It’s like, after so much emotion, Ketcia thinks, he needs a little quiet, a little rest. Personally, I never would have thought we would have ended up here. She always thinks it’s too bad to have to resort to violence, but, sometimes, it’s true, and CB has said so, they have no choice. The image of Mixon pops back into her head, he got out of the hospital yesterday. Since his parents want him to rest up over the weekend, they’re not letting him go out. She again thinks of the strange evening they spent yesterday at Mixon’s, when his mother invited all the members of the gang to come to dinner, along with their parents. Everyone came, except CB of course, he doesn’t go out of his way for that kind of occasion. After they’d eaten, when they were all sitting in the living room, Mixon’s mother got up, crossed her hands and spoke to them solemnly, having apparently prepared a speech: what happened is serious and we wanted to talk to you about it. Especially with you, the other parents. There followed a long, unbearably boring tirade about the decadent morals in modern cities. In conclusion, the woman spent a great deal of time lamenting the decline of faith in the Sweet Lord Jesus.
Seething, Ketcia’s mother coughed and said what was on her mind. Was she finished now? Ketcia smiled, her mother had never been one to hold her tongue. Mixon’s mother looked distraught, then hurt, then she finally got angry. Yes, now that she thought of it, it’s as if Mixon’s mother wanted her revenge: there was something else. Our children are on drugs. Their mouths hanging open, every member of the gang turned towards Mixon. Shit, Ketcia had suddenly thought, what could he possibly have told her? Later, visibly ashamed of his lack of courage, Mixon explained that, under his parents’ pressure, he’d had to admit certain things, or else he’d have been held prisoner in his own house for a month. Keep an eye on your children, Mixon’s mother had added, proud of having regained control of the situation. At home, as soon as she’d hung her raincoat on the hook, Ketcia’s mother took her aside: what’s all this about drugs? Ketcia avoided her eyes, weighed the available choices and lied as naturally as anything: no, no, Mom, that woman was just making things up. You said it yourself, she’s crazy! Having dropped down into his armchair in the living room, from a distance, her father called: Ketcia, you’re telling us the truth, aren’t you? And she felt a tickling in her stomach, then she quickly replied: maybe Mixon had been smoking, but not us. When the words left her mouth, she immediately felt bad, CB always says, the worst thing is ratting on other people. Her mother took her by the shoulders and shook her: don’t ever let me catch you doing anything that stupid!
Ketcia turns back towards the others: CB and Max seem to have fallen asleep, while, in the dark corner, Richard is struggling to stay awake. Teta is looking at her with sad, sleepy, begging eyes. You’re really barking up the wrong tree, she thinks, if you believe that just because I’m a girl, you can soften me up. It’s true he looks pitiful, though: a clot of bloody snot has dried under his nose and his T-shirt is covered with scarlet red spots. She forces herself to think of Mixon, his arm, his bandage, his haggard face. Outside, things are pretty quiet, the two boys who were playing hockey went home quite a while ago. She looks at her watch: an hour has passed, she can’t believe how time flies. She rotates her head so she doesn’t get a stiff neck. Now, the breathing and different-sounding snores tell her that all of them, including Teta, are asleep. How come she’s not sleep? When she sees the police car quietly park in front of Teta’s building she suddenly understands why CB asked her to keep an eye on what was happening outside. She claps her hands: they all jump, swear and get up staggering.
“The cops are here!” she shouts, forgetting to speak Créole.
“I knew it,” CB says, rushing towards the window.
Teta starts screaming his lungs out and, for a long moment, panic stricken, they all freeze, their eyes staring. CB finally jumps towards him, goes behind the chair, covers his mouth with one hand and squeezes his stomach with his arm, like he’s trying to empty it. The Latino chokes, coughs and stops shouting. CB orders Max to bring him a dirty T-shirt, which he puts on Teta’s mouth, before knotting it energetically. Then he comes back to the window.
“What are we going to do?” Max asks in a trembling voice. “Shit, this is getting fucking serious.”
CB doesn’t answer, he’s watching the police officers walk towards Teta’s building.
“You think we should let him go?” Max goes on. “Have we waited long enough? . . . It’s getting heavy, man.”
