Black Alley (13 page)

“I swear to you, we barely had a chance to realize they were heading right for us,” Lalo defends himself. Hi guys, he says, a smile plastered across his face like he was radiating happiness. Oh, how nice to see you! Out for a stroll?

From behind, nonchalantly, CB walks up and levels a neutral gaze on them.

“That's right, we're out for a walk,” he answers. “We saw you go by and we said, let's go take a walk with those two idiots.”

“Come on, guys,” Lalo grumbles, as, casually, he tries to slip one hand into his pocket. “Be fair and attack us at least when there's as many of us as there are of you. Two against five isn't very democratic. Don't you think?”

Quick as lightning, CB grabs Lalo's arm and lifts it up: a little black knife appears where everyone can see it. CB weighs it in his palm for a moment, then hands it to Ketcia. Stupid,
bloody, fucking Latino! Mixon welcomes them, then bites his fist as if to control his anger. CB looks over both sides of the street and, without looking back at them, as if they don't even deserve his attention, he orders, “Lay down on the ground. Right now.”

“It's raining, man!” says Pato. “The ground's all wet.”

“Shut the fuck up and do what you're told!” Mixon orders.

The brothers lie face down on the asphalt. A woman goes by, her face haggard, both her hands on her purse. Mixon puts his hands on his crotch and the woman shrieks and speeds up. On the ground, his cheek against the asphalt, Lalo notices a man in the window of an apartment building, then he feels a foot on his back.

“Well, well,” CB says. “Those are some nice little sneakers you have there. Where'd you buy them?”

His foot presses down harder.

“At Zellers, I think,” Lalo answers. “Listen to me, CB . . .
amigo haitiano
. . . I'm sure we can talk about this, we can make a deal.”

“You keep your trap shut unless I ask you a question. Got it?”

Then, going back to his light-hearted banter: “At Zellers, eh? That's what I thought, I saw them there the other day on special. And, it's perfect, Nike is my favourite brand, too.”

“Your Nikes?” exclaims Flaco.
¡Putamadre!

CB snaps his fingers, Mixon and Ketcia bend down, pin Lalo's legs in place and take off his shoes. Ketcia hands the sneakers to CB, who takes them with his fingertips and sniffs them. A disgusted grimace contorts his face.

“Oof! Soap was invented a long time ago, you know. Smells like you still haven't heard of it.”

“CB?” Mixon asks, holding Lalos's ankles. “Look.”

His chin gestures towards Pato's watch, CB nods his head and Mixon undoes the band and removes it from his wrist. All this time, Lalo can feel his windbreaker and his T-shirt growing
cold. Then Mixon takes off Pato's shoes, slips the runners on and, like a child who's just got a new pair of shoes, paces back and forth to admire them.

“Mine were Nikes, too,” Pato points out. “Can you imagine, Flaco? I saved for two months. Just so those Black assholes could steal them from me as soon as they got the chance.”

They're getting ready to take off their jeans when Ketcia spots the flashing lights of a police car in the distance, heading straight for them, its siren silent. Immediately, the Bad Boys all take off in the same direction, jump a fence and disappear into the yard of the apartment building at the end of the street. The car brakes beside the Latinos, who are wiping themselves off and swearing as they get to their feet with difficulty. The two officers get out of the car, slam the doors shut and come towards them, slapping their nightsticks into the palms of their hands. The one with the moustache is the first to question them, “What's going on here?”

“Why are you barefoot?” the other echoes.

A strange reflex causes the two brothers to put their hands in the air, as if they'd just been told they were under arrest. The officers look at each other, taken aback.

“Why did you put your hands in the air?” asks Flaco. “You hadn't done anything wrong.”

“Nerves,” Pato explains.

“Put your hands down, guys,” the one with the moustache says. “So? What happened?”

“A bunch of Haitians,” Pato continues. “They robbed us . . .”

Instantly, Lalo cuts him off:
¡cállate, huevón!

“You,” the officer cuts in, pointing at him with his nightstick, “let him talk. What did they steal from you?”

