Even though Dupaulin is no longer in the area, food continues to criss-cross the cafeteria. Little by little, the Bad Boys shift their target towards the Latino Power table. They retaliate, of course, throwing whatever is at hand. Soon the cafeteria is transformed into a huge battlefield where tomato juice, egg sandwiches, chocolate pudding, carrot and celery sticks sail through the air. The monitors come running, punish randomly, treat some students harshly. When the ammunitions run out, they settle down, consider the damage, wipe their faces and try to rub out the stains. With empty stomachs, they end up angry with themselves for having wasted their lunches. Several stand, beside themselves, search their pockets and stride towards the vending machines. But Eugène, one of the monitors, makes them sit back down. He still hasn’t noticed he’s walking around with a slice of ham on his receding hairline. Out of breath from running, he questions, “Who started all this? I demand that he stand up right now!”
Laughter rings out here and there. His fists on his hips, he spins around as if trying to catch the students behind him red-handed. It’s obvious he’s new at being a monitor, Flaco thinks. Then the more experienced monitor Gino enters the cafeteria with a determined stride. He walks over to the other man, relieves him of his slice of ham, which he throws on the ground, and whispers a few words into his ear. Then he addresses the students in a slow, almost affable voice, “I’m going to expel the next person who laughs or talks.”
Now, they avoid his eyes.
“This is the last time we’re going easy on you,” he continues. “The next time there’s a food fight, I don’t care if I have to kick out fifteen of you morons, I’m going to do it.”
He surveys them with a hostile look.
“If anyone knows something but is afraid to speak out, they can come see us in the principal’s office.”
For a moment, Gino speaks to Eugène in a low voice, then he leaves. Little by little the cafeteria empties out. The Bad Boys get to their feet, walk past the Latinos, whispering insults. The Latinos reply almost automatically, ¡huevones, maricones de mierda! As soon as they’re out of sight, Lalo says to Flaco, “Did you see? They really think we’re afraid of them, that they terrify us. If we have to fight them bare-fisted, if we have to use knives, I’ll be the first in line.”
“Okay, okay,” Flaco says, “I get it. It doesn’t do any good to get worked up.”
“We need a detailed plan,” Teta suggests.
“I agree,” Lalo seconds. “Breaking windows isn’t enough. I still haven’t got my sneakers back.”
“Have you noticed that since we broke CB’s living room windows and his father chased us around an entire block, they’ve been pretty quiet? I think those guys are up to something. Don’t you think so?”
“Pato’s right,” Flaco says. “We have to do something to them before they do something to us. But what? That’s the question.”
Flaco takes the flyer from the table and hits it with the back of his hand.
“That’s it! If I know them, they’ll be at that party tomorrow, and they’ll all be wearing their leather jackets for sure. Here’s the plan. During the party, we’ll steal their coats. It’ll put us in a good position to negotiate: they’ll have to give us back the shoes and the watch they stole.”
“That’s a good idea,” Teta say, “because all you have to do is give those guys a little rap music and they’ll dance for hours, they won’t have anything else on their minds at all. World War Three could break out and they wouldn’t notice.”
“Exactly,” Flaco agrees. “While they’re dancing, we’ll sneak into the coatroom and bang! we’ll steal them!”
“Yeah!” Pato brightens up. “Christ, that’s a good idea!”
“How are you going to do that?” asks Lalo. “We can’t just walk into the coatroom and take whatever we want. They always have someone there watching it.”
“That’s true,” Flaco answers. “But have you ever noticed who they usually put in there? It’s always a girl. I’m telling you, it can’t fail. One of us will distract her for a little while and in the meantime, the others will take the coats. It’s as simple as that.”
“I’ll be the one to distract her,” Teta says enthusiastically. “I’ll cruise her like she’s never been cruised before. I’ll take her flowers and say things like, ‘amorcito, te quiero, te amo, mi sol . . .’ She’ll wet her panties!”
The others shake their heads and laugh.
“You can’t just cruise her,” Flaco specifies, “she has to leave the coatroom for a little while.”
“No problem,” Teta says. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll just have to take her outside and give her a good French kiss.”
This time, the others look at him in disbelief.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“The matter is that you’re always thinking about having fun,” Flaco explains, “and none of us trusts you. Right now, I think it would be better if someone else distracts the girl. You prove yourself and then we’ll give you better jobs to do.”
“I know the girl who’s going to be in the coatroom pretty well,” Pato says. “She’s in my class. She’s Vietnamese.”
