Black Alley (12 page)

“Twelve times one, twelve; twelve times two, twenty-four; twelve times three, thirty-six; twelve times four makes . . . um . . . makes . . . twelve times four makes. . . .”

He fell silent and now looked at her in a way that was both uncomfortable and sorry, as if he were asking for her help. For a
long time, the only sound was the feverish coming and going of cars drifting in through the partly open windows. After a moment, he murmured, “Christ, I knew it last night. . . .”

“Pardon?”

Cléo looked surprised. He didn't seem to understand. He stammered, “I said I knew it, that I memorized it last night. . . .”

“Sit down immediately!”

“But, what did I do?”

The innocent tone in his voice confirmed it: he hadn't understood. Now, she was pacing back and forth, she didn't know where to start, words were rushing into her mouth. It was fine to be open-minded and all that, but there were limits that were not to be crossed in her classroom.

“No one is allowed to swear in here!” she finally said. “Understand?”

She came to a standstill, one hand lying flat on her desk.

“I have no control over what you do at home. But here, no one is to show Our Lord a lack of respect.”

Then she went into a long speech about how important it is for young people to show respect for their elders, and, even more importantly, for God. She made an effort to make her message simple and clear. That helped calm her, then she looked back at Cléo.

“And as for you, for too long now you haven't been learning your lessons well enough. That confirms the decision the administration and I made.”

Cléo's face became sombre. He glanced over to his friends, he could undoubtedly guess what she was going to tell him.

“We decided you should go to the
classe d'accueil
.”

The entire class turned towards Cléo as if he'd just received the death penalty. He was imploring his friends with moist eyes.
Classe d'accueil
was the special class for those who couldn't keep up with the regular lessons. As its name suggested, it had been set up to welcome immigrants. In the students' opinion, and this was
often heard at recess, it was nothing but a class for the “less intelligent,” or, more harshly, for “the dummies.”

“Don't be sad,” Sister Cécile said, trying to make amends. “In the
classe d'accueil
, you'll be looked after better, the teacher will have more time to dedicate just to you. When you catch up to the same level as the others, you'll come back.”

“Why?” Cléo said, “I want to stay here, my friends are here.”

She asked him to come see her at three o'clock when classes were over. As she had other students recite their times tables, she would occasionally glance in Cléo's direction: he'd slumped down in his chair and was hiding his face in his arms. The bell for recess rang out, and he was the last to leave the room, she saw him begging her with his red eyes: she again said they'd talk about it at the end of the day, right now she had some things to take care of with the principal. Come on now, he should go play, she didn't want to hear another word about it.

When Cléo appeared in the schoolyard on the snowy stairs leading to the entrance, a circle formed around him. The students were rubbing their hands and hopping from foot to foot to keep the cold at bay: it was because Sister Cécile didn't like him, it was obvious. He really had lousy luck, man. He could see, now, it was important to do his homework or else they'd give him a hard time. Others, rubbing a hand along his back, tried telling him something more constructive: it's no big deal, Cléo, he just had to get as good in all his subjects as he was in sports and he'd be able to come back. Then Sylvain and Evangelos showed up, and Marcelo pulled on his coat sleeve: come on, there's no doubt they're going to give you a hard time. But Evangelos, stepping in front of Cléo, with his legs spread wide apart, was already sniggering: that's what happens when all you're good for is running. No two ways about it, Caramilk, you got what you deserved! Ah! Ah! Ah! Suddenly a deep voice thundered, “Buddy, don't you ever let anyone get away with anything like that.”

They all spun around to see who it was. A Haitian in grade six, taller and sturdier than all of them, with his open mouth exhaling a light vapour, was standing there, looking stiff-shouldered. Cléo, too upset to notice the newcomer's arrival, repeated in a whining voice, “I don't wanna go to the
classe d'accueil
.”

“I'm in
accueil
,” said the boy.

Cléo then looked up at him.

