The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (36 page)

“Of course. Sure. Whatever you want.”

Frankie nodded stiffly. He sat down and opened his old guitar case. Handed to him by El Maestro himself, the case was now almost forty years old, and it showed the wear and tear, with security stickers from countless airports and tape over the holes that once held shrapnel.

The guitar itself remained the sturdiest of partners. Frankie took great care to polish its fret board and oil the tuners. There were a few nicks in the rosewood body that had been repaired but remained discolored. The ebony neck had stood the test of time. And of course, the strings. The bottom four had been replaced many times. But Frankie’s eyes fell on the top two, the remaining originals, the ones yet untouched by the combustible blue magic.

He recalled a conversation with his teacher.

“Why do the strings make different sounds, Maestro?”

“It is simple. They work like life.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The first string is E. It is high pitched and quick like a child.

“The second string is B. It is pitched slightly lower, like the squeaky voice of a teenager.

“The third string, G, is deeper, with the power of a young man.

“The fourth string, D, is robust, a man at full strength.

“The fifth string, A, is solid and loud but unable to reach high tones, like a man who can no longer do what he did.”

“And the sixth string, Maestro?”

“The sixth is the low E, the thickest, slowest, and grumpiest. You hear how deep? Dum-dum-dum. Like it is ready to die.”

“Is that because it is closest to heaven?”

“No, Francisco. It is because life will always drag you to the bottom.”

Frankie asked for the chart. Lyle fumbled with the paper and dropped it. Frankie picked it up. Then, seeing what was written, he leaned his own guitar against the wall and picked up a Fender Stratocaster.

“All right if I use this?” he asked, motioning to the curly-haired engineer who was standing behind the glass. The engineer gave him a thumbs-up sign.

“All right, let’s go,” Frankie told Lyle.

“Don’t you want to rehearse it? We can run through it a few times to show you where—”

Frankie shook his head.

“Just roll the tape.”

The song was a fast number called “What the What?” Cluck played the drums at a frantic pace and Eddie’s bass was like nervous pounding. Frankie’s part was just four chords repeated with heavy distortion, and he only had to strum four beats to a measure. It was, in my view, more rudimentary than was worth his talent. But he fulfilled his obligation, repeating the song five times while Lyle tried different vocal approaches. Through the glass, Frankie saw his wife and daughter, and Kai was shaking back and forth with the beat. Aurora moved her head in exaggerated motion, as if banging it against a wall, and Frankie half-grinned.

“What do you think, Mr. Presto?” Lyle asked when they were finished.

Frankie nodded, but did not make eye contact.

“I mean, I’d like to know your opinion,” Lyle said. “Honestly.”

“Honestly?”

“Please.”

“Why are you doing this song?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, your voice doesn’t seem suited to it. And it doesn’t sound like you really feel it.”

Blood rushed to Lyle’s face, turning it red.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Well, you did five takes,” Frankie said, “and every vocal was different. That tells me you’re still searching for the tune. Why not do stuff like you did at the beach? At least that sounded like you enjoyed it.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Lyle glanced at Eddie and Cluck and they took their cue to leave the room. Frankie exhaled and glanced at Aurora and Kai through the glass. He had already been here longer than he wanted to be.

“I know what you’re saying is right,” Lyle said, lowering his voice. “But I’m trying to make it in the business. And this is what they’re buying. They want a driving beat. They want edge.”

“Edge?” Frankie said.

“Yes, sir. Like your solo—or, the solo everyone thinks is you. The one I thought was you. That kind of edge.”

Frankie rubbed a palm over his eyes. He sighed.

“That wasn’t edge. That was pain.”

Lyle looked up.

“It was you?”

“A different version of me. You don’t want to be that.”

Frankie put down the Stratocaster, and leaned back in the chair.

“I had a teacher who was blind. Sometimes, when he was in the bathroom, I would bang around on the guitar, making noise. And he would yell, ‘Stop it, stupid boy! No one wants to listen to ugliness.’ I would defend myself by saying, ‘In school, they teach us that God listens to everything.’ And he’d yell back, ‘God may listen, but I will not.’ ”

Lyle laughed and Frankie broke into a smile.

“The point is, you have to decide who you are playing for. I wanted him to think my playing was beautiful, so I stopped making noise and made music instead.” He rubbed his chin. “What do you really like, in your heart?”

“Probably more country, or folk.”

“Then play that,” Frankie said.

“Even if it doesn’t sell?”

“Money and music are not friends.” Frankie chuckled. “I know something about that.”

Lyle thought for a minute. “It’s funny, I actually have a song that’s like what your teacher said. It’s about forgiving someone who’s cheated, and how God will, but I won’t, and God does, but I don’t.”

“Sounds good,” Frankie said.

