Black Alley (27 page)

“Fat pig,” CB says indignantly, “I can't breathe.”

“Stay still or I'll break your arm.”

Freeing his hands, CB lets fly with punches that hit the officer in the sides, as the cop struggles to keep him under control. A long time goes by, during which Flaco, with his ear against the grass, watches them battle without blinking. Losing his balance, puffing like a locomotive, the officer shouts to his younger colleague: “Come help me, dammit!”

The younger one is still pointing his revolver at them and wiping the dampness from his free hand on the thigh of his pants.

“If I turn my back on them, they might jump us, don't you see?”

The fighting between CB and the officer intensifies, their blows more brutal, more rapid. Flaco hears their grunts and
sharp, little cries. The officer snorts excessively and bursts out laughing, half amused, half disgusted.

“Christ! The little brat won't give up!”

“Stop hitting my butt, you disgusting pervert!”

“That's right, that's right! I love you too, my handsome little Black friend!”

Then, coming out of nowhere, the knife pierces the officer's stomach four times. The movement is quick and clean: the blade goes in and out, in and out. The return movement makes an unmistakable gurgle: his eyes glaring with pain, the officer opens his mouth wide and tumbles head first onto CB who pushes off the body and tries to stand up, letting out a frightened moan. On his knees, his face gripped by a tremor, he raises his hands as if to surrender, murmurs a series of confused words in Creole, and then the shot is heard. For a moment, his body remains in the same position, as if balanced, and his face looks both stunned and afraid. Then he drops down and rolls onto his right side. Flaco's eyes return to the young, motionless officer, with his cap pulled half-way down his forehead: the barrel of his gun is still smoking. In the distance, a dog barks, whiningly, as if the shot had hit him.

With one hand, the officer takes out a walkie-talkie while, with the other, he continues to hold his revolver. His voice breaking, he repeats three times loudly and clearly that one of his colleagues has been stabbed. Around him, the ten teenagers, flat on their stomachs, their hands behind their backs, follow his movements without budging. The dog has again fallen silent and the park is as quiet as a cemetery. At last, sirens, coming from all directions, pierce the night. Three police cars stop with squealing tires on Rue Appleton, several uniformed men and women get out and rush towards them. As they begin fitful conversations on their walkie-talkies, they stand everyone up and handcuff them all. As soon as the ambulance arrives, two men in shirt sleeves get out, pushing gurneys. Flaco feels a cold hand on his forearm
indicating he should hurry up, then, at the police car, the same hand touches his neck and lowers his head. He inches his way to the end of the back seat, turns towards the window and stares at the ambulance's red lights. Barely aware that Lalo is being pushed in next to him, he tries to convince himself that what just happened is nothing but a dream.

 

How easy it is to remember that morning and its creamy light, Marcelo: for the children you were then, it was, literally, the most highly anticipated day of the whole school year. You'd spent part of the night tossing and turning in your bed, and you'd gone into your parents' room to wake up your mother, who, sullen and with tousled hair, had agreed to make you a hot chocolate. Still, the warm milk and the long lecture had got you nothing but a stubborn headache, sleep hadn't come to envelop you until several hours later. The next morning, when the alarm went off, you didn't budge – your mother even had to come and shut off the ringer herself, she'd told you later. When you opened your eyes, you felt a light wind on your ankles: your mother had pulled the covers all the way down to the bottom of the bed, and she was shaking you by the shoulder. Now, sitting there on the platform, next to Akira, you felt torn between the desire to sleep and the excitement of the competitions.

Early in the morning, in the finals of the grade five 500 metres, Cléo had pulled off a perfect start, getting a good distance ahead of his opponents after only twenty metres. Even so, it wouldn't have taken much for another Haitian boy, this one from Quebec City, equally fast, to beat him out at the finish line. Still, there was something unbelievable about it: Cléo was the fastest ten-year-old boy in the province. His prediction had come true, quite easily it appeared. Serge had indeed come and made up with him, his tail between his legs: they weren't really going to get angry over such a little thing, were they? You'd overheard Cléo telling Carl what had happened when they'd talked: according to
him, it would have taken just a little more for the teacher to get down on his knees and beg.

