Black Alley

by Mauricio Segura

  “That’s right!” he shouts. “Exterminate each other! . . . Good riddance!”

  He straddles the motorcycle, turns the handgrips, then turns them again, and takes off. The engine backfires as if it was having a coughing fit. When Dupaulin drives past the soccer field, Teta gives him the finger. ¡Bien hecho! the other Latinos remark. Es todo lo que merece ese viejo estúpido, Lalo states. Once he’s out of sight, they each stare into their opponents’ eyes again, and start to breathe loudly for a second time, as if they had to start all over again from the beginning. Flaco is focusing his gaze on CB’s sharp irises: what a grotesque mask he’s made! What an admirable actor!

  “So?” CB says in his drawling voice. “Our peace treaty didn’t last very long, did it?”

  Yes, thinks Flaco, all this is nothing but a strange, painful, cruel game. Behind him he hears someone mutter ¡Qué huevón más grande!, was it Lalo or Teta?, and he hurries to reply, “What can I say? Some people have a short memory. As soon as they get the chance, they start beating up people who are smaller than they are. It’s easier and less dangerous than picking on somebody their own size. Right? In Spanish, we call them los cobardes! . . . Cowards!”

  Sarcastic laughter bursts out behind Flaco. But when CB joins in, they immediately stop. They look at him with an unruffled gaze.

  “What are you talking about, man?” CB says after a moment. “First, those wusses,” he points at Pato and Alfonso, “rob me and lie to me. Then I get suspended for a week because of them. And you’re trying to say we beat them up for nothing? If that’s not a good reason, I wonder what the fuck would be a ‘good reason’.”

  Behind CB, the others nod their agreement. Then the leader of the Bad Boys closes his eyes and flares his nostrils, taking in a deep breath.

  “I can only see one way to reach an understanding,” he says. “Those two wusses have to apologize to us on their knees. Right now.”

  Yeah, the group of Bad Boys chants. On their knees! On their knees!

  “Just a minute,” Flaco raises his hands to stop them. “It’s not that simple. Look at them.”

  They turn towards Pato and Alfonso, scrupulously examining them from head to toe. Both their faces seem even more swollen and purple than yesterday. Pato pretends to be tough and proudly shows off his injuries, while Alfonso looks down and nervously bites his lip.

  “When Pato’s mother saw his face,” Flaco says, “she almost passed out. He had to lie to his mother to keep her from calling the police. Did you really have to mess them up like that? I mean, that bad?”

  Flaco’s slightly condescending gaze encompasses all the Bad Boys.

  “I think you guys have a screw loose,” he continues, tapping his temple with one finger. “And now you expect them to apologize? It wasn’t enough to beat them up like a bunch of goons?”

  On the Bad Boys side, a variety of murmurs rumble, as CB, frowning, scratches his head.

  “Sorry,” he goes. “You said we beat them up like a bunch of what?”

  “Goons! Goons! . . .”

  Then a couple of seconds later, “Shit, everybody knows what that means!”

  Behind CB, they repeat the word, they consult each other with a simple nod, they shrug their shoulders. Flaco can’t really tell if they’re pulling his leg or if they’re sincere.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Then, when he sees no one’s answering, “You really don’t know what that means?” he says in a superior tone.

  CB turns back to his group and there follows an animated exchange in low tones. Yon moun ki konnèt signification nan mò ‘goon’, nan non Dye? Mon chè, pa gen ide. Non, pa gen sawè. Mwen pa gen sawè sa a. Bagay la sa sale. They point at the Latinos again and again. Finally, CB turns back to Flaco and clears his throat.

  “Is that some kind of insult?”

  In turn, Flaco consults his group in Spanish. Compadres, he asks, what do you think? Should we tell them it’s an insult? Teta leans his head in close and whispers to him, tell him it’s worse than an insult, man. Tell him if somebody called me that, personally, I wouldn’t take it. Tell them I’d strangle any guy who called me that . . . And, tell them . . . Oh, just tell them to go fuck off! They all burst out laughing together.

