The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto by Mitch Albom Read Free Book Online Page A

the couch when Frankie arrived, the door unlocked, and Frankie would push him on the shoulder until the man growled and rolled over and Frankie knew he was awake.
    Still, as the months passed, the blind man seemed to grow less angry with his young student and stopped calling him “stupid boy,” which made Frankie happy. Baffa, meanwhile, gave up arguing over the guitar. Instead, he took his laundry with him to Crista Senegal Street and made use of the time, coming home each week with clean socks and underwear, wrapped in string.

    When the big moment came, Frankie was so excited he could barely hold still. El Maestro had him sit in the chair, so he could position the instrument correctly, but the guitar he had chosen was too large. It came up to Frankie’s chin.
    “You are very small for eight,” El Maestro said, reaching around the boy’s frame. “Does your father not feed you?”
    “Yes, Maestro, he feeds me.”
    “Give me your left hand.”
    Frankie did.
    “Your nails are too long. You must cut them.”
    “Cut them?”
    “The left hand. Every day.”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    “You cannot play the guitar if your nails are not cut.”
    “All right, Maestro.”
    “Do you know why this is?”
    “No, Maestro.”
    “No, you do not. Most people think it is because the nails get in the way of pressing on the strings. But I say it is something more.”
    “What is it, Maestro?”
    “The nails protect the fingertips. The fingertips are sensitive. Only by cutting the nails back can you truly be in touch with the music.”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    “Only then can you feel the pain of every note.”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    “There is no protection.”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    “Music hurts. Do you understand me, boy?”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    “Now show me to the closet.”
    Frankie stood and led his teacher across the flat, taking tiny steps.
    “Walk faster, boy. I am not a cripple.”
    Frankie walked faster.
    “We are at the closet, Maestro.”
    “Open the door.”
    Frankie pulled on the knob, revealing stacks of shoe boxes, some clothes hanging from a bar, and four guitars, each one smaller than the next.
    “Give me the smallest one,” El Maestro said.
    Frankie took the instrument with both hands and lifted it toward his teacher. He looked down and noticed a pair of shoes, but they were for a woman, and on the hangers were several dresses and a handbag.
    “Do you have a wife, Maestro?”
    “Back to the chair,” the teacher said.
    Frankie closed the closet door.

    That guitar, the one that would introduce Frankie Presto to his destiny, was, in fact, not a guitar at all, but a braguinha , an instrument similar to a ukulele. It had just four strings. The neck fit in the cup of Frankie’s small left hand, and the curve of the body fit on his bony left knee, which protruded from the short pants he wore in the hot weather. It was a perfect size, as if molded to his body.
    He would take it everywhere.
    “Bend your right arm and relax your right hand,” El Maestro instructed. “Do not squeeze it in; you are not choking something. And do not push down; you are not drowning something. Your right fingers are talking to the strings. Would you talk to someone by choking or drowning them?”
    “No, Maestro.”
    “No, you would not.”
    “What do I do with my left hand?”
    “The left hand finds the beauty. She makes the notes and chords. You can show off all you want with your right hand, boy, but you are nothing without the left, understand?”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    “Show your left hand respect. Each time you play, begin by holding it out like this.” He straightened Frankie’s palm. “Like you are asking for something.”
    Frankie thought of people in church, on their knees at the pews, hands out before them.
    “Like I am asking God?”
    El Maestro smacked Frankie’s hand.
    “Stupid boy. God gives you nothing. God only takes.”

    At that stage, all Frankie knew about God was that He had a big house and He slept