“I'll tell you one thing,” said the stranger. “If your teacher's sending you to the
classe d'accueil
it's 'cause they're sick of you. They're trying to get rid of you. But there's no reason for you to be unhappy. It's not what everybody thinks, it's a lot better than regular class.”

Now Cléo was listening with total attention.

“There are only eight of us in the class. Three from grade five and five from grade six. You don't get something, no problem: the teacher comes right over to explain to you how to do it. You learn more and the best part is when you get home, you've already finished most of your homework.”

Cléo stared at him, fascinated.

“By the way,” the other said, “I'm Carl.”

Cléo told him his name and they shook hands.

“See you tomorrow in the
classe d'accueil
. And don't forget: never let anybody give you a hard time.”

F
laco leans on the front door and glances out through the peephole: their faces covered in mud, their hair so soaked it looks like they've gelled it, Lalo and Pato stand there, teeth chattering.
¿Qué les pasó?
He hurries to open the door: the two brothers shiver in their sock feet, their faces ashen, their windbreakers soaking wet. Flaco, one hand against the wall, can't keep from laughing.

“We just got robbed and all you can do is make fun of us,” Lalo complains. “Just let us in.”

They slip under Flaco's arm and into the foyer, where they continue to rub their hands together and squirm. Voices ring out from the other end of the hallway.

“You have company?” Lalo inquires in a hushed voice.

“Yeah. My Uncle Juan is in the kitchen with my parents.”

“We bothering you?” Pato asks. “You look half-asleep.”

Before Flaco can reply, Lalo cuts in, “
Compadre
, we have to talk to you. It's serious.”

He runs a hand through his hair and drops of water fall to the floor.

“Come on. It'll be better in your room.”

With Pato on his heels, he heads towards a closed door in the middle of the hallway, but Flaco immediately catches up and positions himself between them and the door.

“Wait. Just give me a second.”

A meaningful look crosses Lalo's face.

“What? What are you hiding from us?”

“It's not what you think. It's just a little messy in there. It'll just take two seconds.”

“Messy, my butt,” Pato exclaims, as he wipes away snot with his arm.

Lalo exchanges a doubtful look with his brother.

“
¡Este huevón tiene una huevona metida allí!
”

They snigger and slap each other's hands, as Flaco opens the door a crack, slides in, then gently closes it behind him. He rushes to the bed, picks up the book and conceals it in a dresser drawer. Up to now, he's only talked to Paulina about his reading. The others know he likes to read, but he feels like they only let it pass because he's the boss. Several times already Lalo has insinuated that novels are only good for fags, and each time, stung, he's had to slap him down: he'd better stop talking like ignorant people, for Christ's sake! Since then, he's preferred to keep this part of his life secret, it's simpler that way and helps him avoid problems. He inspects his room one last time and his eyes settle on the condor, which, without really knowing why, he's kept on his nightstand. He hides it under the bedspread, the opens the door for the brothers. Their eyes scan every inch of the room: Pato glances into the closet and pushes back the clothes on their hangers, Lalo gets on his knees and inspects under the bed. He repeats that he's alone, that Paulina is at Nena's, if they want to know. After a moment, he goes to the bathroom and comes back with towels: they take off their drenched clothes, wipe their faces and dry their hair. Standing before him, they adopt an appropriately solemn air, and tell him what happened.

Every Sunday their mother makes them go to Rue de Courtrai to the apartment their Aunt Gloria and their grandmother share, to help them with the housework because they can't move the furniture by themselves. And that's exactly what they did this morning.

“You always have to go out in groups of four, minimum,” Flaco reminds them. “It's more sensible. We agreed on that, didn't we?”

