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stopped on the cement median where the cars were racing by, then you walked as far as Avenue Linton.
    â€œHere it is!” shouted Cléo. “This is it, this is my street.”
    You and Akira looked at each other and laughed.
    â€œYou live on the same street as us!” you said. “Wow, are you ever a space cadet!”
    You burst out laughing. Cléo looked hurt.
    â€œWhat does ‘space cadet’ mean?” he asked.
    â€œNothing,” you answered. “It’s not harsh. It just means you’re a little . . . how can I explain . . . a little out of it.”
    Linton, Marcelo, the street you grew up on, that street of dreams and tragic disappointments. In all Montreal, was there a grimier, more dilapidated, more hopeless street? So how do you explain that every time a colour, a face, a noise brings you back there, the emotion that rises in you is both sweet and unsettling? ¡Ay, Marcelito! Lined with three-storey buildings, almost all made of faded orange brick, Avenue Linton was really like a dumping ground for the island. Garbage cans were always overflowing, and the grass, which had been dead for ages, was as yellow in spring as it was in summer. Do you remember the early days of July, when
everyone was moving house? The City would clear out two or three buildings where the vermin had taken over, you all liked it when that happened, because then you would take them over next, and you’d play in them, or the older kids would take them over so they could smoke or make love. At night, from the beginning of spring till the end of fall, under the streetlights, teenagers would gather and sit or lie down on the parked cars. But you all were too young to be part of those groups, your parents wouldn’t let you go out at night.
    â€œYou have any brothers or sisters?” you asked.
    No, he was an only child. He lived alone with his mother.
    â€œWhat about your father?”
    His father? You saw the expression on his face change, like when Sylvain kept pushing to see if he’d ever slept with a girl. You’d felt like you’d put your foot in it when you’d asked that question.
    â€œMy father? He’s usually away. He’s in business.”
    â€œDoes he come to see you sometimes?” asked Akira.
    â€œNot a lot. But he calls me on the phone. When he finishes his business, he’s coming home and he’ll bring me lots of toys.”
    â€œMy parents got divorced,” Akira continued. “It doesn’t really bother me much, it happened when I was little. My mother’s the one who left, but she comes to see me every weekend.”
    â€œWell, my parents are still together,” you said, “but they fight all the time. Sometimes I can’t even get my homework done. Lots of times they yell at each other and then they start laughing: even they can’t believe how much they fight over stupid stuff.”
    You stopped in front of a building that was just like the others, except that the front door was cracked all the way through as if someone had tried to break it down. Hesitating, with a shy laugh, Cléo started down the alley: I think I’d better go home. So you said, Okay, whatever, see you tomorrow. But he came back, scratching his forehead: you like marbles? You looked at each other: yeah, yeah, we like marbles. Why don’t you come over
then? He was going to show you his collection. Okay, why not, and the three of you stepped into the building. You climbed the stairs leading to the second floor, and at apartment number three Cléo took out a key he wore around his neck.
    â€œMy mother will be asleep. So, don’t make any noise,” he ordered, with his finger on his lips.
    He let you into the living room: sit down, I’ll be right back, and he was lost in the darkness of a narrow hallway. You and Akira sat there for quite a while with your mouths gaping open, you’d never seen so many paintings. There were