The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto

by Mitch Albom

“For nineteen years.”

  “Why did you shoot him?”

  “Because I thought he would harm you. I knew he could be violent. I witnessed it before. So I took a weapon. My life, my entire existence, was to protect you, Francisco. He was running your way. I shot.”

  She covered her mouth, as if the memory still stunned her. Tears fell quickly down her spotted skin.

  “In the end, it was justice. That is what I tell myself. What he took from you, no man should take.”

  “He killed my teacher,” Frankie said.

  “Not just your teacher,” she whispered. “Your father.”

  Suddenly, Frankie couldn’t breathe.

  “What are you saying?”

  “The man you called Maestro? His real name was Carlos Andrés Presto, the husband of Carmencita. He was once the most promising guitarist in all of Valencia. But he lost his sight fighting in the war. And when he lost your mother—­and, as he thought, the baby she carried—­he lost himself.”

  “That can’t be true,” Frankie whispered.

  “It is. But church bells chimed when you were born, Francisco. God gave you a new father in Baffa Rubio, and in time, unaware, he returned you to your real father. It was Maestro who visited Baffa in prison. It was Baffa’s money that Maestro used to send you to America. It was that money Alberto stole when he pushed Maestro into the sea. And it was that money I stole a week later from Alberto, a great deal of money, enabling me to watch you all these years. Everything is connected, Francisco. My father used to tell me a gypsy expression ‘Le duy vas xalaven pe.’ The hands wash each other.”

  “You stole the money back?” Frankie said.

  “There are few sins I did not commit in my sworn protection of you. But to what matter? The greatest sin, I committed first. I let you go.

  “During my years in prison, I could only pray for your safety. I thought I would never again see your face. But now, by His grace, the Lord has brought you back to this place, so that I may make my final request.”

  “What do you want?” Frankie said.

  She lowered her eyes.

  “To ask your forgiveness.”

  Frankie’s head rolled back, heavy. He rubbed his temples. This was too much to comprehend. He kept imagining scenes he was not a part of, his mother dying in a burning church; his teacher being pushed into the sea; Alberto being robbed; and this woman, this old, broken, gap-­toothed woman, somehow being there for all of it, playing his life’s strings like invisible fingers. He felt manipulated. He rose slowly and glared at the shriveled person who claimed to be his guardian. He had not asked for her. She had toyed with his existence, making all that he thought he knew some kind of lie.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t forgive you. Go. Now.”

  “Francisco—­”

  “Leave me alone. Forever. Do you hear me? I don’t need you. I never needed you.”

  “That is not true,” she whispered.

  But he was already limping away, putting the woman, the guitar, and Francisco Tárrega behind him.

  63

  FRANKIE NEVER RETURNED TO THE HOTEL. HE DID NOT EAT. He did not drink. He wandered in a trance toward the edge of the city, and sat down near the hermitage on the banks of the Mijares River. His frustration was burning in his chest. He imagined himself being thrown in this water. Imagined Baffa Rubio finding him. Imagined the disgraced nun lying in muddy brush, seeing him taken away. Whose life was this? It felt like an opera with his name on it, but one he had not written.

  He stayed near the river most of the day, by the old water mill and the shepherd boy sculpture. Finally, with the afternoon sun losing its heat, Frankie entered a small church once frequented by refugees hiding in the caves.

  No one was inside. His footsteps echoed. He moved to the altar and lowered himself to his knees. For the first time since he was a child, he opened his hands for something other than the guitar. And despite El Maestro’s warning that “God gives you nothing,” he asked the Lord for some sort of answer. Some clarity. Some peace.

  He waited. Listening. A child of mine expects a sound.

  He heard only silence.

  As his teacher had predicted.

  He rose slowly and made his way back toward the city.

  The festival’s last night was held in the sold-­out Auditorio Municipal. By the time he got there, Frankie was exhausted. He hadn’t eaten. He didn’t have his ticket. He went to the back of the building, familiar, as musicians are, with stage exits and entrances, and found a door to slip through. Down a hallway, he saw performers getting ready, and he caught a glimpse of Kai, wearing a red dress that had once belonged to Aurora.

  “Papa?” She hurried to him. “Where were you?”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “I was really worried.”

  “I went walking.”

  “Are you all right? You’re all sweaty.”

  “I’m all right. You just think about your playing.”

  “Do you have your seat?”

  “Maybe I will stay back here. Is that all right?”

  She found him a chair.

  “Rest, Papa.”

  “Go prepare,” he said. “I’m fine. Good luck.”

  Kai disappeared down the hall.

  Minutes later, the competition began. Frankie heard the orchestra on the other side of the wall, the rise and fall of the strings and the winds, and the quiet passages where the guitarists were featured. He remembered the first time he ever heard such sounds, as a boy in the wings of a Cleveland theater, listening to Duke Ellington. But he could no longer rouse that youthful wonder. His eyes stayed locked on his muddy shoes. He had never felt so tired.

