The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (39 page)

Baffa had kept his son away from such a place. But now, inside it, Frankie searched for Baffa’s name, walking past burial vaults stacked four high, some marked by images of Jesus or the Virgin Mary, others boasting fresh flowers. He found nothing. No record of a Rubio. And no one could recall who might have delivered a box of his possessions to the house on Calvario Street. Too many years had passed. All clues had vanished. The son was left wondering, once again, where his papa could be.

Aurora and Kai had waited outside, to allow Frankie his private discovery. When he emerged, as vacant as he had entered, he saw them sitting on a bench in the sunshine, little Kai clinging to his old record album. He tried to imagine what Baffa must have thought when he first saw that disc. Did he discover it in a store? Did someone give it to him? Did he wonder why Frankie’s name had been changed? Why he never got in touch? Did Baffa listen to the music? Could he hear inside the slick production the voice of a boy who once sang in his garden?

Frankie grew dizzy from the breadth of it all and leaned back against the cemetery’s wall. When he touched it, he felt a sudden rush of horrible memories, as if those bullet holes were screaming a thousand silent stories into his soul. One of them, he sensed, belonged to Baffa.

He jerked away.

“Francisco?” Aurora said, seeing him. “Are you all right?”

He staggered forward, embraced her, and held her for a full minute. He saw Kai staring up at him lovingly, the record album leaned against her mouth. He realized, at that moment, that this little girl was not his flesh and blood, yet the way she looked at him was the way he once looked at Baffa Rubio, wide-eyed, trusting, loving, secure. He also realized that, had it not been for the fat sardine maker, Frankie might have never heard music, never learned guitar, never known the hairless dog, or been in the woods to meet Aurora—and if that had never happened, there would be no little girl right now, holding his album and squinting in the sun.

He wiped his eyes and walked his family to a nearby fountain. They sat down.

And he told them everything about his papa.

53

HAD THEY ALL LEFT THAT DAY, OUR STORY WOULD BE DIFFERENT
. But then, had many of you left places even one day earlier, the landscape of your lives would be rearranged. You cannot unplay your notes. Time, like music, is indelible that way.

They were heading back to England, Frankie, Aurora, and Kai, to visit Aurora’s sister and then return to New Zealand. On their last night at the hotel, Frankie had a vivid dream. He dreamed about walking behind Baffa, up the stairs above a laundry. He saw Baffa wiping his brow, and urging young Frankie to sing. He saw a door opening, and got his first look at a tall, bearded figure with dark glasses.

And then everyone was gone.

The next morning, Aurora awoke to see Frankie sitting by the window.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“There’s something I need to do here.”

“So we’ll stay.”

“I should do it myself.”

She narrowed her gaze.

“Everything’s all right,” Frankie assured her. “Go to your sister’s. You already have the tickets. I’ll be there in a few days.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He drove them to the airport, kissed them good-bye, then drove back to Villareal.

To search for El Maestro.

Perhaps you are wondering why this did not happen sooner? A fair question, for Frankie had never stopped thinking about his teacher. He remembered every instruction, every scolding. Each time he lifted the guitar, he pictured El Maestro’s face, the tousled dark hair, the unkempt beard, the dark glasses. Was he still alive? What might he look like? How would he get around? A blind man in his seventies? Would he even remember the child he took in?

And what would he think of Frankie’s career?

It was this last question, in truth, that had kept the former student away this long. For all his successes, his gold records, his concerts, Frankie was sometimes ashamed of how he’d achieved them. El Maestro had lectured him on the purity of music, the dedication to playing the guitar and the dangers of silly distractions. Yet Frankie had become hugely popular (and wealthy) on relatively simple songs. The guitar hardly mattered. His voice and good looks were what sold him to the public. His dancing only added to his popularity. Some of what he’d done, Frankie feared, might actually disgust his mentor.

“
Why did you behave like a fool?
” he could hear him say. No amount of fame or wealth diminished that. His time in El Maestro’s small flat above the laundry had been the closest Frankie ever came to my stark beauty, my melodic seduction. In drifting from that, he feared he’d drifted from El Maestro’s grace.

