The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (10 page)

Before long he had wandered far from any houses and deep into a thicket of woods. Figuring he could lean against a tree stump to practice, he meandered until he found a good spot. He sat down, adjusted his guitar, held his left hand out (as El Maestro had taught), and began to play his scales.

“Shhhhh!”

He looked up.

“Shhhhh!”

Frankie could not see who was shushing him. His eyes worked their way through the woods until he spotted a figure in a tree, straddling a huge branch. It was a boy, about his size, in brown pants, a yellow shirt, and a cap pulled down tightly over his forehead.

“
Quién anda ahí?
” Frankie said.

“I don’t speak Spanish. Be quiet!”

“I can speak English,” Frankie said.

The child squinted.

“Do you want to see dead bodies?”

Frankie gripped his guitar neck.

“I have to practice.”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“It’s all right. Most people aren’t as brave as me.”

The boy’s English sounded strange. (It was Frankie’s first British accent.)

“I’m not afraid.”

“Prove it.”

“How do I prove it?”

“Climb up.”

Part of Frankie wanted to run. He had no desire to see dead bodies. But he had never encountered an English-speaking child before. And he didn’t have many friends, since most of the schoolkids still teased him for rubbing his eyes. He wondered if this boy knew any songs.

“All right,” Frankie said. “I’ll come up.”

He wrapped his arms around the trunk and tried to climb. He got a few feet before falling awkwardly.

“That was stupid,” the boy said, laughing.

Frankie wiped the dirt off his shorts. The hairless dog licked his bare legs.

“Here. Catch.”

The boy dropped a rope that was tied around the branch. Gripping it and jumping, Frankie pushed his feet against the tree and began walking up the trunk. When he reached the branch, he collapsed.

“Hmmph,” the boy said.

Only then, breathing hard, did Frankie realize that this was not a boy at all, but a girl with blond hair tucked under a cap. Her teeth formed a perfect little curve beneath her lips, and her skin was whiter and her cheeks pinker than any Frankie had ever seen. Her eyes were the shade of pool water, which made her seem a bit dreamy, even when she was looking straight at him.

“You have proven you are brave,” she said matter-of-factly. “So you can be my friend.”

Something warm spread inside Frankie. He felt as brave as she suggested.

“Help me pull the rope up,” she said.

“Why are you in this tree?”

“I’m spying.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t know what spying means?”

Frankie shrugged.

“I’m seeing secret things that no one is supposed to see.”

“Why?”

“So I can tell my daddy. He is very important, you know.”

Frankie shrugged again.

“Only brave people can be spies. Like my daddy.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He’s on a secret mission. But when he comes back, I shall tell him what I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“The dead bodies. Look.”

Frankie had almost forgotten about this part. He looked to where she was pointing and saw a large clearing in the woods, where the dirt appeared different from the dirt surrounding it. It had been dug up, churned, and replaced, as if covering something. Nearby was a deep, empty hole beside another mound of dirt.

“They dug it this morning,” the girl whispered. “That’s where they’ll put them.”

“Put what?”

“The new ones.”

Before she could elaborate, a military truck came rumbling into the woods, crushing weeds and twigs in its path. The girl stiffened and grabbed Frankie’s forearm. He stared at her small white hand, her fingers thin and delicate in their grip. Frankie spent a great deal of time looking at fingers—guitarists often do—and he would never forget his first look at hers.

“Don’t talk,” she whispered.

The military truck came to a halt. With the engine still running, a band of men jumped out. They wore scarves over their mouths and noses. There was fast movement, something was unlatched, and then the men were pulling bodies from the back—six bodies, barefoot, still wearing clothes, which were darkly stained and wet. They seemed, to Frankie, to be deeply asleep, so asleep that they bent when carried, like long sacks of rice. He wanted them to stir, to say, “Hey, put me down. I’m awake now.” But they never even flinched.

With the rumbling engine drowning out any sound, the soldiers silently threw the bodies in the hole, one atop the other, with no more emotion than dockworkers unloading crates. They returned to the truck and brought out long metal shovels.

Minutes later, enough dirt had been thrown on the corpses that Frankie and the girl could no longer see them. The soldiers didn’t speak. They just packed the dirt with the back of their shovels and stomped on it with their feet. Once finished, they hurried back into the truck, pulling the doors shut as it rumbled away.

Suddenly it was terribly quiet, as if the earth itself were too stunned to breathe. I know this sound; silence is part of music. But just because something is silent doesn’t mean you aren’t hearing it.

