Before the bodyguard took me down to a waiting Mercedes, I called home and told Daddy, who was waiting up for me, that I was on my way. I rode home on cloud nine, replaying the whole incredible day and night over and over in my head. Daddy was dozing on the couch when I walked in, but he sat up and rubbed his eyes, ready to hear all the details, including the plan for returning to Frankfurt in a matter of hours. I hated to sacrifice any of the day to sleeping. I knew that the next day, my new friend would go to Sweden and then on to the rest of the world and eventually home to the States, and this strange, wonderful moment would be over.
After I’d slept for a few hours, a car came and took me back to the hotel, and when I arrived at the suite, Prince called from the other room, “I’ll be out soon.”
“Okay…”
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do in the meantime. I would have been happy to sit there among the foo foo, but a very nice gentleman introduced himself as Earl and told me he was going to do my hair.
“Okay…”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but Earl looked like he knew what he was doing. As he sectioned my curly hair and blow-dried it straight, I sat upright and still, wondering if this was an audition or just something to keep me occupied while I waited. Did he not like my hair? Straightened shiny black, it did look a lot longer and thicker. Looking at myself in the mirror, I did feel a bit like an Egyptian princess. Cleopatra without the bangs.
As Earl finished my sleek new style, Prince came in and said, “Wow. You look pretty.”
“I love it.” I couldn’t stop touching it, and I didn’t even freak out when Prince took a turn. It was so smooth and silky. “I don’t ever want to wash it.”
He laughed and said, “Well, it’s different.”
Our conversation picked up right where it had left off the night before. It always did over the years. Life was so easy and comfortable when he was next to me. The anticipation of seeing him was stressful, but when we were together, it was like we’d been friends for ages. We watched a videotape of the Mannheim performance, and then he showed me raw footage and rough cuts for the “Thieves in the Temple” video, so it was my turn to ask a thousand questions: Was that supposed to happen? Who did the choreography on this part? Have you taken ballet? How did you come up with that insane move at the end?
“Oh, that move’s from James Brown,” he said. He told me a story about going to a James Brown concert when he was a little kid, and he was like a little kid when he told it, excited and on his feet, laughing and demonstrating. “In the middle of the show, my stepdad boosts me up onstage. He put me up there, I was all slide—kick—and the kick always goes to the splits. It was tight. I danced so hard. And then a bodyguard came and hauled me off.”
I laughed at the idea of his stepdad hoisting him onto the stage. Mama had basically done the same thing to get me into this room. Watching his footwork up close, I noticed that his shoes were specially made with a steel bar between the heel and sole to keep the bottom from breaking. I’d been wondering how it was possible for him to do some of the things he’d done onstage without breaking an ankle or two, and I was curious to know what it felt like to dance with heels like that, but I was too shy to ask him if I could try one on.
It was so refreshing to be a part of this conversation about the art and business of performing—a serious conversation about creating art out of music and movement—with someone who was a master in multiple crafts and had defied all reasonable expectations to achieve a level of success most performers don’t bother dreaming about. He treated me like a fellow artist, which made me feel incredibly special and proud, but every time I repeated something like, “This is so great, I can’t believe how great this is,” he’d laugh this infectious laugh that came from somewhere deep inside.
Before I left, he told me I should make another tape of myself dancing.
“If I have time,” I said. “I have a lot booked before school starts. Restaurants and parties and stuff.”
“Send me that. The restaurant stuff.”
“Okay.” I knew Daddy would be rolling tape anyway. “But where do I send it?”
“I’ll let you know.”
I went home, not fully believing I’d hear from him again, but the next day he called, and again the conversation continued without a seam. He told me about Sweden and the new music he was working on in his head.
“I’ll send it to you,” he said. “Let me know what you think. And send me another dance tape.”
Years later, Prince’s friend and collaborator Randee St. Nicholas told me that he called her one night and asked her to come over to his place right away. It was two in the morning, but the predawn hours were always a particularly creative time for him, so this wasn’t out of the ordinary. Randee arrived at his home, and they sat together on his bed, watching the belly dancing videotapes I’d left with him.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She said, “This is the one you’re going to marry.”