Black Alley (3 page)

As the girls were qualifying, Cléo, standing off to the side with an intrigued expression, watched the boys imitating the way the girls ran. He laughed at the right times and went back to his warm-ups when there was nothing interesting to see. When it was the boys' turn, silence immediately fell over us. We watched each other furtively. We remembered the relay team from the year before, whispered the names of the team members: Marcelo, Akira, Sylvain and Yuri. Last year, the team hadn't made it to the Jeux du Québec because of a stupid disqualification. But this year
we were going to get the revenge we deserved! Yep, the other schools were going to get theirs!

The whistle blew and Akira, the first to position himself on the starting line, took off as if hurtling into space. Since he was one of the fastest boys in the class, it was a good half hour before anyone pushed him out of first place. On the other hand, his time didn't beat the record held by Yuri, who was the fastest in all of the grade five classes. Sylvain took third place: without his knowing, his mother had put his running shoes in the washer the day before and they hadn't dried in time. So he'd had to settle for his brother's shoes, although they were two sizes too big for him. Look! He was swimming in them! Otherwise, there was no doubt, he would have beaten everyone no problem! he said when his race was over, snapping his fingers under Akira's nose.

On your marks! You knelt behind the starting line. On Thursday mornings, the day you had Phys. Ed., you had no trouble getting up as soon as the alarm went off. Get set! Your legs tensed. And, although for your Latino friends in the neighbourhood nothing was as good as playing soccer, you liked running the best, especially sprinting. Serge gave the Go! signal and you leapt like a spring, clenching your fists. You felt free when you ran: you moved forward, usually with your eyes closed, trying to express the person you knew you were but that no one else knew anything about. Your mouth always tasted like blood. At the finish line, a circle of students formed around Serge as he waited for you, his stopwatch in hand. We ran towards you, good job, Marcelo!, and we slapped you on the back, man, you run fast! You caught your breath, your hands on your hips, your head lowered. You'd run your best time, Marcelo, can you imagine! Serge came towards you: yes, your time was even better than Yuri's. He hugged you with a smile: nice performance, champ!

So, the team would be the same as the year before. So much the better, it was such a good team. We talked about the order they should run in, about each member's strengths and weaknesses.
Most of the boys were quiet, hurt about being left off the team again. Just a second, Serge cut them off, there's still the new boy. They looked around for him, where had he gone? Alone, under the colourful maple leaves in the middle of the playground, he was observing you and biting his nails. Serge motioned for him to come over, and, since he wasn't wearing gym clothes, asked if he'd prefer to run another day. No, he'd rather do it right now and, without being asked twice, he went nonchalantly towards the starting line. They all looked at their watches: after this, it's recess, so hurry up, new kid!

Cléo's take-off was so clumsy and slow that you, Marcelo, thought he'd probably never sprinted. He had no technique, raised his head way too high, needlessly thrust out his chest. But,
Dios mío
, once he got going, once his legs warmed up, he sped up so much that, one after the other, each head turned towards him. He stubbornly kept his eyes fixed on the sky and smiled as wide as he could. Still, he was paying so little attention to where he was going that he changed lanes. After a little while, he was running like you'd never seen anyone your age run. Several students, who had already lined up on the stairs, came back down, openmouthed. How could anyone explain it? It was unbelievable! He was so small and looked so harmless!

When he finished his run, he came back towards you, an apologetic smile on his lips, as if asking to be forgiven for his achievement. Your eyes ate him up, but you didn't dare come too close. Serge announced that he was, surprisingly, the fastest boy in grade five. Half-stifled ohs! and whoas! rose from the group. You made your way over to the new boy: there, he was right in front of you. How could you be jealous of a boy who'd only shown you who he really was? You put out your hand, the other boy shook it, his eyes laughing. The ice was broken: Cléo received an avalanche of pats on the back. Boys took him by the arms and raised them over his head. He laughed with excitement. We teased him: did he eat spinach like Popeye in order to run that
fast? No, he hated spinach, he shrugged his shoulders and again gave in to naïve mirth.

