Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [115]
Frank appeared onstage and after a couple of songs peered up at our box and said, “Where’s my girl? There she is. Say hello to Barbara, everybody.” A spotlight dazzled me, but I smiled and waved. Frank said, “I love you. Do you love me?” I nodded. “Then I love you twice,” he announced. A great romantic, Pavarotti thought that absolutely marvelous and applauded enthusiastically. He remained riveted through the rest of the performance. By the time Frank took his final bow, Pavarotti’s face was wet with tears. Having composed himself, he used gestures and hand signals to let me know that he’d like to go backstage. “Down,” he said, pointing and smiling. “Frank. Down.”
I waited in the wings with this giant among singers for Frank to emerge from his dressing room. I knew my husband would be nervous to meet one of his heroes too, but I could hardly believe what happened next. In a surprisingly agile motion for such a large man, Pavarotti dropped to his knees, took Frank’s hand, and kissed it. Frank looked at me and I looked at him and we both thought, Surely this should be the other way around?
At the Radio City benefit for Sloan-Kettering a year or so later, Pavarotti sang his arias so movingly, mopping the perspiration from his brow throughout with his trademark white handkerchief. Frank was due onstage for the next few numbers, which would include their riveting finale of “Santa Lucia” and “O Sole Mio.” There was a momentary delay before Frank walked out, looking like a toothpick compared to Pavarotti. In his hand he was carrying a large white tablecloth with which he pretended to mop his brow. Pavarotti cracked up, and then those two musical legends embraced in a scene of extraordinary warmth. In front of a crowd of six thousand they laughed at each other like two schoolboys in the corner of a playground, oblivious to all those around them. It was the most charming sight to see.
After the show they chatted animatedly in half English, half Italian and bonded somewhere in between. Finally, Pavarotti asked Frank, “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Frank nodded and frowned. “Yes, Maestro,” he replied, suddenly serious. “I’ve been having trouble with how to end a cresendo, especially a long one. I’d really like to know the proper way to finish.”
Pavarotti looked at Frank and placed a bear of a hand on his shoulder. “ ’Ats’a easy, Francis,” he told him with that twinkly smile of his. “You just-a shut-uppa you mou!”
Frank was adored around the world, and not just by Italian opera singers. The Japanese went nuts for him. The English abandoned their legendary reserve to give him standing ovations. The Europeans mobbed us. When he performed at the Concert for the Americas in the Dominican Republic in the middle of a steamy jungle, the Caribbean crowds were unbelievable. But one area of the world where he was revered to an almost religious extent was South America—Rio de Janeiro in particular.
There was a false promise offered up by commitment-shy men all over Brazil: “I’ll marry you when Sinatra comes to Rio.” For some reason, Frank had never played Rio de Janeiro, so the promise was the Latino equivalent of “when Hell freezes over.” Would-be brides would sigh sadly in response, believing that they’d probably never marry. But in 1980, all that changed. From the day Frank announced that he’d be touring