by Mitch Albom
“He’s alive?”
“No.”
Frankie felt his stomach drop.
“When did he die?”
“Stop this game. You know the truth.”
“What truth?”
Alberto dropped his cigarette. He inhaled with a sniff and tried to stand up straight.
“You want me to say it? Fine. I killed him.”
Frankie swallowed.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” Alberto said, looking away. “What do I mean? You want me to play it on the skins of a drum? I killed him. It is why you are here. Stop playing with me. Get it over with.”
Frankie felt his insides shaking, the start of his soul breaking loose from his body. When he spoke, there was no air getting to his lungs, and his voice no longer sounded like his voice.
“Explain yourself, Señor Alberto.”
Alberto lifted his eyebrows.
“No one sent you?”
“Sent me?”
“To avenge his death.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I pushed him into the sea. Just after your ship left.”
“But why—”
“Money. A bag of money. It was stolen from me a week later.” His head dropped. “So now you know.”
“But you liked him.”
“I did.”
“He trusted you. . . .”
“A mistake.”
“For money?” Frankie whispered.
“Yes. Yes! I am a thief! All right?” When he said it, he seemed beaten, his voice a shaky bassoon. But then it rose to an angry pitch, fueled by alcohol and years of guilt. He began to sway. “For money! For money!”
He reached beneath his coat and whipped out a gun. He pointed it straight at Frankie’s chest.
“Give me yours!”
“No, please—”
“Give it to me! If you won’t take revenge, then I will take what you have. Give me your money. Or maybe I’ll kill you, too.”
Frankie held up his hands. He opened his fingers. In the lamplight, Alberto saw the scars covering Frankie’s left palm. He leaned in, blinking.
“What did you do to yourself, Francisco?” he whispered. “How can you play that way? . . .”
Frankie grabbed his arm and jerked it up quickly. The old man was wobbly and no match for Frankie’s strength. He dropped the gun. It fell to the pavement. He squeezed his fists around Frankie’s shirt collar.
“Kill me, Francisco.” His voice was a guttural plea, and tears rolled down his cheeks. “Forty years, I live with this sin. Forty years, I wonder if Maestro comes for me. Take his revenge! Now!”
Frankie stared at Alberto’s face, the crying eyes, the rotted teeth. He felt blood rushing to his brain. This was his answer? El Maestro was gone? A weeping conga player had killed the most powerful man he’d known?
A silent rage descended on my disciple. He pushed away from the old man.
“Nothing?” Alberto said. He stumbled off, drunkenly. “Then good-bye to you, stupid boy.”
Frankie stared.
“Señor Alberto.”
“Stupid . . . stupid . . .” the man mumbled.
“Señor Alberto . . .”
Frankie picked up the gun. Alberto turned. Frankie held the barrel high.
Alberto charged toward him.
“No, Francis—!”
Frankie pulled the trigger three times.
Alberto crumpled.
Frankie dropped the gun, stunned. A wisp of smoke came from its mouth, the shape of a music rest.
Inside the taberna, an old guitar leaned against a wall, its fifth string now a burning shade of blue.
54
1943
* * *
“Maestro?”
“What is it?”
“I have done something wrong.”
“What?”
“I have broken a string.”
“Were you throwing your guitar?”
“No, Maestro.”
“Were you using it as a toy?”
“No, Maestro.”
“How did you break it?”
“I was practicing.”
“Your scales and exercises? Or the silly songs I have warned you to stay away from?”
“Not the silly songs.”
“So you were doing the proper thing?”
“Yes, Maestro.”
“And a bad thing happened.”
“Yes, Maestro.”
“Give me the guitar.”
“Here, Maestro.”
“We will repair your damage.”
“Yes, Maestro.”
“Help me run a new string through the tuning peg . . .”
“It is through now, Maestro.”
“And you tied it off?”
“Yes, Maestro.”
“Now listen to how you tune. The string starts low. But you turn the peg and the tension makes it rise.”
“I see, Maestro.”
“You turn until it sounds like this . . . You hear? . . . That is how a new string finds its place.”
“What if you kept turning and turning?”
“The string would snap. You cannot ask things to do what they are not meant to do, Francisco. Eventually, they will break.”
“Maestro?”
“Yes?”
“I did a bad thing.”
“You have told me this.”
“I was not doing my exercises. I was turning the peg until the string broke.”
“So you lied to me?”
“Yes, Maestro . . .”
“And you also broke the string.”
“Yes, Maestro.”
“And now you feel guilty.”
“I’m sorry, Maestro . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“Cry. You should cry. Cry like the lying boy you are.”
Wynton Marsalis
Trumpeter, composer, Grammy winner; artistic director, Jazz at Lincoln Center
FRANKIE PRESTO DIDN’T SPEAK FOR THREE YEARS. How many musicians can say that? Three years, man. Not a word. Just played his guitar in a monastery. That’s where I met him. He blew me away. The key to learning music is humility, see? If you want me to talk about Frankie Presto, I have to start with that. I mean, it takes a very rare humility not to talk for three years. . . .
