Black Alley

by Mauricio Segura

  Silence passed through like a cold draught and Carole started sending plates around again. You’d barely tasted the cake, when she came over to you discreetly: could she talk to you? She took you over to the refrigerator, bent over, with her hands in her lap: would you please do her a favour and try to get Cléo to come back? I know he won’t listen to me. As a last resort, you could just tell him it’ll soon be time for presents and he’ll have to come out to get them.

  Remember the closed door to his room in the middle of the dark hallway. You knocked once, twice, you turned the knob and slowly pushed the door which seemed almost to open on its own. Surrounded by darkness, crying like a fountain, Cléo was stretched out on his bed, his face buried in a pillow. With tiny steps, you made your way over to the bed and Cléo’s face appeared, as sad as a guitar without strings. Your mother wants you to come back out. He shook his head no. Come on, don’t be like that, it’s almost time to get your presents. I don’t care. Okay, whatever you say. Can I at least give you my present? You didn’t wait for him to answer and you took a little square box out of the pocket of your pants. He sat up, took it and shook it vigorously beside his ear. Go on, open it up. He ripped off the wrapping, opened the box and looked for a long time at his gift, his mouth slightly open. Thank you, and you replied, you’re welcome, happy birthday. Now he was smiling weakly: you were his best friend, Marcelo. He was your best friend, too. Cléo’s eyes looked panicky: it’s just that sometimes he hated his mother. She corrected him all the time, and it tired him out. Then, as you remained silent, standing there in the midst of all the objects enveloped by the soft light filtering in through the blinds, he slipped on the chain. The condor shone against the blue of his tie.

  Standing in front of the living room window, Ketcia follows the cars filing down Rue Linton in the twilight. From now on, she’s well aware, she won’t be able to walk around alone. She’ll always have to have someone with her. In the last two days, each member of the Bad Boys has got a call where a voice, intentionally deepened and distorted, has repeated two or three times: you’re dead, buddy! Or else: watch out, if you don’t want to end up with two broken legs! The Bad Boys talked it over at CB’s for a long time and agreed they had to act quickly, to take advantage of the element of surprise. The idea worked, and in his opinion, their scheme was more imaginative than the one Latino Power came up with: they slipped threats written on bits of paper into the Latinos’ lockers. Seeing them read the insults was something else, they looked stunned.

  Still, and he should have expected this, Latino Power didn’t waste any time either. She’s still wondering how they did it, the bastards. Every Saturday she slept late, then took her shower and went to the kitchen where her two younger brothers and her parents were already at the table. Today the door to the courtyard was half open and, as if moved by a premonition, she went out onto the balcony. It was cool out, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It took a while for her to notice the cat, stretched out on its side, its eyes open. Since it sometimes gets hot in the spring and since Vaudou is usually incurably lazy, at first she thought the animal had lain down just to be more comfortable. She stroked his grey fur but immediately jerked back her hand. His mouth was half open, his canines exposed. Frightened, she screamed, and her father came running. He examined Vaudou: sweet Jesus, what does this mean? He’s dead. Slowly, he drew one hand along his beard, then put his finger to his lips: her brothers mustn’t see the cat, it would be too painful for them. She should go get a plastic bag. When Ketcia came back out onto the balcony, her father winked: Vaudou ran away, okay? Okay, she agreed. As they lifted the cat to place him in the bag, a thread of blood came from his mouth and then everything had to be cleaned up. Ketcia carried the bag downstairs to the trash. She felt funny leaving Vaudou there. When she went back up to the apartment, her father took her aside: did she have any idea who could have done such a thing? It wasn’t normal, cats don’t just die like that. He had been killed, that much was obvious. Already she was thinking it was the Latinos, but she held back her anger: no idea, Dad, I really don’t get it.

