Nancy Huston - Black Dance

I, I, I! Not shy, sweet, bespectacled William Butler Yeats, losing himself in Ouija boards and reincarnation for the love of Maud Gonne; not distant, bad-boy, scoffing, scabrous, scatalogical James Joyce, fiddling with twaddle, but diffident in face of battle — neither Willie nor Jimmy but I, Neil Kerrigan and no other, shall father the great literary opus of the new Ireland! I shall be both true poet and true fighter, my name greater, higher and louder than anyone else’s — Neil Kerrigan! Have you read the latest Kerrigan? Louder, higher, greater, the full male thrust of my loins surging into my poems and tales. . Pen is sword. Penis is word. PENISWORD. .

YOU OKAY, MILO? You all right, man? You want me to call the nurse or anything? Yes, I know the tubes are supposed to be bringing you everything you need to stay alive — Irish whisky, beef stew with plenty of potatoes, late Emily Carr paintings, early Wim Wenders films, the return flight of Canadian geese in May, Pierre Elliott Trudeau (sorry, just wanted to make sure you were still alive), ah, heroin, capoeira ceremonies in Salvador de Bahia, endless nights of fucking with Paul Schwarz. . hey. What else could you want, right?

Sure, Astuto. I’ll let you take a five-minute nap, and then we’ll get back to work. .

• • • • •

Awinita, April 1951

RAIN AND DARKNESS, seen through the window of the cruddy little bedroom above the bar.

Awinita’s stomach is rounder than before, and she wears a floaty blue shirt to make this less apparent. We’re in her eyes again, currently looking down. A man’s hands come in under the shirt. Gently, she pushes him away.

“Aren’t you forgettin sometin’, sweetheart?”

We see the man’s hands dig a wad of bills from his jeans pocket. A heavyset man in his forties. Unpleasant body: rigid, rilled with fat. Turning, he licks his thumb and counts ten singles onto the little Formica table near the window.

“Would you mind maybe,” says Awinita in a husky whisper as he comes at her undoing his belt (close loud sound of the belt buckle, one of the Pavlovian signals that warns the woman’s brain it will soon be time to waft her elsewhere), “from de side or from behind?”

“Yeah, I’d mind,” the man says, pushing her toward the bed and grabbing at her blue shirt to tear it off (but, being inside of it, we’ll never see her body in these scenes). “Damn right I’d mind. I pay good money to fuck you and I’ll fuck you however I bloody well feel like fucking you, ain’t no squaw gonna tell me what position I gotta fuck her in, for the luva Christ! No skin off my back if you lose your bastard! Make one less Injun on welfare, guzzlin’ down my tax money!”

A spot of pink. It grows, shivers and shimmers into a carnation. . The flower grows a long green stem and dances gaily for a couple of seconds. . Then the stem splits in two and its ends rise up to meet above its head. Meanwhile it goes on dancing. Watching it is painful — like watching a ballerina dancing on her crotch.

The rain hurls itself against the windowpanes. Fleetingly, in the shadows, we see the man heaving with his full weight on top of us.

“Don’t you know what condoms are for?” he says. “Don’t they teach you that up on the res? They sure should! Only useful education for Injuns. Well, no point in usin’ one now, eh? Can’t get pregnant twice, can you? No matter how two-faced you Injuns are, not even you can conceive two bastards on top of the other. Huh. . uh! Uh!”

In slow motion, in black and white, pelted by unrelenting rain, Awinita lets herself into a tin-roofed shack. One room. No electricity, only candlelight. Packed dirt floor. Fireplace made of clay or mud and willow sticks. Her floaty blue shirt is the only touch of color in the scene. Gathered in silence around the table are her mother and several siblings, their faces drawn and still with hunger. Smiling, Awinita sets her purse on the table, opens it and proudly withdraws a huge roll of dollar bills. But far from lighting up, her family’s faces only grow sadder. Tears roll down their cheeks. Awinita stands there, money in hand, not knowing what to do. The dim light grows dimmer.

Back on Saint Catherine Street, we hear the door slam as the john departs.

CUT to Awinita seated at the bar. People milling around her, music. When the barman brings her a Coke, we see that the stool next to hers is empty.

“Thanks, Irwin.”

Awinita sips her Coke. A blond man in his thirties (glasses, attaché case, suit and tie) perches his straight businessman’s ass on the stool next to hers. Close-up on his face: close-shaven, thin-lipped, a faint air of nastiness around the mouth. .

(Yeah, you’re right, Milo — it’s important to get the johns’ faces, show how frighteningly diverse they are. All, though, are weighed down by their stories, and desperate to shake off some of the weight. .)

Irwin brings Awinita a Coke, takes a banknote from the blond man, rings up two rum and Cokes. .

“Tanks,” says Awinita, nodding vaguely at the drink. “Pleasure. What’s your name?”“Nita.” “Hey, Nita, I’m John.” “Good to meet you, John.” “Good to meet you , Nita. Had no idea I’d be meeting somethin’ so good when I ducked in here.” “You jus’ wanted in out of de rain, eh?” “Right.” “Well. Cheers, John.” “Cheers, Nita. .” (Problem, Milo. Familiar problem: what to do with boring dialogue. . Nah, skip it. Maybe shoot the scene from the far side of the room, over by the jukebox, now playing Nat King Cole’s “Too Young.” Just their lips moving. .)

The blond man looks at Awinita and she looks back at him. His eyes say, “Are you. .?” and hers, “Long as you’re not a cop, baby,” and his, “Here, upstairs?” and hers, “You got it all figured out, smart boy.” Leaning forward, his lips form the words, “How much for the back entrance?: and hers, “Fifteen.” The businessman winces. “Hey, that’s steep,” he says, making as if to bolt, but already Awinita’s hand is on his thigh, already his blood is racing and they both know the moment for mind-changing has been left behind.

Three five-dollar bills on the Formica table.

He hadn’t noticed. Only when he puts his arms around her from behind does the fact of Awinita’s pregnancy register on his brain. His hands freeze on her belly.

“Jesus,” he says.

“Kinda doubt it,” says she. This makes him laugh, which relaxes him.

Awinita’s eyes are closed. On the pale pink screen of her eyelids. .

A whole forest of cartoon trees shoots up at once. Multicolored birds flit swiftly in and out of their branches — their singing, too, is sped up. Shrill trills and twitters, jerky flutters. In the space of a few seconds, the sun rises and sets several times. The seasons rush past: the trees shed their leaves, look dark and wintry for a moment, then sprout new leaves again.

Meanwhile, we hear the sound of a belt buckle — a different belt buckle. A zipper being undone. Clothes rustling. The sound of a key turning in a lock. A mattress creaking. A door being pulled to. A key turning in a lock. A door being slammed. Ta, ta-da DA. . Yes, we can bring in the capoeira beat here — but faintly, as a hint, a way of breathing, a vestige. Ta, ta-da DA. . A key turning in a lock. Pants being zipped up. A belt buckle. Pants being zipped down. A man pissing into a toilet. Loose change jingling. Ta, ta-da DA. . A man guzzling beer, then burping. Key in lock. Snore. Door slam. Fart. Quarrel in next room. Doors. Mattress creaks. Zippers. Buckles. A man groaning as he reaches climax. This sound track gradually dies out. FADE TO BLACK. Howling wind. . CUT.

Awinita sits smoking at the bar, looking tired.