Black Alley (17 page)

 

On Saturday the lanes at Barclay Bowling and its recently opened arcade were crawling with people. Retired people, mostly Jewish, played games of ten-pin that would stretch for whole afternoons, while the teens, whether they were Latinos or Arabs or Haitians or Asians, huddled around the video games. Since you were able to practise at home with your Super Nintendo, you were one notch better than Akira at Mortal Kombat. You won another game and when Akira saw his warrior's remains catch fire, he gave the machine a violent kick. Afraid he'd been seen, he looked worriedly around: with his back to them, the owner was chewing out one of his employees as he made a long serious of hand gestures. Akira asked you what time it was and, having slipped another two quarters into the machine, you quickly glanced at your watch before you started the next game: it was four in the afternoon. Can you believe it, Akira sighed, the guy was an hour and a half late.

You answered simply with a nod: it was by no means the first time Cléo had done this to you. Let's see, twice last week, one other time this week, yeah, that was right, this was the fourth time he'd left you hanging like this. Since January, although you called each other every two or three days, you saw him less often. According to what he said, Cléo didn't have a second to himself anymore: either he had to help his mother with the housework or go with her to do the shopping, or finish his homework, or go visit his father, and on and on. One night, he went so far as to say he
had to walk his neighbour Mrs. Masaryk's dog. That was the last straw. You knew for a fact that Cléo and his mother hated the woman since, as soon as they put on a little music, she'd start relentlessly beating on the wall with her broom. Who knows, he may even have told you another lie this morning: at his teacher's request, he had to go to makeup classes . . . on weekends. As soon as he was done, he'd come meet you at Barclay Bowling, cross his heart and hope to die. It was hard to sort things out, because, after all, there had to be a little truth in what he said, didn't there? Since his mother had found a job in a factory on the Main that made baby clothes, it's true, she demanded his help more frequently, so she'd have time to paint at night.

Carole had realized she couldn't earn a living by simply selling her paintings. She was also sick of being closed up all the time within the four walls of the living room which, at night, was transformed into her studio. It was becoming suffocating, she said. Cléo told you that, when Tony, the owner of the factory saw her come off the elevator, he told her from the doorway that he had no work for her and she could get out of here. But Carole refused to be intimidated: it was always the same old story, because she was in a wheelchair nobody wanted her. Well, she wasn't going to take it! No, sir! She'd heard there was work and if he didn't give her a chance, she'd make a complaint. Everyone would know. Tony hesitated, then approached with a smile that exposed every single one of his ruined teeth: ah, she was a fighter, that was a quality he didn't mind. Okay, he'd give her a try. But he was warning her, if she couldn't keep up with the others she'd be shown the door
rápido
: he wasn't the kind to feel sorry for people. After a week, coming up from behind, Tony surprised the other employees, hunched over their sewing machines, and grasped their shoulders: you should be ashamed, girls! Carole is faster than all of you! It was strange, Cléo said, as if he was talking to himself, since she'd started working, it was like Carole was enjoying life again. Sometimes, really early in
the morning, he could hear her whistling. I swear, man! But he'd better not kid himself, Carole pointed out to her son, it wasn't that she liked her job. It was just that after all life had handed her lately, the job gave her something else to think about.

The only visits Carole ever received were from some old Haitian friends, a couple named Sarrazin. She should see her work as a temporary job, Mrs. Sarrazin insisted, all immigrants had to do the same thing, they themselves had gone through hard times in the beginning. Luck would eventually smile upon her, Carole, she shouldn't worry. Once she was in a stable financial situation, she'd be able to find a job in visual arts. Then she'd even be able to leave this neighbourhood, Mr. Sarrazin ventured. What did she think? Yes, Carole answered, she was tired of dealing with the cockroaches. Still, she also knew the Sarrazins visited her husband and his mistress, so she always managed to get some information about them out of the old couple. By the way, had they seen any of their other old friends lately? The Sarrazins would look at each other in embarrassment, then Mrs. Sarrazin would come and sit near Carole: I'd rather not talk about your husband, it makes me feel like a spy. No, no, go ahead, I'm telling you, it doesn't bother me at all anymore. Then, seeing that Mrs. Sarrazin still wasn't talking, she'd lay a hand across hers: she shouldn't be silly! She wasn't even mad at her husband anymore! Mrs. Sarrazin sighed, okay, but I warned you! Listen, Carole, he wants a divorce, but he's afraid to ask you. Then Carole smiled like she'd just been given a death sentence: what an idiot, I'll give it to him right away! Did you bring the papers? Give them to me right away and we'll be done with all this! And Mr. Sarrazin stiffened, ah, no, we're just playing messenger, not lawyers. It was a hard enough role as it was! You can take care of the paperwork with each other. Suddenly, Carole's face went dark, and quietly she kept repeating to no one in particular: I'll give him a divorce right now if that's what he wants.