“I’ll say he knows her pretty well!” Lalo says. “She’s always calling him at home. So much so my mother’s about to talk to her and tell her to leave her poor little Pato alone. Anyway, that girl’s crazy about him.”
“Super,” Flaco says. “You sure she’ll be the one?”
“I’m telling you, she’s always asking me if I’m going to be at the party.”
“Good. But listen to me good, Pato. You have to know one thing. The job you have to do is dangerous. You have to have nerves of steel. After the robbery, you’ll have to meet back up with us, without getting caught.”
“No problem. I’m in.”
“It’s cool then,” Flaco says.
“What about me?” Teta asks. “What am I supposed to be doing all that time? Am I supposed to stand around with my fingers up my nose the whole night?”
“Calm down,” Flaco stops him. “You watch Pato and you tell us when the coast is clear.”
Like a ball leaking air, Teta lets out a long, exasperated sigh.
“You always manage to give me the stupidest jobs! Do you do it on purpose or what?”
The others turn away to hide their laughter. Then it’s Flaco’s turn to hiss at him, “That’s what you’re going to do. If you’re not happy about it, don’t come. That’s it. I’m sick of your blubbering.”
Teta chomps at the bit, chewing on an imaginary piece of gum. To the others, Flaco adds, “One last thing. Between now and tomorrow night, we’re going to stay cool. If one of the Bad Boys starts bugging you, suck it up and take his insults without saying anything. They can’t think anything’s up tomorrow.”
The only light in your room came from the little TV where monkeys were jumping from tree to tree trying to grab coconuts hanging from palm trees. Sitting cross-legged, a few centimetres from the screen, Cléo twisted the joystick, as if hypnotized. “You have now reached step number two,” a voice said, and a short tune began and played through three times. He was wearing a grey vest, a white shirt and a black silk tie. Suddenly, the monkey slipped into a ditch, a dozen coconuts fell on his head and the words Game Over flashed on the screen. Cléo began a new game. When he came to your house, it was always the same thing: since he didn’t have Super Nintendo at home, he hogged the game and you had no choice but to watch him play. “You have now reached step number one.”
You walked over to the window and contemplated the big snowflakes falling in slow motion, the tires of a skidding Toyota whose driver never let up on the gas. As Sister Cécile said, Christmas without snow wasn’t Christmas. “You have now reached step number two.” Because you’d left Chile when you were too young to have any concrete memories, you couldn’t imagine a Christmas with thirty-degree temperatures, under palm trees, like the ones your cousins told you about in their letters. You went out of your room, you went to
the end of the hallway and, since the bathroom door was wide open, you saw your father: Roberto was adjusting his tie in the mirror and looking at his profile, as if he was checking that he’d done a good job shaving. He looked you over from head to toe.
“Did you tie your tie all by yourself?”
“All by myself. Mom taught me how last week when we went out to celebrate Uncle Juan’s birthday.”
“Is your friend okay?”
Without waiting for you to reply, Roberto added, “Tell him we won’t be much longer. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
When you got back to your room, Cléo had stopped playing and the room was in darkness. After a few seconds, you were able to make out the edges of the furniture and distinguish Cléo’s shape contrasted against the bluish background of the window. You turned on the lights.
“You thinking about your mother?”
Cléo turned to face you, “Did you see the guy outside whose car’s stuck? I think it’s Akira’s father.”
You came closer, “Oh, yeah! I hadn’t noticed it was his car.”
“Akira told me that for Christmas, his father, him and some friends eat out at a restaurant. That’s how they celebrate Christmas.”
“That’s because they’re not Catholic. Akira wanted to have his confirmation so he could be with us, but Sister Cécile said he couldn’t. He isn’t baptized.”
You sat down on the bed.
“You think your mother will get over it?”
“Don’t worry about it, Marcelo.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Yesterday when I told her I wanted to spend Christmas with you, we had a long talk and she kept telling me over and over: what do you think, it’s the first Christmas I ever spent alone? Of course everything’s going to be fine, what do you think? And she said, anyways, holidays never meant anything to her. She even said it would do her good to be alone for a while. That she was going to read.”
“She’s pretending she doesn’t have any feelings. But deep down, she’s sad. I even think she would have liked for things to work out with your dad.”
“I already told you not to mention your father to me,” Carole had said. “That bastard will never set foot in this house again. And you can be sure of that!”
“You see,” you said, “if she doesn’t want you to mention him, it’s because she’s still mad. Tell me something, Cléo. One minute your father came back home and it looked like everything was going fine. The next minute, your mother kicked him out. What happened?”
