Black Alley (21 page)

“No, Mom. I'm afraid it can't.”

She raises her arms towards the heavens, “Oh, Lord! The street's the only thing they're interested in! . . . Don't forget to come home for lunch,
niñito
! I'll wait for you.”

He sees his mother close the door and hears her mutter words he can't quite grasp.

 

When Cléo woke up with a start, Carl, his hands behind his head, was replaying the film of the previous night's party in his head. Cléo was lying on the floor under a woollen blanket, parallel to the bed, from which Carl was now languidly observing him. Cléo sniffed his white T-shirt and closed his eyes in delight, a smile swelling his cheeks: it smelled like the girl's perfume, man. Carl laughed heartily, while the other sat up, his back against the wall: do you remember the party at your place after the Jeux de Montréal? Carl rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, nodded yes, and Cléo livened up: do you remember the girl I was kissing all night? Why didn't they see her anymore, eh? At the next two parties he hadn't seen her, and she wasn't there yesterday either. Carl sat up on his bed, the box spring creaked, and he shivered from his toes to the roots of his hair: it's because she's going out with someone now. A guy in grade nine, I think. What do you care? Anyway, last night, you didn't seem to
miss her much, you spent the whole night feeling Marjorie's breasts. It wasn't that he missed her, Cléo responded, as he ran a finger along the skin of his arm, it was just that he wondered where she was, that's all. Carl looked him in the eye: what, you just want them all to yourself, or what? Cléo shrugged his shoulders and let out an embarrassed laugh, and Carl shook his head, amused: you Don Juan!

Cléo slipped on his pants, went to the window and pulled back the curtains as Carl picked up the notebook and pen that were on his nightstand. Cléo was absorbed in contemplating what the window had to offer him, then in passing, vaguely running one hand through his hair, he murmured: I had a strange dream. It can't be possible, Carl thought, he imitates everything I do. It's true that Carl often told him about his dreams, at least the ones that grabbed his attention, and he was in the habit of writing them down in the morning, so he wouldn't forget them. His big brother had taught him how to interpret them. You want to tell it to me? he asked nonetheless, putting down the notebook and the pen. It was the second time he'd had the same dream. Then Carl interrupted him: it's not possible, you never have the same dream twice. How many times did he have to tell him? What I meant, Cléo corrected himself, is that about three or four days ago, I had a similar dream.

Roughly, this is how it went. He and his father looked out his bedroom window. Low, thick fog slowly travelled down Rue Linton. It's time to go, his father said. They put on their coats, went outside and got into a black Cadillac. The driver, who Cléo couldn't make out because of the smoked glass between the front and back seats, pulled out fast into the traffic. Dad, where are we going like this? But his father frowned, as if he'd just spoken to him in a foreign language. He took out a cigarette and tapped it on his thigh several times. Cléo pushed a button and the window went down. Kneeling on the seat, he put his head out. All the streets were covered in the same creamy fog.

After a little while, the fog lifted and the Cadillac came to a stop. They went into a very long house that had a green roof. A rotten smell infiltrated every pore of his body. Standing at attention, men he didn't know were posted all along an endless hallway. Evidently, a room at the back had been prepared for them. They went towards it, but stopped in the doorway. An open casket was in the middle of the room, a fire crackled in one corner, and the reflection of its flames on the wall looked like a spider's legs. Cléo drew near to the coffin: his mother was wearing so much makeup he had a hard time recognizing her. She wasn't dead: beneath her closed lids, her eyes were moving. Slowly, he bent forward, kissed her on the mouth and tasted a brief, bitter smack of her lipstick. As for his father, he was observing them, his expression emotionless. Finally, a group of guests invaded the room and clapped to bring the roof down.

Woooow, man, Carl shouted, that's wild. Geez, you have heavy dreams! He absolutely had to tell his brother, there's no doubt he'd be interested. Cléo looked happy then, strangely he lowered his eyes and his face darkened: he wanted to tell him about his mother. Carl had got used to listening when Cléo felt the need to confide in someone. Last week, he'd explained, his parents had got a divorce and even if the legal paper didn't change anything concrete in his mother's life, it had had a deep effect on her: she stopped combing her hair, worked overtime at the factory, and, at night in the apartment, though she hated TV, she sat there, slumped down in her chair in the living room, channel surfing for hours. Cléo didn't see her much and, on the one hand, he liked it that way. Also, she rarely spoke to him. Could he imagine, Carl?

