Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [60]
Before Frank went onstage each night he’d tell me what his finale would be (in the early days it was almost always Paul Anka’s “My Way”), and as soon as he finished the penultimate number (often a torch song like “One for My Baby”) and I heard the opening bars of “My Way,” I’d reluctantly get up from my front-row seat. With the steadying arm of a security man to lead me away in the darkness as unobtrusively as possible, I’d hurry through the labyrinth of backstage passageways and into a limo waiting at the stage door, its engine running. At the end of each performance, Frank would wait for a cue from the wings that I was ready, then tell his audience something like “Sleep warm. May you live to be a hundred years old, and may the last voice you hear be mine.” Sometimes he’d say it in Italian before taking his final bow. He’d select a single rose from among the many flowers thrown onto the stage, and then he’d walk off with it. He’d be out the back door and sitting next to me in the limo, glowing with heat and excitement, before his fans had even stopped applauding.
“Here, beautiful,” he’d say, above the sirens of the police motorcycle outriders howling as we set off. Presenting the rose to me with a kiss, he’d smile and add almost shyly, “This is for you.” There was rarely any sitting around after the show like some performers do, swathed in warm towels. If ever there was a lineup of visitors outside his dressing room door, that would be before a show, not after. Once a show was over, the night was just beginning, and Frank needed to be away from the theater. He wanted companionship and chatter, his drinking buddies and me.
As the limo sped us away, he’d lean back against the leather seat in his stage tuxedo and smile. He’d be in a buoyant, electrically charged mood, a post-show high that would take him hours to come down from as he quietly relived every note of the performance he’d just given. As he always said, when people put their hard-earned dollars down to see him, he owed it to them to be the best he could be and give nothing short of a top-notch performance every night. That’s why he wore black tie. Even after all those years of performing, the roar of the audience still moved and thrilled him, as did the sight of young people in the crowd. As he slowly unwound, he’d ask me, “Did you feel that love in the house tonight? They were so warm. I can’t believe I’m still getting away with it after all these years in the business. And singing to kids too—teenagers and couples in their twenties!”
Our motorcade would whisk us back to the airport to fly someplace in our twelve-seater Gulfstream, complete with bar and kitchen, fully equipped for a party. If we were staying in town, we might go back to our hotel suite. More likely than not, though, we’d head to an out-of-the-way Italian restaurant where most of the staff wouldn’t even know who was coming to dinner that night. The man paying the bill (booked under a pseudonym) would surprise the busboys by sneaking in through the kitchens to meet his twenty or so guests and heading straight to a private room or a quiet corner. Frank loved those nights best of all, I think, and the anticipation of a noisy Italian supper always lifted his spirits.
Even after the party was over and we were settled into bed together, Frank and I would usually talk into the wee small hours of the morning. There was always so much to discuss about our day—the traveling, the show, the crowd, the dinner,