The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (14 page)

THAT NIGHT, AFTER FINISHING AT THE
TABERNA
, EL MAESTRO
and Alberto the conga player slipped into the house on Calvario Street (which had been looted and emptied of its possessions) and found a tin box hidden beneath a floorboard, just as Baffa Rubio had detailed. In the box was a velvet sack containing 600,000 pesetas—profits from the sardine factory—enough money to bribe a small army. The two men left quickly through the back garden and went to the laundry on Crista Senegal Street where they sat, by candlelight, as Alberto separated the money into rolls of 10,000 pesetas, each one wrapped in a rubber band so El Maestro would know how much he was handing out.

“Take three for yourself,” he told Alberto.

“Maestro, I cannot—

“Yes, you can. Please. Then find some paper. You must write down what I tell you.”

He gave instructions for eight minutes. When he finished, Alberto exhaled, looked at his list, then gripped the guitar player’s arm.

“This is a great deal in a short time, Maestro.”

“The boy is in danger.”

“I will do as you ask.”

“Thank you, Alberto.”

Alberto stared at the velvet sack of money. El Maestro, of course, could not see his face. But I could. I saw a look that I have seen many times when new riches are within reach. The eyes get smaller. The lips tighten.

“Do not worry, Maestro,” Alberto said. “God is on our side.”

El Maestro did not sleep well that night. In the morning, with Frankie still dozing, he got dressed in the clothes stacked on the bathroom counter (the boy did this for him every evening) and made his way to the closet. He fumbled until he found a purse draped on a hanger. He undid the clasp and reached for something inside: a set of new strings, coiled together in a circle. He remained in the closet for several minutes, as still as a statue. Then he stepped out, shut the door, and moved to the kitchen.

“Get up, Francisco,” he said.

The boy opened his eyes. The hairless dog lifted its head.

“Did I sleep too long, Maestro?”

“No,” the blind man said, gripping the strings. “But we have much to do today.”

The remaining hours of August 5, 1945, were ripe with activity, as if a trumpet player were blowing eighth-note triplets to fill each measure. El Maestro told Frankie to pack a bag with a toothbrush, comb, soap, and all the clothes he could fit in, especially underwear.

“Where are we going?”

“An adventure.”

“Where is
your
bag, Maestro?”

“I will get it later. Now hurry.”

They left the flat and, holding the boy’s hand, the blind man had Frankie lead him first to a shop on San Miguel Street, where guitars and violins hung on the walls. Frankie had never seen such a place. It smelled of wood and oil. When a bearded man came out from the back, he approached El Maestro and hugged him. They spoke in quiet voices, a conversation Frankie could not hear.

“Maestro, is it you?”

“It has been a while, old friend.”

“How may I help?”

“Today I must leave with your finest guitar. Make sure it is strong enough to travel.”

“I have an Estruch. Spruce, rosewood, an ebony neck.”

“Excellent.”

“But this would be expensive.”

“Get it for me now. And your most solid case.”

“You are playing again, Maestro?”

“It is for the boy.”

“That boy?”

“Yes. And one more request. Cover the maker’s seal.”

“But that will devalue the instrument.”

“He does not need to know its value.”

“Nor do those he might encounter?”

“Precisely.”

“And the strings?”

“No strings.”

“As you wish, old friend. But may I ask one thing?”

“Certainly.”

“Is this too fine a guitar for a boy so young?”

“No. It must be with him the rest of his life.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot be.”

El Maestro handed him a roll of bills from a sack in his jacket pocket, and the man disappeared for a few minutes. Frankie approached and touched his teacher’s elbow.

“What are the black boxes, Maestro?” he asked, studying a row of small amplifiers.

“Do they have knobs?”

“Yes.”

“And a cord?”

“Yes.”

“A waste of time.”

“What do they do?”

“They make your guitar very loud, so people can hear you from far away.”

“Is that bad, Maestro?”

The blind man found Frankie’s shoulder.

“Remember this, Francisco,” he said. “The secret is not to make your music louder, but to make the world quieter.”

The shop owner emerged with a guitar case. He called El Maestro over. They whispered and hugged once more, and El Maestro turned, carrying the new purchase. He held out his left hand. Frankie led him out the door.

“Did you buy a new guitar, Maestro?”

“Yes.”

“When will you play it?”

“Walk to the right.”

They made three more stops. At each place, Frankie was surprised to see El Maestro greeted by people who seemed to know him. The boy had hardly heard his teacher speak to anyone. In fact, the only person the blind man ever addressed by name was Isabel, the woman who owned the laundry downstairs and who now and then cooked them
peladillas
, almonds wrapped in a candy shell.