“No way,” CB orders in a loud voice, without looking at him. “We have to finish what we started.”
“Buddy,” Max insists, “the cops are outside. This isn’t funny. What if they decide to do a complete search of all the neighbouring buildings?”
“Shut the hell up, you coward! . . . I’m ashamed of you!”
CB looks at Max in disgust, glances at his watch and, in an authoritative tone says: “We have no choice but to wait for Flaco to call.”
“Completely naked?” you asked.
“No, no,” Carmen replied, “don’t be silly, it’s just a figure of speech. She was wearing a bathrobe, of course, it is the month of April. What were you thinking?”
“You should know,” Roberto pointed out, “that your mother is incapable of telling anything without feeling like she has to add something. With her, everything is possible, a tiny spider can suddenly be the size of Godzilla.”
“You stay out of this, please!” Carmen said. “To the best of my knowledge, I’m not talking to you! Anyway, you didn’t see it. You were snoring when it happened.”
“She came out onto the balcony in her wheelchair,” you said, “and then what?”
“Well, I was getting dressed before I came to make breakfast,” she continued, “when I hear shouting. No, wait, it wasn’t really shouting, it was like screaming. I go over to the window, I open it and that’s when I saw her on the balcony. After that, it was like she was talking to herself, she was saying things in Creole, I think, I didn’t understand what she was saying.”
“Okay!” Roberto interrupted her. “Now your story doesn’t make sense anymore.”
“She didn’t fall out of her chair, she was just there near the balcony railing, but she kept waving her arms around like this . . . It was like she had a stomach ache or something. People were stopping on the sidewalk, but then they’d just move on again. One man just kept on walking, without even looking at her, like nothing was going on. I couldn’t believe it. . . .”
“You should have called the ambulance right away,” Roberto said. “You don’t let something like that wait. It could explode.”
“That’s what I was going to do, Roberto, I told you. But once I was in the living room, when I picked up the phone, I saw the ambulance pull up. Someone else in the area must have called. And there is another reason why I didn’t call sooner, I was waiting for Cléo to come out onto the balcony.”
“He’s probably not even home,” you said. “On weekends, he always sleeps over at one of his friends’. But what do you think was wrong with his mom?”
“It’s hard to say. I don’t know any details about her private life. All I know is what you tell me. You’re in a better position than I am to explain things. Although, I did bump into her two or three times this week.”
“You did?” remarked Roberto. “You didn’t tell me that. . . .”
“Yes. She works in a factory on Boulevard Saint Laurent too. She told me that in the beginning it was okay, but now she was suffocating from all the dust at work. If I remember right, she said she didn’t have the strength to keep working. The last time she even said she was thinking about going back to Haiti.”
“Marcelo, maybe you should call Cléo before your cousins get here,” Roberto suggested. “He could probably use some company right now, with his mother being in the hospital and all, it can’t be easy for him.”
“It’s just that we don’t see each other much anymore,” you explained. “We’re not such good friends anymore.”
“Really?” Roberto as
ked in surprise. “Did you have a fight?”
“No, I don’t know. Sometimes I even have a hard time explaining to myself what happened.”
“For once,” Carmen offered, “I agree with your father. You should call him.”
“You think so? You really think so?”
“Of course! The least you can do is call someone when they need it. It can also give you a chance to start over again.”
“He’s probably not even home.”
“Don’t make me ask again,” Carmen insisted. “Go on, do it.”
Remember, Marcelo: you’d gone into the living room, you’d picked up the receiver and you’d dialled his number without much hope. When you heard his “hello,” you said to yourself: is that Cléo? Since you hardly spoke to each other anymore, his voice seemed to have changed. You hesitated and, fearing a refusal or a bad mood, you simply said: how are you? It took him a little while to answer, as if he hadn’t yet decided whether or not to talk to you. Yeah, he was okay. And is your mother getting better? In an apathetic yet intrigued voice, he asked: did you see her on the balcony? My mother’s the one who saw her. And he said, she’s okay, she’s going to be all right. Remember his little devil-may-care smile, Marcelo. Why? Then, just to make a little conversation with you, he added that he’d been at Carl’s when everything happened, that his Haitian friends were the ones who’d told him. She’d taken too many tranquilizers, that’s all. A heavy silence followed, during which you thought you heard confusing conversations over the in-and-out sounds of his breathing. I’m telling you, he added, there’s nothing seriously wrong with her. You sure you don’t need anything, Cléo? No, it’ll be okay, thanks. It’s not the first time she’s done something like that. Okay, I just wanted to know if you needed anything. No problem, Marcelo. Bye, bye.
