’m sentimental, naïve, anything you say. But you know what? I don’t care. What matters to me is that you’re here. And CB takes a long drag on his cigarette: okay, I’ll listen to you. But watch it, just because he was listening, it didn’t mean he agreed with him. He bursts out laughing and the metallic, resonant sound is distinct in Flaco’s ears. A stream of white light comes in through the window, outlining CB’s shape, and Flaco feels someone hugging him very tightly again.
You stretched out your arm and you grabbed the can of Coca-Cola and, your throat parched, you took a long drink. Since early June, the days were following one after the other, splendid and restful, just like this one, and you went out on the balcony for a breath of air and to say hello to your friends, or just to watch what was going on on Rue Linton. Laughter cascaded down from the balcony above you, then came an indiscriminate exchange in a language you didn’t understand but that you often heard. It was the three brothers of Indian origin who lived on the second floor: they enjoyed spending the afternoon on the balcony soaking up the sun like lizards, as well. You would have liked to have known what made them laugh, yes, you would have liked to have someone tell you a good joke.
You’d been on vacation for three days. You were now going into grade six, but you were dreaming about the day when the big doors of high school would be opened to you. That was when life really started, Enrique, condescending, constantly reminded you. You’d got good grades and your parents had given you your freedom for the summer, but in return you had to clean your room every weekend and take out the garbage on Mondays and Thursdays. You deserved it, Flaco, you’d worked hard all year, your father said to you one day in your room, tousling your hair. You couldn’t keep from smiling: since your cousins had bestowed that nickname on you, Flaco, Skinny, even your father had started calling you that. Oh, yeah, he’d added, about the trip to Chile, they were putting it off until next year. Your grandparents were going to be disappointed, but they didn’t really have much choice. They didn’t have the money, Flaco. But don’t worry, we’ll at least go to the beach in the U.S., where the Québécois people I work with go. They called it Old Orchard.
It wasn’t until the second police car parked, with one tire on the sidewalk, just behind the first one, two buildings to the left of yours, on the other side of the street, that you came out of your daydream. Remember, the second car had stopped facing the wrong way. The officers got out pulling up their belts and went into the building lethargically. Soon, an ambulance appeared and stopped with its bumper against the police car’s. Pushing a gurney, two men with beards headed towards the building, too. The police, ambulances and firefighters came and went so often in your street, that dazed as you were by the heat, you only paid vague attention to the scene. Probably another domestic dispute that had turned ugly.
You saw the three Indians from your building cross the street and join the growing crowd on the other sidewalk. When the police officers came back out, they stuck to them like flies. One was answering the onlookers’ questions, but after a while, he made an abrupt gesture with his arm and, in a deep baritone, ordered them to move along. A tall Black man came out of the building and rushed towards the officer. He was constantly running his hand down his face, through his hair. When the police officer moved, he followed, opened his arms wide and continued to talk to him. Then you noticed Enrique in the crowd. You called to him, your cousin trotted across the yard and approached the balcony.
“What happened?” you asked.
“A suicide.”
You looked up at the building.
“It’s your Black friend’s mother . . . Cléo’s mother.”
You started to say something, but you were speechless, unable to articulate. The words got stuck in your throat, Marcelo.
“Looks like she hanged herself, man. In the bathroom.”
Enrique shook his head. Then, as if he was talking to himself, he added, “What a day to commit suicide.”
Now you were looking for Cléo, but all you could see was the tall man pacing back and forth with long steps, his back curved, gesturing desperately. And then you understood: it was the father. That was the first time you’d seen him.
“Your friend’s got really lousy luck. Imagine: your mother kills herself and you find her hanging from the shower curtain rod. What do you do? . . . Hmmm? . . . What can you do?”
You turned your head towards him and he
answered himself: “Nothing. You take it. That’s all . . . Así es la vida.”
A growing number of curious people came out onto the balconies or stood in the building entryways, with their arms crossed.
“To do a thing like that,” Enrique continued, “you really have to be desperate. The way I see it, there are just two reasons to commit suicide. All the rest is just variations on the same two problems. Either you’re having trouble in your love life or you’re in the hole, financially.”
But you’d already stopped listening to your cousin because Cléo had just come outside. He zigzagged forward, his arms swinging, apparently surprised to see such a crowd in front of his building. He sat on the grass and started to swing his head back and forth, back and forth, then he buried it between his knees. His father sat next to him, sweeping his eyes across the activity going on all around, put an arm around Cléo’s shoulders and held him close for some time. You got up, having decided to jump from the balcony, but you saw Carl and his big brother rushing towards father and son. They chatted quite a while, occasionally bringing a hand to their forehead and shaking their head. The paramedics came out with the body hidden under a grey blanket, hurried it into the ambulance, and one of them stepped over towards the little group. Cléo and his father got into the vehicle. The police officers dispersed the crowd. The ambulance sped away.
“I’m going home,” Enrique announced. “We’ll do something this afternoon. Okay? I’ll call you.”
Black Alley Page 21
