Black Alley (15 page)

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.

The rest of the evening Cléo stayed in his corner and whenever someone came over to offer him juice or a dessert he'd reply by shaking his head. At about two o'clock, Roberto rushed in holding the four coats at the end of his arm: it was time to go. In the car, with the heater on high, he abruptly turned towards Carmen: you see, I told you it was a mistake! At the first traffic light, he hit the steering wheel several times and turned his head towards the frosty car window: but no, you always have to have things your way! Without replying, looking straight ahead of her as the snowflakes, as bristly as stars, flattened against the windshield, Carmen shook her head as if to say no, no, no. In
the back seat, you and Cléo remained silent as well. The car stopped in front of his building and, as he pulled the handle to open the door, you put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off: shut up, I don't want to hear anything from you. Yes, remember: from that moment, something – what exactly? – broke forever.