Black Alley

by Mauricio Segura

  Inside the class, a few students stretch and yawn and take their notebooks from their school bags. In the back, the short, paunchy teacher, with baldness devouring the top of his head, writes on the board on his tiptoes. When he catches sight of Pato, CB motions for him to come over but, like a spring, the Latino jumps from his seat, no way, it’s not possible! Now what? CB comes towards him, he shouldn’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to him, he just wants to ask him a few questions. And the other boy, with his purple, swollen face, steps backwards and hits a desk, ouch! CB holds him by the shoulders to immobilize him and tries to calm him down.

  In the doorway, Ketcia is watching the scene and wondering what’s got into him. Why is he acting like a jerk? Pato starts yelling as loud as he can to attract the teacher’s attention and get him to turn around: now, now, what’s going on here? No, really, what’s this all about? CB seems not to have noticed that the teacher was there, focusing as he is on Pato: why didn’t he tell him he’d taken the condor? The other boy struggles, moans, refuses to answer. Was all this Flaco’s idea? No, he won’t say a word! He doesn’t want to hurt him, insists CB, but he’d better answer! CB shakes him and Pato closes his eyes. Leave me alone!

  With his hands on his hips, the teacher coughs: isn’t he ashamed picking on a boy who’s smaller than him? Coward! CB lets go of Pato and turns towards the teacher. The man’s tongue turns again in his pasty mouth: savage! Where does he think he is? CB hesitates for a moment, then gives a weak laugh. He bites his bottom lip and hits his fist into his palm twice. He steps closer to the teacher who freezes, suddenly turns pale, his eyes popping out of his head. CB’s hands land on his shirt collar like two fireballs as an unexpected tic forces the teacher to blink several times. CB holds him in the same position for a moment, then lets him go and bursts out laughing. Did you see what he said to me? he asks Ketcia beseechingly. Do you see how they think they can do anything to us? He looks at her with imploring eyes and Ketcia understands what he means. The whole time, the teacher has been leaning on a desk, catching his breath, while all around, frightened students keep silent. With his wits about him again, the teacher brushes past CB and heads towards the door: we’ll see what the principal thinks of all this. Getting threatened like this – it’s the last straw!

  CB looks around him, displaying a strange, stunned smile, as if he’s suddenly wondering what he’s doing there. He places one hand on Pato’s shoulder: tell Flaco he wants to talk to him at twelve o’clock, on the soccer field. Pato slips away from his hand and steps back with a shudder: Flaco wants to see him, too. Don’t worry, he’ll pass on the message.

  “But just when CB and I were leaving,” Ketcia explains, “the teacher came in, with the principal and two hall monitors.”

  “If I know CB, I bet he fought like a madman,” says Mixon. “I’ve seen him get away from three monitors!”

  “No,” says Ketcia, “that’s what surprised me. He didn’t resist at all. He just said, I hardly touched him, I don’t see what I did wrong. And the principal said, that’s enough, we’ll talk about it in my office. Come on, let’s go.”

  “With CB, you never know what to expect,” Mixon points out. “You never know what’s going on in his head. Sometimes, when he looks me in the eyes, it makes me feel weird. What about you?”

  Thoughtful, Ketcia answers yes. It’s true, sometimes, she’s afraid of CB’s unpredictable reactions too, especially when he gets mad. Luckily, it doesn’t happen often.

  They stand there for a moment without saying anything, noticing the commotion going on around them. Finally, they notice CB coming down the stairs in his usual casual way. He stops in front of them.

  “So?” asks Mixon. “What did they say?”

  “So, nothing,” retorts CB, an enigmatic smile on his lips. “Since I didn’t hit him, only threatened him, they gave me a week’s suspension. It’s not so bad.”

  Yeah! They’re happy for him! Then CB claps his hands, “Let’s hurry up and eat and get to the soccer field for noon. Latino Power will be there.”

  “We’ve only got five minutes left to eat,” Ketcia clarifies, looking at her watch. “I don’t want to be late. The Latinos’ll think we’re scared.”

