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

a lot. The big house part he assumed after Baffa told him his mother lived with God—and all the other good people who died—so it had to be a big place, right?
    The sleeping part Frankie deduced after Baffa showed him the basilica in Villareal, which had been burned and destroyed by bad men. God would never allow such a thing to happen unless He slept through it, Frankie figured, just as Frankie sometimes slept through the hairless dog whining at the door and woke up to see a puddle on the floor. Bad things can happen when you sleep, Frankie reasoned, and bad people could get away with evil if they knew when God closed his eyes.
    Or maybe God was sometimes like his guitar teacher, wearing the dark glasses.
    “Did you ever see anything?” Frankie asked El Maestro one day.
    “Will my answer make you a better guitarist?”
    “No, Maestro.”
    “Then why ask the question?”
    “I am sorry, Maestro.”
    “What would I see if I saw you?”
    Frankie smiled at the idea.
    “A boy.”
    “A boy who is not playing his lessons.”
    Frankie’s smile went away. He had been practicing for months now, every day in the garden, with the hairless dog at his feet. He wanted to play songs like the ones El Maestro played. But for now, all he got to play was exercises.
    “My fingers hurt, Maestro.”
    “Music is pain.”
    “But they look funny.”
    “Those are calluses.”
    “What are calluses?”
    “When you start playing, your fingers are not used to pressing strings. You get lines in them, yes?”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    “And they feel puffy?”
    “Yes, Maestro.”
    “Maybe they bleed?”
    Frankie swallowed. He had not wanted to tell his teacher that. But in the beginning, he played so much, he had to sometimes wipe the blood from his left hand with his shirt.
    “Sometimes they bleed, yes, Maestro.”
    His voice quivered.
    “Are you crying, Francisco?”
    “No, Maestro.”
    “Do not cry over losing blood. Not for something you love.”
    He fumbled with a cabinet by the sink and reached inside to find a small bottle and a bowl.
    “Soak your fingers in that,” he said.
    “What is it?”
    “Why do you care, boy? If I tell you something will help you, do you need to ask questions?”
    “ Lo siento , Maestro.”
    “Say it in English. ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
    “I’m sor-ry.”
    El Maestro tapped on the table until he found his bottle of aguardiente . “There is a big war going on, boy. We are all going to be speaking English or German soon. Personally, I prefer English. German sounds like someone is scolding you.”
    He took a swallow and grimaced. “Also, they are murderous criminals. And our country won’t do a thing to stop them.”
    Frankie had heard the word war before. Baffa spoke about it with the men at the factory. It didn’t sound good. And Frankie didn’t want to learn a language that sounded like scolding. The calluses were hard enough. He decided to do as his teacher said, just think about music. He wondered if he should tell El Maestro that he was only six years old.

 
    Leonard “Tappy” Fishman
Music agent, record executive
    WHERE? INTO THE CAMERA OR AT YOU? . . . OKAY . . . YES . . . SURE . My name is Leonard Fishman, originally from Brooklyn, New York. My age is eighty-six. This was a helluva trip for me. Overseas. In coach, no less. But I wanted to be here. Broke my heart when I heard the news. Honest to God. Poor Frankie. I was his first agent, during the fifties and sixties. We didn’t have such a good end, it’s true. He went a little nuts. Who knows why? I don’t believe half the crap they wrote about him. You shouldn’t either. Especially the stuff about me. His marriage? The movie fiasco? They want to say it was my fault. What do they know?
    You want to hear the truth? I discovered him. Someone else might tell you different, but I found him when he was just a pisher . You know what that means? A pisher ? It’s Yiddish. It means a kid, young and innocent.
    Innocent. Ha! I laugh,