You hung up and you remained motionless for a long time. Why was Cléo talking to you like that? Why did you have the feeling he was mad at you? Because, yes, there was some resentment, skilfully camouflaged by feigned indifference, that surfaced in the inflections of his voice. At that point, you swore you’d never talk to him again, then the image of Carole in her wheelchair, with arms outstretched, came back to you and shame burned your cheeks. What were you supposed to think about all this? Hey, champ, what are you doing? someone shouted at you, putting an end to your reflection. Enrique and Toño, your two cousins, had just burst into the living room, after slipping into your apartment without knocking. Boy, you’re looking pretty down in the dumps, Marcelo! Toño commented. It was nothing, you just hadn’t got enough sleep, that’s all. Shall we go? You put on your windbreaker, you asked your cousins to wait a minute, then you went to say goodbye to your parents. They asked you what Cléo had said to you. You see, you did the right thing by calling your friend, Carmen approved. Yes, Mom, you were right.
Outside, it was chilly, and Enrique energetically rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his windbreaker: you have no idea how eager I am for summer to get here! Remember: Enrique and Toño, twin brothers, had emigrated to Canada the previous August and, since they’d moved into the neighbourhood a month ago, you’d seen them almost every day. They thought of you as their little brother, and the speed with which they took you under their wing surprised you and made you happy. Anyway, continued Enrique, as far as the weather is concerned, there’s no place like Chile! What do you know about it, Toño retorted, since the only places you know are Canada and Chile. Enrique gave him a dark look, but then he softened, as if he’d thought better of it. You strolled down Légaré acting silly, then you ran across Van Horne and Kent to avoid the cars. On the sidewalk, two girls with sparkling eyes and tight pants passed you. Enrique was quick to whistle, his eyes riveted to their asses as they rose and fell with each step: hey, look at that! Not bad for Asians, eh, Marcelo? Surprised, you didn’t answer. Tell me, do you have a girlfriend? Give me a chance, I’m only in primary school. And Toño wiped improbable sweat from his forehead with his forearm and said impatiently: yeah, he’s still too young. His face beaming, Enrique put an arm around your shoulders and hugged you both: what are you talking about, guys? In primary school in Chile, he already had lots of girls after him. They’d come by the dozens to knock on his door! Wasn’t that true, Toño? Lots of times, it even ended with terrible fights. And when girls fight, they don’t fool around, they pulled hair and everything. Here, at the Polyvalente, all he had to do was sit on a bench and they could be sure he attracted them like a magnet! It was simple, he wreaked havoc wherever he went! Grinning, Toño noisily cleared his throat: are you sure you aren’t exaggerating just a little? How can you say such a thing! Enrique said, offended. He’d seen them during breaks, hadn’t he, there were always two or three of them orbiting around him? Toño sighed: yes, but you’re in grade ten and you’re always going out with girls in grade seven or eight. How do you explain that? Enrique’s face closed up, then, his voice thinner under the effects of increasing irritation, retorted: what does that change? They’re still girls, aren’t they? It was better than what you were doing anyway, stuck with the same chick since you’d come to Canada. And a Chilean on top of it all! At least he was exploring, he’d tried girls who were Lebanese, Vietnamese. He was adventuresome! Toño exchanged a knowing look with you and shrugged his shoulders in a sign of amused powerlessness.
