The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (34 page)

And they ran through his fingers like grains of sand

And one little star fell alone.

Suddenly, I heard the most beautiful guitar chords, one strum at a time. I looked over and Frankie Presto was playing. Every chord seemed to be a struggle. You could see it on his face. But the tempo was very slow and he had time to make the finger changes. I kept on singing. I didn’t want to stop, because I could sense this was important to him. We did a few verses and we got to the end:

But I’ve been walking through the night and the day

Till my eyes get weary and my head turns grey

And sometimes it seems maybe God’s gone away . . .

And we’re lost out here in the stars.

He hit the final chord, and I saw tears roll down his face. Even the stagehands clapped. I said, “That was nice.” I didn’t want to embarrass him. But I was lying. It was more than nice. It was spectacular.

At the end of that summer, I decided to return to the States. The car came to get me, and there was Francisco, as usual, sitting on his bench. I told the driver to wait and I went over and sat down next to him.

“I’m going,” I said.

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Thanks for taking me to your shows, Mr. Benedetto.”

“How long are you going to wait here?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if your wife doesn’t come back?”

“She will.”

“Well, if you ever feel like it, I would be honored to record with you someday.”

He almost laughed. “I can’t play anymore.”

“You can. You did.”

“Just some chords.”

“Not chords. Music.”

I told him that as long as he had that kind of music inside him, nothing could keep it from coming out. I meant it.

And then I asked, “When was the last time you were home?”

And he said, “I don’t really have one.”

And I said, “Everyone has someplace they call home.”

He held up his guitar.

“All I ever had was this,” he said, “and her.”

48

ONE OF FRANKIE’S FAVORITE SONGS WAS THE DRIFTERS’ “SAVE THE LAST DANCE FOR ME.”
The lyrics—which tell a woman it’s all right for her to dance with others, as long as she remembers who is taking her home—were written by Doc Pomus, a polio victim. He wrote it recalling the night of his wedding, when other men danced with his bride, while he had to watch from a wheelchair. He scribbled the words on the back of their wedding invitation.

I have told you all love stories are symphonies, and the final movement is the
rondo
, repeated themes with episodes intervening. Frankie and Aurora, with their
rondo
of arrivals and departures, had saved their last dances long enough. Finally, in the calendar year 1974, they were reunited for good—thanks to, of all things, a radio program.

Yes. A radio program. Mr. Tony Bennett (or Benedetto) did one final favor for the wounded Mr. Presto. Departing from London that day, he’d shared his limousine with another passenger, a presenter from the BBC. The two men conversed en route to the airport, and Mr. Bennett recounted some of Frankie’s story, omitting his name, but mentioning that every morning, this man waited for his wife with his guitar in his lap.

“Isn’t that something?” Bennett said.

“Extraordinary,” the presenter agreed.

Moved by the sad tale, the BBC man told it himself on his radio program that week. The program was heard on the drive to work by Cecile (York) Peterson who, upon reaching her office at the London School of Economics, phoned her sister, Aurora, and said, “I think your husband is back in town.”

The following morning, in a steady rain, Aurora York stepped off a bus and walked toward the park. She spotted Frankie and ducked behind a post, waiting for an hour, watching him get wet. She counted the raindrops hitting her umbrella, and assigned to each one a reason that she should not go to him. When she ran out of reasons, she closed the umbrella and let herself get soaked.

Then she crossed the street.

Frankie looked up as she approached, the rain dripping down her face. She moved his guitar and lowered into his lap.

“Will you stay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Music can soothe a soul. The body is another story. Aurora York spent months seeking the finest specialists for Frankie’s wounded hand. For this, I am most grateful. She used her sister’s connections. She paid for another surgery. She made him do rehabilitation exercises every day. She nursed my beloved disciple back to the point of utility, after which, my allure rekindled in him.

Meanwhile, returning to their affections (the
rondo
, remember?), Frankie and Aurora pleasantly discovered the barriers between them had melted away. Fame was no longer an issue, nor was traveling, late nights, or other women. Aurora discarded all remnants of narcotics or alcohol in Frankie’s life.

Then she set out to find a home.

“Do you want to stay in London?” Frankie asked.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

“Where then?”

“Someplace far away,” she said. “And quiet.”

They drove to various outposts in England. None of them pleased her.

