Black Alley (6 page)

The music starts up again and Teta turns up the volume till it's blasting wildly. Let's change the tape, Nena suggests. She's tired of always listening to Nirvana. And Teta says Okay, but watch out, he's going to surprise them. Suddenly, with a squeal, the radio spits out a crazy
cumbia
. Oh, no! Nena complains, take that off right now! He should stop being such a pain in the ass! She's sick of
cumbias
and salsas, she can't take it anymore! That's all her parents listen to! Teta imitates the frenetic, syncopated movements of a Caribbean dancer, shaking an imaginary pair of
maracas in his hands, but no one laughs. He's so fat that his breasts jiggle back and forth, back and forth, beneath his sweater. There's a good reason we nicknamed him Teta, Flaco thinks, his eyes following his dance steps. The breast! Teta now grabs Nena's arm, she tries to get away, he pulls her towards the sidewalk, why so glum, Nena? and they dance cheek to cheek, as if it were a tango.

Paulina, who's remained off to the side, steps closer to Flaco. A black nylon suit hugs her body from her neck to her heels. The first time he met her, a day he still remembers like yesterday, even though it's been six years now, he was struck by the fact that she had an unusual look for a Latina. Her light brown hair was always pulled up in a ponytail, her face was delicate with slightly dark skin, and she always looked slender, athletic. With one hand on her hip, she's rocking back and forth on her Adidas, looking mischevious.

“So, the fighting's going to start up again?”

For an instant, he examines her. She surprises him.

“Don't worry about it. What I told you still stands: at the end of the school year, I'm done with the gang. Tomorrow, we'll straighten this whole thing out
rápido
. It has to be a mistake.”

He's annoyed with himself for lying: tomorrow, he won't forgive them for anything. He has no choice, he must be respected, keep them from starting up again. Besides, he can't lose face among the members of his own gang. He knows very well they were shocked when they saw Pato and Alfonso's faces. To disguise his uneasiness, he takes a drag off his cigarette.

“I saw how you reacted when you saw the condor,” she goes on.

He turns his head towards her and slowly lowers it a notch, to indicate she should talk in a lower voice.

“I'll tell you about it when we're alone. Not now.”

She shakes her head, “It's always the same with you guys. It's always about honour and courage.”

“I'll tell you about it when we're alone,” he repeats in a low voice.

After a little while, as if she's agreed to change the subject, she takes him by the waist with a little smile, then, with a roaming hand, tousles his hair. He takes one last drag off his cigarette and then sends it flying onto the roadway, near the open space. He still isn't completely used to the idea that he can kiss her whenever he wants. Sometimes, when he's walking down the street, he stops suddenly: he can't believe he's going out with her. She puts her arms around his neck, then strokes his face. She, his childhood friend, the only girl he ever dared flirt with, the only girl he can't think about when he masturbates because he immediately feels like he has to piss. It's so new it feels like he's dreaming. It was like a revelation. He'd invited her to the park, and, just like that, point blank, he'd declared his love for her. Calmly sitting on a bench, she replied that she, too, had been trying to get him off her mind for a long time, afraid that he thought of her just as a friend. But she hadn't had any luck. A long kiss followed, it wasn't feverish like he'd imagined it. Yes, it was the first time he'd fallen in love. Today, compared to her, all the girls he'd known seemed unimportant. He looks into her sparkling eyes, and she licks her lips: “The other day you where asking me when. . . .”

For a moment, their eyes meet.

“I think it's time.”

Now it's his turn to slip his arms around her: is she sure? With her high cheekbones, she offers him a radiant smile: she's never been so sure of anything in her life. Good, Flaco brings his face close to hers, whenever she wants. Nervously they laugh, then suddenly Paulina's face becomes serious, almost fearful: he knows it's the first time she's going to make love, right? He says yes, he knows. Does it make her nervous? No, not really, she feels so good when she's with him, Flaco. He presses his lips against hers and feels a warm tongue slip between his teeth.

Weekdays, before supper, you'd play hockey in the entrance to your building's garage, for an hour or two, never more: when October came, the darkness fell early in the evening and then the goalie couldn't see the tennis ball anymore. You were already wearing wool sweaters and mittens and sometimes a toque, but no coats or scarves yet. Then your mother would sweep out onto the balcony and lean against the rail: and when do you think you're going to do your homework, Marcelo? You turned a deaf ear, pretended to be absorbed in the game, and your mother would end up losing her patience: okay, then, no supper! And she'd slam the door. Regretting it, you'd stop playing, you had to go. Akira would stop, hesitating, then he'd pick up his equipment, too. All this time, Cléo was sweating buckets: crap, just when he was starting to get warmed up! Akira? Would he lend him the tennis ball? Marcelo? The hockey stick? Thanks, guys, and he'd go practise against the wall. Sometimes he'd stay there until the night swallowed him up.

On weekends, sometimes as early as the first uncertain light of dawn, you'd organize long hockey tournaments and you wouldn't go home till evening. You'd skip meals, you'd slip away to piss in the courtyard of some building under a balcony, so that the game wouldn't be interrupted too long. Alongside you were Alberto the Italian, check out my wrist action, man, Glenn the English Canadian, look at my goalie pads, my father bought them in Boston, Danny the Haitian, why do you always have to hit me in the butt with the ball! and still others, pupils of both Francophone and Anglophone schools. Some times there were so many of you that a group of onlookers would gather around you: they'd spot the good players and cheer when someone scored a goal.