Frankie looked at the girl. A single tear fell down her cheek. As she stared at the freshly covered graves, she put her hands together in front of her and spoke in a soft, deliberate voice. Her words were from the Catholic ritual of
Sancta Missa
:

“ ‘Come in haste to assist them, you saints of God. Come in haste to meet them, you angels of the Lord. Enfold in your arms these souls, and take your burden heavenward to the most high.’ ”

She turned to Frankie.

“Somebody has to say that for them, or else they won’t get to heaven.”

She wiped the tear away with a knuckle.

“We can climb down now. And you can play me your guitar.”

Here is what I know of love. It changes the way you treat me. I feel it in your hands. Your fingers. Your compositions. The sudden rush of peppy phrases, major sevenths, melody lines that resolve neatly and sweetly, like a valentine tucked in an envelope. Humans grow dizzy from new affection, and young Frankie was already dizzy when he and the mysterious girl descended from that tree.

They walked together without talking. She led him to the lip of the burial field.

“Not so close,” she said, when he edged up on her heels.

“Sorry.”

She smiled.

“You’re still afraid.”

“No, I’m not.”

“The soldiers won’t come back.”

“How do you know?”

“They never do.”

“Were all those people dead?”

“Yes.”

“How did they die?”

“They probably got shot.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a war. My daddy says the Generalísimo kills whoever he wants.”

Frankie had heard this name before. Generalísimo. It made him shiver.

“I don’t like war,” he said.

“I hate war.”

“Me, too.”

“You talk funny.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Where did you learn English?”

“From my teacher.”

“Your schoolteacher?”

“My guitar teacher.”

Frankie swallowed, realizing he had just violated El Maestro’s trust.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“It’s a secret.”

“I can keep a secret.”

She looked at his guitar. The hairless dog looked at her looking at it.

“Can you really play?”

“Yes.”

“Play something.”

“For you?”

She turned to the freshly dug field.

“For them.”

“What should I play?”

“I don’t know. Something that says we won’t forget them.”

Frankie wanted very much to please her. He thought about all the music he’d learned. He recalled one of the stolen discs, a song from the Philippines that his teacher said was “sad enough to melt the phonograph needle.” El Maestro had taught it to Frankie. Its title was “Maalaala Mo Kaya,” written by a Filipino composer named Constancio de Guzman. (“An elegant name,” El Maestro had mused.) It depicted two people from different social classes promising not to forget their love. On the record label, the translated title was “Will You Remember?”

Frankie sat on a rock and put the guitar on his knee. He was keenly aware of his new friend watching him, and he tried to play perfectly. I felt it in the touch he applied to the strings, in the tenderness he draped over each and every note.

Had you watched the scene from a distance, it might have seemed odd, two children near a mass grave, one playing the guitar, one listening, the sun hot in the sky, the tracks of a Spanish army truck still fresh in the dirt.

But I saw something else. I saw a boy all but bending the strings in a girl’s direction. It was the first time Frankie Presto attempted to give his music to someone else.

Which is how I knew he was in love.

“How do you play like that?” she said when he finished.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s quite good.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think they heard it?”

She looked at the dirt field. “I don’t know. It’s not a proper grave.”

“What does
proper
mean?”

“It’s when you do something the right way.”

“What is the right way?”

“For a grave? You make it very nice. You put the body in a box. The family comes to say good-bye. And they put flowers on top.”

“Why flowers?”

“So the dead people have something pretty to look at as they go up to heaven.”

“Oh.”

“Have you never seen a grave?”

“My mother has one.”

“Your mother died?”

“Yes.”

“Was she nice?”

“I never met her.”

“Where’s her grave?”

“America.”

“So you never saw it?”

“No.”

Frankie wondered what that grave looked like, and if anyone had put flowers there. He wished he could ask Baffa. He suddenly missed his father very much.

“We should put flowers on
this
grave,” the girl said.

“All right.”

“Do you see any?”

“What about those?”

“Those are weeds.”

“You can’t use weeds?”

“No. They’re ugly.”

They stood in silence. Frankie looked at his guitar.

“There were six people, right?”

“Yes.”

“I know what we can do.”

He lowered his guitar and began twisting a tuning peg backward. He untied the string from its peg and its bridge. With the loose string in his hand, he squatted down and the girl squatted with him. He looped the string several times, then bent it at a ninety-degree angle and tied it all in place, creating a stem that stuck down from the circles. He had done this before with El Maestro’s old strings, making toy shapes while his teacher slept on the couch. But he had never removed a string from his guitar before.

He pushed the end into the ground and pressed it with two small stones so it stood upright.

“A flower,” the girl marveled.

“So they can go to heaven,” Frankie said.

“But now you can’t play.”

Frankie knew she was right. Still, he loosened another string, then another and another.