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| Mamas Little Prince: Elvis Presley in 1945. |
As I promised in my previous post, this one will include a sample from my brother Mårten Melin's new book
Mama's Little Prince, translated by him as it is written in Swedish. The novel was released today, it has 213 pages and the reading age is from 9 years.
But before we begin, I'd like to let Mårten himself introduce the book:
This is the story about Elvis Presley. But not the one about the world-famous entertainer,
adored by millions. No, this is the story about the poor eleven-year old boy
from Tupelo who just wanted to sing. And to buy his mama a pink cadillac.
It's about
the boy who would be known to the world simply as ”The King”.
Dealing
with issues like bullying, racism and the first big love, you really don’t have
to be an Elvis aficionado to enjoy it. But after reading it, maybe you will be.
Based on
true events, and thoroughly researched, the story takes place in the small town
of Tupelo, Mississippi in the mid-1940’s. Elvis Presley moves from house to
house with his mama (who likes to spend money) and his daddy (who’s not to keen
earning them). Among bullies, neighbors, friends and love interests, he plans
for the future: to become a famous singer. But how is he to achieve his goal?
Could the talent contest at the Mississippi-Alabama Fair and Dairy show be the
beginning of success? Or will the feelings of guilt, being the only surviving
twin, hold him back?
This is a
story told with warmth and humor, filled with both sadness and triumph. We
believe it’s the first book of its kind: a novel for young people about the
young would-be king, before fame and fortune came his way, when Elvis Presley
was still just his mama’s little prince. Or at least, when she thought he was.
So now, without further ado, here follows a sample in English
from Mama's Little Prince.
Chapter 15
I place the
cans on top of the fence. Squeeze the rocks in my hand.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I haven’t lost it. I hit
all of them. I put the cans on the fence again, pick up the rocks. It’s the
same cans I had on Berry street. Same rocks, too. I never did unpack them, not
until now.
”Will you let me try?”
I turn around. There’s a
black guy standing there, about my age. He’s alone, standing in the garden on
the other side of the fence. I don’t answer his question, just nod towards the
house behind him.
”You live there?”
”Sure. With my grandpa.”
I wonder where his parents
are, but before I ask he says:
”Most people here on the
Hill are black.”
I shrug.
”Not us.”
We look at each other for
a while, then I hand him the rocks.
”Be my guest.”
He climbs over the fence,
glancing to both sides as he does. He takes the rocks and throws the first one.
He misses.
”Throw like this, from the
side.”
I show him. He misses
again, but he’s getting there. Third time he scores. He smiles at me and I
can’t help smiling back at him.
”Name’s Sam,” he says.
”Sam Bell.”
”Elvis. Elvis Presley.”
We shake hands, just as if
we’re grown-ups.
”Where did you live before
you came here?”
”Mulberry Alley. But
originally we’re from East Tupelo.”
”Got any siblings?”
I think of Jesse, of
course I do. But I just shake my head.
”Nah, it’s just me
and my ma and daddy.”
”Mulberry,”
he says. ”That’s close to Shakerag. It’s pretty wild, I hear.”
”Yeah!”
I say. ”There was this man, he could really play the guitar!
Sam
laughs.
”I
was thinking of fights and stuff. You like music?”
”I
love music.”
”I
got something for you then. Come on!”
I
gaze towards the house.
”I
just gotta tell mama. Follow me!”
”You
sure?” Sam asks.
”Yeah!”
We
run up to the house, it’s like a race that Sam wins. We enter, mama sits there
with a cup of coffee, listening to the radio. Of course, Grand Ole Opry is on
soon. But it can’t be helped, I’m too curious to see whatever Sam wants me to
see.
”Mama,
I’m going out with a friend.”
Mama
looks at me.
”What
friend?”
”A
new one, he’s living next door. Sam, say hello to my mama.”
Sam,
who has been standing in the hallway, takes a few steps forward and bows. He
looks nervous.
”Nice
to meet you, ma’m.”
Mama
looks at him, surprised.
”Well,
hello Sam. What you gonna do?”
”Just
listen to some music, ma’m.”
Mama
nods her head.
”All
right. Just be back at five.”
”Thanks,
mama!” I say. ”Bye!”
When
I pass the window from the outside, I look up. Mama is standing there, looking
at us. I wave at her, she waves back.
”Your
mama’s all right, Elvis.”
I
smile at him.
”I
guess she is.”
*
Sam starts to run, I have to work hard to keep up with him.
”Let’s
see,” he says. ”Yes! There they are.”
I
hear music. Guitar and singing, it’s a woman’s voice.
”Who?”
I ask.
”I
don’t know their names, but ... there!”
Sam
is pointing to a man and a woman sitting outside a little drug store. They each
have a guitar, but only the woman seems to be singing. They could be about
mama’s and daddy’s age.
