{"product_id":"dancing-in-the-dark-isbn-9781400079834","title":"Dancing in the Dark","description":"In this searing novel, Caryl Phillips reimagines the life of the first black entertainer in the U.S. to reach the highest levels of fame and fortune.After years of struggling for success on the stage, Bert Williams (1874—1922), the child of recent immigrants from the Bahamas, made the radical decision to don blackface makeup and play the “coon.” Behind this mask he became a Broadway headliner–as influential a comedian as Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, and W. C. Fields, who called him “the funniest man I ever saw, and the saddest man I ever knew.” It is this dichotomy at Williams’ core that Phillips explores in this richly nuanced, brilliantly written novel, unblinking in its attention to the sinister compromises that make up an identity.“His best work–cerebral, tender, masterful in its scope and vision.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Miami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e“Delicate, moving, dramatic. . . . Phillips writes powerfully.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e“An exquisitely moving novel. . . . Only a writer as profoundly intuitive as Phillips could bring that shrouded history to light.” –\u003ci\u003eO, The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003eCaryl Phillips was born in St. Kitts, West Indies. Brought up in England, he has written for television, radio, theater, and film. He is the author of three books of nonfiction and seven previous novels. His last novel, \u003ci\u003eA Distant Shore, \u003c\/i\u003ewon the 2004 Commonwealth Prize. His awards include the Martin Luther King Memorial Prize, a Guggenheim fellowship, and the James Tait Black Memorial Prize. He is a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. Phillips lives in New York City. \u003cbr\u003eCaryl Phillips’s \u003ci\u003eThe Final Passage, A State of Independence, The European Tribe, Higher Ground, Cambridge, Crossing the River, The Nature of Blood, The Atlantic Sound, A New World Order,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eA Distant Shore\u003c\/i\u003e are available in Vintage paperback.Act One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    (1873-1903)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It is February 1903 and at present he is impersonating Shylock   Homestead in the musical In Dahomey, but only after dark. He shambles   about as though unsure what to do next, as if a wrong turning has   placed him upon this stage and he may as well stay put until somebody   offers him the opportunity to withdraw. Every evening Mr. Williams   wanders aimlessly, but despite his size there is some elegance to his   movement. When the audience raises its collective voice and asks him   to reprise a song, Mr. Williams acts as though he is first shocked   and then somewhat embarrassed that they should be stirring him out of   his befuddled anonymity. Of course, this is all the more comical to   his audience for they have never before witnessed a Negro performer   affecting such indifference in the face of such overwhelming   approval. Back uptown in Harlem, few residents have actually seen him   perform, but everybody is fully aware of his stellar reputation.   However, there are some Harlemites who have sat upstairs in the   balcony and looked down at the senior partner in the Williams and   Walker comedy duo, who are unsure what to make of his foolish   blackface antics. These days Mr. Williams seldom looks up at the   parcel of dark faces that stare down at him from nigger heaven, but   he is always grateful to hear a good number of these colored   Americans applauding enthusiastically as In Dahomey unfolds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He stares at the contented white faces in the orchestra stalls   knowing that he can hold an audience like nobody else in the city. He   knows when to go gently with them, and he carefully observes their   mood; he knows not to strain the color line for he respects their   violence. At other times, when he can sense something close to   warmth, he might push and cajole a little, and try to show them   something that they had not thought of before; he might try to   introduce them to the notion that music and wit are the colored man's   gift to America, and then impress them with his own unique style of   carefree dancing. All the while he listens closely for a single dull   note, and should he detect it he will proceed with caution and   neither irritate nor provoke. He is keen that at the end of the   evening, they should all leave safely and without either party having   broken the unwritten contract that exists between the Negro performer   and his white audience. If they can achieve this, then it will be   possible for them to come together again in good faith. He cares what   they think about him, and he understands that one false step and he   risks toppling over into the musician's pit and being replaced by Bob   Cole or Ernest Hogan or one of the scores of other colored performers   who are keen to usurp him without fully understanding that they do   have the choice of offering these white faces in the orchestra stalls   some artistic drollery and a little repose instead of clownish   roughness and loud vulgarity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    But these days an increasingly impatient George does not share his   partner's circumspect feelings with regard to their white audience.   