  “Now you’re making fun of us right to our faces?” CB stiffens.

  “Listen,” Flaco explains, “‘goon’ can be taken as an insult. But it all depends on the context.”

  “What are you talking about, man?” CB retorts indignantly. “Fuck the ‘context’. What did you mean? That’s what we want to hear! Use normal words!”

  “I just meant that I think it’s stupid for guys in grade eleven to beat up guys in grade seven. And if they have to apologize, then we want you to apologize for pounding them.”

  CB gives a feeble laugh, then makes a melodramatic face.

  “Listen, I made those two wusses take a test and they both flunked. The results are clear: there are racists in your gang!”

  “I know you, CB. It’s not going to work with me. If they hadn’t laughed at your joke, you would have pounded them anyway. So, who are the racists then? Them? Or you guys, who beat them up like a bunch of savages?”

  “Racists, us?” CB asks in surprise. “Us? Are you really serious?”

  He pivots towards his group and they each give a throaty, theatrical laugh.

  “We,” he continues, a smile on his lips, “in case you don’t know it yet, are anti-racists. Every day we fight anybody who gives Blacks a hard time. How can you say that, man?”

  And again CB turns towards his group, and like good actors, they hug their sides again, and this time they shake their heads, too.

  “We,” Flaco interrupts, “are against racism, too. What do you think? We even formed our group before you did!”

  “That’s not the question, buddy. You always mix everything up!”

  CB suddenly drops his smile and squints his eyes.

  “Another guy who should apologize on his knees and lick the soles of my shoes is the one who told them to rob us. Don’t you think?”

  The remark whisks Flaco off to another place. He doesn’t really know why, but he can see himself on a balcony on a clear summer day, when suddenly the balcony gives way and falls, he drops, the descent is long and dizzying. . . .

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything, I just want to know who gave the order. That’s all. Would you happen to have any ideas? I swear, I’m gonna make that guy pay!”

  Flaco continues to tumble, like when he used to jump and touch the bottom of the pool with his toes. He shoves his hand into his pants pocket and takes out the condor. The bird swings at the end of the silver chain. CB freezes, then runs a hand through his hair.

  “Listen,” the leader of the Bad Boys says, “the condor is between you and me. We’ll talk about it when we’re alone.”

  On both sides, behind each leader, they question each other: what are they talking about? Where’d that condor come from? Lalo asks someone to explain what’s going on to him, putamadre.

  “If you say Pato and Alfonso are racist,” Flaco retorts, “then as far as I’m concerned, you’re saying my whole group is racist. Do you know what I mean . . . Cléo?”

  CB freaks out.

  “No one’s called me that name for years. You’d better cut it out right now . . .”

  “You ashamed of your name, Cléo Bastide?”

  “I told you not to call me that anymore! You’re playing with fire, man!”

  What’s got into you? What are you doing? ¡Ay Marcelito! A chain of words falls from his lips, unwinding like a snake, “You bunch of racist Black bastards! . . . Don’t you get it, you’re ashamed of being Black!”

  CB leaps at Flaco, aiming for his throat, but he doesn’t manage to push him down or even knock him off balance. On their feet, neither can land a punch. They grab each other’s wrists, glare at each other as if their eyes were daggers. When they see the monitor taking long s
trides towards them, the others on each side hold them back. The monitor sighs, the back of his hand on his hip, and makes a bored face.

  “I really don’t care what you say to each other. But no fighting, or else you’re expelled, boys.”

  He invites each group to go on its way. When the Bad Boys are already a good distance away, CB turns around and wipes a finger across his throat, then, with his hand next to his mouth, he shouts, “The treaty’s off! It’s war!”

