have much to do today.”
The remaining hours of August 5, 1945, were ripe with activity, as if a trumpet player were blowing eighth-note triplets to fill each measure. El Maestro told Frankie to pack a bag with a toothbrush, comb, soap, and all the clothes he could fit in, especially underwear.
“Where are we going?”
“An adventure.”
“Where is your bag, Maestro?”
“I will get it later. Now hurry.”
They left the flat and, holding the boy’s hand, the blind man had Frankie lead him first to a shop on San Miguel Street, where guitars and violins hung on the walls. Frankie had never seen such a place. It smelled of wood and oil. When a bearded man came out from the back, he approached El Maestro and hugged him. They spoke in quiet voices, a conversation Frankie could not hear.
“Maestro, is it you?”
“It has been a while, old friend.”
“How may I help?”
“Today I must leave with your finest guitar. Make sure it is strong enough to travel.”
“I have an Estruch. Spruce, rosewood, an ebony neck.”
“Excellent.”
“But this would be expensive.”
“Get it for me now. And your most solid case.”
“You are playing again, Maestro?”
“It is for the boy.”
“That boy?”
“Yes. And one more request. Cover the maker’s seal.”
“But that will devalue the instrument.”
“He does not need to know its value.”
“Nor do those he might encounter?”
“Precisely.”
“And the strings?”
“No strings.”
“As you wish, old friend. But may I ask one thing?”
“Certainly.”
“Is this too fine a guitar for a boy so young?”
“No. It must be with him the rest of his life.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot be.”
El Maestro handed him a roll of bills from a sack in his jacket pocket, and the man disappeared for a few minutes. Frankie approached and touched his teacher’s elbow.
“What are the black boxes, Maestro?” he asked, studying a row of small amplifiers.
“Do they have knobs?”
“Yes.”
“And a cord?”
“Yes.”
“A waste of time.”
“What do they do?”
“They make your guitar very loud, so people can hear you from far away.”
“Is that bad, Maestro?”
The blind man found Frankie’s shoulder.
“Remember this, Francisco,” he said. “The secret is not to make your music louder, but to make the world quieter.”
The shop owner emerged with a guitar case. He called El Maestro over. They whispered and hugged once more, and El Maestro turned, carrying the new purchase. He held out his left hand. Frankie led him out the door.
“Did you buy a new guitar, Maestro?”
“Yes.”
“When will you play it?”
“Walk to the right.”
They made three more stops. At each place, Frankie was surprised to see El Maestro greeted by people who seemed to know him. The boy had hardly heard his teacher speak to anyone. In fact, the only person the blind man ever addressed by name was Isabel, the woman who owned the laundry downstairs and who now and then cooked them peladillas , almonds wrapped in a candy shell.
But on this day, people were embracing the blind man as if welcoming him home. Frankie could not know that years earlier, before the war, El Maestro had been a well-known guitarist and a popular nightclub performer, acquainted with certain men who liked to stay out late listening to music, drinking, and courting women. Musicians often grow friendly with those who stay to the end. They bond in an hour when all the world seems asleep but them. Some of these men scared Frankie, with their craggy faces and large bellies. But they reacted quickly when El Maestro gave them a roll from his pocket. Each conversation ended with a whisper and a handshake. Then El Maestro turned, reaching out for Frankie, and on they went.
In between stops, he bought the boy food, and at the bakery he told Frankie to get extra bread and small jars of honey to put in his bag. Overall, it was an exciting day for the boy. But he kept waiting for El Maestro
The remaining hours of August 5, 1945, were ripe with activity, as if a trumpet player were blowing eighth-note triplets to fill each measure. El Maestro told Frankie to pack a bag with a toothbrush, comb, soap, and all the clothes he could fit in, especially underwear.
“Where are we going?”
“An adventure.”
“Where is your bag, Maestro?”
“I will get it later. Now hurry.”
They left the flat and, holding the boy’s hand, the blind man had Frankie lead him first to a shop on San Miguel Street, where guitars and violins hung on the walls. Frankie had never seen such a place. It smelled of wood and oil. When a bearded man came out from the back, he approached El Maestro and hugged him. They spoke in quiet voices, a conversation Frankie could not hear.
“Maestro, is it you?”
“It has been a while, old friend.”
“How may I help?”
“Today I must leave with your finest guitar. Make sure it is strong enough to travel.”
“I have an Estruch. Spruce, rosewood, an ebony neck.”
“Excellent.”
“But this would be expensive.”
“Get it for me now. And your most solid case.”
“You are playing again, Maestro?”
“It is for the boy.”
“That boy?”
“Yes. And one more request. Cover the maker’s seal.”
“But that will devalue the instrument.”
“He does not need to know its value.”
“Nor do those he might encounter?”
“Precisely.”
“And the strings?”
“No strings.”
“As you wish, old friend. But may I ask one thing?”
“Certainly.”
“Is this too fine a guitar for a boy so young?”
“No. It must be with him the rest of his life.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot be.”
El Maestro handed him a roll of bills from a sack in his jacket pocket, and the man disappeared for a few minutes. Frankie approached and touched his teacher’s elbow.
“What are the black boxes, Maestro?” he asked, studying a row of small amplifiers.
“Do they have knobs?”
“Yes.”
“And a cord?”
“Yes.”
“A waste of time.”
“What do they do?”
“They make your guitar very loud, so people can hear you from far away.”
“Is that bad, Maestro?”
The blind man found Frankie’s shoulder.
“Remember this, Francisco,” he said. “The secret is not to make your music louder, but to make the world quieter.”
The shop owner emerged with a guitar case. He called El Maestro over. They whispered and hugged once more, and El Maestro turned, carrying the new purchase. He held out his left hand. Frankie led him out the door.
“Did you buy a new guitar, Maestro?”
“Yes.”
“When will you play it?”
“Walk to the right.”
They made three more stops. At each place, Frankie was surprised to see El Maestro greeted by people who seemed to know him. The boy had hardly heard his teacher speak to anyone. In fact, the only person the blind man ever addressed by name was Isabel, the woman who owned the laundry downstairs and who now and then cooked them peladillas , almonds wrapped in a candy shell.
But on this day, people were embracing the blind man as if welcoming him home. Frankie could not know that years earlier, before the war, El Maestro had been a well-known guitarist and a popular nightclub performer, acquainted with certain men who liked to stay out late listening to music, drinking, and courting women. Musicians often grow friendly with those who stay to the end. They bond in an hour when all the world seems asleep but them. Some of these men scared Frankie, with their craggy faces and large bellies. But they reacted quickly when El Maestro gave them a roll from his pocket. Each conversation ended with a whisper and a handshake. Then El Maestro turned, reaching out for Frankie, and on they went.
In between stops, he bought the boy food, and at the bakery he told Frankie to get extra bread and small jars of honey to put in his bag. Overall, it was an exciting day for the boy. But he kept waiting for El Maestro
Similar Books