  When it was Kai’s time to play, he moved slowly to the wing of the stage. The last of the competitors, she selected a pair of Tárrega compositions, difficult for most guitarists, but part of her life growing up. And, I am proud to say, she performed them flawlessly. The orchestra fell in behind her as if they’d played together for years. When she finished, spectators nodded vigorously and rose to their feet, whooping and clapping. Had the judges chosen anyone else, the crowd might have revolted.

  When she was announced as the winner, Kai stepped forward and bowed, and Frankie felt a surge of pride exceeding anything he’d ever felt for himself. She was led to the front of the stage and given two bouquets of flowers to go with her award.

  “Thank you so much,” she said into a microphone, in perfect Spanish. “I am most honored to play the works of Villareal’s native son, the great Francisco Tárrega.”

  More applause.

  “But I would not know a single note on the guitar if not for another of your native sons. He is my father.”

  The crowd murmured. She turned and waved at Frankie. He had not expected this. He felt dizzy.

  “Papa. Please come out.”

  He shook his head no.

  “Papa . . . Please . . .”

  He squeezed his fists, then locked them behind his back. He walked onto the stage with his head lowered. The crowd applauded.

  “Here is my father, who you might know better as . . . Frankie Presto. He grew up in this city and he learned his music here.”

  The applause deepened. This was a surprise. Frankie nodded meekly at the crowd. He realized he had not been on a stage in many years.

  “Papa, today someone brought us this,” Kai said, pointing to an approaching stagehand. “Your guitar from when you were a child here. It is a miracle.”

  Frankie swallowed. He did not want to correct his daughter. Or tell her the truth.

  “Would you play a song with me?”

  Before he could react, the audience roared, urging him on. Kai handed him the guitar. Someone slid a chair into place. Someone else brought a footstool. They quickly exited, leaving father and daughter alone. Kai sat down, putting
her guitar on her knee. She smiled and motioned for Frankie to do the same. He shook his head no.

  “Papa,” she whispered, “it’s time to make music again.”

  Frankie held still, dumbfounded. Finally, he sat down alongside her. The auditorium quieted. Even the stray coughs were silenced. Frankie positioned the old guitar as he had done a million times before. But suddenly, he could not stop shivering. His throat was dry. His vision blurred. His fingers locked up. Kai looked at him, concerned. He closed his eyes and exhaled. As his chest sank he heard the voice of his teacher—­his father—­in one final memory.

  “When will I be finished learning music, Maestro?”

  “Never.”

  “Never?”

  “You will never know all there is to know. You will learn until your final days. Then you will inspire someone else. This is what an artist does.”

  “What does inspire mean?”

  “It means you will make someone love music the way you love it.”

  “And they will want to play like me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Can I really do that?”

  “Not with all this talking.”

  “Lo siento, Maestro.”

  “English.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “All right, then. Begin . . .”

  Frankie put his fingers on the strings. He looked at his daughter.

  They began.

  It was a sweet and lively Tárrega duet, one they’d done many times over the years. It was called “Adelita,” and Frankie’s strings intermingled with Kai’s, supporting, accenting, taking the lead. She moved slightly, as did he, remembering the many times they’d played this in the back of their house on the island.

  When their piece was complete, they let the last notes ring, then lowered their hands at the same time, as if choreographed. The crowd cheered, and Frankie felt his heart swell. Even the orchestra rose in appreciation. It was the last band Frankie Presto would join.

  But it was not his last song.

  Kai swept a hand toward him and the audience responded loudly, wanting more. She kissed him on the cheek before stepping away and whispered, “Now you. Something for Mama.”

  Frankie watched her step offstage. He sat back down. His breathing calmed. He knew there was only one song left to play.

  “Lágrima.”

  Death has no ears. Someone wrote that when Tárrega died. If it did, it could never rob the world of his music.

  As Frankie Presto played that night, the world again heard something only death could ignore. Frankie was connected to me in the rarest of ways, from the inside out, so that he was no longer playing the notes of that song, he was playing its tears, the tears that fell from Tárrega’s eyes as he composed it, the tears that dripped down Carmencita’s cheeks as she hummed it, the tears that welled behind El Maestro’s dark glasses when he realized he had passed on my beauty to the son of a sardine maker.

  The world had never witnessed so strong a connection between music and memory. As Frankie came to the final stanza of “Lágrima,” he glanced to the wings and saw his daughter, covering a smile. Then he noticed, behind her, the old woman Josefa, her head lowered.

  He stared until she looked up, with the sadness of a life rebuked. All that Frankie had known, this woman had, in some way, given to him: his father, his wife, his daughter, his dog, his safety, his health, his music. Yes, she had once turned her back on him. But he had done the same to her, denying her even the decency of forgiveness.

  He suddenly stopped playing. As the crowd watched in curious silence, he stood up slowly and lifted the guitar toward the old woman, as if offering a sacrifice. Deep inside, Frankie heard the voice he had been waiting to hear at the church that afternoon.

  And he knew what to do.

  “I do forgive you, kind woman,” he said. “And I thank you.”

  “You thank me?” she whispered.

  “For my life.”

  He looked at his daughter and smiled.

  “My whole, amazing life.”

