you?”
“Twelve years and a day.”
“Twelve years?”
“That is my sentence. How can this be? When I get out, Francisco will be a man.”
“I am very sorry.”
“I must ask you a favor. Will you do it?”
“I will do it.”
“Send the boy away.”
El Maestro felt his stomach tighten.
“Away?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“America. I have a sister.”
“America?”
“He will be safe there.”
“Such a journey.”
“There is no future here.”
“But I can watch him—”
“It is too risky”
“He can stay with—”
“Please, Maestro. Someone will talk. I have heard what they do to children of traitors. They are beaten and starved.”
“But you are not a traitor.”
“Yet I am still here.”
El Maestro rubbed his face. He was sweating now.
“How would I do this?”
“I have money. Hidden. You will get it. Pay the men at the docks.”
“Which men? Which docks?”
“Enough money will get you any man at any dock.”
“But how—”
“Listen. We have little time. Take this.”
He grabbed the blind man’s hand and slipped him a piece of fabric ripped from a shirt. On it was some writing.
“There is an address in America. It is where he must go.”
“All right.”
“Give the boy a new name. Mine is poison.”
“All right.”
“Tell him one day I will find him.”
“Yes.”
“Not to forget me.”
“Yes.”
“That I love him.”
“I will tell him, Señor Rubio.”
Tears. Choking.
“I’ve done nothing wrong, Maestro. You must believe me.”
“I do.”
“He is all I had.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do what I ask.”
“I will.”
“Keep what money is left.”
“I do not want your money, Señor Rubio.”
“I meant no offense. You cannot know what it is to give up a child.”
Beneath the dark glasses, tears began to well.
“No,” the blind man said. “Of course not.”
16
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
“Twelve years and a day.”
“Twelve years?”
“That is my sentence. How can this be? When I get out, Francisco will be a man.”
“I am very sorry.”
“I must ask you a favor. Will you do it?”
“I will do it.”
“Send the boy away.”
El Maestro felt his stomach tighten.
“Away?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“America. I have a sister.”
“America?”
“He will be safe there.”
“Such a journey.”
“There is no future here.”
“But I can watch him—”
“It is too risky”
“He can stay with—”
“Please, Maestro. Someone will talk. I have heard what they do to children of traitors. They are beaten and starved.”
“But you are not a traitor.”
“Yet I am still here.”
El Maestro rubbed his face. He was sweating now.
“How would I do this?”
“I have money. Hidden. You will get it. Pay the men at the docks.”
“Which men? Which docks?”
“Enough money will get you any man at any dock.”
“But how—”
“Listen. We have little time. Take this.”
He grabbed the blind man’s hand and slipped him a piece of fabric ripped from a shirt. On it was some writing.
“There is an address in America. It is where he must go.”
“All right.”
“Give the boy a new name. Mine is poison.”
“All right.”
“Tell him one day I will find him.”
“Yes.”
“Not to forget me.”
“Yes.”
“That I love him.”
“I will tell him, Señor Rubio.”
Tears. Choking.
“I’ve done nothing wrong, Maestro. You must believe me.”
“I do.”
“He is all I had.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do what I ask.”
“I will.”
“Keep what money is left.”
“I do not want your money, Señor Rubio.”
“I meant no offense. You cannot know what it is to give up a child.”
Beneath the dark glasses, tears began to well.
“No,” the blind man said. “Of course not.”
16
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
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