Spain? Yeah. I come here a lot. I spent twelve years writing a piece for a festival in Vitoria—Spanish music with American blues—and when I finished, they built me a statue. I’m serious, man. A statue. They love their jazz here.
But my first visit was in 1987, and I’ll never forget it. That’s when I found Frankie. We’d done some shows and we were driving back to Barcelona when I spotted this castle up in the hills. The translator said it was a monastery. She asked if I wanted to see it. I said absolutely. I’m from New Orleans. It’s not every day you see monks walking around.
Well, this place was exquisite. Nine hundred years old. The architecture, the stones, light pink, faded gold, like nothing you see today. And man, it was quiet. Dead quiet. I wandered off, got a little lost. When it’s silent like that, I like to walk and get ideas.
All of a sudden, I heard music. I said to myself, “I must be crazy, because that sounds like the blues.” Like Leadbelly or Albert King. I thought maybe some jazz angel was gonna pop out and start a conversation, you know?
I came down past this fountain, under a little bridge, and that’s when I saw this guy, by himself, with a guitar. He had his back to me, so I just froze and listened. Man, it was some of the most beautiful playing I’ve ever heard. Not only the speed and the dexterity. But the story it was telling. Music is about communication, see? It’s about baring your soul in the notes, telling your tale. Tha
t’s how you play. I didn’t even know this guy, but from his music, the way he was bending those strings, I could tell he was hurt and was searching for something.
When he stopped, I said, “Excuse me,” and he spun around. I didn’t want him to jump and run away, so I put my hands in front of me like I’m praying, and he’s watching me get closer, and I whisper, “I’m very sorry to disturb you.” He doesn’t respond. “Your playing is beautiful.” Now I’m a few feet from him. His head is shaved, he’s got blue eyes, nice-looking older Spanish guy, you know? He’s wearing a robe, but not the white robes like the other monks.
I say, “My name is Wynton Marsalis. I’m a musician from America. I play the trumpet.” And he looks at me real hard—for like ten seconds he just stares at me—and then I see he’s starting to cry. And I say, “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” And he’s shaking his head, still crying, and I keep saying I’m sorry and he’s got a little pad and paper, and finally, he writes down four words.
“I knew your father.”
Well, come on, now! I’m in Spain, in the mountains, in a monastery, and this monk is playing the blues and saying he knew my father? That’s some crazy stuff. So I say, “What is your name, sir?” And he writes down, “Frankie” and then “Presto.”
And it all comes back to me.
My father’s a musician, too, you know, and he did know Frankie Presto, back in New Orleans, in the fifties, when they were both kids and gigging around town. They used to play jam sessions at this joint called the Dew Drop Inn. When I was growing up, I heard the name “Frankie Presto” more than I wanted to—like whenever I didn’t want to practice my horn. My father would tell me about this young white guitar player and how, when he was my age, he was already gigging—and he didn’t have a mother or father to push him. And how he created a different sound, a sort of classical/blues blend, and other cats came out just to hear him. In New Orleans, if you can play, musicians know it. Doesn’t matter how old you are. Music tells the truth. And they said Frankie Presto could make a guitar spit out the truth, even though he left eventually to become a rock and roll act.
So here we both were, years later, in this monastery, about as far from the French Quarter as you can get, you know? And I said, “Are you allowed to talk?” And he nodded. And I said, “It’s not against the rules?” He shook his head. “But you’re not talking?” And he shook his head again. “How long?” I said. He held up three fingers. And I said, “Three months?” And he shook his head no. “Three years?” And he nodded yes.
Man, listen. Three years of silence? Part of me just wanted to leave him alone. But part of me felt like I had come there for a reason, because it was all too much coincidence, you know? So I asked him, “Why are you in here, Mr. Presto?”
And he wrote, “Penance.”
Now, I’ve known a lot of guys who have been in trouble, a lot of cats I grew up with were incarcerated, so I’m not shy about it. I just asked him straight out, “Did you kill somebody?” Because that’s how it was shaping up to me. And he shook his head no, then he wrote, “But I was ready to.”
I said, “That’s not the same thing.”
And he tapped his heart, as if to say, “It is in here.”
Later, I understood that. He was talking about intentions. That’s important in music, too. Critically important. What you’re thinking about can be what you become. Good and evil. But sitting with him, it seemed like he had done his time. Three years, man? For thinking about doing something bad? I asked if he had a family, and he nodded, and I asked, “Do they know you’re here? Do you write to them?” and he nodded again and I said, “Don’t they need you with them?” And he didn’t say anything, but I could tell I’d hit a nerve. He was crying now without making a sound, tears falling like from eyedroppers, you know? I felt terrible for this guy. I said, “Mr. Presto, the music world could use you. I would love to record with you.” And he wrote down, “I don’t want to perform anymore.”