  Outside, there was still no sign of the Bad Boys, only three boys tossing a ball back and forth in front of the building across the street. But yesterday CB had said that they’d get together at about seven, seven-thirty. Finally, she sees them coming up the sidewalk, one behind the other, she waves to them and, as usual, they reply by making faces at her and waving for her to come down. With light steps, to avoid attracting her parents’ attention, she slips on her Bad Boys jacket and goes out, being careful to close the door behind her without making a sound. Sitting on the yellow grass, or leaning against her father’s old red pickup truck, they’re smoking with their legs crossed and surveying the neighbourhood as if a threat could arise any second.

  She shakes everyone’s hand, the way the Bad Boys do, in a complicated series of finger snaps and hand slaps. Every single one of them is wearing a black coat that comes half way down their thighs, with an artistic drawing of the Bad Boys’ logo on the back. Several of them, thoughtful and impassioned, swear to avenge Vaudou’s death. Eh? says Mixon, his eyebrows transformed into upside down v’s. He hadn’t heard about it! Shit, why is he always the last to know, eh? And, without losing a beat, Ketcia imitates Mixon’s voice and intonation: why don’t you ever listen when people talk to you, eh? No one speaks for a moment, and Mixon suggests a moment of silence. Ketcia, both surprised and touched, smiles weakly: Mixon, what’s got into you? You had a good idea! You sick? For a few long seconds, they all lower their eyes, contemplative, like in church, but suddenly, on the balcony of the building on the other side of the street, a woman in her sixties, her hair a mess, puts out a garbage bag. They know her, she came from Hungary or Czechoslovakia, and she’s always grumbling about everything and anything. Mixon steps towards the balcony, a mocking smile on his lips: hello, Mrs. Masaryk, how are you? What can we do for you today? She stares at him, purses her lips as if to control her anger and, before going back into her apartment shouts in a nasal voice: Bunch of delinquents! Get a job! There follows an explosion of laughter, then Mixon rejoins the group, shaking his head, amused, Christ, I love that old woman!

  Then he starts blowing on his nails and polishing them on his long, black T-shirt. With affected manners, he coughs several times and tells them that last night he went to Flaco’s building and, with a little help from a can of black spray paint, wrote Death to the Latinos! on the garage door. What do they say about that, guys? Euphoric acclamations and warm handshakes congratulate him. Only CB doesn’t look cheerful, Ketcia notices, something’s on his mind. The others also become aware of this and little by little they fall silent. CB looks up at the sky, stuffs his hands in his pockets and kicks at a cigarette pack lying on the ground. Yesterday, his father got a call from the principal telling him about his week’s suspension and there followed an animated conversation between him and his old man, and, he swears to them, his old man doesn’t think it’s funny at all to see him mixed up in this.

  “You wanted to hit a teacher?” asked his father in a voice that was almost more amused than worried. “What got into you? You should know you never win when you lose your cool.”

  “It’s nothing,” replied CB. “He’s an old racist who was trying to get on my nerves. But what’s it to you? Don’t you always say you don’t give a crap about what happens to me?”

  “Don’t twist what I say, please,” his father said, lying back on the sofa, his hands behind his head. “What I kill myself trying to get you to understand is that you have to take responsibility for yourself. I won’t always be here for you. But there’s one thing that’s sacred, and you know it: you have to finish high school.”

  “Don’t complain,” Mixon interrupts. “Your father’s happy with high school. My parents want me to become an engineer, man. Can you imagine? Six more years of school! The only good thing about the Polytéchnique, if I can believe what my cousins say, is they have some kick-ass parties!”

  “You’ve
got two months left to finish high school,” CB’s father said. “One piece of advice for you, between now and then: stop scaring the teachers,” he added with a laugh. Then he turned serious again: “I mean it, after that, you can do what you want. Even move out if it makes you happy.”

  “Your father’s like Québécois parents,” Ketcia says. “Once their kids are eighteen, they give them a kick in the ass and say see you later!”

  “No, no,” said his father. “I don’t want to get rid of you. I want you to assume some responsibility and stop thinking you’re entitled to everything! If you’d rather stay with me after high school, that’s great. I don’t see any problem there.”

  “Nice speech!” CB shouted. “It’s all well and good for you to talk about responsibility. You never took care of me.”