At noon the sun, round and bursting on that humid June day, seemed to halt in its exhausting course at its zenith. The Centre Claude-Robillard, full to bursting, was decorated with crepe paper and balloons, and, in stands set up here and there, university students served orange juice and plastic cups of milk, as they distributed posters about the food groups. Most of the students strolled around the track in tank tops and shorts, since they weren't allowed to go topless. Girls in bathing suits, on the other side of the cement platform, were sunbathing, glistening with coconut oil, dark glasses on their noses. You kept looking for Paulina. Why wasn't she with the others from her school, on the bleachers? Crap, maybe she'd got sick? Still, the night before, when you'd both practised for the last time before the Jeux, as she perfected her technique, she'd achieved her best results in the long jump. At lunch time, you went to wait for Enrique and Toño at the edge of the track and you went upstairs to the cafeteria. Enrique was just there to keep Toño company, his relay team hadn't qualified for the finals that morning. Next year, Toño had said, a good sport, shrugging his shoulders.

Late in the afternoon, Serge motioned for the grade five relay team to come down and warm up. You and Akira stretched your thigh muscles, lying out on the grass near the pads for the high jump, when you heard a voice chanting your name. In the middle of the bleachers, leaning over the metal railing, Paulina, on her toes in her running shoes, was waving her arms at you:
¡buena suerte, Marcelo!
Remember how your heart beat like a drum when you waved at her. Cléo came up on you from behind, turned on his heels and fell to the ground on his hands, ready to do a set of push-ups: that your girlfriend? And you, presently stretching your calves, frowned with your whole face: no, she's just a friend. How that remark had made you clench your teeth, Marcelo! Cléo stood back up and, maintaining a
surprising rhythm, ran in place for quite a while, lifting his knees higher and higher: I didn't know you were interested in girls now! You didn't answer and, since it was one of the few times where you bumped into each other, you talked about what you'd been up to, but that time, remember, you did it more to be polite than out of real interest. Cléo, standing up very straight, with his legs spread, started doing waist rotations. He was still having problems with his dear old mother. She'd stopped working and was living on social assistance, so now she spent the whole day hanging around the apartment with the drapes drawn. But, most of all, Cléo made clear, she hardly ever talked to him any more: he reminded her too much of his father, she said. To tell the truth, lately, he'd only had one thing on his mind: getting out of the apartment. Going to live with his father, maybe. Suddenly, without giving you a warning, he again turned on his heels and sprinted, as if his behind was on fire, to the other end of the track.

In the bleachers, where shouts and applause rose up in waves, students waved banners bearing the names of their schools. One of the organizers of the Jeux, a ruddy, corpulent man, decked out in a straw hat, gave a long whistle: runners, it's time to take your marks. Remember, Marcelo: since your team had had the best time, you'd got one of the centre lanes, the fourth one. You delicately placed your fingers on the starting line, the official raised the starting pistol and the explosion rang through the stadium. As usual, the crowd's encouragement was immediately transformed into a lion's roar. As you entered the turn, you noticed you were already ahead of the runner in lane five, and that boosted your confidence: you went faster. You closed your eyes and, even though the taste of blood had risen in your mouth, its effect on you was calming. After a moment, you heard nothing but your own breathing, the beating of your heart, your steps, and the droning of the wind. When you opened your eyes coming out of the curve, you almost stopped,
thinking you'd made a false start: no one was on your heels and, the deserted, desolate track seemed to take on gigantic proportions.

Just when Akira, his eyes half closed, took hold of the baton, was it your imagination?, an expression of fear passed over his face. But he ran like a shot, like you'd never seen him run before. You stood still, the opposing runners closed in around you, and you began again to hear the cheers and the laughing that Akira's comical way of running drew from the crowd. Near the end of his run, he was at least ten metres ahead of his nearest rival, and, as he came out of the turn, Yuri, the baton in hand, his blond hair exposing his rounded forehead, had doubled the lead Akira had gained.

