The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto

by Mitch Albom

  “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 squatt
ed 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.

  “Can I try?” the girl asked.

  They squatted together. This time she didn’t tell him, “Not so close.” They made five more string flowers and spread them around the dirt that covered the bodies. Then they stood and rubbed the dirt away. The sun lowered in the sky. The girl mumbled a small prayer and Frankie repeated her words, even though he didn’t comprehend them.

  As they gazed at the grave, she hooked her fingers in Frankie’s. He squeezed hers in return. There are moments on earth when the Lord smiles at the unexpected sweetness of His creation. This was one of those moments.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Francisco.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Rubio.”

  “Does it mean something? Francisco?”

  “It is the name of a famous guitarist.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Aurora.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “York.”

  “Does it mean something? Aurora?”

  “It means ‘dawn.’ ”

  “What’s dawn?”

  “When the sun comes up. Everybody knows that.”

  Frankie looked away. He would have to ask El Maestro to teach him more English.

  “You play very well, Francisco.”

  Frankie blushed.

  “I think you are the best guitar player in the world.”

  “Really?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  The hairless dog whimpered.

  “Have you ever been kissed by a girl?”

  “Once.”

  “Where?”

  “In school.”

  She laughed. “No. Where? On your cheek?”

  “On my ear.”

  “Which ear?”

  He pointed.

  “I’ll kiss the other one,” she said.

  And she did. Softly. Quickly. And then, as if quite happy with herself, she leaned over and patted the hairless dog’s head.

  Frankie blinked.

  “Aurora,” he said, as if practicing. “Au-­ro-­ra.”

  She smiled as he said her name, and he smiled back, and without even knowing it, he had joined another band. From that moment on, Aurora York was in Frankie’s music. That day. That night. And forever.

  13

  NOW, UNDERSTAND, IN MY WORLD, THINGS SHIFT QUICKLY FROM MAJOR TO MINOR. It’s a simple chord change, a flatting of the third; you move one finger, and it’s done. Frankie left the woods that day in a dreamy state, the hairless dog walking beside him. But when he returned to the factory, he knew something was wrong. There were police trucks outside. Men in gray uniforms were leaning against the front wall. The hairless dog growled.

  “What do you want, boy?” a policeman asked.

  Frankie swallowed.

  “My papa.”

  “Where is your papa?”

  “Inside there.”

  “Yes? Inside here? Really?” The policeman stood up straight. Another truck pulled up. Frankie recognized it as the one he had seen in the woods. The soldiers who had earlier been burying bodies stepped out and lit cigarettes. Frankie’s heart was racing.

  “Who is your papa?” the officer asked.

  The hairless dog began to bark.

  “Shut up, beast!”

  The man pulled his gun.

  “No!” Frankie screamed.

  The man fired and missed, the bullet raising smoke from the dirt. The dog raced away.

  “Now,” the policeman continued, “who is your papa?”

  Just then the front door of the factory swung open, and one of Baffa’s workers came stumbling out with his arms tied at the wrists. Two policemen stepped out behind him.

  “Luis!” Frankie yelled. “Luis! Where is—­”

  Luis glared hard and shook his head. Frankie went silent.

  “Is this man your father?” the policeman said.

  “His father isn’t here!” Luis yelled. “He’s out sick.”

  “Quiet!” shouted the officer holding him. He jammed a stick into his ribs, then pulled Luis toward the truck and shoved him inside. Frankie saw two other workers already in the backseat. They looked terrified.

  “Is that true, music boy?”

  Frankie felt tears running down his face.

  “Speak, boy! Is that true? Is your father sick at home?”

  “Sí,” Frankie finally whispered.

  “Then why did you say he was inside?”

  Frankie stared straight ahead. “I wanted . . . water.”

  “Get water somewhere else. And give me that guitar. I’ll show you how a Spaniard plays.”

  Without waiting, the officer yanked the instrument from Frankie’s back. He flipped it over.

  “What is this? There are no strings.”

