The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (46 page)

But I was wrong. He didn’t care about that. He wanted the tapes because he remembered that his wife and daughter were in the studio with him that day, and they talked and laughed in between him playing, and the original recordings would have all that stuff on it. He said when he died, he wanted Kai to have that happy memory of her parents.

Well, it took me a year to track the tapes down. But I did. Somebody in New Zealand had sold them to somebody in Australia, then England, then Japan. I was in Tokyo last month, and I found the engineer who had them, and he got kind of scared when I told him I was representing the real Frankie Presto—he said, “I thought he was dead”—and he just handed me the tapes after I signed something in Japanese that promised he wouldn’t get sued.

Once I had them, I called Frankie’s number in the Philippines. But I guess he’d already left to come here. I missed him by a couple of days.

That’s typical Frankie Presto timing, isn’t it?

61

FRANKIE AND KAI FLEW TOGETHER TO SPAIN.
They waited at baggage claim for her guitar to be unloaded. Frankie did not bring an instrument, just a small suitcase. He was there as a father, he reminded himself. The less he had to do with music, the better.

The first day, he mostly slept in the hotel, while Kai registered and attended festival events. Frankie’s arthritis was bad and he took pills for the pain. That evening, Kai asked him to listen to her practice, so he sat in a chair, his shoulders slumped, his shirt unbuttoned, and gazed at her rapidly moving fingers, astounded at how proficient she had become, particularly at the music of his youth. As she played the most complicated passages by Spanish composers—the tremolos, the
rasgueo
fingerings—he nodded slowly.

“So?” she asked upon finishing. “Any tips?”

“Did I tell you how much I love you?”

“That’s not a tip, Papa.”

He shrugged.

“Ah, well,” he said.

Kai performed wonderfully in the first two days of competition and easily advanced to the final round. That morning, Frankie woke before the sunrise. His neck cricked. His knees ached. Feeling restless, he dressed by a lamp and left the hotel, hoping some fresh air would boost his spirits.

Villareal was shrouded in mist, like the morning Carmencita met the gypsies who gave her the strings. Frankie walked along a wide street then turned down a narrow one, barely able to see two steps ahead. The city was as quiet as a cave.

Frankie’s mind drifted. He was scheduled to depart the next day, and was certain this would mark his final visit to Spain. As the first wisps of sunlight broke through the haze, he found himself in a small park centered by a statue.

He stepped up and squinted. Looking down at him, from atop a stone pedestal, was a large bronze sculpture of the great Francisco Tárrega.

It was like watching one of my children meet the other.

Tárrega had been cast in midperformance, his left foot on a small stool, his hands perfectly positioned on the guitar, which was pitched upward at the classical angle. Frankie studied the face of the master, now dead for one hundred years, the long beard and flowing hair slightly unkempt, reminding Frankie of El Maestro.

His eyes dropped to read the inscription. Then he glanced to the side and blinked.

There, resting against the stone base, was his guitar.

At least it looked like his guitar. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? He looked around as if someone might be coming. Then he lifted himself awkwardly over the low railing that surrounded the statue, catching his pants on a spoke and tearing a small cut in his skin.

“Ahh,” he groaned.

He put his hand on the guitar’s neck, and experienced a blinding flash of imagery, the faces of Django, young Aurora, Hampton, Ellis, and Alberto. He pulled back as if stung.

And he realized he was not alone.

Hiding behind the rear of the statue, holding a cane, was a hooded, heavily clothed figure.

“It is your guitar, Francisco,” a voice whispered. “Take it.”

62

FRANKIE ASSUMED HE WAS LOOKING AT A MAN, BUT AS THE HOOD LOWERED, HE REALIZED IT WAS A VERY OLD WOMAN.
Her hair was wispy, cut short and mostly white, with rusty patches as if once red. Her eyes, lined with creases, were a hazel shade. When she opened her mouth, Frankie saw a gap between her front teeth.

“You left this at the monastery,” she said.

“I don’t want it.”

“Just the same.”

“Why have you brought it?”