“It’s because of another woman,” Cléo answered. “A friend of my parents’. The only one who ever came to see my mother sometimes. Do you remember Mrs. Toussaint, from my birthday? Maryse Toussaint?”
“If that woman dares to call,” Carole had said, “you hang up on her. I don’t want to hear her excuses or have her feeling sorry for me.”
“Yes, I remember,” you said. “She seemed really nice. She played with us and everything. And she seemed to get along so well with your mother.”
“Hypocrite!” Carole had said. “Now I understand why she was doing me all those favours. I’ll help you with this, I’ll help you with that . . . It was just a façade, a game.”
“And your mother really isn’t going to give your father any more chances?” you asked.
“Never,” Carole had said. “She can keep that man if she wants to. Too bad for her. She doesn’t know who she’s teaming up with, the poor thing.”
“I think it’s that my father doesn’t want to come back to my mother,” Cléo explained. “He told me he couldn’t take her anymore, that she’d become too bitter. You know, when someone is in a bad mood all the time.”
“I should have acted sooner,” Carole had said, “I could see it coming. Since my car accident in Port-au-Prince, he’s become more and more distant. My God, what am I going to do . . .”
“How did she find out about the other woman? Did he tell her?”
“No,” Cléo answered, “no way. One night, he came home drunk. My mother was already asleep and he slipped into bed as quietly as he could so he wouldn’t wake her up. He didn’t know my mother wasn’t sleeping. After five minutes, he started snoring. My mother shook him cause she wanted to talk to him, and that’s when he said, ‘Maryse, please, let me sleep. . . .’”
“Ah!” you said in a low voice.
Finally, Carmen appeared in the doorway, wearing an evening dress and some discreet jewellery.
“Ready to go?”
You’d put on your coats in the entryway and you’d pulled up your hoods as you went out, to protect yourselves from the dry wind that was lifting up snow like gusts of sand.
When you’d asked your parents if Cléo could celebrate Christmas with you, Roberto had let out an annoyed sigh. He alleged that, since Cléo didn’t know Spanish, he wouldn’t be able to follow the conversations and therefore he’d be bored. Carmen began to pace around the kitchen with restless strides, waving her hands: was there anything sadder than a child spending Christmas alone? Think a little about what that boy is going through right now. Don’t just think about yourself, you selfish so-and-so. Okay, here’s what I recommend, sighed Roberto, his gaze contorting. It’s okay for him to come, but in the middle of the evening, don’t ask me to take him home cause he’s bored. ¿Está claro?
The car skidded a couple of times as it climbed Côte-des-Neiges, almost did a 360 when it turned onto Queen Mary and rattled into the parking lot of the Auberge. The Latin American Club of Quebec had got into the habit of celebrating holidays there, at the foot of St. Joseph’s Oratory, where the priests charged a reasonable rent. When you’d arrived, mass had already begun and Carmen hid behind your father so she wouldn’t be recognized. You found seats at the back, and Roberto pointed out to you the local celebrities in the front rows, most of them community businessmen who’d set up establishments on Rue Bélanger or Boulevard Saint-Laurent. That was Don Salazar, owner of the travel agency El condor pasa, Don Balmaceda, owner of the chic restaurant Bolívar and Doctors Ponce and Gutiérrez, both tall fellows with long moustaches and greying temples.
During his sermon, Father Louis Cardinal, rector of Saint-Pascal, ex-missionary in South America, a thin sixty-year-old with pink skin and bright eyes, came down from the platform, leaning on the altar. Remember how the community loved him, especially for his tireless efforts to help refugees. He was the antithesis of Father Daoust, who refused to say mass in Spanish. Addressing us in Spanish with a slight Québécois accent, he asked the “more affluent” to create a climate of solidarity in the heart of the community and to reach out a hand to the “new arrivals and those who were more destitute.” ¿Entienden? The front rows nodded their heads and solemnly closed their eyes.
When mass was over, the altar was removed, tables were set up, and people hurried to cover them with tablecloths and place four chairs around each one. Then the buffet was laid out, and the women sucked in their breath, ¡ay qué rico! The food was spread over four long tables: there was a huge parillada, Chilean and Bolivian empanadas, humitas, avocados served with raw vegetables and shrimp, and all kinds of salads. The “more affluent,” grouped around the tables near the organizers, where Father Cardinal also stood, raised their glasses of red wine for toasts that would start sententiously, but invariably concluded with humorous remarks about their weaknesses for women and wine. A ¡salud! in unison came next, then a burst of applause would shake the room.
