Chapter Text
“Tom, um gringo está ligando” The bartender shouted from the other end of the bar. Antonio, or Tom for short, lightly tapped his beer onto the palm tree-designed cardboard coaster. The crowd of friends around him clamored about the call, making jokes about who it could be from. One even mentioned Frank Sinatra, getting a chuckle from Tom. Like that’d even happen, he carelessly shrugged off. He walked from the crowd towards the black telephone being held by the bartender who quickly handed it to him. Tom placed the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” Tom muttered in English.
“Hello, is this Antonio Carlos Jobim?”
The voice was immediately recognizable from the other line. The instant shock Tom felt could’ve been apparent to whoever was looking his way. Thankfully, because of the dim lights emitting from the bar, none could reasonably see the instant flush on his face, or how wide his eyes had become. Even if it was a jest from his group, it was none other than Frank Sinatra who was on the other line. Frank. Sinatra. Despite Tom being a heartbeat away from smiling so brightly he’d bring his own light onto the bar, there was no other option but to be as casual to the man as he could. There was a reason that Frank Sinatra would call him, and from the bar nonetheless.
“Yes.” Tom answered, albeit with a trail at the end that wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.
“Good, good to hear,” Sinatra answered back. “That’s perfect. You know I really like your stuff, Jobim. I think your work is really something special.”
A compliment from none other than the most popular singer in the world. Enough to make a man cry, Tom thought. But he kept his tears and his shakes to a simple smile and a nod. “Thank you. Your music is great too. Angels sing with you.”
“Haha,” Sinatra laughed, “They really do, huh? I’m glad you think that. Listen, if you’re not busy, would you be interested in making an album with me?”
There was a bit of dead air where Tom had to wrap his head around the request. Sinatra making an album with him? A dream that didn’t sound like it’d ever exist, a dream too sweet to even conceive, and yet here Sinatra was offering it to him on a silver platter. And, even if it was masked by a laugh (a rather poor laugh since it came out more like a wheeze or a light cough), Tom still needed to process everything, doing so with a…
“...Really?”
“Yeah, really. Though I’m going to be on vacation throughout the month. When do you suppose you’d be free?”
In a month. In a month…With all the previous commitments he had with other albums, surely he had to double check what days he’d have available.
“Yes, uhm…Let me check the calendar.”
“At the bar?” Sinatra quipped, chuckling. “Alright, take your time.”
Tom called for the bartender to bring the calendar, looking through next month's dates as quickly as he could. It seemed like his whole schedule was booked, but he managed to find a couple of days that held enough dead air for a business trip.
“Okay, hello?” Tom picked up the phone again.
“Yes, hello.” Sinatra replied.
“Okay, I am free from the end of January and…the first day of February.”
“Uuuh…” Sinatra sounded like he was flipping through his own schedule. “...Yeah, that’s fine with me. I’ll see you then.”
“Great, pleasure talking to you.”
“Uh-huh, you too, bye.” And Sinatra hung up. Tom could hear the smile beyond his voice. Or at least imagine it, with his perfect pearly set of straight veneers.
Tom had to take a moment to recollect himself before rushing back to his group in a hurry to share the exciting news. They all cheered and clapped and joked in excitement, even clinking their glasses and going “tim-tim” for Jobim. For now, though, he had to worry about his other compositions. But time would luckily move fast for him, and before he knew it, Tom was on the plane to Hollywood.
…
The studio was spacious, but not empty. Technicians stood with all sorts of complicated equipment, none Tom could think of bothering with. Band members, around 20 or so, sat inside the recording booth just a glass panel away from the main studio. When Tom arrived at the studio, he was swarmed with a jumble of mostly new faces, most of which extended their hands for firm but quick handshakes. One in particular was a good friend of his: Claus Ogerman. Claus had arranged one of Tom’s albums, and helped arrange and conduct other famous artists' songs in America as well. It made sense that, out of anyone, Claus would be the one to help Tom with possibly the biggest album of his career up to this point. Claus, alongside a handshake, patted Tom' s shoulder and gave him a soft smile.
“Nice to see you again, Tom.” Claus said.
“You too. Is your wife fine?”
“Oh, yes, she’s at home.”
“Wonderful.” Tom spoke with a light chuckle.
That ‘wonderful’ concluded the conversation with Claus, for Tom still had one final person to meet.