One night when he was getting ready to go out, she'd called him into the living room: where was he going? You know, Mom, over to Carl's, I told you this morning. She stared at the TV with hard eyes: you're getting more and more like your father. And he said, what did she mean by that? Wasn't she exaggerating
just a little? As if she hadn't heard him, she continued: you even look more and more like him physically. No, no, Mom! It's just your imagination! Tell me, are you sick of living with a crazy woman, too? Mom, why are you talking like that? Cléo, I asked you a question. Cléo observed her twisting hands: don't talk like that, Mom, please. Come on, he should tell her straight out, did he think she was crazy, yes or no? Stop it, Mom. Without turning towards him, with a dark look, she murmured: he'd see, one day he'd do just what his father had done, he'd abandon her, too.

Cléo gave Carl a beseeching look: how come his mother wasn't like that, eh? And Carl pretended to get mad: I already told you not to compare, it's not right. Okay, it's time to go. Each of them took a quick turn in the bathroom, and then put on their coats and boots as if they were competing. As they crossed the hallway, Cléo asked: don't you think we should eat a bowl of cereal or something? No way, we don't have time, we're already late. Going down the stairs in the apartment building, Carl zipped up his leather coat and added, we'll have some hotdogs at the stadium. Outside, a thin layer of snow made the car windshields sparkle, and the cold air burned their lungs. Taking huge steps, they pulled up the collars on their coats. They turned right on Rue Lavoie, then went down Van Horne, and there, on the other side of the street, Marcelo was coming out of a bakery. Suddenly, Cléo ducked down behind a car. What got into him? Carl asked in surprise, still standing up. Shh! said Cléo with a finger against his lips, and he pulled him down by his coat sleeve. They waited until Marcelo had turned the corner. What's your problem? Carl then asked. I'm telling you, you have some pretty strange ideas some times! Didn't he want to say hello to his friend? No, no, Cléo answered standing back up. It's just that sometimes Marcelo would call him and he'd say he'd call back, but he'd forget. Anyways, I'm telling you, you're weird, Carl said, giving him a worried look.

At Plamondon Métro station, their two friends, Haitians in grade six, were stretched out flat on the escalator handrail. When they saw Cléo and his friend, they immediately got up and came over to shake hands: hey, guys. One of them, displaying a joking smile, said to Carl: listen, man, listen, I heard a good one. He took a deep breath, then with a vain grimace on his face, he recited: “Astros, Astros, ra, ra, ra, flush them down the toilet, ah, ah, ah . . . Max and me are going to shout that at the stadium. It's a good one, eh, Carl?” What did he think? That they were jackasses, sighed Carl. Everybody already knew that joke! Okay, that's enough fooling around. They were going to miss the first inning.

They slid down the handrail, fell on top of each other, and, huddled on the cement floor, let rip with a laugh that echoed around all them. They ran to the counter and since the ticket collector wasn't there, they jumped over the turnstiles. On the platform, Richard and Max put on their Walkman headphones and, simultaneously, went into the same syncopated steps and the moves rappers make. An old woman wearing a beige checkered raincoat knotted at the waist stared at them as she went by, and Richard abruptly stopped dancing: why don't you take a picture? The subway train pulled into the station, the doors slid open noisily, and each one stretched out on a two-person seat. Cléo couldn't keep his eyes off Richard and Max's brown caps, with the Chicago Bulls insignia on them, and their baggy jeans. Interrupting their conversation, he asked them where they'd got them. You want to redo your wardrobe? Max asked. It's about time! It just so happens that at the party yesterday, the girl you were necking with said she liked you and everything and she thought you were cute, but she'd rather not look at your flannel pants. Max and Richard hugged their ribs, for a long time, they couldn't stop laughing. Once in a while, Richard caught his breath and repeated: she'd rather not look at them. Yeah, why did he wear those pants?
Carl asked in a whisper. It's not my fault, Cléo defended himself, my mother bought them.