But on this day, people were embracing the blind man as if welcoming him home. Frankie could not know that years earlier, before the war, El Maestro had been a well-known guitarist and a popular nightclub performer, acquainted with certain men who liked to stay out late listening to music, drinking, and courting women. Musicians often grow friendly with those who stay to the end. They bond in an hour when all the world seems asleep but them. Some of these men scared Frankie, with their craggy faces and large bellies. But they reacted quickly when El Maestro gave them a roll from his pocket. Each conversation ended with a whisper and a handshake. Then El Maestro turned, reaching out for Frankie, and on they went.

In between stops, he bought the boy food, and at the bakery he told Frankie to get extra bread and small jars of honey to put in his bag. Overall, it was an exciting day for the boy. But he kept waiting for El Maestro to pack his own suitcase, and he noticed the hairless dog sticking close to him, sometimes bumping against his leg.

Late in the afternoon, El Maestro asked, “Where is the sun?”

“Almost gone,” Frankie answered.

The blind man told the boy to take him to a nearby restaurant. Frankie and the dog waited outside. Frankie ran his hand gently over the new guitar case. He hoped El Maestro would bring out some food. He was hungry again.

An hour passed. It was nearly dark. When the teacher finally emerged, he had nothing with him. His voice was deep and slow.

“Let’s go, Francisco.”

“Where, Maestro?”

“To the
taberna
.”

“I can see you play?”

“This one time. Yes.”

Frankie, at first, was so excited he forgot about his hunger. But El Maestro did not share the enthusiasm. His breathing was labored. He made groaning noises. As he walked, holding the new guitar, he wobbled a bit. Frankie realized that his teacher had not been eating in that restaurant. He had been drinking.

“What color are your pants today, boy?”

Frankie frowned.

“I asked you a question.”

“Brown, Maestro.”

“And your shoes?”

“Also brown.”

“And your hair?”

Frankie didn’t want to answer. He felt sad that his teacher had broken his promise, as if bad things were going to start happening again.

“Your hair, boy?”

“It looks black.”

“And your eyes? I don’t even know.”

“My eyes are blue, Maestro.”

“Ah. Blue.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose. He dropped his chin into his chest. He sang something in a half mumble.

“Am I blue? . . . Am I blue? . . .”

He coughed.

“It’s a song, boy. You will learn it one day.”

Man searches for courage in drink, but it is not courage that he finds, it is fear that he loses. A drunken man may step off a cliff. That does not make him brave, just forgetful.

That night, on the
taberna
stage, the drink helped El Maestro forget about restrictions imposed on artists in his country. The result was the most fearless performance of his career. Barely pausing between songs, he played American compositions like “St. Louis Blues” and “Tiger Rag.” He played “Parfum” from the gypsy legend Django Reinhardt. He did a haunting rendition of the French classic “Parlez-Moi d’Amour” (“Speak to Me of Love”), as well as works by Schumann and Vivaldi and Ferdinando Carulli. His guitar sounded powerful and passionate, and I must confess, I surged through him that night like a shooting fountain. He rocked back and forth, feeling the vibration of every note. People in the crowd were so silent, at times it seemed as if the room was empty. Such music was forbidden by the government. But when performed that beautifully, I can mesmerize a crowd. For the next two hours, no one raised a protest. Not even a heavily clothed figure who was watching from the back.

Toward the end, El Maestro reached up under his dark glasses to rub his eyes. Then, for the first time all night, he spoke.

“This last song, my fellow countrymen, is for the finest student I have ever had.”

He turned his head toward where he had put Frankie in a chair, near the kitchen.

“Come, boy. Let’s play together.”

He began to strum the chords of “Avalon,” a song by Al Jolson that Frankie loved to listen to on the stolen phonograph. Customers looked back and forth. Some pointed at the child in the corner.

Frankie felt his whole body shiver. He slid off the chair and nervously approached, touching his teacher’s shoulder to let him know he was there.

“Come now,” El Maestro whispered over the chords. “Take the other guitar and sing the song.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I’m scared.”

“Yes. And you will be scared again. All your life. You must conquer this. Face them and pretend they aren’t there.”

“Maestro—”

“You can do it. Always remember I said you can do it.”

Frankie was petrified, but his trust in his teacher was complete. He picked up the guitar, put the strap over his shoulder, and began strumming the chords that he and El Maestro had practiced. Finally, after waiting through the intro, he sang his first song for an audience.

I found my love in Avalon

Beside the bay . . .

The people glanced back and forth. He was singing in English!

I left my love in Avalon

And I sailed away . . .

I will admit, I enjoyed watching their reactions. Frankie’s voice was so rich and true, they could not help but admire it (meaning, of course, they were admiring me). And he and El Maestro played their guitars in perfect balance, Frankie driving the rhythm, his teacher lacing solo notes, like sprinkling sugar atop a cookie. For one entire verse, the crowd marveled. For one entire verse, art overtook politics, and beauty overtook fright.