A man sat inside the booth, holding a cigarette between two fingers as he stared at the band playing an unrecognizable song, providing background music to his existence. He had the brightest, striking blue eyes, and the sharpest cheekbones that were only accented by the slight droop in his face. He wore a finely pressed suit; a black one made of thick wool, alongside a dark-colored tie. Unfortunate to Tom, this was an outfit without an anticipated askew fedora on his head. It was a rather impressive outfit nonetheless, compared to Tom’s own simple button-up and tie. The other’s glare was jarring; a concentrated look filled with an ineffable disquietude, or a dull contemplation with a tired stare. A man who was just as tired as he was uneased.
Tom might’ve been caught staring at the other for a bit too long, as Claus stepped in to knock on the glass separating the two. He was then face-to-face with ol’ blue eyes who was first alert, then crinkled into soft crescents. He lightly placed the papers on the chair, stood himself up, and walked over to open the door. Tom watched as he did, keeping eye of his precise and specifically grand movements.
The man opened the door. Tom felt his hand extending toward him. He took Tom’s hand with such vigor; such a firm grasp. Tom continued to gaze into the endless oceans of the other’s eyes—such an overwhelming feeling washing over him as he did, as though he were being enveloped by the calm waves of the other's sea. Terror and joy danced within Tom’s heart, and even when the other spoke he could feel the same intense feelings as he did the day at the bar.
“How’re you doing, you must be Antonio.”
Tom tried to keep his composure with a smile adjacent to Sinatra’s grin: “Call me Tom. You must be Sinatra.”
“Oh, come on now, call me Frank.”
How his words carried a baritone warmth the telephone lines could not communicate; they flowed out of him like honey dripping into a warm tea. Though he did chuckle afterwards, and so did the people in the room, who seemed to also be entranced with him. Was it a joke? It probably was, even Claus was laughing. Tom laughed as well. Frank finally let go of the handshake to look around at the crowd.
“The boy makes me call him a nickname and I get called my last name? Feels a little unfair.”
Oh. That’s what it was. Tom could feel that same blush returning, although with the added pinch of upset creeping around his heart. A smile remained, alongside a mutter of “Sorry, sorry.”
“I’m kidding, Tom, don’t worry.”
It was an odd addition, Tom thought, but Frank grabbed Tom’s face—specifically curling his hand under his chin, to where his fingers pressed against his cheeks—and squished his face. Before Tom could feel even worse, Claus stepped in.
“I’ve got some things I want to mention about the first few songs before we start recording, if that’s fine?” Claus looked between both men, but he seemed to be more focused on Frank than Tom.
“Oh, yeah, of course.” Frank responded, letting go of Tom and stepping back to keep the door open. “Come in.”
And Tom did as Frank commanded.
Claus showed Tom the scores he made combining each of their styles. It was Jobim’s composition with his soft melody intertwined brilliantly with Sinatra’s orchestral band, something that Tom noticed Claus was proud of for arranging as he had that smile on his face while handing Tom the papers. While Frank had some time going over the songs with the band, he hadn’t gone over the song with Tom. Tom, having wanted to play a bit of the first song anyways, pulled out his guitar and gave Frank a bit of the tune. Though as the two collaborated, it was apparent they each had some qualms over the song.
Tom’s troubles couldn’t be helped, though. It was the English version of Garota De Ipanema, specifically from that Gilbert guy. His lyrics were so troublesome and so out-of-touch it was bordering on problematic. But there was nothing Tom could do but sigh, for it was the most popular translation (as it was the only translation) of the song. That, and Tom was able to sing a bit of the Portuguese version, so he didn’t feel the need to comment on it. Frank, on the other hand, piped up with something entirely different.
“See, I like it, but…Is there any way I can sing any louder?”
For such a soft and gentle song, even with the added strings and horns, there wasn’t any reason to sing louder than an F key. But Frank continued.
“I just think it’s out of my range. The fans, they expect me to sing. If there’s no singing, it’s endsville, there’s no Sinatra.”
“No, yeah, I get that,” Claus responded, “but there wasn’t really any way I could broaden your vocal range. I really tried, Frank, and I even added some English songs to try and make the album sound more Sinatra, but—”
“ —Well you didn’t try hard enough, I’m sure you could’ve done something. Couldn’t you change the key? Like this first one, I saw Stan Getz do this song and he did it in a higher key.”
“Yes, but, the original was done in F. We wanted to keep it true to Tom’s original version, and—”
“—Is it that the boy can’t sing? Just scrap his part and change the key, what’s the problem?”