For a long moment, the Latinos look thoughtful, suddenly absorbed by movements at the opposite end of the street.

“Listen,” the one with the moustache continues, “we don't have time to fool around. We got a call from a resident saying
there was a fight. If you know who attacked you, give us a name, otherwise. . . .”

He leaves his sentence unfinished, attentive to their every move.

“If that's the way you want it, guys.” Then, speaking to his colleague, he adds, “They come and complain that we don't pay attention to them, that we discriminate against them, that we persecute them. . . .”

The two officers get back into their car, start it up and drive away slowly. In the rear-view mirror, the driver glances at the two brothers then, at top speed, the car takes off. Without turning around even once, the brothers walk side by side in silence. At the corner of Linton, Lalo grabs Pato by the collar.

“What got into you,
estúpido
? You never answer the cops' questions! Get it? All they want is to find a reason to deport you.”

“Your brother's right,” Flaco confirms. “A cop is a cop.”

For a moment, the three of them stand there in Flaco's room in silence, then Lalo asks, “Could you lend us some sneakers?”

Flaco goes to his closet and, after a few seconds, tosses them two old pairs of running shoes. They take the shoes and both of them automatically stick a finger into the gaping holes in the soles.

“They're pretty worn out,” Pato comments. “Anyways, we'll tell Mom we traded with you or something. I hope it'll work so she doesn't have a fit.”

All this time, Lalo is staring at the floor, lost in his thoughts.

“We have to strike back as soon as possible,” he says, thinking out loud, “because I plan to get my sneakers back. But what can we do?”

After a moment, he's struck by sudden inspiration: “I've got it! That's it! It's simple and not too risky. We have to break CB's windows! . . . What do you think, Flaco?”

He doesn't answer immediately, then, in a low voice as if he were still weighing Lalo's idea, “Yeah, that's not such a crazy idea, not crazy at all.”

 

In winter the white lines around the schoolyard would disappear under the snow, and you'd give up playing dodge ball in favour of soccer. The Québécois kids could grumble all they wanted, even though they preferred football, which was more familiar to them: the others were a majority and came from countries where soccer, often the national sport, was king. The girls, no longer able to skip rope, also turned into soccer players. Since recess was too short, teams were formed in class by sending a piece of paper from desk to desk, where everyone could write their name on a list. Boots, coats, toques, mittens, scarves were all put on in a rush, the children walked as quickly as possible since no running was allowed in the school hallways, you went down the stairs, pushing the student in front of you, and, once you got outside, slid on the ice, lost your balance and fell on top of one another. The monitor almost always caught one or two of you by the scarf and ordered them to stand in the corner for the whole recess.

A week earlier, a track-and-field meet had taken place at Notre-Dame-des-Neiges, which was in the same neighbourhood as Saint-Pascal-Baylon. Clearly better prepared, you'd won most of the races, and, delighted, Serge had pointed out in the locker room that you were getting better and better at passing the baton and handling the stress of the competitions. Once again, in the relay race and the fifty metres, Cléo had devoured his opponents singlehanded.

Since he'd been placed in the
classe d'accueil
last month, you saw Cléo hanging out in the street in the evening more often. According to him, he always finished his homework in class. And he didn't have to look after his mother as much, since his father had come back home. One afternoon, from Cléo's room, you heard Carole warn her husband: this was the last time she was going to
get back together with him, was that clear? If he took off again, it was over. She wasn't joking. Jokingly he said: was it healthy for people in a relationship to threaten each other like that? How many times did he have to tell her, they were just business trips! Silence, then the father's voice, attempting to be sincere, solemn: you're getting worked up over nothing, Carole. All he wanted now was to live with her and his son. Why did she refuse to believe him? She said, I only hope you'll keep your word this time.