“Can you play it with me? Please? I’ll write up a chart right now. It won’t take long. Could you just stay and do that?”

“Then you and your friends will go back to the States?”

“I swear.”

“And leave me alone?”

“Absolutely. We’ll sleep at the airport if you want.”

Frankie jerked his head. “Go on.”

Lyle sprung to his feet and pushed open the door. Aurora and Kai were on the other side.

“Oh, sorry. Excuse me,” Lyle said.

Frankie motioned his family inside.

What happened next would prove both important and—as sometimes occurs with milestone events—totally unexpected.

Aurora was pleased that Frankie was advising the young band. “You’re helping them. They’re nice boys.”

“I’m only doing it because you said to.”

Aurora smiled. “That’s a good enough reason.”

“Come here, Kai,” Frankie said, lifting their daughter into his lap. Aurora popped open a small bottle of juice. The little girl took one sip, then jumped away.

“And she’s off!” Aurora said.

They watched Kai circle the room, giddy but silent. She came back and lifted the electric guitar toward Frankie. She had a curious expression on her face.

“Show her what you can do, Francisco,” Aurora said.

“Yeah?”

“How’s the hand?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Let’s see.”

He plugged a cord into a nearby amplifier and tested the effects pedals. Then he lifted his chin toward his daughter.

“Kai?” he said. “Are you listening?”

What would you give to remember everything? I have this power. I absorb your memories; when you hear me, you relive them. A first dance. A wedding. The song that played when you got the big news. No other talent gives your life a soundtrack. I am Music. I mark time.

That day in Auckland, Frankie played his own memories. He opened with a verse of a children’s song, “Billy Boy,” before speeding into a jazz version (as the pianist Red Garland had once done with Miles Davis). He played it easily and, to his surprise, without pain. He improvised for two minutes, pushing himself, then ended with a speedy flick of his wrist.

Little Kai clapped, her face a portrait of silent delight.

“Want more?”

When she nodded, he played “Tea for Two” and “A-Tisket A-Tasket,” songs he listened to on the phonograph with El Maestro, each time beginning simply, then taking it to far corners and beautiful colors. Aurora tried to suppress her grin. If I had a mouth, I’d have done the same. For the first time in years, Frankie was playing freely again, nearly as fast as before, but better, richer, because his music now was passionate, more thoughtful, the notes more carefully chosen, the way a great painter chooses not just a color but the perfect shade.

He did parts of many rock songs, including “All Along the Watchtower” by Bob Dylan and “You Really Got Me” by the Kinks, slowing them down then revving them up, playing as if he were the drums, bass, and guitar all in one. When he finished on the electric, Kai lifted the old acoustic guitar that now connected her childhood with his.

“That one?” Frankie said.

She nodded.

“‘Parlez-Moi d’Amour,’” Aurora said.

Frankie obliged, playing it soulfully and humming along. He also played “Nuages” by Django Reinhardt (which the gypsy guitarist had shown him in a Cleveland hotel room) and two blues numbers he had learned in Louisiana; and “Träumerei” by Schumann, which he once played on a beach; and the tremolo-infused “Recuerdos de la Alhambra” by Tárrega. He even played a challenging composition by the Brazilian guitarist known as Garoto, who was once labeled “the man of golden fingers.”

One song rolled into the other, and Frankie’s playing opened up like spreading sunlight. The look on his daughter’s face inspired him the way no audience ever had, and in between joking and laughing with Aurora, he played for them a musical score of his life, with new shadings and interpretations, using flat ninths, suspended fourths, and chord inversions that he’d never attempted. I could feel myself coursing through his veins and releasing through his fingers in passion and dexterity and creation.

It was glorious.

He finished with a song he loved, the achingly beautiful “Nature Boy,” a mysterious piece written by a drifting composer who never again had a song as popular. It tells the story of an enchanted boy who, like young Frankie, travels the world and holds a secret. The last two lines were the only lyrics Frankie sang that afternoon, looking gratefully into the eyes of the two people who had brought him back from despair:

“The greatest thing, you’ll ever learn

Is just to love, and be loved in return.”

He concluded with a slowly picked final chord, a D minor, adding a sixth, a ninth, and a sharp eleventh up in the highest reaches of the guitar neck, then playfully popping his eyes at his daughter. Little Kai was so pleased she scrambled over and patted on the frets.

“Careful,” Frankie whispered, smiling, “those are magic strings.”

Unseen, through the glass in the control room, the curly-haired engineer jotted those words on a piece of paper.
Magic strings.
A budding guitarist himself, he had been listening the whole time, alone behind the console, nearly frozen by the music coming through his speakers. He glanced over at the reels of two-inch tape on the main recorder and exhaled in relief.