  “Anyway,” Mixon states, “your father’s a real ladies’ man. Every time I see him get out of his car, he’s with a different woman. And he doesn’t pick up just anybody, either!”

  “All you care about is women!” CB exclaimed. “You think I don’t know where all your pay goes? So, when you talk about ‘responsibilities,’ you just make me laugh. What you really mean is, ‘get the hell out so I can screw in peace!’”

  “It’s the same thing, every time,” Mixon continues, now displaying a mischievous smile. “Your father gets out of the car and comes around to open their door. Then, whether they’re black, white, yellow, or whatever, they are built, my friends! Every single one of them, I swear to you!”

  “Just a second!” CB’s father said, still smiling. “We’re talking about you, not me! My life is my concern. And, by the way, I never said I was perfect.”

  “My father,” says Ketcia, “is the exact opposite: he’s afraid of women. If a sexy woman even comes near him, he starts stuttering and shaking. Once, he was serving a friend of my mother’s, a tall, beautiful woman, and he spilled the whole bottle of wine on her dress. The twit!”

  “Anyway,” CB’s father continued, “we’re not going to get along any better by insulting each other. Listen, I’ve been thinking about something for a while. I wanted to talk to you about it. You know, I’ve been driving the taxi now for three years. Let’s just say I’m starting to get tired of it.”

  “Since we came to Canada,” CB explains, “my father has tried all kinds of businesses. The problem is, none of them have worked.”

  “What I mean is, if I’m going to live like a zombie,” his father continued, “I’d rather do it in Haiti.”

  “In Haiti,” says CB, “there’s always family to help him out. Even if he won’t admit it, I think that’s what he misses most: his family.”

  “But it’s a zoo down there!” Mixon says. “Everybody knows that. It’s even fucking dangerous right now.”

  “What would you say about coming to Haiti with me?” his father suggested. “A few months, to try things out and see if we want to stay.”

  “What?” says Mixon. “You leaving us, CB?”

  “Are you crazy!” replies CB. “He brings that one out two or three times a year, when he’s depressed. I tell him if he pays the flight, I’d be happy to go on a little vacation. But I know perfectly well we’ll never go.”

  “Going would do you a lot of good,” his father said. “Maybe you think I don’t know you get drunk every weekend? That you smoke and skip classes? This society is corrupting you and it hurts me to see you like this.”

  “My father says that all the time,” Mixon remarks. “He says Haiti may be poor, but it’s a healthier society.”

  “And let me tell you,” CB’s father went on, “all that you’ve got left of Haiti is your looks. You’re becoming more and more Québecois. Like one of my friends would say, you’re getting Westernized!”

  “What are you talking about?” CB said. “All my friends are Haitian. I even formed a group to defend our rights, just like you taught me yourself. And you say I’m not Haitian anymore?”

  “Look at what you’re wearing,” his father retorted. “You dress like a rapper, you run to McDonald’s whenever I give you money. You speak Creole less and less. And, and this is the big one, what do you know about Haiti? Not much. . . .”

  “Maybe not, compared to you,” CB said. “But at school, I swear, I’m the most Haitian of all the Haitians. Ask any of my friends.”

  “I can only imagine what your kids will be like,” his father laughed. “They’ll hardly be able to find Haiti on a map!”

  CB leans against the door of the pickup, still hurt by what his father said. They all seem to be lost in their thoughts as the streetlights come on. Mixon steps away from the group and, concentrating hard, stares at his shadow and starts to box.

  “In any case,” he says, throwing jabs, “it doesn’t matter who’s more Haitian than who. All our parents think they’re better than us ’cause they know Haiti better and they even talk Creole. But I’m here to tell you that’s a load of B.S. . . . What matters right now is that the Latinos killed Vaudou and we’re not going to take it.”

  “Yeah,” says CB. “The next step will be extorsion. I guarantee that’ll settle them down.”

  “Excellent idea,” says Mixon enthusiastically, feverishly jumping an imaginary rope, imitating a professional boxer. “I’m telling you, if I had a Latino in front of me right here, right now, I’d squash him like a bug.”