You entered the underground parking lot at the Plaza Côte-des-Neiges and, a few steps later, you noticed that two boys with jet-black skin, both wearing faded T-shirts, were coming towards you, laughing loudly. In passing, Enrique lowered an icy gaze on them, as he bit his tongue, and the Black guys, astonished, immediately stopped laughing. Did you see? Enrique asked. What? You asked with a nod. You don’t see that those guys were laughing at us. You went through the revolving doors into the mall and, as you went past a hair salon, Enrique said: the other day at the Polyvalente, when I told a Québécois kid I lived around Côte-des-Neiges, you know what he answered? Huh, you know what? He answered: You mean Côte-des-Nègres, that Black alley? There’s nothing but immigrants around there. Can you imagine? Enrique energetically shook his head, as if smoke was going to start coming out of his ears, and he added: anyway, one thing’s for sure, the neighbourhood’s filling up with dirty Blacks faster than you can count them! Toño turned around: man, you’re an ass, you’re so prejudiced! Then Enrique got mad: we know why you’re always defending the Blacks. It’s because of your Jamaican friend Andrew. Let me tell you something, they don’t need you to defend them, there’s enough of them as it is. On the escalator, he was now leaning towards his twin and from time to time he poked him in the chest with his index finger: you know what the teacher said to us after that fight between the Italians and the Latinos? Eh, you know what he said? Please stick with your own people. And to that, just for you, Toño, I’d add: defend your own kind before you defend others!
Remember, Marcelo: in front of the chrome turnstiles of Zellers, you quickly felt something wasn’t quite right, that Enrique was getting dangerously angry. He turned and stared at every passerby and, when you asked him a question, he’d answer without looking at you: what? what did you say? Okay, said Toño, I’m going to the sports store downstairs, I think they have soccer balls. We’ll look at the prices and we’ll meet up back here, near Pick-Nick. He disappeared behind the tables where dozen of boys in basketball clothes were devouring hotdogs, but he came back a few seconds later, tapping his finger against his temple: look at the quality and the brand of the balls, too. Yeah, yeah, Enrique answered, exasperated. When his brother had gone, he started looking around, as if he was looking for someone, and then he leaned towards you: listen good, little cousin. You stay here, he said, articulating each syllable meticulously, and if you see anything unusual, you meet me in the store right away. Enrique was already walking away when you held him back by tail of his windbreaker: I don’t understand. If I see what that’s unusual? Enrique stared at the elevator in the distance as if it was the other end of the world and, with a discouraged grimace twisting his face, he
grumbled: use your brain once in a while, Marcelo. Don’t be huevón! And he went through the turnstiles, as you stood there swallowing your saliva with difficulty and wondering: what should I do? Should I stay or should I go?
After five long minutes, Toño reappeared. The balls were either monstrously expensive or of poor quality, like they were made out of plastic, but you couldn’t really tell. All the better to screw you, kiddo, Toño added. Three times more expensive than in Chile, can you imagine? Now he was nervously tapping his foot, and he kept checking his watch. Then you saw Enrique coming towards you at top speed, slaloming through the multicoloured crowd. Time to go, guys. He wasn’t kidding. Toño, humming a meandering tune, asked him with a nod of his head: so, did you find anything? I hope you had better luck than I did. But Enrique was already heading for the door with long strides: you deaf? He just said it was time to go! You fell into step behind him and, once you were outside, in silent agreement, you all began to run as fast as you could. Once you made it to Rue Barclay, Enrique slipped like an eel into the lobby of an apartment building, and you followed him, pushed by a sort of automatic reflex. With one hand against the wall, a grimace of pain twisting his face, Toño kept repeating, shaking his head: tell me it’s not true, tell me you didn’t do anything, Enrique, tell me it’s just a joke . . . With lightning speed, Enrique pulled down the zipper on his windbreaker, dropped his pants and, pulled a deflated ball out of his T-shirt and underwear. Victoriously, he waved it under his brother’s nose. Toño remained silent, furiously running one hand through his hair. If it makes you feel any better, Enrique said, it’s not the best one they had. Now Toño was looking him up and down severely, squinting: you’re really an idiot! What’s your problem? Why do you always have to steal? You. . . . you. . . . He didn’t finish his sentence, he lowered his arms and turned toward the glass door. Remember, Marcelo: thunderstruck, you were thinking that you’d been right, in front of the department store, to think what you’d been thinking.
Black Alley Page 17