The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (5 page)

He named the child Francisco Rubio.

The child called him Papa.

Baffa was potbellied, with a sagging chest, thick jowls, a drooping forehead, and a downward-bending mustache, so that when he sat, he seemed like a layer of frowns stacked in a chair. But the boy made him happy. Having inherited his family’s sardine factory, Baffa was an oddity in Villareal, a town full of orange growers, orange pickers, orange packers, and orange shippers. He’d grown used to being alone, a fat man with a fishy smell, yet suddenly there was a small human to share in his daily routine, which during the week meant riding to work in his Italian automobile, and on the weekends meant sitting in his small garden listening to the radio, with the hairless dog sleeping near a bed of pomegranate flowers. The radio was constantly on, morning to evening, and young Frankie was content as long as music emerged. He would squat near the speaker and sing along with any melody, in a high, pleasing voice. When Baffa turned the dial to hear the news (there was a terrible war brewing in Europe), Frankie cried until the man gave up and returned to whatever music he could find, a concert by an orchestra, an opera, or a Spanish
jota
, with its 6/8 tempo and endless energy. Frankie seemed to like that most of all.

One day, just shy of the child’s fifth birthday (not his real birthday, but the sardine maker had made a guess), Baffa saw him standing at the edge of a table, his fingers drumming to the sound of a complex flamenco guitar piece. He was keeping perfect rhythm, even though finding the beat in 6/8 time can be like cooking an egg under a blanket.

“Come here, little one,” Baffa said proudly. The boy, with a full head of black hair, turned, smiled, and walked smack into the leg of a chair, tripping and landing badly. He cried and Baffa lifted him and soothed him against his chest. “It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt,” Baffa whispered, but he realized the boy’s vision was still not right. The water from the river trauma had infected his blue eyes, and the slightest sun would make him squint, his corneas would redden, sometimes he couldn’t see anything to his sides. Doctors had warned that his sight might one day go altogether. The irritation left him constantly rubbing, and the neighborhood children would mock him: “Are you crying
again
, Francisco?” As time passed, they called him Llorica—“crybaby.” While they played a ball game called
trinquete
in the street, Francisco sat alone, humming to himself.

Baffa, a practical man, worried for his boy’s future. What if he grew up without any friends? And if his vision was bad, what kind of work would he find? How would he support himself? That day in the garden, as the
jota
music played, Baffa had an idea. Musicians, trained properly, could always work, even blind, right? He recalled a
taberna
several years ago where a guitar player with dark glasses performed to great applause, and afterward a beautiful young woman took him by the hands and led him off the stage, planting a small kiss on his lips. Only then had Baffa realized the man could not see.

This, Baffa decided, could be a future for his divinely sent child. Through music, he could work. He might even find love. Never one to waste time (efficiency had always attracted Baffa, even in sardines), he took the boy to a small music school on Calle Mayor, the paved street in the center of town. The owner had a long chin and round glasses.

“Can I help you, señor?”

“I want my son to play guitar.”

The man looked down. Frankie rubbed his eyes.

“He is too young, señor.”

“He sings all day.”

“He is too young.”

“He keeps a beat on a table.”

The man lowered his glasses.

“How old is he?”

“Almost five.”

“Too young.”

Frankie rubbed his eyes again.

“Why does he keep doing that?”

“What?”

“He rubs his eyes.”

“He is a child.”

“Is he crying?”

“An infection.”

“He cannot play if he always rubs his eyes.”

“But he sings all day.”

The man shook his head.

“Too young.”

This, by the way, is hardly the first time one of yours has discouraged one of mine. If I possessed a metal link for every tongue-clucking human who said a child was too young, the instrument too large, or the very idea of pursuing music was “a waste of time,” I could wrap your world in chains. Disapproving parents, dismissive record executives, vindictive critics.

Sometimes I think the greatest talent of all is perseverance.

But only sometimes.

For while Baffa argued with the music school owner, young Frankie gave me a special moment. He wandered into the back room, where the instruments were stored. There his eyes widened at a treasure trove heretofore unseen in his young life: a spinet piano, an old viola, a tuba, a clarinet, a snare drum—and a guitar. The guitar was lying on the floor. He walked over and sat down next to it. It had a simple wooden body with a red and blue rosette around the sound hole. Most children would have grabbed its neck, plunked its strings, twisted its tuning pegs as if they were toys. But Frankie just stared at it. He studied its shape. He cocked his head as if waiting for it to talk. I found the respect he showed most satisfying. And, given what he had just endured with that long-chinned naysayer, I felt the moment was right for a little magic. Now and then, we talents can surge inside you to create the inexplicable (well, inexplicable to you). You call these “flashes of genius.” We call it stretching.

Frankie reached out and pressed a finger on the third string, just behind a fret. He quickly released it. A soft note rang out. He smiled and did it again, the next fret up, using what guitar players call the “hammer-on” technique—a hard and quick push and release. Another note. Then another. He quickly figured out the relative sounds made by pushing behind each fret. Simply put, he was teaching himself a scale.

So I gave him another nudge.