  He spat.

  “You need strings to play a guitar, boy. Has your papa not taught you that?”

  He flung the guitar, and it landed in the dirt. The others laughed.

  “Francisco, go home!” Luis yelled from the truck.

  The officers laughed again.

  “Yes, Francisco, go home. Tell your father there won’t be any work tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  Frankie turned and ran, his feet making a crunching sound on the gravel as he broke away. He ran nine or ten paces, then stopped, ran back, and scooped up his guitar. The policemen laughed again.

  “Better find some strings!” one of them yelled, but Frankie was already disappearing, his breath filling his chest so deeply he felt as if he’d swallowed all the air in his country.

  He ran a long way. When his legs gave out, he walked. Then he ran again. A truck of gypsies pulled alongside him. They offered to take Frankie to Villareal for all the coins in his pocket—­and his guitar. He reluctantly handed it over. He crawled in the back, the gypsies’ eyes upon him, and wedged between a sack of potatoes and a snoring woman in a black shawl.

  As the truck headed west, it was passed by a military vehicle that would stop at the sardine factory and unload an officer who, upon hearing that a boy had been there and had run away, slapped the face of a soldier and yelled, “That was the bastard! The Rubio boy!”

  But by that point Frankie was bouncing in the back of a flatbed, trying not to cry. It seems cruel to say that he never saw Baffa again. But it is true. On the same day Frankie Presto found love, he lost his home.

  Major to minor.

  Abby Cruz

  Songwriter, producer

  I MET FRANKIE PRESTO IN A CUBICLE.

  It’s true. I was twenty years old, and had just started working for Aldon Music in New York City, in an office building on Broadway. They put songwriters like me in cubicles, one next to the other. Neil Sedaka was there. Carole King. Gerry Goffin. Cynthia Weill. Barry Mann. Our job was to write hits. You had your piano and your little table and your ashtray—­everyone smoked back then—­and you pounded away. It sounds strange now, because we could hear each other working through the walls. But that actually inspired us. It was a competition. An awful lot of famous music came out of those cubicles. “On Broadway,�
�� “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do,” “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.”

  I never had any hits that big. I was struggling, hoping they wouldn’t fire me. They paid fifty dollars a week, and they expected you to make them money in return.

  I was the only Latino writer working there, so there was never any call for speaking Spanish. But one day, in 1961, I was pregnant with my first child—­so I was really hoping they wouldn’t fire me—­and everyone was out to lunch except me. I was desperate to write something big. I was playing the piano, this one hook that I thought was good, and all of a sudden I hear a guitar. It caught my ear because, for one thing, there weren’t a lot of guitars around—­and this one was playing a solo over my piano chords.

  I stopped. And it stopped.

  So I started again. And sure enough, the guitar starts playing again, a fast little solo. So I tried something tricky. I played a song my Colombian grandmother had taught me. “La Malagueña.” And I heard that guitar take off on it, playing like crazy.

  So I stopped and said in Spanish, “Okay, who’s doing that?” And from the next cubicle out pops the most handsome man I’ve ever seen—­black hair, blue eyes, wearing a pink shirt and black slacks. And he says, “Hola, me llamo Frankie.” I knew him right away. He’d been on The Ed Sullivan Show—­twice—­and American Bandstand. “I Want To Love You” had been the number one record in the country. I mean, everyone in the business knew Frankie Presto. But I had no idea he spoke Spanish. We all thought he was from California.

  Anyhow, there I am, pregnant out to here, and I say, “Hi, I’m Abby.” And he says, “How do you know ‘La Malagueña’?” And I say, “What are you doing here?” And he says, “Hiding.” He points to the window, and I walk across and look down and there’s a mob of young girls holding his records, crowding around the front entrance.

  It turns out he was there with his manager, Tappy Fishman, who was meeting with our company about songs for Frankie’s next album. I got excited because I thought maybe I could write for him, but he told me he didn’t really want to record other ­people’s material. He was just going along to be polite.