The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (18 page)

“Hey, man,” a female voice said, “take it easy.”

He turned to see an attractive, dark-haired woman sitting inside a purple van. She wore a sleeveless orange top and denim shorts and her skin was tan and her toenails were painted different colors. She made him think about Aurora. Where had he last seen Aurora? The eggs. He had to take her the eggs.
If you love me, you’ll get me breakfast.

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Frankie.”

“Come here, Frankie . . .” she said.

20

1946

“COME HERE, FRANCISCO,” DJANGO YELLED. “THEY ARRIVE!”

Frankie ran back toward the Frenchman, who was wearing a red ascot and a blue sports coat as he stood by a gate at the railway station called Grand Central in New York City. Frankie had been jumping between the streams of sunlight cascading through the upper windows of the terminal. He had never seen walls so high. Frankie’s world, until he was nine, began and ended in the streets of Villareal. It expanded on the docks of Southampton. But it exploded upon landing in America. Everything he saw was bigger and grander than what he’d seen before. The cars. The buildings. The bags people carried. The hats they wore.

“Look, Francisco. Is him, no?”

From the waves of commuters, Frankie saw two strangers approaching, one a tall, striking man with a thin mustache, his hair slicked back. Frankie had seen his face on a record album. It was like seeing paper come to life.

“Monsieur Django, I presume?” Duke Ellington said, offering his hand.

“Monsieur Duke, pleasure great is.”

Frankie was dumbstruck. He remembered the night El Maestro made him play Duke Ellington’s record over and over until he said they could keep the phonograph.

Django touched Frankie’s shoulder and mumbled “
chavo
” (the gypsy word for “boy”), then rambled in his Spanish-French mix. Frankie spat back the words in English.

“Mr. Django says he is very excited and honored to meet you and to perform with your orchestra,” Frankie said. “Also, he would like to hear Dizzy Gillespie play somewhere.”

“And you, young squire?” Duke Ellington asked, smiling.

“Huh?”

“Are you his son?’

“No. I am . . .” Frankie didn’t know what he was. “I am his talker.”

“Very well, talker. Tell him we leave for Cleveland in an hour.”

Frankie did as asked, although he didn’t know the word for Cleveland so he just said “Cleveland.” The man with Duke Ellington said, “I can carry Mr. Reinhardt’s guitar.”

“That’s mine,” Frankie said.

“Where is Mr. Reinhardt’s?”

“He didn’t bring one.”

“He didn’t bring a guitar?”

Frankie translated. Django looked embarrassed, almost angry. He rattled off a stream of words.

“He says he thought someone here would give him one.”

On the train to Cleveland, Frankie was too excited to sit still. He now wore a new coat that Django had purchased at a store in the train station. And he was traveling with musicians! He marveled at their luggage on the platform—trumpets, drums, an upright bass. Some opened their cases and tooted a few notes for him.

“What do
you
play?” Frankie asked a group of men.

“Saxophone,” they answered.

“You all play the same instrument?”

“Tenor.”

“Alto.”

“Baritone.”

Frankie was awestruck. The musicians even let Frankie hold different horns, gold-colored, silver-colored, a long trombone with a valve that slid back and forth. He felt as if someone had opened a treasure chest. Best of all, he’d been given the tour schedule, and on it Frankie read the word
Detroit
. That was the city! The one on the piece of cloth that he kept in his guitar case! He would find his aunt and she would help him return to Spain and Papa and El Maestro.

He was back on his path.

Frankie allowed himself a giddy feeling that he had not experienced since Villareal, a tickle in his stomach that made him anxious for the next day. He was given a lower berth in the sleeping car but as he stood beside a heavyset trumpeter, Frankie blurted out, “Can I have the top one?”

“Hell, yeah,” the man said. “I don’t need to do no climbing.”

Frankie scrambled up and bounced on the mattress. He put his hands behind his head. The train jerked forward and began to rumble, and he heard the scattered laughter of the musicians and someone humming a song. He liked the camaraderie of these men, who were more like boys than the men in Spain. They even had childish names, like “Cat” and “Taft” and “Shorty.” Lying in his bunk, Frankie smiled.

He had joined another band, this one without even playing.

That night, Django came back to see Frankie’s accommodations. The musicians were dressing for bed, and Django noticed they all wore boxy underpants with colorful floral patterns.