  Josefa’s lips parted slightly. At that moment, she looked strangely like her father, the gypsy who had once given a gift of magic strings. With her eyes closing peacefully, she pulled the hood over her head. Suddenly the lights in the auditorium went out like a blown candle. Frankie heard a gasp from the crowd. He looked down and saw a thin glowing line.

  His top string had turned blue.

  The audience, thinking this was part of the finale, began applauding vigorously. In the darkness, Frankie felt a blissful surrender, a draining of both his power and his worries, as if someone had unplugged him from the heaviness of this world. Those strings, he now understood, did indeed have lives inside them, but it was not his playing that turned them blue; it was his heart.

  With the ovation growing louder, Frankie lifted his head. He saw now, high in the rafters, the spirits of El Maestro, Baffa, and Aurora, beckoning to him. He reached for them and a pain gripped his chest. His guitar clanged to the floor.

  And then, as some have told the authorities, he appeared to rise to the ceiling.

  I shall clear that up now. Frankie’s body never rose. That was his soul. But so great was the desire of the world to hear his splendid music—­to keep it even a few more seconds—­that his spirit was tugged, momentarily, between heaven and earth.

  There can be but one victor in such a struggle.

  Seconds later, he was gone, and only his body was left behind, thudding to the stage as if a puppet’s string had been cut.

  Look at the time. Look at the church. Look at the pallbearers, each of them one of Frankie’s students over the years, younger men and women, sad faces in dark clothing. I said at the start that I would sprinkle Frankie’s talent on other souls. But he has done it already. It is inside those young ones who carry his casket, and in the older musicians who traveled all this way to say good-­bye, and in the millions of ­people who have heard his songs or tried to imitate his playing, and in the hearts of his adoring daughter and the children she will bear, and their children, and their children’s children, who will hear Frankie’s greatest playing—­and laughter with his family—­from tapes made long ago.

  I leave you now, and return to my eternal task, awaiting newborns and their tiny open hands.

  Did you know that once, years after his death, Francisco Tárrega’s body was exhumed from its grave, so that it could be moved closer to home? The famed guitarist Andrés Segovia came to bear witness, standing at the foot of the opened casket. Segovia wept at the sight of Tárrega’s remains, in homage to the talent that had so influenced him.

  I am flattered. But as I depart, I should confess. It is not in the bones. Nor in the lips or the lungs or even in the hands. I am Music. And Music is in the connection of human souls, speaking a language that needs no words.

  Everyone joins a band in this life. And what you play always affects someone.

  Sometimes, it affects the world.

  Frankie’s symphony ends.

  And so, at last, we rest.

  Acknowledgments

  MANY AUTHORS, IN THEIR CLOSING PAGES, WRITE “THIS BOOK would not have been possible without. . . .” It’s a good practice and I will repeat it here.

  But with this novel, the words “This book would not have been possible without” truly do apply—­to the numerous artists who agreed to let me stitch Frankie Presto into their real lives. They trusted me to write in their voices and give an alternate universe to their personal histories. And for that not only am I grateful, but I feel compelled to add a few special notes:

  Marcus Belgrave. He was a treasure. My last conversation with him was to tell him of this book and his inclusion. He was in a doctor’s office—­yet typically upbeat and encouraging. He passed away a few months later, and his horn will be missed. He was a huge part of Detroit’s j
azz legacy.

  Darlene Love. “Today I Met The Boy I’m Gonna Marry” was the song my wife sang at our own wedding. I’ve been a sucker for Darlene’s music for years. Her life story is incredible, and Frankie probably should have kissed her while he had the chance.

  Burt Bacharach. I’ve known him for a little while, and he’s as elegant as his music. One of the twentieth century’s greatest songwriters, he could make the phone book melodic. How one man could compose “Baby It’s You” and “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself” is beyond me. A deep thanks for his participation.

  Roger McGuinn. His humility about his guitar skill was an inspiration for Frankie. Roger is a walking history of rock and roll. The story of meeting the Beatles—­and of the party—­is all true. And I didn’t even write about the night he, Eric Clapton, and Jimi Hendrix jammed in an apartment. Roger also slums with our band, the Rock Bottom Remainders, proving the old adage about pearls to swine.

  Lyle Lovett. We met a few years back and became friends. I’ve always loved his music and lyrics. “Clever” is a word that jumps to mind when I hear songs like “Her First Mistake” or “God Will,” so I made his fictional band the Clever Yells. Lyle is as humble as he is talented, and he said yes right away to this story. His trust means a great deal to me.

  Paul Stanley. I hadn’t met Paul before this book. He was gracious enough to have me at his house, and told me countless rock and roll anecdotes, including how one would audition for KISS. (“Going from dating to marrying” is his actual quote.) Paul is poetic, reflective and kind, and he took this novel very seriously, reviewing his encounter with Frankie with great care. Behind those booming guitar chords is a generous, sensitive artist to whom I owe a debt of thanks.

  Tony Bennett. A national treasure. I sat with him backstage one afternoon as he imagined what he would tell a musician who had given up. I wove that into his “encounter” with a damaged Frankie in London. If anyone could inspire a return to music, it would be Tony Bennett. Just listen to him sing “Lost in The Stars” and you’ll know what I mean. I love him and am proud to call him my friend.