Black Dance Read Online Free Page A

cot— thawump . Petrified with fear, it stops screaming. Footsteps move off.
    Fade to a different quality of darkness—one that indicates time passing, a page being turned. A few months later . . . samewhite ceiling, same thrum and hum of French voices, but: exit the regulation hospital linen. The baby is being trussed and trundled, wrapped sausage-like in the cruddy blue blanket it first arrived in. New faces, not as blurry as the old ones—the boy’s eyes are beginning to focus. Voices, not only in French now but also in German (even scrambled, the difference between the two languages is clear). Strong lights, long hallways. Shoulder camera to convey the jerks and jolts—he’s being carried out of the hospital. Wham. Dazzling sunlight smack in the face. Whoosh. Blue skies, fresh air, high green waving branches. Slam of car door. Moved, held, jostled, slam slam, revving of motor.
    Everything is a shock to Milo’s system after six months in the humdrum hospital routine, but he no longer cries. Already he has learned that crying serves no purpose, learned to block out, black out, sink deep within himself, into the dark cave of silence that will be his refuge all his life long. From within his silence, beneath the impenetrable banter of his new German foster parents, we can hear the drumbeat of his mother’s heart, his mother’s people. Ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA . . . Milo’s throbbing silence will be the background music for the entire film.
    MILO IS TWO. These scenes will be shot from the vantage point of a two-year-old, amidst the feet and legs of giants. German is now more or less right-side up.
    Lying flat on the kitchen floor, the little boy plays with a couple of potatoes that are fancy racing cars. Propels himself forward on his tummy with low vrooming noises. Is suddenly grabbed by the arm— What are you doing? Milo! What are you doing? —yanked up off the floor and into the air.
    An angry woman has again taken hold of his entire being with one hand. Her other hand swats at his shirt and pants to dust himoff, batting his penis on the way down. Still he doesn’t cry, but his pedaling legs strike the woman’s thigh—she cries out and releases him. He falls in a heap on the floor.
    Milo is locked into a little closet under the staircase, in total blackness. We’re in there with him—listening. Straining with all our might to hear sounds on the far side of the door. Hearing only our own breathing. We breathe in unevenly. Hold back our sobs. However long this lasts, it’s an eternity.
    Daily life in this household—quick flashes, not all bad: little Milo being spoon-fed . . . sung to in German at bedtime . . . dressed by his foster mother in a navy-blue snowsuit, boots, scarf and mittens, and taken out by his foster father to horse around in the snow . . . trying to pet the neighbor’s cute little cocker spaniel through the slats of the fence between their yards and being reprimanded by his foster mother No! No, Milo! Dogs are too dirty! . . .
    He’s sitting alone on the pot, doing nothing. His foster mother checks, rechecks, finally gives up and roughly pulls up his pants. Later, furious to see he’s shat himself, she disgustedly shakes out his underpants above the toilet, all the while berating him in German. Then she pins a diaper back onto his bottom, too tightly—the toddler’s frown reflects his shame and discomfort—and shoves him back into the closet. Turn of the lock, clack . The blackness. Little Milo breathes in and out; a faint whine of fear is now audible in his breathing. His heart beats; time beats.
    Suddenly the door swings open and Milo’s world is flooded with light.
    Who is this woman? Blond and young and beautiful, she drops to her knees so that her face is on a level with his, laughing in her low voice: What ya doin’ in de dark, little one?
    Question of your life, Milo. What ya doin’ in de dark?
    The kneeling woman holds her arms out to Milo as no one ever