sleep. If he could have unplugged his heart and shut the lights on his memory, he would have.
But over the months with his new protégé, the teacher healed considerably. He walked better. His belly shrank. His head hurt less. His skin had more color. Without the constant cloud of alcohol, he gradually returned to a sense of purpose. He found himself almost glad to be waking up, smelling the toast that Francisco was making. He enjoyed the respect that the child showed him, pulling out his chair, handing him his guitar. He liked hearing Frankie sing around the flat, songs the two of them shared in their secret library of shellac recordings. He even, begrudgingly, accepted the dog. Sometimes, the creature would lay its head in El Maestro’s lap and he would scratch its ears.
“He likes you,” Frankie said.
“He smells like gutter water,” El Maestro said.
Deep down, the blind man knew that Frankie remained heartbroken over his father. And having come to care about the boy himself, he could only imagine what pain Baffa was going through. So one night, at the taberna , El Maestro took a chance. He asked the owner if there were any soldiers in the audience.
Yes, he was told, a group of them sitting near the front.
“Introduce me,” El Maestro said.
Throughout the evening, he played many flamenco favorites—the kind of music the Generalísimo approved of—and he dedicated them all to the “brave men serving our leader.” People clapped and the owner smiled and the soldiers were appreciative. Later they invited the guitar player to sit with them. He bought them drinks and told them stories and bought more drinks and laughed in a way that he never usually laughed. It was, deep down, agonizing for El Maestro. He had an ugly history with war, and had no use for soldiers or generals. But, like practicing scales, some things you endure for a reason. As the soldiers drank more and more, he braved a few questions.
By the end of the night, he had learned the fate of a sardine maker named Baffa Rubio.
On August 3, 1945, two days before Frankie left the country for good, El Maestro paid a visit to a prison many miles outside Villareal. It took lies and bribes and a gypsy on a motorcycle to accomplish. More details are unimportant to this story. What is important is, that afternoon, in an empty yard behind a redbrick jail, a final conversation took place between the unmarried man who found a baby in a river and the blind guitarist who taught him his destiny.
They spoke for twenty-four minutes, in a whispered, mosso pace, 7/4 time—a jerky, interrupting rhythm. Baffa Rubio, who was pale and bruised and much thinner than he had ever been, saw the man with the dark glasses and began to tremble. He waited for the guards to move away. His first two whispered words were: “My son?”
“I have him—”
“Thank God.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“He is all right?”
“He is all right.”
“Does he ask for me?”
“Of course.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“I am a poor father. I never planned if something happened to me.”
“I am watching him, Señor Rubio.”
“You must not tell anyone he is mine.”
“Why not?”
“The factory. Three workers—they hated me—they told the police I was Socialista, that the others were from trade unions. When I denied this, they said I lied. They said the boy was proof. That a good Catholic would never take in a bastard. That his mother was a leftist—”
“Wait. He is not your child?”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“Of course not.”
“I saved a life.”
“Of course.”
“These pigs—”
“Softly, Señor Rubio.”
“This Franco—”
“Do not speak of him, Señor Rubio.”
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“I understand.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“Are you teaching him guitar?”
“Every day.”
“And his playing?”
“It is exceptional.”
“I wish I could hear him.”
“How long will they keep
But over the months with his new protégé, the teacher healed considerably. He walked better. His belly shrank. His head hurt less. His skin had more color. Without the constant cloud of alcohol, he gradually returned to a sense of purpose. He found himself almost glad to be waking up, smelling the toast that Francisco was making. He enjoyed the respect that the child showed him, pulling out his chair, handing him his guitar. He liked hearing Frankie sing around the flat, songs the two of them shared in their secret library of shellac recordings. He even, begrudgingly, accepted the dog. Sometimes, the creature would lay its head in El Maestro’s lap and he would scratch its ears.
“He likes you,” Frankie said.
“He smells like gutter water,” El Maestro said.
Deep down, the blind man knew that Frankie remained heartbroken over his father. And having come to care about the boy himself, he could only imagine what pain Baffa was going through. So one night, at the taberna , El Maestro took a chance. He asked the owner if there were any soldiers in the audience.
Yes, he was told, a group of them sitting near the front.
“Introduce me,” El Maestro said.
Throughout the evening, he played many flamenco favorites—the kind of music the Generalísimo approved of—and he dedicated them all to the “brave men serving our leader.” People clapped and the owner smiled and the soldiers were appreciative. Later they invited the guitar player to sit with them. He bought them drinks and told them stories and bought more drinks and laughed in a way that he never usually laughed. It was, deep down, agonizing for El Maestro. He had an ugly history with war, and had no use for soldiers or generals. But, like practicing scales, some things you endure for a reason. As the soldiers drank more and more, he braved a few questions.
By the end of the night, he had learned the fate of a sardine maker named Baffa Rubio.
On August 3, 1945, two days before Frankie left the country for good, El Maestro paid a visit to a prison many miles outside Villareal. It took lies and bribes and a gypsy on a motorcycle to accomplish. More details are unimportant to this story. What is important is, that afternoon, in an empty yard behind a redbrick jail, a final conversation took place between the unmarried man who found a baby in a river and the blind guitarist who taught him his destiny.
They spoke for twenty-four minutes, in a whispered, mosso pace, 7/4 time—a jerky, interrupting rhythm. Baffa Rubio, who was pale and bruised and much thinner than he had ever been, saw the man with the dark glasses and began to tremble. He waited for the guards to move away. His first two whispered words were: “My son?”
“I have him—”
“Thank God.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“He is all right?”
“He is all right.”
“Does he ask for me?”
“Of course.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“I am a poor father. I never planned if something happened to me.”
“I am watching him, Señor Rubio.”
“You must not tell anyone he is mine.”
“Why not?”
“The factory. Three workers—they hated me—they told the police I was Socialista, that the others were from trade unions. When I denied this, they said I lied. They said the boy was proof. That a good Catholic would never take in a bastard. That his mother was a leftist—”
“Wait. He is not your child?”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“Of course not.”
“I saved a life.”
“Of course.”
“These pigs—”
“Softly, Señor Rubio.”
“This Franco—”
“Do not speak of him, Señor Rubio.”
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“I understand.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“Are you teaching him guitar?”
“Every day.”
“And his playing?”
“It is exceptional.”
“I wish I could hear him.”
“How long will they keep
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