As for Cléo, he'd found a new way to pass the time. Since he'd stopped helping you deliver the Saturday papers, the
Gazette
had given him Avenue Lavoie. With his digital watch, he'd time himself. One day, he'd burst into the entrance of one of the apartment buildings and he'd run into Guylain, the incorrigible neighbourhood wino, who was snoring, curled up, under some newspaper. Cléo had wanted to get away, but Guylain woke up suddenly, stretched his arms over his head and, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand: hey, I wanna talk to you! Don't be scared, son. He got up with some difficulty. He squinted his eyes and showed him his thumb: I see you go by every morning, you're fast as hell. His eyes examined him for a long time, in a way he meant to be penetrating: I'm telling you, one day, you'll be in the Olympics. I never saw anybody fly like you. Cléo smiled at the compliment and prepared to leave, but the man held him back by his coattail: why is it in the hundred metres, there are only Blacks, eh? Guylain bent over conspiratorially, his face shaken by strange tics. Cléo shrugged his shoulders, no idea, sir. I have to go now. As he was going up the stairs he again heard Guylain's nasal voice: you don't know anything, punk, you think you know everything, but you don't know a thing.

Since he liked running too much to turn it into an obligation, he only trained when he felt like it. He understood that with that attitude he'd never be a great athlete and it really didn't bother him much. What are you talking about, you said angrily one day on the phone, in every competition, you're the best, I'm telling you, you've got a chance. Maybe, but he wanted to do something else with his life, he didn't know what yet. In the meantime, the Jeux de Montréal were fast approaching, and he couldn't wait. For the time being, what interested him was having fun! Things had been going pretty well for him since he'd started hanging out with Carl: nobody teased him at school anymore. He finally had some respect.

You and Akira sat down on a long wooden bench, facing the bowling alley to watch the games. Half an hour later, you saw Cléo nonchalantly coming down the entryway stairs, Carl and another Haitian from the
classe d'accueil
close behind. He made his way forward, his head bobbing, the outline of a mocking smile on his lips: “Hey, guys.”

“Where you been?” you asked as you got up.

“Sorry. The makeup class did end quite a while ago. But afterwards, we went to eat at McDonald's. The teacher took us out. The time went by really fast. That teacher's really cool. Isn't he, guys?”

The Haitians nodded their agreement.

“Sorry again. Let's forget about it.”

You and Akira hadn't budged.

“I'll pay for a game of Mortal Kombat for each of you, okay?”

“We're sick of playing,” you grumbled. “We've been waiting for you for two hours.”

Then, unable to hide a smile, Carl ran a hand over his mouth, “Man, I hear you've got some pretty cousins?”

You lowered your head.

“The next time you have a party,” Carl continued, “I want to be on the guest list. Don't forget, okay?”

You weren't too sure if he was making fun of you or not.

“You owe it to me. I already invited you to parties at our house.”

You thought to yourself, he invited me once, and that was it.

“I'd like to meet your cousins,” he insisted. “Cute little girls, it seems. Especially, what's her name again . . . Carolina?”

You turned your gaze on Cléo, whose bottom lip was quivering: he was having a hard time holding in his laughter, too.

“Anyway, your parties sound pretty cool,” Carl said. “I heard you get good and drunk.”

“It's not as much fun as all that,” you replied. “A lot of the time, I'm bored. And some of the people there get on my nerves.”