“You are not finished playing.”

“Who are you?”

“Once, I was known as your mother.”

“My . . .
mother
?”

“It was undeserved.”

She bowed her head.

“I left you to die. The rest of my life, I have been forsaken.”

The old woman stared at the ground beneath the statue. Her face was weathered in deep lines and her skin hung loosely beneath her chin. When she spoke, it was in slow, deliberate tones, as if she had practiced this story many times and was now, finally, getting to deliver it.

“My given name is Josefa. In 1935, when I was sixteen years old, my parents came to Villareal to hide me in a convent. They were poor but pious, and the revolutionaries were hunting them, especially my father, who they called ‘El Pelé.’

“ ‘You will be safe here, daughter,’ he told me when he left. ‘God will reunite us soon.’

“I never saw him again.

“I found comfort with the sisters of the San Pascual basilica. I took part in mass, folded laundry, and helped tend to the tomb of our patron saint.

“On the night our church was destroyed by militia I had been outside taking food to a needy family, something only a novice was permitted to do. When I returned, nearly everyone had fled. I was preparing to run myself when I saw someone enter the front doors and kneel by the candles. A woman. Young and pregnant. As I approached to warn her of the danger, she collapsed and began her labor.

“That woman was your real mother. Her name was Carmencita. She came to pray for your safe arrival. But once your birth began, there was little she could do. The raiders had arrived. I rushed her upstairs to the chamber of San Pascual and I prayed his spirit would protect us.

“Minutes later, you were born, with evil below and the good Lord above. Your mother gave you your name, honoring our patron saint, and she held you only briefly. To keep you from crying, she hummed a song. It saved your life.

“And mine.”

Frankie was shaking.

“What happened to her?” he whispered.

“She could not move. She was weak and bleeding. I heard the men screaming. I extinguished the candles. In the darkness, I sensed her reaching out, and when her hand found my head, it pulled me in close. She whispered in my ear, just three words.

“ ‘
Save my child
.’

“I did all I could. I removed my tunic, because my life would surely end if they knew what I was. In those days, a nun could be murdered in the street. I took your mother’s clothes and wrapped her in mine. I whispered a prayer. And I ran out the back steps, carrying you in my arms.”

“You left my mother?” Frankie said.

The old woman looked at her feet.

“I have done worse.”

She coughed harshly, gripping the cane. The more the daylight spread over them, the older she appeared, and Frankie realized the great effort it must have taken for this woman to bring herself here. But she seemed determined to finish her tale.

“For many months, I raised you as my own. I lied about my past. I gave you all I could. But there was no work and no money and very little food. I was still a child myself. I did not understand an infant’s crying. I felt damned for leaving your mother and dirty for living a lie. I never slept. I heard devilish voices. The church had been my salvation, but I could no longer go there. With no family and a screaming baby, I was outcast. Alone. And so, one morning . . .”

“What?” Frankie said.

She took a breath.

“I threw you away, Francisco. Forgive the way I say it, but I do not deserve to say it more kindly. I put you in the Mijares River. And I ran. I ran until my chest could no longer take air. I collapsed in a thicket of muddy bushes. The world went black and for a moment I thought I would die. That is what I wanted.

“But then I heard the sound of something breathing and I opened my eyes to see a dog standing over me, dark, with no hair. It never made a sound. It just stared at me. A voice called out and the dog ran away. I saw, in the distance, a bald man carrying you off, the animal beside him.”

“Papa . . . ,” Frankie whispered.

“Baffa Rubio. I knew then that God had forsaken me, but he had not forsaken you. I was a wretch. Undeserving of a child. My punishment would be living with what I’d done. But my penance was clear.”

“What penance?” Frankie said.

“To guard you from afar. To honor your mother’s final request.
Save my child
. It was my only path to salvation. It gave me a reason to rise from that muddy brush. I followed behind Baffa Rubio until I witnessed him entering his home with you in his arms. From that moment forward, I became your sentinel. I vowed to keep watch no matter where your life took me. And that is what I have done.”