  “Right,” adds Ketcia, “brag about it a little more. And when we’re face to face with the Latinos, who’s the first one to shit his pants?”

  Mixon comes to a standstill, out of breath, and all together the others shout, “Mixooooooon!”

  A week before, Sister Cécile had received an honour that had left her pensive: at an elaborate ceremony at a five-star, downtown hotel, she’d been given a commemorative plaque emphasizing her fifty years of service to the Catholic School Board of Montreal. There was a long reminder that, with her seventy-four summers, as the superintendent put it, she was the oldest teacher in the city, a fact that disconcerted her somewhat. So much in fact that, when she returned to the mother house that night she wasn’t feeling happy as she had first thought, but rather defeated: had there been a rush to celebrate her, now that she was soon to leave this lowly world? During the following days, two other questions occurred to her, and these were even more stubborn. Was she still a woman of her time? Wasn’t it time for her to hang up her skates, as one of her nephews teasingly said, and retire? God in heaven, what if everyone was right?

  Since her earliest childhood, she’d known she’d be a teacher, admiring nothing more than the work of those who had taught her. Towards the end of her teenage years, this premonition was confirmed: children brought her the greatest gratification. When she joined the community of the Sisters of the Holy Cross, she was moved by two convictions: serving the Lord with all the impetuous devotion of her youth, and dedicating her life to children. And that was exactly what she had done. At the same time, she’d witnessed the transformation that Quebec, and Montreal in particular, had undergone, and this hadn’t always occurred without her heart tightening just a little. Sometimes, kneeling in Église Saint Pascal, her thoughts would roam and, troubled, she would wonder what had happened. What had happened to the people, the landscapes, the scenes of her youth? Originally from Sainte-Agathe, she’d first come to Montreal as a teen, and had never again left. Often, jokingly, in front of the other nuns, she’d say it was the love of her life, and the others would giggle like young girls, covering their mouths with their hands.

  Sometimes she got angry with the so-called progress that had so changed what she cherished: a peaceful, healthy life, where nature occupied a prime position. That’s why she thought it was important to tell the children what Côte-des-Neiges had been like at the time: on Sundays, young ladies showed off their lace dresses with a parasol on their shoulders, the men, in brown suits with white shirts and fedoras, smoothed their moustaches admiringly, coachmen paraded black carriages, farmers drove carts overflowing with fruits and vegetables. Didn’t they kn
ow, she would say facing the children, raising a finger as if to announce they were about to be astonished, people came great distances, sometimes even from the other side of Mount Royal, to buy inexpensive vegetables? It didn’t matter what countries the children were from, their reaction was always the same: they’d rush to the window and follow the flow of cars: horses on the Côte-des-Neiges? No, it was impossible! Really, Sister Cécile?

  It pained her to think those days were gone forever. Sometimes, it’s true, a reminder of the Quebec of her childhood would appear to her, as when that grandfather came to get his grand-daughter’s report card and they’d chatted for more than an hour, laughing and joking, like old friends meeting again after a long separation. But that was an isolated incident, and that made those times even more solemn and sad. Other times, she thought it had to be her own fault and she’d tell herself she hadn’t aged well. On still other occasions, she’d stiffen up and tell herself she shouldn’t make excuses and close her eyes. Just as Sister Lacasse had commented one evening at dinner, culture, their culture, real culture, was dying. Sister Cécile didn’t blame anyone for this, but had it really been the right decision to accept all these children who came from all over the world? Sometimes she wondered. She adored them, she dreamed about them, bored the other nuns telling so many stories of their successes and their blunders, but she always asked herself the same question.

  Why did certain children integrate better than others? How was it that some of them, as early as grade five, rejected Québécois culture outright? Was it the parents’ fault? Sometimes she wondered about the upbringing and discipline they received at home. Like that Cléo Bastide, his head always in the clouds, his homework almost always incomplete, only interested in sports, what kind of parents did he have? She had no idea, since they hadn’t come to the report card distribution. The parents of the worst students never showed their faces.