Suddenly, Sylvain got angry with Serge: why wasn't he saying anything? The new kid had left his lane! In a real competition, he would have been disqualified, obviously! Serge remained quiet another minute, then, remember his reprimanding tone: who did he think he was to talk to him like that, disrespectful brat! It was just that, the new boy wasn't disqualified because it wasn't a real competition! And he'd better not forget, Serge was the teacher! He gave a long blast on his whistle, class was over, it was time for recess. Serge was too fond of winning, he knew he'd be taking no chances with Cléo. In the middle of the playground, Sylvain, his arms crossed, stubbornly stared at you and Cléo. When you walked past him, with controlled anger, he shouted, “Go back to your own country, goddamnit . . .” At that moment, your eyes were fixed on Cléo. Remember, Marcelo, his smile had disappeared.

 

Four silhouettes advance along the Côte-des-Neiges sidewalk, occasionally lit up by the headlights of the cars speeding past them. They go along Avenue Appleton, the northern boundary of Parc Kent, pass by the pétanque pitches where ten or so old men are assembled, most wearing skullcaps. In the lead, Pato and Alfonso make their way, their heads lowered, their hands behind their backs, while, behind them, the two Haitians, taller and with broader shoulders, chat about a girl they saw on the bus. One of them describes her as he sculpts imaginary curves while the other smiles. It's already dark out and, strangely, the April air is as stagnant as a sweltering summer evening.

In front of the baseball diamond, Pato notices boys who are older than him, almost all Asians, playing a game he doesn't know the name of, a kind of volleyball you play with your feet. On the right, despite the falling darkness, three boys, with very dark skin, are tossing a football back and forth. As he advances
towards a good beating, life goes on all around him. People's movements, their smiles, seem somehow unreal. He clenches his fists to boost his courage, but he realizes his hands are damp. He has to keep his cool, as his brother likes to say. When his brother finds out he got caught, he's going to be furious, no doubt about it. Pato closes his eyes: there's only one thing left to do: take it like a man. He realizes,
Dios mío
, his teeth are chattering! I'll never steal again,
Dios mío, ayúdame, que no me peguen
, never again! What if I just start running, right now? What if I yell? Suddenly he remembers: the condor. That's it, he's done for! With his usual bad luck, the chain will fall out later right in front of those niggers, and then, well, they'll kick his ass good!
¡Putamadre!

The Haitians gesticulate a lot as they talk, but they don't take their eyes off them. Yet he and Alfonso are out of their league: they're in grade seven and the Haitians are in grade ten or eleven. To his great surprise, when they caught them red-handed they laughed at them more than they threatened or hit them. How long had they been spying on them, hiding behind the lockers? Probably from the very beginning. Afterwards, the Haitians decided to go eat some Kentucky Fried Chicken while they waited for CB to show up at Parc Kent. While they stuffed themselves in the parking lot, Pato'd had to cough a lot to cover up the rumbling in his stomach. Then they took them to Parc Vézina where they met some other Haitians and ordered the Latinos to get down on all fours so they could ride them like in a rodeo. Around seven o'clock, they headed towards Parc Kent to meet CB and the other Bad Boys.

They step over the imaginary line, set foot in Haitian territory. Pato is almost completely unfamiliar with this part of the park: he's always been forbidden set foot in it. They walk beneath the spray of the streetlights and, once they come out at the running track, they turn and, their backs hunched, make their way beneath the bleachers that seem to form a tunnel. It takes an
eternity. Then, at the end, Pato can see a group of Blacks chatting, gathered around a guy slumped in a patio chair. They're all wearing baggy pants and backward baseball caps. They cut off their discussion and, as they notice the Latinos, their eyes open wide. One of their escorts triumphantly tosses the cap and sunglasses on the ground. A heavy girl with short hair rushes towards the objects. She shows them to the guy sitting in the chair.

“CB, check it out!”

He sits up quickly. After a pause, as if he regretted his initial reaction, he sinks back down against the back of the chair, strokes his goatee at length, and then, one by one, cracks each of his knuckles. Finally, he motions to the girl with his chin and she immediately says to the two Haitians, “What are you doing with that stuff?”