“Yeah, Latinos don't always know how to behave.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“At Saint-Luc, where I'm going to school next year, somebody told me you have to watch out for them. They'll pull a knife on you for anything.”

“Oh yeah?” you said. It was the first time you'd ever heard anything like that.

“Oh yeah. You turn your back on them and bang! out it comes. I also heard they're the biggest thieves around. They're real pros!”

“But they're not all like that,” Cléo insisted. “Some of them are cool.”

“Well, sure, there's nothing that says that every once in a while you can't come across a couple who are cool. But I'm talking about the majority. And not just the kids. The adults, too. Isn't that right, Cléo?”

“What are you talking about?” Cléo said.

“You know, that story you told me,” Carl explained, lowering his head as if he was embarrassed. “About that fat Latino who insulted you. . . .”

“What?” Cléo asked. “What are you talking about? I don't remember that.”

“Come on, you know, the one who. . . .”

“Just say it, Cléo!” you shouted, beside yourself. “Just say my uncle's a racist! Why don't you just say it?”

He turned towards you, his brow furrowed, his mouth part open.

“What are you talking about, buddy?” Carl asked. “It's something that happened to Cléo in the Métro. A fat Latino didn't want to move his feet so he could sit down. Cléo asked him to get up, and the guy started calling him all the names in the book.”

“What's got into you?” Akira asked you in a murmur. “Why are you acting like that?”

Now you were appraising them, going feverishly back and forth. And Carl nudged Cléo, “What's this kid talking about? You know what he's talking about? Did his uncle do something to you?”

Remember Marcelo: you suddenly took off and rushed for the staircase. Just as you were climbing the steps, you noticed Cléo was right on your heels: come back, Marcelo, don't be stupid. With a disgusted movement, you shook your arm free: what's got into you? I don't understand you. Without zipping up your coat or putting on your toque, you ran two blocks, almost without realizing it. Then you suddenly stopped: what was getting you into such a state? What had got into you, since he hadn't said anything? You wanted to go back, but you couldn't.

 

The doors of the elevator open and Ketcia spots CB and Mixon's parents sitting in the waiting room at the end of the corridor on plastic chairs. On one side, stretched out almost to his full length, his legs apart, CB's leafing through a
Sports Illustrated
, on the other, Mixon's father is staring off into the distance and, when Ketcia passes by, his mother follows her with pitiless eyes. Ketcia sits and insolently returns her gaze: it's her moustache that makes her look mean. She hands CB a ham sandwich and a Coke. He sets them on his knees and rubs his hands, smiling with satisfaction. Starving, they eat noisily, as Mixon's mother looks at them aslant. Earlier, before she went to the cafeteria, Ketcia offered to bring her something to eat, but she turned her head away: when I want something, little girl, I'll go down myself. She's mad at them, Ketcia thinks, she's convinced that nothing would have happened to her son if he hadn't been hanging around with them. As soon as the doctor, a young redhead with effeminate manners, mentioned the joint, her whole approach to them changed: she turned a deaf ear to all their comforting words, examining them with a suspicious gaze. It must have confirmed what she already believed: supposedly Mixon was under CB's influence, and hers,
too. If you listened to her, and this was the funniest part, you'd think Mixon was some sort of model son, an angel. Didn't she know her son better than that? She feels more compassion towards the father: he has gentle eyes and gabs non-stop.

Ketcia bites into her sandwich and looks up at the clock: it's ten to three in the morning, and they still haven't visited Mixon. Since the ambulance arrived at Hôpital Sainte-Justine, they've been constantly carting him around on the gurney, in the elevator, from one floor to another. First, he was taken to Emergency, then to radiology, then to the operating room. Ketcia couldn't sit still and she paced up and down in the waiting room, but that got on CB's nerves and he asked her to sit back down. To tell the truth, they don't know if the wounds are serious. The bone may have been hit, there may be a risk of infection, that's what the doctor had revealed to them. Then at around two o'clock, they brought Mixon up to the second floor and his parents could see the damage with their own eyes. He's not in such bad shape, the father told them, but he looks awfully tired. He was only stabbed in the arm, but he lost a lot of blood. Then a police officer showed up: he's still in Mixon's room, and they're hoping he doesn't talk.