Soon he was sounding out a melody. His eyes widened with each new note, because playing a song for the very first time is my greatest revelation, like discovering you can walk on a rainbow. He began to hum along. Had the two grown men in the front room stopped their arguing, even for a moment, they might have heard the little miracle of Francisco de Asís Pascual Presto, not yet five years old, fingertipping his way through a tune he’d heard many times on a Saturday-morning radio program, a nursery rhyme turned jazz standard:

A-tisket, a-tasket

A green and yellow basket

I wrote a letter to my love

And on the way, I dropped it

It was Frankie’s first guitar performance.

And no one heard it but me.

Down the hall, Baffa lost his patience with the owner. He yelled, “Francisco! We are leaving!” The child stood up and gave a farewell pat to the guitar, realizing he had found what he was looking for, and he was no longer rubbing his eyes.

This still left him shy of a teacher. Clearly the music school was out, and it was the only one in Villareal. Baffa felt defeated. On the way home, he stopped and bought a bag of oranges. He peeled one for the child and gave a piece to the hairless dog, who chomped it loudly. They walked together, Frankie’s second band, a trio with eight legs.

“That man was an idiot,” Baffa mumbled.

The hairless dog barked in agreement.

“Idiot,” Frankie repeated.

Baffa laughed and rubbed Frankie’s hair. That made Frankie happy, even if he didn’t know what “idiot” meant. They walked home with Frankie humming “A-Tisket A-Tasket” and the hairless dog singing silently along with him.

That night, Baffa returned to the
taberna
where he had once seen the blind guitarist play. The bartender remembered him as well, but said the man had been fired several years ago. Too much drinking. Too many late arrivals. He believed he was staying in a flat above a laundry on Crista Senegal Street—if he wasn’t already dead.

“Dead?” Baffa said.

The bartender shrugged. “He drank like a man who wanted to get this life over with.”

The next day was Sunday. After attending morning mass, Baffa took the boy and the hairless dog to Crista Senegal Street, hoping to catch the guitar player in a good mood. Even a drunk, Baffa reasoned, might give Sunday to God.

He found the laundry. Above it, he saw faded blue shutters, latched shut. The bell button was covered with a long piece of masking tape, so the three of them had no choice but to walk up the steps. It was a hot day, and Baffa, still in his church suit, was dripping sweat when they reached the landing. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, then knocked. Nothing. He knocked again. Nothing.

Baffa shrugged at Frankie, who stepped up and banged with his small fists, two at a time, as if playing a conga drum.

“
Sí?
. . .
Qué pasa?
. . . What is it?” came a voice. It was gravelly and loose, as if still waking up.

“Señor, I would like to speak to you about teaching.”

“Teaching what?”

“Guitar?”

“Go away.”

“It is important.”

“Go away.”

“I will pay you.”

“Teaching who?”

“My child.”

“Girl or boy?”

“Boy.”

“Girls are better students.”

“He is a boy.”

“How old?”

Baffa paused, remembering the music school.

“Seven.”

Frankie looked up.

“Small for his age.”

“No boys.”

“He is very talented.”

“No boys.”

“He is very talented.”

“So am I.”

“I would pay you.”

“Of course you would pay me.”

“So you’ll teach him?”

“No.”

“Señor—”

“Go away.”

Baffa turned to Frankie. “Sing something,” he whispered.

Frankie shook his head.

“
Sing
something,” Baffa repeated.

Now, most children will not sing when asked. At the early ages, talents yield to fear. (Sometimes at the later ages, too.) But this moment, I knew, was too important in the overall map of Frankie’s life. So I gave the child another nudge.

“
Da-da-dah, duh
. . . ,” he began, slowly.

Baffa raised his eyes. He had never heard this tune.

“
Da-da-dah, duhh
. . . ,” the boy continued.

It was a simple melody, childish but haunting. It went high and came down on the major notes, like something you might hear played on a xylophone. “
Duh, duh, duh, da-da-da, deh duh, dah, dahhhh
. . .”

Frankie stopped.

“
Qué canción es esa?
” Baffa asked.

Suddenly the door opened. A tall man with dark sunglasses, thick stubble, unkempt dark hair, and a sleeveless undershirt with a large coffee stain over the belly was gripping the doorframe like a guard.

“It is called ‘Lágrima,’ ” he said. “By Francisco Tárrega.”

He lowered his chin in the direction of the boy.

“He does not sound seven.”

Darlene Love

Singer, solo artist, member of the Blossoms, the Crystals; inductee, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

YOU SEE THIS PICTURE? THAT’S ME AND FRANKIE AT THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL
. I kept it all these years. Silly, isn’t it? But when you’re that age and love hits you, you want to keep every little thing, every ticket stub, every flower petal, every kewpie doll you win at the arcade, whatever makes you think of it, you know?

I was just eighteen, still in high school, and completely new to the music business. I was singing with some girls from my church choir and we’d won a contest to back up Nat King Cole during his Hollywood Bowl performance. It was our first time singing in a place like that, and even the drive up through those fine neighborhoods was an eye-opener. We didn’t know people could live in houses that big!

Backstage, while we were waiting, that’s where I met Frankie. The girls and I were laughing, we were so nervous, we’d shush each other and then we’d laugh and shush again. And suddenly, from the next dressing room over, I heard a man laughing and shushing, too—imitating us, you know? And that made us laugh harder. His voice sounded young but deep, and even laughing, it was sexy. I yelled, “Who’s there?” And he yelled, “Frankie,” and we giggled and my girlfriend said, “Frankie who?” And the door opened, right on cue, and he stepped in and said, “Presto.”