“
Que están usando?
” he said, laughing.

“He wants to know what you are wearing,” Frankie said.

The men seemed surprised.

“Ain’t he ever seen nice skivvies before?”

“You are crazy,” Django blurted out.

“He says you are crazy.”

“We heard.”

“We ain’t the ones with a pint-size translator.”

“Go tell it to Duke.”

Frankie followed Django to the compartment he shared with Mr. Ellington. When they entered, the bandleader was also undressing. Django was shocked to see his undergarments were even gaudier, with hearts and flowers in a colorful pattern.

“Is something wrong?” Duke asked.

“
Non, non
,” Django said.

He leaned over to Frankie and said in whispered Spanish, “
Chavo
, this is a strange country.”

21

1969

“YOU GONNA COOK THOSE EGGS?” SAID THE WOMAN IN THE VAN.
She wore blue eyeshadow, her lips were glossed and three necklaces draped around her neck.

“Cook them?” Frankie looked at the carton. “Yes.”

“Where?”

He pointed in the direction of the music—or what he thought was the direction of the music.

“Back there.”

“Where are you from?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, handsome.” She smiled. “You.”

Normally when someone asked this, Frankie said California. This time he said, “Spain.”

“Far out,” the woman cooed. “You came to hear music?”

“To play it.”

“Onstage?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a long way from the stage.”

“I have these eggs.”

“You said that—”

“For breakfast.”

“Are you really from Spain?”

“Sí.”

“You’re funny.”

He felt his knees wobble. He steadied himself against the van door.

“Why don’t you come in?”

“Where?”

“Next to me.”

Frankie stepped inside. He would only stay a minute, he told himself.

“How did you get here?” she asked.

“I walked from the store.”

“No,” she laughed. “You said you’re from Spain. How’d you get
here
?” She spread her arms. “America.”

Frankie dropped his head against a large embroidered pillow. He watched her roll a cigarette.

“With a band,” he said.

22

1946

THE ELLINGTON BAND TOURED FOR THREE MONTHS.
During that time, Frankie saw his first cow (out the train window), his first hand-dipped ice-cream cone, and his first American movie theater. He continued to learn the gypsy guitar techniques from Django—and perfect the Spanish-French language they forged together. He also learned that Django’s baby was named Jimmy and that he died after living only a few weeks and that Django chose Bach and Handel and Mozart to be played at the funeral mass, and that the little boy was buried in a French cemetery. It was the second time he had heard about a proper burial (Aurora York had told him of the first), and he thought about seeing where his mama was buried when they got to Detroit.

He also learned that Django was ready to cancel what would prove to be his only trip to America—until Frankie had agreed to go. The idea of traveling with a boy made the journey after his son’s death more bearable. I can see all futures, the ones my talents will make and the ones they will turn away from (just as I can hear all melodies on a keyboard, those played and those yet unplayed) and I can tell you had Frankie not been there, Django would never have experienced America, or the way it influenced his life and art.

This is why Frankie’s bottom string turned blue when they met.

But we will return to that. First, the opening night. When they reached Cleveland, Django was forced to buy a new guitar for the concert, which made him furious. “This is travesty,” he told Frankie as he tuned the new instrument. “Why they not have a guitar for me? A Selmer, as I love? I am Django. They should give me a guitar of gold.”

“You can play mine,” Frankie said.

“Yes?”

He put down the new one and took the instrument from Frankie. After plucking a few notes, he stopped.

“Is perfect. Did you tune already?”

“Yes, sir.”

Django studied Frankie. “I will play your guitar tonight and show them who I am. But I will give it back and you must never let it go. Never sell it. Never lose it. Never give it to someone and hope it returns. Don’t let go of your music,
chavo
. Or you will let go of yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Django.”

That night, from the wings of the stage at the Cleveland Music Hall, Frankie experienced something that would stay with him forever. The first blasts from an orchestra. The syncopated punches of a horn section. The elegant twirling of clarinets and saxophones. The dragging power of trombones and basses. Even the look of the band—the uniformity of them all, handsomely dressed in dark tuxedos—made an impression. And the crowd! Nearly two thousand people! Their roaring ovation was a response Frankie never imagined. It jolted into him, spreading through his bloodstream. He did not understand the physics of applause, but he knew, from that moment, that he wanted to hear it for himself one day.