Remember the meal, so long, copious and exhausting, Marcelo. You boys couldn’t keep still any longer: in a burst of energy too long contained you started a furious race. At eleven-fifteen the tables were taken down and the room was transformed into an immense dance floor with subdued lighting. The musicians set up their equipment, did a sound check and then played cumbia after cumbia, merengue after merengue, cueca after cueca. Zigzagging between the couples wiggling their hips, you were playing tag and Cléo was so fast no one could catch him. An older boy, visibly offended, persisted in chasing him
and Cléo, spinning around, came nose-to-nose with a woman who was carrying the leftovers from the buffet and was unable to avoid him. They both collapsed to the floor amidst the clatter of dishes. The dress the woman, Aunt Gloria, was wearing was stained. She got up brusquely, ready to yell at the boy, but when she saw it was Cléo, she held back her scolding. Juan, her husband, already pretty drunk, stared at the dress dripping with sauce: ¿qué pasa? ¿qué pasa? Rien, querido, just an accident, Carmen explained, as she hurried to pick up the spilled food. What did she mean, nothing? And Carmen stood up suddenly: it’s just an accident, don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?
After that, since you weren’t allowed to run anymore, you went to hang out, as if by chance, near where the girls were. A mocking light crossed the eyes of Carolina, Juan’s daughter, who asked you to play spin the bottle. What? You both said in unison, your hearts thudding. No, thank you, not here, not in front of the parents. Was she crazy? But Carolina, standing sideways, with her arms crossed, smiled suggestively: you chicken or what? Us, chicken? You’re nuts! You huddled like football players planning the game before setting foot on the field, and Cléo stepped forward, suave and cool as a cat: Okay, we’ll play, and we’ll see who’s afraid of who. When the bottle stopped spinning, the boy and the girl it was pointing at got up and kissed on the mouth for at least ten seconds. From time to time, an adult went by, looked at you out of the corner of their eye for a moment, then moved on smiling. All this time, the women’s dresses were sweeping across the dance floor, one more lively than the next, while around the edges, people were gossiping non-stop.
The bottom and the neck of the bottle pointed towards Cléo and Carolina. She was first on her feet, her cheeks on fire, her eyes gleaming with momentary boldness: I never tried with a Black guy. All around the circle, children coughed, they giggled, they watched Cléo closely. Well, said one of the boys, the time’s come. Cléo then got up, they took a step towards each other and delicately brought their lips together. After a moment, they were rubbing each other’s backs as they kissed. Whistles burst out, jokes shot back and forth, prompting laughter that caused heads to turn. Juan staggered over and watched them for a second, his eyelids half-closed. The breath coming from his mouth as it hung loosely open smelled of alcohol. What are you doing? he asked his daughter, momentarily losing his balance. Don’t you respect yourself anymore, niñita? Not hearing him, the two hugged each other harder, and Juan tried with difficulty to separate them. Then he grabbed Carolina’s arm, pulled her towards him and insulted her, but she immediately pushed him away and pinched her nostrils. Not fazed in the least, Juan squinted at Cléo who, without blinking, met his gaze. It was as if Cléo was whispering: you don’t scare me, sir. Who invited you? Juan questioned him in his lazy voice. And, Marcelo, you were the one who answered: I invited him. What’s the problem? Tell him to take it easy or he’d better watch out. What did he do? You kidding me or what? Juan said, as he gave a little laugh. You saw what he did. Remember the blood beating in your temples and the strength that came from who knows where and gradually took you over. Spilling out all your bile, you showered thinly veiled insults on your Uncle Juan: he was nothing but a borracho, a drunk! All he ever thought about was drinking! Be quiet, Marcelo, or else you’re gonna get it, caramba! Then the shoving, then the music suddenly stopped, the dancers came to a standstill: what’s going on, por el amor de Dios? There was no stopping your Uncle Juan: didn’t everyone see that these kids were just a gang of degenerates! Roberto held him back while Father Cardinal raised his arms as if begging the heavens: come, come, amigos, it was the most important day of the year, they weren’t going to spoil it over such a little thing, were they? In the disorder and confusion, Cléo got away from him and went to sit out of the way, hidden behind a speaker. He avoided everyone’s eyes. Finally, the crowd broke up. Juan left without saying goodbye, and his wife, with a great many smiles and low bows, apologized profusely: my husband isn’t feeling well, he doesn’t believe what he said, I promise you.
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