So I said, “Maybe you could teach.”
For some reason, that ended the conversation. He took his guitar and walked away. I had to sit and absorb what had happened. I’m telling you, man, that was one of the craziest encounters I’d ever had—and no one else was there. I was wondering if anyone would believe me.
When I got back to the translator, I asked if we could talk to somebody in charge. She got me to an older monk and we sat down on a little bench in the refectory where they ate, and I said I knew Frankie Presto from a long time ago. The man said he couldn’t discuss any of the brothers there. I asked if he knew what happened, who Frankie almost killed? Again he said he couldn’t discuss anything. So I said, “What would it take to get him out of here?” And he seemed surprised. He said, “A novice can leave any time he chooses. He just has to walk out the door.”
So after that, I went looking for him. I went back to the fountain and the bridge, but I couldn’t find him. It was getting late, so we walked back to the little parking area, and there he was, sitting against the car, in regular clothes, holding his guitar case. He stood up and looked at us, and he spoke, for the first time, in a real weak voice, like every word was scratching against his throat.
This is all he said. One sentence.
“Can you help me get home?”
55
LOOK. THE PALLBEARERS ARE GATHERING. They will carry Frankie’s coffin to its final resting place. Do you see them there?
I will tell you who they are.
What they meant to Frankie.
And how he died.
But then I must be gone. There are new souls to tend to. New talent to dispense. So let us play this final movement in an allargando tempo—slowing, yet growing more majestic. It is worthy of the story, for the years, in the end, did elevate Frankie Presto.
I see one of the choir’s selections is “Come to the Water.” How fitting for a child once thrown in a river. Water was also the gateway to Frankie’s journey home. Although Mr. Marsalis offered a plane ticket for his newly discovered friend, Frankie, coming out of monastic seclusion, was not yet ready for a rapid return to the world.
Instead, he went to the Barcelona harbor. There, seeking work for his passage, he joined a cargo ship, doing kitchen labor, and sailed with it to Italy. He joined another ship and sailed to Sri Lanka. Another took him to Singapore. And another to Australia and finally to New Zealand. He took solace in the vastness of the sea and how small his problems seemed in its wake. Each morning, he would gaze at the water, imagining the soul of El Maestro at rest; each night he sang devotionals on the deck, his prayers joining the splash of waves against the hull. Fellow sailors marveled at his voice. Some climbed up to sing along, another in Frankie’s long list of bands, this one vocals only.
All told, he sailed for five months and 19,000 miles. Over those weeks, he made a certain peace with his less than peaceful past. For the first time in a long time, Frankie slept through the night. He found himself dreaming of Baffa Rubio, and the oranges they would share from a paper bag, and old Hampton, making Frankie pork stew in his tiny kitchen, and even the nuns in the orphanage and the meals they would serve after mass. He realized how many people it takes to keep one child alive in this world.
His final water journey was the shortest, a one-hour ferry, at sunset, from Auckland back to the island of Waiheke.
Where Frankie ended his exile.
He stepped off the boat, carrying only his guitar case and a folded shirt. His skin was browned from the sun, his hair had grown back long, and his thick beard was flecked with gray. He moved slowly behind a group of passengers toting shopping bags or briefcases. In his mind, he envisioned the walk up the hill and around the road to the small beach that he last called home. He had not written that he was coming. He had not been sure, until that morning, that he felt ready for—or worthy of—a return to his old life.
But when the people cleare
d in front of him, he stopped, and his heart jumped.
There, sitting against the ticket booth, arms around her knees, was Aurora.
She wore a long green dress, leather sandals, and dark sunglasses, which, upon seeing him, she removed. But she did not rise.
Frankie approached slowly.
“Aurora means dawn,” he said.
“Not anymore.”
“Do you come here every night?”
“I wait for the final ferry.”
“How long do you wait?”
“Until the last person gets off.”
“And then?”
“I go home.”
“For three years?”
She looked away.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Francisco?”
“No.”
“Will you keep looking?”
“No.”
“You are done with that?”
“Yes.”
“And you will stay with us?”
“Yes.”
“We are not kids anymore.”
“No.”
“We are not in a tree.”
“I know.”
“You have a family now.”
“You’re right.”
“You wrote that you were innocent.”
“Of killing, I was.”
“Yet you punished yourself.”
“It was not punishment.”
“It was to us.”
“I know.”
“Who killed that man?”
“They wouldn’t tell me.”
“Do you care?”
“I should always care.”
She watched a gull land on the dock. It pecked at something then flew away.
“What does Aurora mean now?” Frankie asked.
“Glowing light.”
“Why?”
“A teacher told Kai about glowing lights in the southern sky. They’re called ‘the Aurora.’ ”
“And?”
“Kai said that was me. I was a glowing light. And as long as I stayed in one place, you would find us and come home for good.” She raised her eyes. “Is that what you’ve done?”