  Remember how much hope and apprehension you packed into that one day, Marcelo: getting off the school bus that morning, a good number of you were yawning your heads off and had circles under your eyes from lack of sleep the night before. Woken by a chilly wind, you stood stock still in the middle of the schoolyard and glanced around in astonishment. Unlike your schoolyard, theirs stretched on and on with no uneven spots or holes in the asphalt. The painted lane-markers for the races and the two dodge ball squares were still immaculately white. The silver-coloured fence that bordered the yard had also been recently repainted and, beyond, on every side, the Outremont duplexes showed off their charming gardens and oak doors of various designs. Yes, it was a sunny autumn day and, though most of the leaves had already fallen from the trees, there weren’t many of them to be seen in the schoolyard: with a rake, a groundskeeper was gathering them all into a pile.

  The big school doors opened with a creak, a stream of students flowed out into the yard and the two teachers greeted each other with a firm handshake. The two clans looked at each other aslant. Unlike you, they were all dressed the same, in mauve shorts and T-shirts that said École Lajoie. As soon as the competitions began, your side started joking with each other and calling out the runners’ nicknames to encourage them, and soon you began to shout. On the other side of the schoolyard, the students of the host school, leaning against the fence, chanted “la-la-la-Lajoie”! Is that when you noticed the police officers for the first time? They casually greeted the Lajoie students as if they’d known them forever. Remember the way the walked, their cautious scrutiny, their moustaches, Marcelo. They made light conversation with the other Phys. Ed. teacher.

  But what a disappointment – Lajoie won most of the races easily. When Cléo won the grade five sprint, you exploded with joy that was as euphoric as it was liberating. You hugged him, congratulated him, carried him in triumph: he was the best, the fastest! And Serge said, put him down right now, you’re going to hurt him! Yes, Marcelo, one day they made fun of him, the next he was a hero again. It seemed you only liked him when it was convenient. Then the police officers came to help Serge and backed you up against the fence: come on, now, children, that’s no way to act! Let’s go, everyone sit down now. And after his victory, Cléo started to act like the others: he clapped his hands, cracked jokes, laughed, pushed back when someone jostled him. Yes, every day, he was becoming more outgoing.

  Then it was time for the grade five girls’ hundred metres. Cléo stood so he could cheer them on better, and Sylvain followed suit, for once Caramilk had a good idea, and the rest of the school did the same. Sylvain couldn’t contain himself since Serge had told him he was going to replace Yuri in the relay race, the Polish boy had a bad case of the flu and had had to stay home. They clapped their hands, stomped their feet, they made fun of the opposing team, “Loo-loo-loonies!” “Lo-lo-lo-Losers!” Obsessed by the races, Serge rarely came over to you, but when he did, he would order, Lower your voices, children; but you’d start up again a few seconds later. The groundskeeper, an old man with a tanned face, came over. You quieted down so you could hear what he had to say: settle down, children, the residents around here don’t like that much noise. And, without missing a beat, Sylain replied, screw the residents! What do you say about that, gramps? Shouts acclaimed Sylvain’s fearlessness, and the old man walked away grumbling.

  Just then, the two police officers came towards you, toddling along, as if they were just taking a stroll to stretch their legs a bit. Smiling, they pretended to be supremely absorbed in their own conversation. They looked a lot alike in their navy blue uniforms, though one was shorter and visibly more nervous than the other. Stocky and bowlegged, the nervous one was tossing his nightstick in the air and catching it expertly. They stopped in front of you, w
hispered something in each other’s ear and gave a hearty laugh. Finally, the officer put his nightstick back in its holder and noisily cleared his throat.

  “Children?”

  He had to call you like that several times before you paid him any attention.

  “Children?” he repeated. “I have a riddle for you. Do you want to hear it?”

  This surprised you. Some of you surveyed him with distrustful looks: what was he up to? Others kept talking, as if nothing was going on. Suddenly Sylvain’s voice could be heard, let’s hear it, you Smurf, tell us your riddle! This was followed by some laughter, but the officer said shhh! and asked again if you wanted to hear his riddle. In unison, several of you called out yeeeessss! in a childish tone, and then laughed even louder.

  “That’s enough!” ordered the police officer, raising his voice. “Or else, I won’t tell you and that will be the end of that.”

  His ultimatum worked: with your heads tucked down into your shoulders, you studied him in silence now. He turned towards his colleague and winked with a big smile. Then he turned back to you, “Okay!” he said, clapping his hands together. “That’s better. Let’s start by sitting down.”

  You obeyed. He licked his lips and pronounced the following sentence, articulating carefully as if he were speaking to the hard-of-hearing, “What-is-the-most-beautiful-sound-on-earth, children?”