It was that last line that made Tom finally speak out in his hastily broken English. “This is Bossa Nova. It’s calm, like waves. You do not sing higher than the music behind it.”
Frank pounced back with: “Well I’m not trying to sing higher than the instruments, I’m trying to sing with the instruments.”
“You wanted Bossa Nova, this is Bossa Nova.”
Frank seemed to quiet down, but Tom tensed. The sound of Claus’ blabbering turned into a quiet hum as he thought. Why was he arguing with the tone of the song? It was a fine song, Tom thought. Sure, it was softer than what Frank usually does, but that was the staple of the music Tom was known for in the west. Tom felt pride in knowing his audiences in both the US and Brazil were thrilled in hearing his compositions, Though he understood Frank just wanted his voice to be heard. The man has some rather powerful vocals he loves showing off, and it's why he captures the hearts of so many. Even Tom is fascinated with the way he belted notes for so long. Though Tom thought it was nothing to argue over; he had other albums he was able to sing in, and it didn't mesh with Tom's style. Having understanding and having frustration seemed to jumble Tom's mind a bit, causing a slight ache which Tom soothed by rubbing his forehead.
But the argument subsided for now, and Frank voiced his defeat.
“Fine. This is fine. We don’t have the time to fight anyways, it’s fine as-is. Thank you Claus.”
Claus simply nodded. Frank stood up, moving his chair closer to the mic, and sitting down.
“Uhm, actually,” Claus interjected, “We only had the budget for one mic, so you’ll have to share.”
“That’s fine,” Frank sighed. “Tom, you take the chair. I’ll just stand on top of you.” He stood up from the chair to go around and lean on its back.
Tom nodded along, grabbing the guitar he brought and quickly sitting down to start unpacking it. He could feel one of Frank’s hands laying atop his shoulder once more, although with an added hand also laying softly on his left forearm. It was strange how his hands could comfortably find a spot on Tom, almost every time. And yet, Tom allowed it. One because he was used to the feeling of touch, and two because—though something he’ll never admit—he liked it. Frank's hands were soft and untouched, enriched in the lavish lifestyle he led, yet powerful and commanding. And how they seemed to lay on Tom was nothing more than riveting. To have The Frank Sinatra leaning behind your back—to even have The Frank Sinatra be performing with you at all. Surely this was a dream every performer had, Tom thought. It was Tom who could feel pride for that dream to become a reality.
The group were able to get through the non-Jobim songs on the album, including Dindi, though its translation was also not favored by Tom. Even with that slight distaste from the lyrics, Frank sang the songs beautifully even and soft, adding an extra air of classical expertise and talent into such an already deep and enriching song. Though it wasn’t exactly how Tom dreamed it’d sound, it made Tom dream of the other songs—the more valued songs by the public—and how they might sound.
Frank was even able to hold a note on I Concentrate On You, so he got what he wanted after all. Frank kept on cracking a few jokes, saying a couple of lines to the others in the studio, and Tom got to listen and laugh along. Generally, the session went smoothly in Tom’s eyes.
Maybe this album would mark the start of something great between the two, Tom thought.
They finished the first session in roughly four hours, though it was already late into the night. Claus shouted “that’s a wrap!” and everyone started packing up their things. Tom felt the need to get some closing words from Frank, even with butterflies in his stomach and a head pressuring him not to in fear of his tongue becoming too twisted to be comprehensible. In the end, his heart dragged his body towards the man in the center of every room.
“Good first session?” Tom smiled, hoping Frank would fill whatever words were left out.
“Yes, great first session,” Frank nodded and smiled, “and might I say, I just love the way you play that guitar. How’d you learn such an instrument?”
Tom smiled even wider, fidgeting with guitar that was now in its case being carried by his own calloused hands. “Thank you, I was taught in school.”
“Really?” Said Frank as he crossed his arms. “No wonder your work is brilliant. I look forward to tomorrow’s session.”
Tom was too, but he only nodded and went on his way. He might’ve been rude, but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to utter a word. Something in seeing that man smile as he complimented you was a treasure of gold and gems. ‘No wonder your work is brilliant’. He said it so matter-of-factly too, as if Tom’s skill was obvious from the start. It was true with Tom’s own massive fanbase that he possessed his own set of skills. But when Frank Sinatra, the man who’s making millions off his voice alone, says you’ve got skill? Brilliant skill, at that; intellectual, sensational. ‘No wonder your work is brilliant’. It almost made up for the previous comments Frank made. Almost.
That night Tom called as many people as he could and slept when the sun started to rise.