He should just wait a minute, Lalo says. When they went, they weren't alone, their mother was with them, and what bugs him isn't so much the threat of an attack by the Bad Boys, but having to adapt to his mother's slow pace. Besides, he thinks it's so annoying to waste part of his Sunday that way that, back in the second week, he asked his mother if they could be paid for their work. Don't be insolent! his mother replied, hitting him again and again. Did he fall on his skull? Demanding money from his own family!
¡Santísima Virgen!
She kicked them out for a whole day so they could think about the seriousness of what they'd said and to purify the apartment of their blasphemy.

“Just because you asked for money?” Flaco asks, surprised.

“You don't know my mother,” Lalo replies. “The more time goes by, the less I understand her with all her junk about purification, and prayers that go on for ever.”

“You know,” Pato explains, “she never forgave us for not going to church with her anymore. She's always saying, see, Teta goes to church with his mother. But it's not the same with Teta, his mother is practically blind.”

When the cleaning was done, they ask their mother contritely, their faces angelic, if they could leave. They make up homework they have to do. She hesitates,
bueno ya
, but she's going to stay a little longer. Free as birds, happy as kings, they leave the apartment, rush down the stairs and, when they arrive in the lobby, press their faces against the glass door: the coast looks clear. Outside, drizzle makes the sidewalk shine. They go past the
Hygrade sausage factory, and they head east rather than south as they normally would to get back to Rue Linton, because if they take Lavoie, they might run into some of the Haitians that live there. The whole way, they're constantly scanning their surroundings, and Lalo, especially, is worried: he swears to God he spotted Mixon this morning hiding behind a Buick. You're crazy, you're seeing things, buddy! Pato retorts. On top of that, according to Lalo, Rue Courtrai is one of the most dangerous streets in the area since it beat out Rue Barclay and Rue Plamondon for the drug trade four or five years ago. From time to time, they see heads checking for activity in the street: dealers. Whenever he hears steps behind him or a car door slam, through the fabric of his jeans, Lalo feels the handle of his knife in his pocket. Since they partied until the wee hours of the morning yesterday, he's feeling exhausted. On the corner of Légaré they come face to face with Guylain who, as usual, is wearing his Canadiens jersey and dragging along a cart he uses to pull his old cats down the street. The two brothers approach him: first he swears at them copiously, then, when he realizes they mean him no harm, he listens.

“Have you seen the Bad Boys around, by any chance?”

The Bad Boys? Don't even talk to him about those Black sons of bitches! He's sick and tired of having his stuff stolen by that bunch of thugs! They think they rule the world! His complaining goes on and on, they have no choice but to leave him there. They continue on their way, their hands stuffed into their pockets, their hoods over their heads. They go by the Multi-Caf, the neighbourhood soup kitchen they turn into a game room on weekends. Starting early in the spring, they keep the front door wide open to air things out, so, from the sidewalk, you can follow the activity going on around the Ping-Pong and foosball tables. Out of the corner of his eye, Lalo notices two Black guys he doesn't know who are taking turns smashing a Ping-Pong ball back and forth. The same instant, he thinks he recognizes Mixon coming out of the men's room at the back.

“Was it him or not?” asks Flaco.

“Wait,” says Pato. “You'll see.”

Deciding not to take any chances, they run flat out until they hit Côte-des-Neiges, where they turn around: an old woman wearing a pink raincoat and sheltering herself under an umbrella pulls on the leash of a reluctant German shepherd. That's all. But you can never be too careful and they slip into the Plaza Côte-des-Neiges where they spend at least forty-five minutes or an hour.
Compadre
, I swear to you, Lalo insists. Finally, they take the elevator and leave through the underground parking lot and go back up Rue Légaré, to be sure to lose the enemy in case they really were being followed. They cross Barclay and, right in the middle of the street, before they have time to react, they spot the Bad Boys, who've been hiding behind parked cars or mailboxes, coming from all directions. Suddenly, they're surrounded and backed up against a red Honda on the north side of the street.

“You should have pulled out your knives,” Flaco states indignantly. “You always have to be on the lookout.
El que pestañea pierde
. . . The guy who blinks is screwed, as my father says.”