The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (21 page)

“We have little to offer in return for your generosity. But perhaps a song?”

The child began to sing, a soft gypsy melody.

“Such a pretty voice,” Carmencita said.

“You enjoy music?” the man asked.

“My husband is a guitarist.”

“As am I. Or was. I would play songs to the Lord. Sadly, my guitar is gone.”

“Taken,” his wife said.

“I am sorry,” Carmencita said.

“Your husband, will he teach your child to play?”

“It is all he speaks about.”

“Then you must have these.”

He reached into the box and removed a set of strings, coiled together by a yellow band. They seemed brand new, almost shiny.

“I could not,” she protested.

“For your kindness.”

“It is not nec—”

“Please. To connect the child and the father. They are special strings.” He lowered his voice. “They have lives inside them.”

His wife slapped his arm. “He means they were made from silk, and the silk came from worms, and the worms were once alive.”

She gave him a harsh look. “Do not speak in riddles.”

He smiled and rocked back and forth. When his wife turned to tend to the horse, he leaned in toward Carmencita.

“I don’t mean worms,” he whispered.

He removed from his pocket a rosary, with simple black beads and a small black cross. Carmencita realized the rosary was held together by a guitar string like the ones he’d just handed her. As he pulled on both ends, the string began to glow blue, like the inside of a flame.

“
Le duy vas xalaven pe
,” he said, a gypsy expression that translates to “the hands wash each other”—meaning we are all connected.

When his wife approached, the man stuffed the rosary back in his pocket. He gazed at the white sky.

“Best to be on your way, señora.”

“Are you certain you won’t come?”

“God will protect us. As I pray He protects you.”

“I will light a candle for your family at the basilica.”

“San Pascual?”

“Do you know it?”

The man’s eyes grew far away.

“We were there once. With our other daughter. Be mindful. These are dangerous times for prayer.”

Carmencita looked at the strings.

“May I ask your name?” she said. “Even if it does not matter?”

“He is known as El Pelé,” the wife said.

Carmencita walked into the mist. A minute later, she turned, but they were gone.

On her way home, Carmencita put the strings inside a small purse, planning to give them to El Maestro upon the birth of their child. That night, during the storm, she had the purse with her in the cathedral where she went to light a candle not only for the baby, but for the gypsy family she had met that morning. She said her prayers, fell over in pain, dropped the purse, and never saw it again. Never saw the rack of candles overturned by the raiders. Never saw the fire from her lighted prayer candles join the larger fire, consuming everything in its path.

The next day, when police in Villareal searched through the ruins, they found the charred remains of Carmencita’s badly burned corpse. The raiders, having assumed she was a nun—due to the tunic that draped her—had desecrated her body. It was too gruesome to identify, and her bones were quickly buried in an unmarked grave.

Two days later, a teenage boy was scavenging through the wreckage; he found a small purse, which had inexplicably survived the flames. Inside was an identification card. The boy returned the purse to the listed address, handing it to the person who answered the door.

A tall, blind man named Carlos Andres Presto.

Better known as El Maestro.

He grabbed the purse and stumbled to a chair. He realized what this meant—why his wife had not returned in three days. He spilled the contents on the wooden table. He felt a coiled object.

“What is this?” he asked the boy.

“It looks like strings.”

“For the guitar?”

“Yes.”

El Maestro bit his lip.

“Leave me alone. Now!”

The boy left quickly.

Holding the undelivered gift, his wife’s final kindness, El Maestro broke down. He wept until nightfall, never leaving the chair. Then he put everything back inside the purse and hid it in a closet. Those strings, with the “lives” inside them, remained unused for years, just as the story of a stranger’s kindness remained untold.

Weeks later, the man known as “El Pelé” rushed to help a priest who was being beaten by Republic soldiers. He was arrested and ordered to surrender his rosary. When he refused, a firing squad shot him. The killers saw his body crumple, but they did not see something else: the rosary, at the moment of his death, turning a burning shade of blue.

Decades later, El Pelé would be canonized by the Catholic Church as its first gypsy saint. People still speak about his courage, his humility, and, of course, that rosary.

No one mentions the strings he gave away.

They would tell a story of their own.

27

1969

THE WOMAN IN THE VAN WAS KISSING HER WAY UP FRANKIE’S NECK
. He felt so heavy, he couldn’t move. He gazed down the side of her body, the orange cotton top; the denim shorts; the tan legs; and the painted toenails, red, black, purple.

“No blue,” he mumbled.

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have blue.”

“Blue toenails? You’re funny.”

“Am I blue . . . ,” Frankie half-sang.

“I know who you are.”

“Hmm?”