This, I should note, is often the relationship between mentor and mentee. Witness my French composer Henri Duparc, who grabbed a considerable piece of me at his birth in the nineteenth century. He created some inspired works, beautiful blends of orchestra and voice. Yet he so revered his mentor, the German composer Richard Wagner, that in 1885, when Duparc was just thirty-seven years old, he stopped composing altogether and eventually destroyed all his work, burning his transcriptions, certain they were not worthy of the man he looked up to.

A teacher’s shadow can hover for life. Of course, Frankie could not know that this teacher was also his father. Nor could he know that, in searching for him now, he would not like what he found.

Instead, he rose early, had an espresso in the hotel, and retraced a familiar course through the streets, a journey he had often made with a green wagon and an oversized guitar. How many times had he walked this route, wearing a cap and short pants, mumbling the information he was certain El Maestro would demand? “
Which composer wrote that piece? . . . What is the
rasgueado
technique in flamenco?
” Those memories flooded back now with each step Frankie took. He could feel his pulse quickening like the nervous student he once was.

But when he turned the corner onto Crista Senegal Street, his body sagged. The laundry was gone, replaced by a square office building with a P sign for parking. No blue shutters. No steps to climb. Just a glass-enclosed entrance and a yellow-gated garage.

It was as if someone had bulldozed his memory.

Frankie sat on the curb. He felt the morning sun on his neck. He could not give up so quickly. Where else? he thought. Only that last day had they ventured far from this corner. He reconstructed, in his mind, their final stops, but he could not recall the location of the stores, the restaurant, or even the guitar maker who had handed El Maestro the instrument that Frankie still played today.

But he remembered the
taberna
.

He wondered if it was still there.

“A blind man, you say?”

“Yes. Tall. Dark hair.”

“No, señor. I do not recall.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“My father was the owner then.”

“Is he still alive?”

“No, señor—”

“It’s important I find this man—”

“—but
you
look familiar.”

“That does not matter.”

“Wait . . . You are the American. The actor!”

“No—”

“The singer?”

Frankie pursed his lips.

“Ah! I am right? Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Your name is Presto.”

“Yes.”

“You are from here, señor?”

“As a boy.”

“Villareal?”

“Yes.”

“This I did not know.”

“I had a different name.”

“This is why you speak Spanish!
Increíble!
”

The owner yelled to his bartender, who was setting out chairs. A dishwasher looked up as well. They nodded at the news.

“ ‘
I want to love you
,’ ” the bartender bellowed. “ ‘
I will be true . . .’
”

His accent sounded like a bad imitation. Frankie forced a smile.

“Señor, please, would you honor us by playing on our stage?”

“Playing?” Frankie said.

“Tomorrow night. We have the large band on Fridays. They would be most happy to include you.”

“I’m not here to play—”

“You will be our guest—”

“I only wanted to—”

“You were here as a boy—”

“Yes, but—”

“You return as a man! Is perfect, no?”

Frankie exhaled. He looked around the
taberna
, just opening for business, the chairs being taken off the tables. The place was dimly lit and smelled of alcohol and bleach. Frankie did not mention that he had already played here once. Or that he remembered it vividly. He felt it every time he stepped on a stage. The cheers turning to boos. The banging glasses. The way El Maestro forced him to take a bow.

Maybe he should play, he thought. There were demons in this place he had long sought to silence. He had made a certain peace with his papa’s memory. Was it time to do the same with that final night?

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Please do,” the owner replied. “We will make a special meal for you. Lovely food. Drink. Music.”

“Is there anyone else who might know the man I’m looking for?”

The owner scratched his chin. “Perhaps the musicians. Some of them are quite old. They work cheaper that way, eh?”

He grinned and raised a glass of orange juice. “To your return, señor!”

Frankie nodded and walked out the door.

Later that day, Frankie went to the Villareal city hall, to see if there were any records of his teacher. He had to fill out a form and was told it would take several days for a response. When Frankie mentioned El Maestro was a guitarist, he was directed to a round-faced man named Jacinto, who served as a cultural delegate. Jacinto said he could not recall a blind guitar teacher, but offered to show Frankie a room honoring the beloved guitarist Francisco Tárrega. There were photos and letters and sheet music and the large plaster bust that was once carried through the streets of San Félix. There were also several of Tárrega’s beloved guitars in glass cases, including the first one he had made by the venerable Antonio de Torres Jurado, the famous nineteenth-century luthier from whom most acoustic guitars today can trace their roots.