In the afternoon, a few buildings away, groups of teenagers would appear, cleverly scattered around, boys and girls mixed together, passing the time having a smoke, chatting amongst themselves and getting high on rap, rock or heavy metal. They hardly
seemed to notice the hockey game going on a few metres away, though you observed their world of flirting, cigarettes and alcohol attentively, knowing that when you got to high school it would be your turn to taste all these things. To all this would be added the comings and goings of Guylain, the acid-faced wino, who always wore his Montreal Canadiens jersey and who'd been deep in discussion with himself forever. He'd look up at you, like he was coming out of a dream, and, for no apparent reason, he'd threaten you with his fist and mutter racist insults. It had become such a custom, that you waited for his visits almost impatiently, they'd become something of an inoffensive, comical distraction.

After Randy moved away, you, Marcelo, started delivering the
Gazette
on Rue Linton, from Côte-des-Neiges to Avenue Victoria. On Saturdays, the papers were thicker and Cléo, always at the ready, helped you. Often, still bathed in the hostile darkness, you'd meet outside his building and walk side by side, yawning, famished, in the quiet, morning cold, and you'd each pull one of the carts your mother used for her shopping. Each one was responsible for one side of the street and you'd compete against each other: you'd fling the papers and climb the stairs four at a time, occasionally, corpse-like faces appeared at the window to gaze at you, and one of you would get scared. When the other heard the shout, he'd come running: what happened? He'd put an arm around his friend's shoulders: don't be afraid, it's just an old man who can't sleep. When the work was done, Cléo would refuse the seven or eight dollars you'd hold out to him, and you'd end up buying him breakfast at McDonald's. Deal? And Cléo said, with a huge smile, deal, and you'd shake hands.

At school, you were almost always on the same dodge ball team. Luck even had it that your desks in school were right next to each other. But remember how many times Cléo had to go stand in the corner, because he got caught in the middle of a conversation with his neighbour or hadn't done his homework right? With his hands behind his back, right next to the crank-handled
pencil sharpener, he'd keep his eyes on the wall, fascinated, as if he had an unfathomable painting before his eyes. After a half hour the teacher would let him sit back down: she hoped he'd learned his lesson, this time. At the end of the day, they'd ask him why he'd only done half the problems on the math homework and he'd explain in a low voice that it wasn't his fault, he'd fallen asleep.

It's true that it was pretty easy to fall asleep at Cléo's, an oppressive silence always reigned there. Even though you'd gone back a few more times, you still hadn't met Cléo's mother: your curiosity about her absorbed you more and more, Marcelo. For a long time, you didn't know what was wrong with her. One thing was for sure, it always happened the same way: she'd call Cléo, always in that same gravelly voice, he'd go see and then you'd just hear their murmurs. Didn't she ever get up? Why was her voice so tired? Because she paints at night and needs to sleep during the day, Cléo invariably answered. And why wasn't his father ever there? How many times did he have to tell him! His father was on a business trip. What kind of business? His father had told him, but it was hard to remember, he'd forgotten. Come on, we're going to miss the Power Rangers.

One Sunday morning since it was raining and the hockey game outside had been postponed, you'd gone into the kitchen to see your parents and your Uncle Juan, who generally came over to have lunch with you on Sundays. Your father had made
sopaipillas
and your mother, whipped cream and bananas and some carrot juice squeezed in a sock. Since the conversation revolved around Cléo, you went to your room to get the mask sculpted by your friend's mother so your uncle could take a look at it. It was an oblong face, made from black-painted wood, and the lips were in the shape of an
O
. Your uncle looked at it for a long time, in an amused way, turning it this way and that.

“
Compadre
, can you believe it? I paid forty dollars for that damn mask!”

Your uncle bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Don't be narrow-minded, Roberto,” he said. “What would a Haitian think of a Temuco poncho, eh? He'd probably think it was ugly, or, at the very least, utterly useless.”

“One thing's for sure,” your mother said. “I wouldn't put it up in my room. It scares me. But I can recognize art when I see it.”

“Anyway,” Roberto clarified, “we didn't buy it because we thought it was pretty. Since it was made by the mother of a friend of Marcelo's, it was the right thing to do.”

“But, Dad,” you joined in, “I thought you liked the mask. That's what you said, isn't it?”

“Well,” Roberto answered, “I don't hate it, but I can't say I really like it either. What do you want, I mostly bought it because Cléo is your friend. And because we felt bad for that woman – she really seems to be a hard worker.”

“If immigrants don't help each other out,” Carmen went on, “who's going to give them a hand? Eh? That's what I think.”

“And would you please tell me what this woman does for a living?” Juan inquired. “Is she an artist?”

“Yes. She makes paintings and masks. She mostly works at night.”

“Well, that's a well known fact,” Juan commented, “inspiration comes at night. If I could have, I would have been a writer. I would have written the story of my life. People would turn around when they saw me in the street, they just wouldn't be able to get over all I'd have to tell . . . Artists have a good life. Those people have more fun – .”

“In any case,” said Carmen, “Cléo's mother isn't the kind to spend her time in salons and at cocktail parties. According to what Marcelo tells us, she doesn't sell many paintings. She's just like us, she arrived in a completely new country and you know how that can slow you down, how it can knock the stuffing out of you.”

“But Haitians have a big advantage over us, Carmen,” Roberto said. “They already know French. I see them at Phillips, they get along with no problem. Plus, you have to admit, there's a difference between painting and packing computers all day long. I'll grant you that she probably doesn't make much money, just like us, but at least she's doing what she likes.”

“What about the father?” Juan asked. “What does your friend's father do?”