The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (26 page)

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For not giving up.”

“Why would I give up?”

At night, sometimes, they walked along the Mississippi River and shared fried dough from inside a paper bag. Music could be heard from the clubs in the French Quarter and Frankie would sing along. Or he would do a song the children in Villareal used to sing when chasing the train through town.

La pan-der-o-la-la-la

La pan-der-o-la-la-la

Aurora would laugh and rest her head on his shoulder, and Frankie remembered a conversation he’d once had with his guitar teacher:

“How do you know you are in love, Maestro?”

“If you are asking, you are not.”

“Were you ever in love, Maestro?”

“Who wrote ‘Recuerdos de la Alhambra’?”

“Francisco Tárrega.”

“What technique must be used in that song?”

“The tremolo technique.”

“These are the questions you should be asking. Not love questions.”

“Where does tremolo come from, Maestro?”

“From the word ‘to tremble.’”

“What does tremble mean?”

“To shake. To quiver. To be scared or nervous.”

“When does this happen?”

El Maestro paused. “When you are in love.”

Frankie made a great deal of music in New Orleans, a city I infuse more than most. He sat in with blues bands. He played jazz at the Dew Drop Inn. Aurora went with him to small bars and outdoor stages, even a recording studio in the back of an appliance shop in the French Quarter. Frankie’s guitar versatility made him a favorite there, and the owner would tell his clients, “Whatever you need—
presto!
—this kid can play it! That’s why they call him Presto!”

One summer night, Frankie was in that studio when a wiry black man with high hair and a thin mustache came to record some songs. It was mostly blues numbers, which were easy for Frankie to follow, but he could tell the producer was not happy with the results. After several hours they took a break.

The singer, whose name was Richard Penniman, stepped into the alley behind the studio to have his shoes shined. He seemed frustrated. Frankie followed him out. The shoe-shine boy was a six-year-old named Ellis who adored Frankie because he showed him how to make chords on the guitar.

“Want a nice shine, Mr. Presto?” Ellis asked, but Frankie told him to do the new man’s shoes first.

“Thank you,” Richard Penniman said.

“Sure.”

“That your girl in there? The blonde?”

“Yes.”

“Whooo-eee.”

Frankie smiled.

“You a good-looking thing yourself,” the man said. “You perform?”

“I mostly play guitar.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What?”

“Nobody gettin’ famous playing guitar. You wanna be big, you better get singin’. Out front. By yourself.”

Aurora came outside and said she was going for ice cream. She asked if they wanted any.

“How about a cone of tutti frutti?” the man said.

Frankie laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Tutti-frutti. That’s Italian.”

“For what?”

“All fruits.”

“Hmmph. Wish I’d known that before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I wrote my song.”

“What song?”

“ ‘Tutti Frutti.’ ”

“About fruits?”

“It ain’t about fruits! It’s about, you know . . .”

He did a little headshake and moved his hips.

“Wanna hear it?”

And there, on the shoe-shine stand, he sang a verse—a loud, fast boogie-woogie melody—and Frankie nodded, his eyes wide, and even little Ellis the shoe-shine boy grinned.

“Maybe,” Frankie suggested, “you should be recording
that
.”

A few minutes later, he was. It was thrown together quickly and the energy in the room was palpable and Richard Penniman screamed “Aaaaah” to let the saxophone player know it was time to solo. The words were deemed too racy, so a woman at the studio quickly made up some new lyrics, and fifteen minutes later, the final song was recorded. (Quick creation, remember? My gift to you?)

“Tutti Frutti” (with Frankie playing an uncredited guitar lick) became a hugely successful record, and forged the career of the mustached man, who became better known as Little Richard.

Nobody noticed when Aurora returned with the ice cream.

“What did I miss?” she asked.

The
allegro
continued. Frankie saved up money from his music jobs and, just before Christmas, bought a small ring, two hearts connected by a diamond chip. The next night, he and Aurora walked along Canal Street, past the Maison Blanche department store, where, in the window, as part of an annual tradition, there was a large papier-mâché snowman named Mr. Bingle, depicted as Santa’s helper. Aurora loved this odd creation, with its small hat and round black eyes.

“Santa can’t go do anything without Mr. Bingle,” she announced, her face against the glass.