Under the growing ovation, Cléo grabbed onto the baton and once and for all lost his opponents. His head surged forward as if someone inside him was trying to go even faster. The distance was so great that the organizers, who were usually quite jaded, actually looked up. On its feet, the crowd was frozen like a stone statue, and silence like a threatening cloud passed over the stadium. Cléo cut through the finish line, and thunderous shouting split the June air. He came to a stop, his hands on his hips, still breathing hard. Catching him unaware, Serge jumped on his neck, excited as a child. Soon there was such a crowd, strangers were hugging you like they'd known you forever.

Then, remember the photo, Marcelo: since you didn't fit in the frame, Serge, euphoric, asked you to squeeze together. A little more! But without pushing! You still have that black and white photo, now yellow and wrinkled: Akira, with a serious face is staring into the lens; Yuri is pensively looking at the ground; Cléo is looking for someone outside the frame; and you, looking bothered, have your eyes closed. No one was smiling. It doesn't look like a victory, Marcelo.

After the medal ceremony, when you went back up into the bleachers, Paulina came to congratulate you and she sat between
Akira and you. But, to your great chagrin, the four winners were asked to please go to the locker room at Serge's request. You took a shower and put on clean clothes, finally ready to leave. But Serge, moved to his very core, red as a rooster, climbed on a stool and spoke in a confused way, repeating three times in a row how proud he was of you. Then he finished with a convoluted ode to teamwork that bored you to death, anxious as you all were to go out and meet your friends.

As you left the locker room, you noticed Paulina and her cousins waiting for you. You got the customary pats on the back and Enrique asked you to show him your medal. Houaououh,
es bonita
, and he pretended to bite into it: don't worry, champ, it's just to be sure it's not made out of plastic. Now that you're a great athlete, Toño teased you, were you going to start turning your nose up at them? And you said, no, you jerk, don't be stupid. Despite her disappointment in the long jump, Paulina's light eyes were sparkling when she met yours. You were on your way out of the stadium when you noticed Cléo waving at you from the other end of the corridor, near the vending machines. Half-heartedly, you waved back at him. In the company of Carl and the others, he was walking in the opposite direction, and twice you saw him turn around. But you soon forgot his insistent looks.

 

Beneath the gaze of the monitors which, for once, is indulgent, the students flow slowly into the gym, almost lazily, like a wine stain spreading across a tablecloth. Though it's almost the end of the school day, no one is running or shoving, and they're certainly not joking or laughing. Everyone in the school knew CB, and across the faces float expressions that are sometimes distressed or horrified, sometimes indifferent. As usual, the director appears late, building up the crowd's impatience. They discreetly pull on their neighbours' sleeves, and ask in low voices: is it true he got shot by a cop? That he stabbed another cop? How many were on the Bad Boys' side? What about Latino Power's? What
were they doing in the park so late at night? Why were the two gangs fighting?

With their backs to the wall, surrounded by Mixon, Richard and Max, Ketcia is sick of avoiding the other students' indiscreet looks. Yes, she has puffy eyes. Feeling her legs grow heavy, she lets herself slip to the floor and concentrates her attention on a point on floor. No, she's never cried so much in her life. And so what? Most of the students only knew CB's façade, she may be the only one to know who he really was. Despite herself, last night's interrogation parades in front of her eyes once again. With their morale at zero, intimidated by the slamming of the police station doors as the cops moved from one room to another, the Bad Boys couldn't help but expose precious information about Carl and his brother, to the point that the police are sure to get their hands on them soon. It looks like they've been searching for them for four months already, for the armed robbery of a convenience store. At the end of the interrogations, to everyone's surprise, both gangs were released, on the condition they appear before the Youth Court in exactly one month. Between now and then, each of them must, every three days, meet with a police officer, a social worker and a psychologist for rehabilitation. The outcome of the shooting: the police officer died at the hospital from his injuries, while CB, who was shot very near the heart, died at the scene.