  All the members of Latino Power reply with a middle finger raised high in the air. Secretly, Flaco slips the condor back into his pocket. Then he notices Paulina coming towards him, between the tall rusty fence and the sluggish trees along the sidewalk. Did she see everything, he wonders in a low voice. Yes, Flaco, and then they’re quiet for a moment as if they’re trying to organise their thoughts. They’re going to have to start carrying knives again. Paulina’s forehead wrinkles, her lips relax. She shouldn’t look at him like that, she has to be strong now. You get it?

  Early in November, the first snow fell. It was a strange storm that people remembered for a long time: with no wind at all, the flakes fell down, bewilderingly straight. Traffic stopped, and, after school, dozens of children went out into Rue Linton. In many cases, they threw the first snowball of their lives, they slid for the first time along a driveway, usually on a piece of cardboard. From one end to the other, the street was transformed into a huge battlefield, the children didn’t care at all if one of their snowballs hit a pedestrian. Quite the opposite, the courageous one who’d so boldly challenged adult authority was congratulated.

  In class, Akira, Cléo and you sniffled nonstop and your noses had a hard time putting up with the painful irritation of all those tissues. In every subject, Cléo was falling farther and farther behind, and Sister Cécile would often catch him tracing his eyes along the ceiling cracks, or, since he sat near the windows, absorbed in contemplating the ice crystals on the maple branches. Still, when she asked him questions, she forbade the others from making fun of him, because it had become your favourite pretext for getting rowdy. But the restriction made you even more jittery and the whole class would turn scarlet from trying to hold in their laughter. You had a hard time figuring out why Cléo was so excited on the playground and so moody in class.

  On November 15th, you and Akira had been the only students from Saint-Pascal-Baylon invited to Cléo’s birthday. He was the one who opened the door when you arrived: he was wearing a navy blue suit and a silk tie that was much too long for him, so he’d tucked it into his pants, and he reeked of cologne. He rolled his eyes to let them know he wasn’t responsible for what he was wearing. The two of you stepped inside and took off your coats, and you crossed your arms to hide your red woollen tie: your mother had made you wear a tie as well. Akira, his hair parted on one side, exposing his wide forehead, kept glancing at the floor, as if he was looking for something: he didn’t feel very comfortable, guys, really, not at all. You went into the living room and a dozen smiles welcomed you. There were boys and girls your age, all Black, mostly with their parents. It was the first time you’d met them, and you found it strange that Cléo had never talked about all the friends he had. Suddenly, a woman in a wheelchair came towards you, with her arms stretched out, “There you are, Marcelo. Finally.”

  Two kisses smacked on your cheeks, and she looked at you for a long time, her face beaming. Remember, Marcelo: with her black, slightly almond shaped eyes, her graciously curved forehead, and her tiny mouth framed by fleshy lips, she was a beautiful woman, despite her look of exhaustion. Around her eyes and on her forehead, tiny wrinkles were appearing, and her expression, even when she smiled, looked somehow tragic. She took you by the neck, leaned close to your ear: thanks for being so good to Cléo. She hugged you against her for a long time. You knew how to open up to friendship, Marcelo. Yes, that was about the time that your friendship with Cléo turned into a mission. Taking care of him, being responsible for him, became an obligation. She placed one hand on her chest, her name was Carole, but you could call her “Auntie” if you wanted to. She kissed Akira, and, frozen in disbelief, you were thinking, this is her? It can’t be! You couldn’t keep from staring at the wheels on her chair and her lifeless legs.

  Chairs had been placed around the living room and, as soon as you and Akira were seated, you were served some orange juice in little blue tinted glasses, then the conversations started up again in Creole, that funny language you sometimes managed to catch a word of. You looked up at the brightly coloured paintings, you could still smell the fresh paint, and the adults intimidated you: they were talking loudly, moving their hands emphatically. Once in a while, someone, a woman usually, would turn towards you: how long had you been in Canada? What country were you from? Where did you live? What did your father do? And your mother? Your answers were never longer than one syllable, Marcelo.