She kissed him some more.

“You’re the singer—”

“My wife is waiting—”

“Frankie Presto.”

“Breakfast—”

“Are you really gonna play onstage?”

“I have to cook these eggs.”

“You didn’t finish the story. After you ran away.”

“I played my guitar.”

“You were just a kid.”

“I was good.”

“How good?”

“I saved her life.”

“Who?”

“Aurora.”

“Who’s Aurora?”

Frankie’s eyes went glassy.

“Keep singing to me . . .” the woman said.

But Frankie’s jumbled thoughts were on the blue strings and Aurora York and where he left her, pregnant, sleeping on a blanket. He knew he had to get back, he didn’t want to disappoint her, to be irresponsible, as he’d been so many nights before.

“I have to go—” he suddenly said.

He pushed up so quickly that the woman slid off him, thudding to the floor. He grabbed his things and stumbled out the sliding doors, which growled like lions as he pulled them apart.

“Hey, what the hell?” she yelled after him.

28

1951

“
WHAT THE HELL?
” A MAN SCREAMED, OPENING HIS CAR TRUNK.
His name was Hampton Belgrave, and he was staring at a teenaged Frankie curled around his dog.

“I can explain,” Frankie said, blinking.

“You ’bout give me a heart attack!”

“Is this Tennessee?”

“Is this my car?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I ask the questions!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Frankie, sir.”

“Frankie who?”

“Presto, sir.”

“Whose dog is that?”

“Mine, sir.”

“Why you in my trunk?”

“Marcus Belgrave, sir.”

“My cousin Marcus?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The musician Marcus?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He put you in this trunk?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why you in it?”

“To get to Tennessee, sir.”

“Whynchu take a train?”

“Can’t afford it.”

“Take a bus, then.”

“Can’t afford that, either.”

“So you hide in my trunk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With a damn dog?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“How long you been in there?”

“Since Detroit, sir.”

“I left Detroit yesterday!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You ain’t eat since then?”

“No, sir.”

“Ain’t drink since then?”

“No, sir.”

“Ain’t pee since then?”

“No, sir.”

“You think I give a damn?”

“No, sir?”

“Damn right, I don’t! You a stowaway—”

“No, sir—”

“—want to go to Tennessee.”

“Yes, sir—”

“You best not peed in my trunk, boy.”

“No, sir.”

“That dog best not peed, neither!”

“No, sir—”

“How you know where I’m going?”

“Are we there, sir?”

“I ain’t said where we are. But I got me a gun in my glove compartment—”

“Marcus told me, sir!”

“How did Marcus know?”

“You’re his cousin! Your name is Hampton! You told him you were driving back to Tennessee!”

“Why would Marcus tell you that?”

“I work for him.”

“White boy work for Marcus? Come on now. What you do?”

“I play music.”

“Tell the truth.”

“In his band.”

“You play with Marcus?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You just a kid!”

“I’m about fifteen, sir.”

“About?”

“Don’t know for sure, sir.”

“What you play?”

“Guitar. It’s right here, sir.”

“Wait a minute . . .”

“You see?”

“Take that hat off!”

“Why—”

“You that boy! The one who play so fast!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was there! I saw that! You done hypnotized the man with the knife!”

“Yes, sir—”

“You the devil!”

“No, sir!”

“In my trunk!”

“Please—”

“The devil in my trunk!”

“No—”

“With his devil dog!”

“I just play—”

“No earthly man play like that—”

“She was in trouble, sir—”

“What you want with me, devil?”

“I’m not the devil!”

“Swear it!”

“I swear it!”

“Swear to Jesus!”

“I swear to Jesus!”

“Why you here, then, boy?”

“Where?”

“Tennessee.”

“We’re here?”

“Dammit, don’t fool me!”

“The girl, sir.”

“What girl?”

“The girl with that man.”

“The one almost have her throat slit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about her?”

“She lives here.”

“Says who?”

“The man.”

“With the knife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So what?”

“I know her.”

“That girl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know
that
girl?”

“Her name’s Aurora.”

“Aurora.”

“I think.”

“You think?”

“It’s been a while.”

“How long?”

“We were kids.”

“Oh, Lord—”

“In another country—”

“Get out.”

“Really, sir?”

“You ain’t no devil.”

“No, sir—”

“Just a fool.”

“No, sir—”

“The worst kind—”

“No, sir—”

“A fool in love.”

“No, sir, I—”

“Get in them woods and pee. The damn dog, too. Then go sit up front. We’ll drive into town, find you somethin’ to eat.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

“What you thankin’ me for, boy? You just rode two days in the trunk of a car—for a
girl
.”