Before In Dahomey, neither Williams nor Walker objected to being   presented as \"The Two Real Coons\" on the New York stage. They were   young men, freshly arrived in the city and making their determined   way in the world of vaudeville, often sharing the boards with acts   billed as \"The Merry Wops\" or \"The Sport and the Jew,\" and when money   was in short supply they were happy to play on the same bill with   trained dog and monkey acts. But it is now 1903, and times have   changed and they are successful, and although Bert does not like to   heat up the white man's blood by being flash in his face, George   feels differently. George takes the role of the dude of the pair, the   Broadway swell with silk cravat and fancy spats who blazes with   energy, and who is not afraid to eyeball the audience. He is always   pushing and demanding more, and the more George agitates, the more   sorrowful his partner becomes both in performance and in person. He   thinks, No need to be like that, George, as his gold-toothed partner   grins and winks and seems determined to create a palpable flutter of   feminine hearts both onstage and in the orchestra stalls, but Bert   never says anything to dandy George in his colorful vests. Some days,   Bert feels that their act, although seamless and coherent on the   outside, is beginning to fracture internally for George has   absolutely no interest in going gently with an audience and learning   how to seduce them, and Lord help the man, white or colored, who   would dare refer to him with an unpleasant epithet. In fact, an  increasingly successful, and confident, George is beginning to act as   though he doesn't give a damn about white folks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    walker:-I tell you I'm letting you in on this because you're   a friend of mine. I could do this alone and let no one in on it. But   I want you to share it just because we're good friends. Now after you   get into the bank, you fill the satchel with money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    williams:Whose money?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    walker:-That ain't the point. We don't know who put the   money there, and we don't know why they got it. And they won't know   how we got it. All you have to do is fill the satchel; I'll get the   satchel--you won't have nothing to bother about--that's 'cause you're   a friend of mine, see?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    williams:-And what do I do with the satchel?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    walker:-All you got to do is bring it to me at a place where   I tell you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    williams:-When they come to count up the cash and find   it short, then what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    walker:-By that time we'll be far, far away--where the birds   are singing sweetly and the flowers are in bloom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    williams:-(With doleful reflection) And if they catch   us they'll put us so far, far away we never hear no birds singin'.   And everybody knows you can't smell no flowers through a stone wall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He listens to the applause for his slow and cautious character. He   listens to the applause for George's dapper, city-slick Negro dude.   Do the audience understand that his character, this Shylock Homestead   whose dull-witted antics amuse them, bears no relationship to the   real Egbert Austin Williams? Every evening this question worries him,   and every evening as he takes his curtain call he tries to ignore it,   but he often lies in his bed late into the night trying to calculate   where he might force a little more laughter here, or squeeze an inch   more room to work with there, and therefore impress them with the   overwhelming evidence of his artistry. Every evening he listens to   the rainstorm of their applause and every evening he takes his bow,   careful to make sure that he bends from the waist in tight unison   with George, careful to make sure that the pair of them move and   offer their best smile as one. George talks without moving his lips   or turning his head. \"You want to give them more?\" Bert looks   straight ahead. \"Not tonight.\" Again they bow as one. \"Everything   okay?\" \"Sure, everything is just capital.\" The band begins to play   their number and Bert waves a slow-branched hand to the audience and   turns to leave. He holds the curtain open for George and makes sure   that his partner passes safely through the velvet drapes. The   thunderous applause continues, but Bert does not turn again to look   at the audience for, at this moment, he wants something from them   that he suspects he can never have: their respect. However, from the   very beginning, this reluctant seven-legged word has failed to make   an appointment with him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    --Mr. Williams?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He listens to the stage manager hollering out his name in the busy   corridor. Why can't the impatient man wait until he has taken off his   face?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    --Mr. Williams, you'll be wanting me to keep a seat at tomorrow   night's performance for your pop?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Every night the same intrusive question, and every night the same   polite answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    --Sure, Mr. Kelly, you keep that seat nice and warm. I reckon he'll   be coming back either tomorrow night or some night soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He places the newly soiled towel by the bowl of murky water and he   stares into the mirror at his fresh, clean face. He knows that his   father has no desire to return and witness his son transforming   himself into a nigger fool. He knows his father well enough to   understand that beneath his placid exterior a quiet frustration burns   within him, and he believes that his father does not like to place   himself in situations that might cause him to get heated up. Father   and son have never spoken of this fact, but since their arrival in   America father and son seem to have found it difficult to communicate   on any subject.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    --Mr. Williams, will you be needing anything else tonight?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    --I don't believe so, Mr. Kelly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    --Well, you just remember. I'll be holding that spot for your pop.   