There is a book that is not contained in this one.
It's called Sonata Mulattica.
And the reason why, is because it really
is a book in and of itself.
It tells the story of a life.
Very briefly, I'll tell you that the main character
is George Bridgetower.
He was a prodigy violinist, mixed race.
His mother was European, and his father
called himself an African prince.
Who knows whether he was or not, but he
lived at the time of Beethoven.
And Beethoven composed the Sonata for him,
but we know nothing of George Bridgetower.
And it was this hole in history that drew me in and started me
on the saga of this book.
So I'm going to read to you just a couple--
Yeah, just a couple of poems from the book.
One of them is right at the point when his father--
you have to imagine.
This is 1780.
There is this African prince guy and he has a 10-year-old son
who can play like a devil or an angel,
depending on how you look at it.
And so he decides to take him on the road,
because you didn't have recording devices
and you had to get your music live.
So he takes his son, his 10-year-old son to England--
from the continent to England, because you've
got to find a patron.
And in this poem the father is trying
to tell the son how to dress for success.
The father has dressed them in, what he says,
are the clothes that people imagine Africans would wear.
"The wardrobe lesson."
"Everyone in this brine soused village
believes an African loves color, so let it
be red for our promenade along the Steyne
with a splash of yellow to inflame
their watery sensibilities.
I think it's the sun they so yearn for.
Blue saddens this close to the sea,
though turquoise is beckoning, and emerald is best a hue
entertained only in furnishings.
True, we are props of a sort.
Let's not forget it, yet what an aspect we'll project
unleashed among the masses.
Against our darker palette, any color thrills.
The main thing is fabric and plenty of it.
Clouds of silk, waves of damask to be
cast off or furled neat to the chest
with a certain sly emphasis.
You'll learn these sophistications in time.
For now, it's enough to remember we are here to confound them,
these wizened polyps crossing the sands
in their creaking bathing machines.
So, bright sashes and billowing sleeves,
rings on as many fingers as you dare,
perhaps a turban or some other headdress
to lend majesty without competing.
The ladies adore a cape, different from a cloak.
This you can wear inside where one brisk swirl
will conjure a fable of perfumed trysts and moonlit swordplay.
As for the embroidered slippers, ungainly as they might seem,
the upturned toes do not emasculate.
Each step becomes necessarily deliberate
and so recalls the boudoir.
Don't flinch.
It won't do to ignore what waits behind each smile, that
unvoiced sigh accompanied by your every tremolo.
Go ahead, examine those upturned faces in the concert hall.
Their tiny gasps and glistening cheeks.
I've seen it boy, even for one young as you.
Oh, the ladies are always bored and lonely.
You will not need a horse if you have a cape."