  You looked questioningly at one another: what could it be? You repeated the question out loud, stroking your chins. Then you all shrugged your shoulders.

  “Your farts!” shouted a desperate voice.

  Contagious laughter lifted you up like a wave. As the commotion reached its climax, the officer lost his playful expression. He squinted as he searched for the guilty party.

  “Is the disrespectful person who said that brave enough to stand up now? Or am I going to have to come looking for him myself?”

  You all knew who it was, you’d recognized Sylvain’s voice. Crouching in his corner, he was having a hard time not laughing.

  “Oh, I see!” said the officer seeing that no one was going to stand, “we’re dealing with a smart aleck. Well, I’m warning him, he’s going to hear from me but good if he doesn’t turn himself in.”

  The group was silent.

  “I did it,” said a voice.

  You all looked up at the student who was on his feet. What? Cléo! What was he up to? What had got into him? He played with his fingers, embarrassed.

  “So, you’re the funny one,” the officer went on. “The school clown. . . .”

  Cléo didn’t move.

  “It was just a joke, off’cer. It was just for fun.”

  “Obviously,” the police officer cut him off, “I know it was a joke. We all got that part, my friend. You think I’m angry? Come on, son, I’ve seen worse than that.”

  The officer gave a little laugh, then turned to his colleague and rolled his eyes.

  “No,” he said to Cléo, “it’s just that I thought I was dealing with children with good manners. I can see now I couldn’t have been more wrong . . . But, my boy, do you at least know the answer to my riddle?”

  Cléo shook his head no.

  “That’s what I thought. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s silence. That’s the most beautiful sound there is.”

  Now he was looking down on you smugly.

  “So, children, learn to have a bit more respect for silence. You’ll see how relaxing it is.”

  Then a meaningful smile spread across his face. And as he was walking away, he turned around one last time. “And you,” he said, lowering a finger at Cléo, “I’ve got my eye on you.”

  The police officers moved away and you and Akira huddled around Cléo: why had he stood up for Sylvain? Had he fallen on his head? Sylvain gave everyone a hard time, even him. Cléo shrugged his shoulders and let his hand drop back down: Sylvain’s okay, he just pretends he’s tough. You wondered, Marcelo, just what does he want? for everyone to like him? Akira leaned towards him and tapped on his head with his index finger, you’re sick, kid! There’s no point in sticking up for jerks like that! At the far end of the crowd, Sylvain was watching Cléo, as if he was hesitating to come thank him. Finally, he turned away.

  After lunch, you and Cléo went to buy some gum on Rue Bernard. As you walked back, chewing it, you saw the two police officers strolling down the other sidewalk. When the shorter one noticed you, he crossed the street, looking around with a feverish expression, and then he came and blocked your path, his arms crossed, his face sullen. His colleague hurried to catch up with him: what do you want with these boys, Gilles? He was staring into the whites of Cléo’s eyes, a wily look crossing his face: did you mind, Maurice, he knew what he was doing. Remember Cléo’s round eyes going from the pistol to the nightstick. After a moment, the boy pointed a finger towards the baton: could he see it a minute, sir, he’d never held one in his hands. Gilles was like a statue, then he looked around again, a little anxiously this time: he wanted to know one thing . . . how come he liked to make other people laugh so much, eh, Blackie? Surprised, Maurice almost choked as if he’d swallowed his own saliva wrong, what’s got into you! What are you after? Slowly, his face still stoney, Gilles turned around: do you mind, I’m talking to someone. His lively, icy eyes locked on Cléo again, and his frightening smile reappeared. So, Blackie? He was waiting for an answer. Was it because it was cool to give cops a hard time? Was he trying to show off in front of his friends? Maurice placed one hand on his colleague’s shoulder: it was time to go. That’s when Cléo burst out sobbing. Yes, his shoulders shook convulsively. Christ, said Maurice, look what you did, as a clownish grimace spread across Gilles’s face: what’s wrong, my boy? Can’t take a joke? You can dish it out though, eh? Then Maurice slipped between Gilles and Cléo and whispered in his colleague’s ear through clenched teeth: okay, come on! Yeah, you’re right, we may as well go. . . .