Tomorrow night, or whenever he's ready to see you perform, you just   let me know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    --Thank you, Mr. Kelly. I surely appreciate it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He averts his eyes from the mirror and listens to the sound of   retreating footsteps in the corridor beyond his locked dressing room   door. Although no words have been exchanged between them, it is clear   that his bewildered father is deeply ashamed of his only son.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The balance has gone. Five years ago, when she first met him, young   Mr. Williams was a man with a purpose. Handsome, well dressed, and   still in his mid-twenties, he possessed courtesies that belonged to   an earlier era. He rose early, and retired early, and drank and   smoked only in moderation, and he possessed a fierce ambition and   work ethic. And talent. Lord, he had a talent that others could see,   but none, she believed, could imagine it in full bloom the way she   could. This, she thought, was a man fit for a widow who had already   mastered the art of nurturing a man's dreams. This new man had   traveled a long way from his Caribbean birthplace and twice crossed   America, first to the west and then back to the east. This was a man   whose brow she might soothe, a man she could encourage to relax and   stay focused as he journeyed toward his destiny. Truly, fate had   blessed her, but five years later the balance has gone. On that   momentous day she accompanied her friend Ada, and sat quietly in the   corner of the photographer's studio. The tobacco advertisement was to   feature Ada and another woman, all dressed up in their finery,   sophisticated ladies ready to step out on the arms of two gentlemen.   Quality colored ladies, quality product, and then the two dandies   entered the studio, one tall and tan, one dark and short, and her   eyes were drawn to the tall man, who bowed gently before Ada and the   other woman and then turned to her and smiled with a sweetness that   caused her body to tremble, so much so that Ada had to shoot her   foolish friend an unambiguous glare. She lowered her eyes, for there   was now no longer any need to look at this tall man for his image was   burned deeply into her soul. She had immediately noticed that this   lofty man, with long fingers to match his legs, possessed a strange   spring in his step. She expected a less nimble gait from a man with   his build, something that might betray the fact that he was overly   conscious of his size, but there was a curious buoyancy to his   movement. She looked up as the photographer set the first pose, and   she observed that it was his arm that Ada's companion was instructed   to take but the woman began to act uppity with him, and then plain   downright cold, for she had noticed him looking across at Lottie, but   it made no difference for he kept right on treating this difficult   woman like a queen upon whom he was honored to attend. Lottie   observed that the darker man also had manners, although he did not   possess the same courtesies as his taller friend. She scrutinized the   darker man and immediately sensed that beneath the sugar he would   probably be quick to anger and express his mannishness, and should a   woman attempt to slip a noose around his ankle he would soon be   stepping clear. A heartbreaker, she thought, but if Ada wished to   make reckless eyes at this man, then who was she to say anything? Her   friend's new preoccupation left her free to secretly pursue her own   interest, although, of course, she had no intention of letting this   man know that her heart was already beating to his tune. And yet   again the photographer moved this tall man and Ada's tiresome friend   into another position that suggested both courtliness and intimacy,   and the tall man turned his head so that his eyes once more met those   of Lottie, who remained seated quietly in the corner. She reminded   herself that whatever thoughts might be coursing through her mind she   was a widow and she should not forget herself and allow her heart to   fist up so rapidly for this young man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Sitting across the table from him at a fine restaurant on Fifty-third   Street, Lottie melts. But he does not blow any hot air on her. He   just listens to what she has to say about her late husband's painful   final days in Chicago, and he drinks up her words as though they were   the finest red wine. She is helpless in the face of his stillness. He   is balanced, and he seems to understand that the first duty of love   is to listen. She looks closely at his hands, for she knows that   gentle hands that are afraid of loss are the only hands for her.   Lottie wishes to apologize for her somewhat coy behavior at the   photographer's studio, but saying sorry seems unnecessary. She toys   with her food while, inside of her, certainty falls like an anchor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He insists on walking her the four blocks back to her rooming house   on Forty-ninth Street, and as they step out of the restaurant he   offers her his arm. They ignore the unsavory odors that emanate   hereabouts from dark hallways and open windows, and they promenade   regally as though crossing a meadow that is high with the scent of   flowers on a bright spring morning. He tells her that there is no   other girl; that there has never been another girl, that his life has   been selfishly dedicated to performing, but now he is ready for   something else. He confesses that her quiet dignity has captured his   heart and he wonders if she might consider hitching her fortune to   his. She smiles coyly and suddenly he feels overwhelmed with   embarrassment.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304175522021,"sku":"NP9781400079834","price":23.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400079834.jpg?v=1767724452","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/dancing-in-the-dark-isbn-9781400079834","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}