At the Lionel-Groulx station, since the connecting train was slow to arrive, they amused themselves by climbing up the escalators backwards, but they soon tired of this and took up a position near a railing where they could stare at the people below. Just as Richard was suggesting they spit on a man in his fifties who was as bald as a billiard ball, the train pulled in. In the car, they ended up opposite a group of young Italians in overalls, who, with orange fingertips, were stuffing themselves full of barbecue-flavoured Cheetos. Richard was trying to snip their straps with nothing but his eyes and his lips barely moved: they think they're so cool, so, so cool. . . . At Peel station, the Italians got out of the car single file and, once the doors had shut again, they hit the window and spit on it. Richard jumped up like a spring, hammered on the glass himself and gave them the finger: I knew they'd do that, bunch of cowards! Cléo watched the scene, his mouth open, his eyes big as quarters. He nudged Carl's boot with his foot and, with a discreet nod, he enquired: what, did they know those guys? Richard and Max laughed scornfully. No, you idiot, answered Richard, who'd jumped to his feet. Didn't he see? They were Italians! He didn't want to know them!

 

Grasping Teta's arms, they cross the yard whistling and bustle into a building whose orange brick is incredibly faded. Ketcia is at the head of the group, she climbs the stairs quickly and inserts the key in the lock. They slip into the apartment, go into CB's room, and, after listening to be sure they're alone, they lock the door. Shadow warms the room, while the walls, the unmade bed and the pile of clothes in the dark corner all stink of perspiration and rank air. CB pulls the chair from his desk into the middle of the room and orders Richard and Max to tie Teta to it, which they accomplish with absolutely no trouble. The four Bad Boys, sit on the bed, knee to knee, and observe the hostage for a little while.
Two minuscule black eyes, prisoners in a moon-shaped face, stare back at them. Richard and Max laugh nervously, then Richard steps towards Teta and levels his finger in his face: “Just what do you think you look like now, eh?”

He waits for the Latino's reply, then decides to answer himself, “Like a real idiot! It's too bad Mixon isn't here to settle the score with you himself.”

Richard walks around Teta, puts an arm around his neck and, biting his bottom lip, squeezes Teta's throat. Teta moans and the other draws his mouth close to his ear like he was going to bite it: you fat, smelly Latino! Then, loud enough for the others to hear, he says, “That'll teach you, you moron!”

“And now, what do we do?” Ketcia asks in a worried voice.

CB stops her with a motion and changes languages.

“
Minit la
! . . . When we talk strategy, we do it in Creole. Everyone got that?”

He orders them to form a circle. In a low, monotone voice, he explains that the basic idea is to be respected. He doesn't hide the fact that he wants revenge. What they did to Mixon can't be forgiven, they agree on that, but, for the time being, the important thing is to get back their coats. With Teta as a hostage, he has no doubt Latino Power will have to give in. Afterwards, they'll see, it all depends. One thing has to be clear, though: vengeance is treacherous, it's to be wielded with the utmost precaution, they have to know exactly when to strike. Do they understand what he's telling them? One by one they nod their heads, then direct their eyes back towards Teta.

“We need you, Teta,” says CB. “If you cooperate, everything should take place in a calm, friendly manner.”

“You better talk, asshole,” Richard bursts out, “or else I'm going to smash your face in!”

CB grabs Richard's arm and twists it until, with a contorted face, he lets out a heartbreaking cry.

“
A p rekòumanse sa a, m ap jete l dewò!
” CB rebuffs him.

Rubbing his arm, Richard straightens up again. CB turns towards the hostage.

“Tell me, Teta, where did you hide the coats?”

The Latino's face remains as lifeless as a mummy's.

“You answer, we get our coats back and you're a free man, Teta. I give you my word of honour.”

Teta grumbles, leans forward and spits greenish saliva onto the floor.

“You're wasting your time, CB. I'm not talking.”

As if he's just got third-degree burns on his hand, Richard suddenly starts to shake it as he hops up and down.

“
A p tou mèm pa lèsse l fè sa nan yon tàpì!
” Richard explodes. “
M ap pini l idio! S'il te plè! A p lès mwen vange onè nan Mixon
!”