Since Cléo came to see you every day, you'd call him on days when he hadn't shown up yet, and Carole would be surprised: that's strange, where could he be? You knew where, Marcelo: at Carl's, just a stone's throw away, on Rue Victoria. On weekends, he'd give Cléo a call and invite him to the parties his big brother would throw, when their parents went out for the evening. At first, Cléo would refuse, saying there was a Canadiens game on TV or that he had the flu. Why do you lie to Carl like that, you'd ask him. He licked his lips: you couldn't tell anyone, but girls made him uncomfortable. Once, when he was starting to get fed up, Carl finally confronted him: why didn't he tell him the truth, eh? I really don't know what you're talking about. You get used to girls, Carl explained to him, there's no reason to feel uncomfortable, we've all been there. The next day, Carl went and picked him up and promised Carole her son would be home before midnight. Two days later, Cléo described his evening to you in great detail, emphasizing the couples who danced pressed up against each other and who sometimes gave each other long kisses on the mouth. You asked all kinds of questions, then, you ventured: could you come the next time? I don't know, I'll have to ask Carl. But I don't think there'll be a problem.

Indeed, Carl agreed and, the next Saturday, you were both at his place where, remember, it was awfully dark because, in the living room, the only light was a red bulb that made the apartment look like a brothel, a little like in the movies, Marcelo. The bass from the reggae music was making the walls vibrate, and it
hadn't occurred to you that everyone would be Haitian. Almost the whole time, you and Cléo sat there laughing at the couples making out in the corners. Twice, girls bent down to you and asked you to dance, and suddenly your faces clouded over: no, thank you, you'd just finished track-and-field practice and you were too tired. Maybe later. Several boys paraded by you, hardly any older than you, squinting their eyes and taking long drags on cigarettes they rolled themselves. They gave off an astonishing odour, made you cough, and, apparently, made you dizzy, too. So why did they smoke it, Cléo asked, if it was so disgusting. With glassy eyes and pasty saliva clinging to the corners of his mouth, Carl's big brother replied that, in any case, he'd have to wait till he was in high school to try it. Got it? Then he turned towards you: the same goes for you, Latino.

During recess, instead of staying with the students from the
classe d'accueil
, Cléo preferred the company of Sister Cécile's class, but he insisted that Carl be allowed to join you, too. One day, Cléo accidently kicked a ball that went flying through the air and landed on a girl who had pulled her hood up. She spun around: crap, it's Manon, Sylvain's sister. She was a pretty redhead, used to receiving at least one anonymous love letter a week. Surprised, after a moment's hesitation, she let out a nervous laugh and rubbed her head. Cléo and Carl rushed towards her to get back the ball. Cléo got there first and when he went past Manon, he stopped in his tracks, as if it was the first time he'd seen her. White synthetic fur rimmed her hood and all that could be seen was her delicate face, with its high, red cheekbones. You're so beautiful, Manon! he blurted out. For a moment, Manon looked him in the face as if she was going to answer, but she ran off to join her friends. Carl reacted immediately: no doubt about it, you're starting to get more comfortable around girls, buddy!

The team made up of Cléo, Carl, Akira and you was so far ahead of Sylvain and Evangelos' team, that the two of them kept
tripping you right up until the bell rang to end recess. Everyone lined up class by class. In the girls' lines, which for once were more boisterous than the boys', especially grade six B, Manon's class, each one turned to the girl behind her and whispered a few words in her ear. By the time the words reached the grade five boys and Sylvain's own ears, the sentence had nothing to do with its initial, “You're so beautiful, Manon!”, but rather came out “You're no beauty, Manon!” In front, the monitor blew his whistle: one after the other, the lines advanced and climbed the stairs. But Sylvain turned on his heels and, when he spotted Cléo, rushed at him. A disorganized mob formed around them.

“What did you say to my sister?”

Cléo shrugged his shoulders: “Nothing. I didn't say anything.”

“What? You're not man enough to repeat what you said?”

Cléo froze, he evidently had no idea what he was being accused of. For a moment he turned towards Carl and you. Sylvain didn't dare jump on him, he knew Carl would come to his rescue.

“Come on, just let me hear what you said!”

Manon made her way over to them.

“You think my sister'd want to go out with a guy like you?” Sylvain asked.