  A woman in her thirties, her hair pulled up in a bun, stood, with a glass in her hand: shouldn’t the conversation be in French so our two friends can follow? That’s when something strange occurred. Carole rolled to the centre of the room, ready to talk, but then was speechless, as if she’d had a memory lapse. All the daylight was reflected in her sad eyes. What was wrong with her? What was going on? Finally, she gathered her wits back around her: yes, of course they should speak French, please forgive her. It’s just that everything was done in French in this country and it made her feel better to speak Creole. Another rather heavy woman seemed annoyed: she didn’t mind doing her shopping in French, she really didn’t mind at all. As if she hadn’t heard, Carole now laughed and looked around, confused, amazed, delighted, as the others looked on, embarrassed: to think that sometimes in Haiti, she’d found the winters tough!

  Finally, it seemed that Carole deliberately retreated to a corner. What exactly was wrong with her? It was as if she needed to withdraw from everyone, to regain her strength alone with her conscience. After a while, her unoiled wheels started to squeak and she came towards you. And she hugged you in her arms, and in a conspiratorial tone, she said, you and I understand each other, don’t we, Marcelo. Like a little girl, she repeated: we don’t need them! Then she fell silent, as if she’d had a marvellous idea, she said: ¿Cléo te dijo que yo hablaba español? Yes, yes, in Haiti lots of people spoke Spanish, because they were so close to the Dominican Republic. Dios mío, she spoke your language! Then, feeling like you were opening some sort of secret interview, you asked her why she’d left Haiti. She sighed: it wasn’t easy to explain. First of all, Haiti’s not an easy country to live in, she didn’t want to go into details, but the political situation wasn’t very rosy. Nonetheless, you see, she said she sometimes thought she’d made a mistake by coming to Canada. Her love life really wasn’t going well lately. Cléo’s father was a difficult man. . . .

  “He’s not interested in that, Mom!”

  Remember, Marcelo, Cléo’s trembling voice brought everyone to a halt. The conversations stopped as Cléo stared at his mother, his face hard, his gaze piercing. Carole looked around as if searching for approval from the other guests, then her eyes came back to Cléo: what’s got into you? He didn’t answer, a thread of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth. Then, as if nothing had happened, she turned her back on him and started up a conversation with her neighbour.

  Later on, the woman with the bun served you some more juice, insisting that everyone raise their glass in a toast to Cléo, who’d been sitting there the whole time, his arms crossed, pouting. “Happy birthday!” you all shouted together. Okay, that’s better, smiled the woman. She leaned towards you to introduce herself: her name was Maryse. Then, delicately, as if to avoid jostling him or making him even angrier, she went over to Cléo: come on now, my boy, this is no time to sulk. Since Cléo was pretending not to hear, Carole, who’d been watching the scene from a distance, interrupted, they should leave him alone, if he wanted to spoil his own birthday, that was his problem!

  They went into the kitchen, a Black Forest birthday cake
stood in the middle of the table. Small and round, it had been placed with care on a white tablecloth, and adorned with a huge bouquet of daffodils. Only the children could sit down, the adults stood all around with their plates in their hands. The cake was set in front of Cléo, the ten candles were lit and everyone sang Happy Birthday. Kneeling on his chair, with his hands flat on the table, Cléo blew them all out with one breath: he received a long round of applause. Carole cut the cake into slices and sent around the first plate, which quickly made its way into Cléo’s hands. With no hesitation at all, he handed it to you, Marcelo. Then, without making a sound, Carole set down the knife and spoke in a voice she struggled to control: Cléo, please, you know we serve the girls first. Cléo, already holding a second plate in his hands, avoided her eyes: no, it’s my birthday, I get to decide. You, Marcelo, would get the first plate, Akira the second and then the others. Cléo, stop being stubborn and give that plate to one of the girls, now. He replied, no, no, no! They’re my real friends. You could see the fury in his eyes, and Carole lost her temper: if that’s how you’re going to act, you can go calm down in your bedroom! That’s all you ever do, Cléo defended himself, send me to my room while you cry all day! He ran away and slammed a door noisily.