  You put an arm around Cléo’s shoulders, you led him into the schoolyard and the two of you sat down, your backs against the fence. You were telling him to forget about it, to concentrate on the upcoming relay race, but Cléo was shaking his head no. You were wrong, Marcelo: how could he forget? His crying escalated to a continuous, painful moan. So you kept quiet and quite a while went by as he sniffled, wiped his eyes and cried. The others came back, and Akira, noticing his swollen eyes, asked Cléo what happened. Nothing serious, you explained, he fell. Then Serge came over rubbing his hands together and made you all sit down: all that was left were the relay races, it was time for them to show what they could do, right?

  Not a single team, from grade one to grade four had managed to outdo Lajoie’s teams. A little before it was your turn, Serge ordered your team to go stretch and warm up near the school door, so you wouldn’t be in the way of the races. When your turn came, you started shouting the runners’ nicknames again and clapping your hands, while on Lajoie’s side, they stuck with the same cheer, “La-La-la-Lajoie!” The starting gun went off, and from the first runner to the third, Lajoie kept increasing its lead. But when Cléo got the baton in his hand, the race became spirited. Yes, still out of breath, your hands on your hips, your eyes followed him without blinking: calmly, as if he had his whole life ahead of him, he caught up to his opponent and passed him right at the finish line. It looked like he’d had it planned from the beginning. However, this time, after the race, there was no smile. His face showed only a kind of rage, a calm despair.

  The whole school came over to congratulate you, and Sylvain was the first to step up to Cléo to shake his hand. Then Evangelos, Sylvain’s best friend, looked disgusted: what was he doing there? Why was he shaking Caramilk’s hand? And Sylvain answered: be quiet! We won because of him. Cléo looked both delighted and astonished. But, let’s be clear, Sylvain added just for him, that didn’t mean he forgave him for stealing his spot on the team. And Cléo said, okay, I get it, and he slipped off towards where you and Akira were waiting for him. As Akira flung his arms around his neck, you gave him the usual
pats on the back: anyways, if we can’t win the Jeux du Québec with you on our team, I don’t know what you have to do to win. And Akira said, you’re right for sure! If we keep on like this, we’ll end up in the Olympics! The three of you laughed like crazy and couldn’t stop, without a second thought for the envious stares of the others. Your arms linked, you walked along as happy and free as brothers.

  III

  All wearing the same black headbands across their foreheads, the members of Latino Power stand stiff as poles in the middle of the soccer field, their eyes fixed on the back door of the school. Flaco, Lalo, Teta, Pato, Alfonso, Lucho, Gonzalo, all of them are there. Once in a while someone taps his foot in impatience, crosses his arms with a sigh, or noisily swallows whatever was in his nose. All around, outside the line markings, where the grass is still hanging on, students are biting into their sandwiches and, with their mouths full, discussing the latest episode of Friends, or remembering an unforgettable party. Three girls, dressed in black, sit with their legs crossed around a crackling radio . . . “Naked woman, naked man, where did you get that nice sun tan, naked woman, naked man. . . .” With his hands behind his back, a monitor slowly walks around the perimeter of the field, absorbed in his thoughts. The sun is shining straight down, and three little white clouds have stopped directly above their heads. Okay, the Bad Boys are coming out one by one. Flaco glances at his watch: it’s exactly twelve o’clock, at least they’re on time. Perfect, there are fewer of them then there are of the Latinos: CB, Ketcia, Mixon, Richard, Max, and Étienne. The Bad Boys walk along like rappers, letting their right arms drop just as their left heels hit the ground. The music suddenly stops, several of the students in the area scatter.

  As the two leaders draw closer to each other, in the distance, the monitor emerges from his thoughts, stops and points a finger at them, as a warning. They give him the thumbs up, the monitor thinks, he thinks, weighs the pros and cons, then goes back to his rounds. CB is slightly taller than Flaco, but they both have the same slim build. Silently, they look each other in the whites of the eyes, their faces expressionless. Their breathing is audible. All of a sudden, the noise of a motor distracts them. Heads turn towards the school parking lot: wearing a huge white helmet adorned with black fringe, stuffed into a leather coat too small for his girth, Mr. Dupaulin stomps on his motorcycle pedal with rage. The English teacher is known for his cynicism and never misses a chance to demonstrate to the students that the only reason he teaches is to earn a living, not for love of the profession. The motor finally catches. He pulls the zipper on his leather coat up to his chin and then he notices them.