Read Online The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto by Mitch Albom - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mitch Albom
Ads: Link
Frankie put the needle on a recording of Duke Ellington’s orchestra doing “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” El Maestro slumped in his chair with his mouth open and made the boy put the needle back thirteen straight times.
Eventually, he and Frankie listened to every disc that was in that pile, many times over. El Maestro’s favorite was a shellac recording of a gypsy guitar player named Django Reinhardt, whom the teacher labeled “not of this earth.” Frankie was partial to Louis Armstrong and the song “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home?” the lyrics of which he memorized. One day, as El Maestro ate one of Frankie’s sausage bocadillos , the boy sang it for his teacher in perfect imitation.
“Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey?
Won’t you come home?”
She moans the whole day long.
“I’ll do the cookin’ honey; I’ll pay the rent.
I know I’ve done you wrong . . .”
When Frankie stopped, the blind man finished chewing, then rubbed his chin with two fingers.
“Francisco, you are going to have a problem.”
“What problem?”
“You sing well.”
“Thank you, Maestro.”
“Too well. You must decide what you are going to be—a great singer or a great guitar player.”
“Can I be both?”
El Maestro sighed. “Being both means being neither.”
Frankie looked at his teacher, the dark glasses, the unshaven whiskers. He didn’t mean to let him down by singing.
“I am sorry, Maestro.”
The blind man smacked his teeth.
“And stop trying to sound like Louis Armstrong. You are going to hurt your throat.”
12
I HAVE PROMISED SPEEDY MOVEMENT THROUGH THESE REMAINING SPANISH YEARS . So let me focus on two days only: the day Frankie fell in love, and the day he left.
The first took place in the early autumn of 1944, on a cloudless afternoon when Baffa drove Frankie to the sardine factory near La Vilavella . Not long after arriving, Baffa was drawn into another argument between laborers, and he told Frankie to take the hairless dog for a walk. Frankie understood this to mean his papa did not want him hearing what was being said, and that was fine, since he wanted to finish learning the latest song El Maestro had taught him.
With the guitar slung over his back, he led the hairless dog down the long path out of town. He whistled as he walked, and he sang a tune to himself and threw a stick, which the hairless dog retrieved.
Before long he had wandered far from any houses and deep into a thicket of woods. Figuring he could lean against a tree stump to practice, he meandered until he found a good spot. He sat down, adjusted his guitar, held his left hand out (as El Maestro had taught), and began to play his scales.
“Shhhhh!”
He looked up.
“Shhhhh!”
Frankie could not see who was shushing him. His eyes worked their way through the woods until he spotted a figure in a tree, straddling a huge branch. It was a boy, about his size, in brown pants, a yellow shirt, and a cap pulled down tightly over his forehead.
“ Quién anda ahí? ” Frankie said.
“I don’t speak Spanish. Be quiet!”
“I can speak English,” Frankie said.
The child squinted.
“Do you want to see dead bodies?”
Frankie gripped his guitar neck.
“I have to practice.”
“Are you scared?”
“No.”
“It’s all right. Most people aren’t as brave as me.”
The boy’s English sounded strange. (It was Frankie’s first British accent.)
“I’m not afraid.”
“Prove it.”
“How do I prove it?”
“Climb up.”
Part of Frankie wanted to run. He had no desire to see dead bodies. But he had never encountered an English-speaking child before. And he didn’t have many friends, since most of the schoolkids still teased him for rubbing his eyes. He wondered if this boy knew any songs.
“All right,” Frankie said. “I’ll come up.”
He wrapped his arms around the trunk and tried to climb. He got a few feet before falling awkwardly.
“That was stupid,” the boy said,
Eventually, he and Frankie listened to every disc that was in that pile, many times over. El Maestro’s favorite was a shellac recording of a gypsy guitar player named Django Reinhardt, whom the teacher labeled “not of this earth.” Frankie was partial to Louis Armstrong and the song “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home?” the lyrics of which he memorized. One day, as El Maestro ate one of Frankie’s sausage bocadillos , the boy sang it for his teacher in perfect imitation.
“Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey?
Won’t you come home?”
She moans the whole day long.
“I’ll do the cookin’ honey; I’ll pay the rent.
I know I’ve done you wrong . . .”
When Frankie stopped, the blind man finished chewing, then rubbed his chin with two fingers.
“Francisco, you are going to have a problem.”
“What problem?”
“You sing well.”
“Thank you, Maestro.”
“Too well. You must decide what you are going to be—a great singer or a great guitar player.”
“Can I be both?”
El Maestro sighed. “Being both means being neither.”
Frankie looked at his teacher, the dark glasses, the unshaven whiskers. He didn’t mean to let him down by singing.
“I am sorry, Maestro.”
The blind man smacked his teeth.
“And stop trying to sound like Louis Armstrong. You are going to hurt your throat.”
12
I HAVE PROMISED SPEEDY MOVEMENT THROUGH THESE REMAINING SPANISH YEARS . So let me focus on two days only: the day Frankie fell in love, and the day he left.
The first took place in the early autumn of 1944, on a cloudless afternoon when Baffa drove Frankie to the sardine factory near La Vilavella . Not long after arriving, Baffa was drawn into another argument between laborers, and he told Frankie to take the hairless dog for a walk. Frankie understood this to mean his papa did not want him hearing what was being said, and that was fine, since he wanted to finish learning the latest song El Maestro had taught him.
With the guitar slung over his back, he led the hairless dog down the long path out of town. He whistled as he walked, and he sang a tune to himself and threw a stick, which the hairless dog retrieved.
Before long he had wandered far from any houses and deep into a thicket of woods. Figuring he could lean against a tree stump to practice, he meandered until he found a good spot. He sat down, adjusted his guitar, held his left hand out (as El Maestro had taught), and began to play his scales.
“Shhhhh!”
He looked up.
“Shhhhh!”
Frankie could not see who was shushing him. His eyes worked their way through the woods until he spotted a figure in a tree, straddling a huge branch. It was a boy, about his size, in brown pants, a yellow shirt, and a cap pulled down tightly over his forehead.
“ Quién anda ahí? ” Frankie said.
“I don’t speak Spanish. Be quiet!”
“I can speak English,” Frankie said.
The child squinted.
“Do you want to see dead bodies?”
Frankie gripped his guitar neck.
“I have to practice.”
“Are you scared?”
“No.”
“It’s all right. Most people aren’t as brave as me.”
The boy’s English sounded strange. (It was Frankie’s first British accent.)
“I’m not afraid.”
“Prove it.”
“How do I prove it?”
“Climb up.”
Part of Frankie wanted to run. He had no desire to see dead bodies. But he had never encountered an English-speaking child before. And he didn’t have many friends, since most of the schoolkids still teased him for rubbing his eyes. He wondered if this boy knew any songs.
“All right,” Frankie said. “I’ll come up.”
He wrapped his arms around the trunk and tried to climb. He got a few feet before falling awkwardly.
“That was stupid,” the boy said,
Similar Books
