Scenes from the Back Alley

For the record, back alley sounds so much more intimate and cosy in Serbian (sokak) or in French (ruelle).

But, for lack of a better word, it is really the kids from the back alley who first gauge the arrival of the spring with their infallible detectors. At the beginning of April, a faint but clearly smiling sun appears chalked out on the concrete, along with (possibly?) a flower absorbing the light. Clear as day, the spring is here once more.

And once the kids officially announce the spring's arrival, the others take notice of it too. Some think they'd better do some serious cleaning.

Others have somewhat more cryptic reactions -- perhaps a sort of exorcism after a long long winter?

As for me, one day in May I go to the back-yard porch and find that hundreds of tiny green stars have fallen on it from the vine above. Dizzy with spring sprightliness, I dilligently sweep them off, but a couple of hours later realize that an equal amount has fallen in the meantime. So I leave them, and as it turns out, it is only a one-day spectacle since they are gone by the next day.

And, technically not in the back alley but only about 5 minutes walking to the east, is a whiff of what spring is like in nature, as opposed to in the streets. In one of the famous Montreal jardins communautaires, gardening fans have been active for a few months. Neatly arranged beds with flowers, onions, lettuce etc. alternate with colourful plastic watering cans and working gloves stuck on top of thin poles, waiting for beans or tomatoes. Wind spinners are quietly going about their business.

But my favourite story from our block is about my neighbour from across the alley. His name is Deven, he has two black marbles for eyes, once he starts he doesn't stop talking, and he's 7. I don't remember how we became friends. I must have exchanged a few neighbourly words with him and his father, Morali, a tall lean South Indian man who has been a pasta-maker in Canada for almost 20 years. Deven likes his bike and his potted plants -- this is him with his hot-pepper plant:

He spends weekends here with his father, and weekdays with his mother, where he also goes to school. He speaks English and French with the easy gurgliness of kids, and only a little bit of Tamil. When I snap a few photos of him, he's very excited and wants me to send them to his father's email. I say sure, but I need the address. He takes pen and paper and writes, with great concentration, "1234A", then hands it to me. I look at it for a second, and say, ok, I'll talk to his dad to get the address. Deven also likes to draw. The other day he drew Kitty, me and him. Normally, my feet are turned the same way as my face, and I don't really wear glasses, but otherwise, this is a pretty good likeness of me (Kitty, with a 3-D red-ribbon tail, is also a bit more cat-like, usually):

One day we're chatting in the back alley, and I tell him that Kitty has started to explore around the yard and sometimes tries to escape through the holes in the fence. He asks me why I always call him "Kitty." I think, but have no good answer to that. Instead, I show him the problematic opening in the corner of the oldest wooden part of the fence. He promises he'll find something to fix it, and enthusiastically starts looking for that something. I have things to do so I go inside and a couple of hours later realize I've forgotten about Deven. Guilty consicence prodding me in the ribs, I rush outside but he's not there anymore. In the fence, Deven's work shines like the shimmering wet street after a spring shower.