“Farther,” she said. “Quieter.”

They flew to New York, where Frankie retrieved two guitars.

“Farther,” she said. “Quieter.”

They flew to Los Angeles, where Frankie retrieved money from a bank and Aurora refused to even leave the airport.

“Farther,” she said. “Quieter.”

They flew to Australia.

“Farther. Quieter.”

They took a boat to New Zealand. Spending the night by the Auckland harbor, she saw an old ferry sailing off in the moonlight. When she asked where it was going, a clerk told her a place called “Waiheke,” whose Maori name, “Te Motu-arai-roa,” meant “long and sheltering island.”

The next morning, she and Frankie were on that ferry with all their possessions. An hour later, when they reached the docks and saw the high green cliffs and heard the quiet lapping of water, Aurora turned to the love of her life and looked him in the eyes.

“Here,” she said.

49

1981

THE TEXAS BOYS HAD DRAWN STRAWS. ONE OF THEM WOULD TRY AGAIN.
(The three of them together, they decided, was too intimidating.) Lyle drew the shortest straw, and the following evening, with the sun setting, he walked through the brush and trees, and edged out alone onto the beach. Frankie was sitting with his shirt off, the guitar strap around his bare, tanned skin, playing scales in the key of F: major scale, minor scale, Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, ascending, descending.

“You can come around,” he said, not looking back.

Lyle edged forward, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Hello, sir.”

“My wife said you’d be back.”

“Sorry about last time. . . .”

Frankie kept playing the scales, slowly, deliberately.

“I just . . . I never thought I’d actually meet you, Mr. Presto. My name is Lyle.”

Frankie moved to the F sharp scales.

“I play guitar, too.”

Frankie nodded.

“Not like you, of course.”

Frankie nodded.

“Was that you playing the famous solo at Woodstock?”

Frankie nodded.

“Really? Because nobody could confirm you were there.”

Frankie kept nodding until Lyle realized he was not responding to his questions, but rather moving with the rhythm of the breaking waves, as if following a drummer.

“Are you practicing? I mean. Sorry. Dumb question. Why scales? Why are you practicing scales?”

Frankie stopped playing.

“Huh?”

“Why scales?”

“Retraining.”

“Retraining?”

“My fingers. My ears. It’s a long process.”

Lyle wanted to ask a hundred questions, but as Frankie resumed, he stayed quiet and listened. When Frankie completed the B flat and B natural rotation, he stopped again.

“I messed up my hand. I’m working on finding it.”

“Finding what?”

“The beauty. Left hand finds the beauty.”

He held out his palm and Lyle noticed the scars.

“Oh, man.”

“Not much beauty.”

“What happened?”

“Not sure I remember.”

“An accident?”

“Can’t say that.”

“When?”

“In ’69.”

“That’s Woodstock. So you
were
at Woodstock?”

“Sort of.”

“Was that you playing?”

“Playing what?”

“The solo. The one I just asked you about.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

“It’s famous. I mean, with bootlegs, it’s famous.”

Frankie stared at the young man.

“Bootlegs?”

“Recordings. You can get them if you ask around.”

“Of a solo?”

“It’s the most amazing solo ever. I couldn’t play it if I tried. Nobody can.”

Frankie’s breathing seemed to accelerate.

“It wasn’t me.”

He looked down at his feet.

“You should go now. I have a lot of practicing to do.”

Several days passed. Lyle and his bandmates tried three more visits, but the beach was empty each time.

“Maybe we scared him off,” Eddie said.

“He said it wasn’t him,” Lyle said.

“You believe that?”

“I don’t know. He plays pretty slowly.”

“How’d he hurt himself?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“What should we do now?”

They looked at each other.

“Drink,” Cluck said.

Ten minutes later, they entered a pub called McGinty’s and ordered beers. They found a table.

“Is that the Yankee rock and rollers?”

They looked up to see Kevin, the driver, grinning from behind the bar.

“You’re a bartender, too?” Eddie asked.

“Aw, no, just helping myself. So. How’s the adventure going?”

“It’s not,” Lyle said glumly.

“He’s disappeared,” Cluck added.

Kevin pulled up a chair. “You know, mates, people usually move to an island to be left alone. If they wanted to be found, they wouldn’t pick Waiheke, that’s for bloody sure.”