Look down, look down that lonesome
road
Before you travel on
Look up, look up and
greet your maker
For Gabriel blows
his horn
At first I believe they have a
speaker somewhere, it’s so loud! The singer makes faces, she’s really into it,
singing with her eyes closed.
I applaud them when
they’re done. The woman looks at me, surprised, then she smiles. They play some
more and I long to get home, to play the guitar myself. Somebody comes out and
hands them sodas.
”She sounds a little like Sister
Rosetta Tharpe,” Sam says.
”Who?”
”You
gotta listen to her. Let's go to my house!”
”Does
she live there?”
Sam
laughs, then starts to run. He makes a gesture that I should follow him. Does
he ever walk?
*
Sam’s house looks just like ours. It smells of tobacco inside.
An elderly man is sitting in an armchair, reading the paper. He looks up at
Sam.
”There
you are, my boy! How’s everything?”
”Great,
grandpa. This is Elvis, he lives in the house behind ours.”
”How
are you, sir?”
I
bow, just like I’ve been taught to do in front of older people. Sam’s
grandfather raises his eyebrows, then smiles at me.
”Just
fine, son. Welcome to the Hill!”
”Could
we use the record player, grandpa?”
”Record
player?” I cry out. ”You have a record player?”
”Of
course! We can’t listen to a record without a record player, can we?”
I
look around. And there it is, the big brass horn is gleaming in the sunlight
that looks in through the curtains. They have a piano as well. What luxury!
Sam’s
grandfather laughs out.
”You
gotta have a record player to hear the really fine songs. What will you play?”
”Sister
Rosetta Tharp,” Sam says.
”Good choice!” his grandfather says.
Sam
starts to browse through a pile of records. I want to hear them all.
He
finds the record he’s looking for, puts it on the turntable and starts to wind
it up. When the turntable is spinning, he puts the needle down, and soon a
powerful voice fills the room. Sister Rosetta Tharpe slides on the notes,
drowns out the trumpets in the background. Sometimes she talks more than she
sings.
When
she’s holding the last note I hold my breath. What a voice!
Music
is really everywhere. Outside stores, in the church, on the radio. But with a
record player you can decide for yourself when you want to listen, what you
would like to listen to. It must be the greatest invention of all time.
”She
sounds like the woman at the store, doesn’t she?” Sam asks.
”Uh-huh,”
I say. ”Only better.”
We
listen to the other side of the record. It's just as good as the first. I want
a record player too. And records!
I
make a promise to myself that when I grow up I’m going to have a whole room
full of them.
Then
it’s time for me to go, mama will wonder where I am if I don’t come home.
”It
was nice meeting you, Elvis. You’re a very polite boy. Come back anytime.”
”Thank
you, Mr Bell.”
I
bow before I go out through the door. Sam joins me.
”You
know what, Elvis? You’re weird.”
”What
do you mean?”
”You
don’t have to call my granddad Sir. Whites usually don’t say that to black
people.”
”He’s
your grandfather. He’s older than I am. Of course I will call him Sir.”
Sam
gives me a big smile.
”As
I said, you’re weird.”
He
says it like it’s a good thing.
”See
you!” I say and jump over the fence.
Sam
waves back at me.
*
Next Saturday he enters our garden where I sit and practice.
I keep playing, while he’s standing there, listening. When I’m finished he
laughs a little.
”You
sound like a black person when you sing.”
I
shrug.
”I
don’t think I sound like a black person.”
”Is
that so?”
”Or
a white person, for that matter.”
”So
who do you sound like?” Sam asks.
I
have to think about that for a while.
”I
sound like myself.”
Sam
laughs again.
”Wanna
do something?” he asks.
”Sure,”
I say.
”What
do you like except music?”
”The
movies! We can go to the movies! Strand has a showing at three o’clock.”
”But
we can’t sit together,” he says.
”Don’t
worry about that,” I say.
”And
I don’t have any money either.”
”I
have money,” I say. ”I can pay for the both of us.”
”All
right, it’s a deal!”
We
go into the kitchen. Mama gives us each a sandwich and we’re off.
”Two
tickets, please!” I say.
The
cashier looks suspiciously at Sam, then at me. But she gives me the tickets. I
hand one of them to Sam.
”See
you inside!” I say. ”Keep a seat for me.”
”What?”
”You
heard.”
The
house is half-filled, mostly with children. I wave at Sam, he waves back, but
looks at me, uncertain.
When
the lights go down, I climb the railing that separates Sam’s part of the house
from mine. It’s easy.
I
sit down beside him.
”You’re
a fool, Elvis,” he says and laughs.
”In
the dark you can’t see who’s white and who’s black, can you?” I say.
I
think of music, of different voices. Is it really possible to hear who’s black
and who’s white? For real?
© Mårten Melin, 2021
If you are a publisher and interested in this book,
please contact Rights director Åsa Bergman, Rabén & Sjögren Agency, at asa.bergman@rabensjogren.se
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