The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto Read Online Free PDF Page A

of orange growers, orange pickers, orange packers, and orange shippers. He’d grown used to being alone, a fat man with a fishy smell, yet suddenly there was a small human to share in his daily routine, which during the week meant riding to work in his Italian automobile, and on the weekends meant sitting in his small garden listening to the radio, with the hairless dog sleeping near a bed of pomegranate flowers. The radio was constantly on, morning to evening, and young Frankie was content as long as music emerged. He would squat near the speaker and sing along with any melody, in a high, pleasing voice. When Baffa turned the dial to hear the news (there was a terrible war brewing in Europe), Frankie cried until the man gave up and returned to whatever music he could find, a concert by an orchestra, an opera, or a Spanish jota , with its 6/8 tempo and endless energy. Frankie seemed to like that most of all.
    One day, just shy of the child’s fifth birthday (not his real birthday, but the sardine maker had made a guess), Baffa saw him standing at the edge of a table, his fingers drumming to the sound of a complex flamenco guitar piece. He was keeping perfect rhythm, even though finding the beat in 6/8 time can be like cooking an egg under a blanket.
    “Come here, little one,” Baffa said proudly. The boy, with a full head of black hair, turned, smiled, and walked smack into the leg of a chair, tripping and landing badly. He cried and Baffa lifted him and soothed him against his chest. “It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt,” Baffa whispered, but he realized the boy’s vision was still not right. The water from the river trauma had infected his blue eyes, and the slightest sun would make him squint, his corneas would redden, sometimes he couldn’t see anything to his sides. Doctors had warned that his sight might one day go altogether. The irritation left him constantly rubbing, and the neighborhood children would mock him: “Are you crying again , Francisco?” As time passed, they called him Llorica—“crybaby.” While they played a ball game called trinquete in the street, Francisco sat alone, humming to himself.
    Baffa, a practical man, worried for his boy’s future. What if he grew up without any friends? And if his vision was bad, what kind of work would he find? How would he support himself? That day in the garden, as the jota music played, Baffa had an idea. Musicians, trained properly, could always work, even blind, right? He recalled a taberna several years ago where a guitar player with dark glasses performed to great applause, and afterward a beautiful young woman took him by the hands and led him off the stage, planting a small kiss on his lips. Only then had Baffa realized the man could not see.
    This, Baffa decided, could be a future for his divinely sent child. Through music, he could work. He might even find love. Never one to waste time (efficiency had always attracted Baffa, even in sardines), he took the boy to a small music school on Calle Mayor, the paved street in the center of town. The owner had a long chin and round glasses.
    “Can I help you, señor?”
    “I want my son to play guitar.”
    The man looked down. Frankie rubbed his eyes.
    “He is too young, señor.”
    “He sings all day.”
    “He is too young.”
    “He keeps a beat on a table.”
    The man lowered his glasses.
    “How old is he?”
    “Almost five.”
    “Too young.”
    Frankie rubbed his eyes again.
    “Why does he keep doing that?”
    “What?”
    “He rubs his eyes.”
    “He is a child.”
    “Is he crying?”
    “An infection.”
    “He cannot play if he always rubs his eyes.”
    “But he sings all day.”
    The man shook his head.
    “Too young.”
    This, by the way, is hardly the first time one of yours has discouraged one of mine. If I possessed a metal link for every tongue-clucking human who said a child was too young, the instrument too large, or the very idea of pursuing music was “a waste of time,” I