For a moment, the two young Haitian boys look at each other. Come on, Ketcia, one of them stammers. Doesn't she get it? These two Latinos broke into CB's locker!

CB waves his hand at the two Latinos to call them forward. They walk towards him and Pato can finally make him out. He's always surprised to see how gentle his features look, and how unmuscular he is. The distrust he inspires comes from his slow, calculated movements. CB also motions for the two Hatians with them to approach:
sa k pase
? He speaks very little, listens to them, his face expressionless and, from time to time, with his hand, asks them to repeat or provide more details. Finally, he raises his thumb and says goodbye, and the two Haitians leave, visibly upset at being unable to stay.

Pato keeps telling himself he should have handed over the condor to the Haitians as soon as he got caught by the lockers. If he takes it out now, CB will want to know why he didn't give it back sooner and he'll get suspicious. He'll think he stole other things, too, and will get mad. His brother and Flaco have told him lots of stories about fights with CB. The guy fights like an animal. Yes, it's better to keep quiet. But . . . he can't feel the chain
anymore! Has it fallen? Casually, he looks at the ground: he doesn't see it. He spreads his legs: finally, he can feel it. Could it fall?

CB leans towards them, places his elbows on his thighs. He examines them from top to bottom, like police officers do.

“I have to admit, it wasn't such a bad idea to rob me during Barbeau's speech. Let's even say I think it was pretty clever. Especially for a couple of wusses like you.”

Nonchalantly, he begins to applaud them. Ketcia and the other three Haitians standing behind CB burst out laughing. After a minute, CB slowly raises his hand and a lethal silence falls over them.

“Listen to me carefully, you guys,” CB continues. “If you treat me right, I'll treat you right. But watch out, no bullshit.”

He snaps his fingers and immediately one of the Haitians leans in towards him. There follows a short, whispered exchange in Creole. All Pato can make out is the name of the boy, Mixon, and he remembers a story his brother told about him. Once, in class, he fell asleep during an exam and the teacher had to wake him up. He picked up the kid's paper and held it up by the tips of his fingers: it was dripping with saliva. Mixon rummages around in a cooler, takes out two Popsicles and hands one each to him and Alfonso. Surprised, they remain motionless for a moment, their Popsicles in their hands, not daring to unwrap them. CB motions towards them with his chin, and they hurriedly rip open the paper and start to lick the red ice.

“Tell me one thing,” CB asks, fixing his eyes on Pato. “Was it your brother's idea to rob me?”

“No. Lalo had nothing to do with it. I swear.”

“Then it was Flaco's idea?”

“Not his either. I swear.”

“Then it was your idea?”

Since Pato remains silent, CB slumps back down in his chair.

“I think I see what you're up to, you little wuss. You wanted Latino Power to accept you, right? You wanted to show them you
could pull off a robbery like a big boy. And what could be better than robbing the leader of the Bad Boys, right? I already said it once, but I'll tell you again, you're a pretty clever guy.”

Behind CB, a wave of sniggering immediately dies out.

“What else did you take from me?”

What if they decide to search me? wonders Pato. What if they tie me to a tree? What if they beat me like a dog and then abandon me there?

“Nothing else,” he hears himself say. “I swear.”

“You swear a little too much for my taste, wuss. In my opinion, that means one of two things. Either you lie like the devil himself, or you're planning to become a priest.”

Again, his remark sparks laughter.

“You like to run?”

The question surprises Pato, who then replies, yes, he likes to.

“Isn't it true nothing's more fun than jogging in a park?”

“It's true. Nothing's more fun.”

“On a nice summer day, with your friends following along and all that?”

“That's true, CB.”

“It would be too bad if something unfortunate happened to your legs, wouldn't it?”

Pato is silent.

“Answer!”

“Yes, that would be too bad.”

“Okay, let's say it would be too bad. It would really be too bad if you lied to me.”

CB directs an enquiring gaze at Alfonso. “What about you, wuss, what do you think? Is your little friend here lying to me or not?”