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

pulling his wagon toward Crista Senegal Street, past a new sign that warned IF YOU ARE SPANISH , SPEAK SPANISH !, he saw a commotion in front of the city’s biggest store. Policemen in gray uniforms were pulling people out, and merchandise was being stacked in the street. Frankie moved through the crowd and heard whispered words he did not understand. He heard others cheering, “Franco! Franco! Franco!” As people began to push one another and the yelling increased, Frankie’s eyes fell on something amid the stacks of goods. A phonograph machine. He had seen one in the store window once, and Baffa explained that it played music on round discs. When Frankie asked if they could get one, Baffa said, “They are too expensive.”
    But now here was a phonograph just sitting on the curb, atop a stack of recordings—music from America, England, France, and the outer regions of Spain. Frankie was too young to understand that under this government, such recordings were considered subversive. He figured if they were in the street, someone didn’t want them.
    So as gray-clad police began clubbing people into submission, Frankie quickly loaded the phonograph and the records into his pale green wagon, covered them with a blanket, and pulled a big chunk of me away from the fighting.
    He had no idea he was being watched.

 
    10

    I SHOULD SPEAK FOR A MOMENT ABOUT FRANKIE’S ABSENT MOTHER, and the shadow she cast on his young life.
    Frankie, of course, remembered nothing of Carmencita, the prayerful woman with hair the color of dark grapes. And Baffa, who never knew her, could not tell Frankie the truth—that he had been found in a river by a hairless dog—because what child wants to think he was once thrown away?
    So a legend was constructed. It is how you humans remold your history. Baffa told Frankie that his mother was a saintly woman, Baffa’s one and only love, who died tragically on a trip they took shortly after Frankie was born. This, Baffa figured, would explain why they never visited her grave at the cemetery in Villareal.
    It was not a good lie. And unfortunately for Baffa, Frankie was nearly as curious as he was musical.
    “Where was the trip, Papa?”
    “America.”
    “Where is that?”
    “Far away.”
    “How did Mama die?”
    “A car crash.”
    “Was she driving?”
    “Of course not.”
    “You were driving?”
    “Yes.”
    “Were you hurt, Papa?”
    “No. Well. I was hurt, but not badly.”
    “Did you try to save Mama?”
    “Of course.”
    “Did you try really hard?”
    Baffa sighed. You should never construct a lie based on a child’s questions. It is like writing music based on cymbal crashes.
    “Yes. I tried everything.”
    “Where was I?”
    “You were here.”
    “By myself?”
    “With a friend.”
    “Which friend?”
    “You don’t know him.”
    “How come?”
    “He died.”
    “How?”
    “A car crash.”
    “Was he driving?”
    Baffa rubbed his head. He was a practical man, with a good heart. But I am rather certain when he came into this world, his little fists did not grab the talent for storytelling.
    “I don’t remember, Francisco. It was a long time ago.”
    “What happened to Mama?”
    “When?”
    “After she died?”
    “She was buried.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “When you die, you are put in the ground.”
    “Then how can she live with God?”
    “After you are buried, then you live with God.”
    “Where is Mama buried?”
    “In a cemetery.”
    “Where?”
    “In America.”
    “Where?”
    Baffa barely knew America. His sister, Danza, had moved to Mexico years ago, and had married an American man from Detroit.
    “Detroit.”
    “What is that?”
    “A city.”
    “Where?”
    “In America.”
    “And you went there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why did you go there?”
    “To get a car.”
    “Our car?”
    “A different car.”
    “The one that crashed?”
    “That is the one.”
    “Was Mama pretty?”
    “Very pretty.”
    “Did she love me?”
    “Very much.”
    On