“Aurora?”

Frankie opened the ring box.

“I can’t do anything without you, either. Marry me. Please?”

Aurora inhaled. Tears fell down her cheeks. I was keenly aware of a lack of music, but Frankie, ever reliable, softly sang the words to “Earth Angel” and the moment was complete.

Earth angel, Earth angel,

Will you be mine?

“Santa and Mr. Bingle are always together,” Aurora whispered.

“Always,” Frankie said.

“No matter what.”

“No matter what.”

“All right. I’ll marry you.”

They kissed sweetly and she put on the ring and Frankie tipped an imaginary hat to the papier-mâché snowman, which made Aurora laugh.

They scheduled their wedding at a nearby church, and it was not until the week of the event that they realized their lack of paperwork. Both Frankie and Aurora had existed on the fringes; neither had a driver’s license, the money they earned came mostly in cash, and from what I could gather (such details bore me), the proper filings would have caused a long delay.

Instead, they canceled the church and used a friend’s nightclub, and a violinist who had once attended divinity school blessed their union at 3:07 a.m. Aurora’s sister, Cecile, was her maid of honor, and young Ellis, the shoeshine boy, served as Frankie’s best man. There was food and drink and Fats Domino played the piano and Richard Penniman sang his wild songs and Hampton Belgrave came down from Nashville and sat in on the harmonica.

In the early morning, when everyone had gone home, Frankie and Aurora, still wearing their wedding clothes, took a walk along the river.

“Do you remember the day we met?” Aurora asked.

“In the woods,” Frankie said.

“You were so scared.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

She removed her shoes. A flock of birds flew over the water.

“That was the last day you saw your father.”

“He wasn’t my father.”

“I’m sorry he wasn’t here.”

“Your mother wasn’t here, either.”

“You’re right. She wasn’t.”

She took his hand. They walked in silence. Off in the distance, a man in an apron threw a bucket of water onto the sidewalk and began sweeping away the night’s revelry.

“Francisco?”

“Yes?”

“We both have a family now.”

“You and me?”

“Always.”

Frankie sang the first line of “Always,” a popular tune recorded by the Ink Spots and Frank Sinatra. Aurora pulled his arm across her chiffon-covered shoulder.

“Not everything is a song.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Okay. Everything is.”

As the sun rose over the east end of New Orleans, they retired up the stairs to their apartment above the drugstore, and lay down together on the same single pillow. Later, Frankie fell asleep with his nose in her blond hair and his arm around her waist. He had joined many bands. This one was his favorite.

35

1969

THE MUSIC GREW LOUDER IN THE DARKNESS OF WOODSTOCK,
and from the heavens Frankie heard the scratchy voice of a blues singer named Janis Joplin. Even in his cloudy state, he could decipher the 1/4/5 chord pattern of a song called “Piece of My Heart,” and a crashing chorus in which the singer screams for her lover to take it, take it, take another little piece.

“Stage?” Frankie yelled at a crowd.

“That way!” someone yelled, pointing.

“Stage?” he screamed a minute later.

“That way!”

He had a direction. He had the eggs. He willed a forward march to his legs, which, thanks to the green pill, he had to mentally maneuver through his knee joints, as if he were a marionette. Lift, stretch, plant. Lift, stretch, plant—

“Can I try your guitar, Mister?”

Frankie looked down. There was a towheaded boy in a striped shirt and white underpants, shoeless, maybe six years old. Next to him was a girl, even younger, also in her underwear. Both were playing in the mud.

“Can I try after him?” the girl said.

Frankie rolled his neck, trying to process.
Kids. Nighttime. Playing in the mud
. He had to keep going. But for some reason he kneeled down and reached around his back.

“This?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the boy said.

“Do you know how to play it?”

“Sure.”

“Me, too,” his sister echoed.

“My mommy’s boyfriend plays one.”

“Where is your mommy?”

“Over there.”

The boy pointed to a circle of people draped in blankets, passing pipes. Frankie tried to guess which one was the mother. He scratched his head.
Keep moving
, he told himself.

“Do you want some mud?” the boy asked.

“Huh?”

“You can have some.”

“Okay.”

The boy put a glob of mud in Frankie’s hand.