by Mitch Albom
“She was not a fairy!”
“All right. She was not a fairy.” He chewed and swallowed, and then tapped the table until he found his coffee cup. “If she was real, you will see her again.”
“When?”
“When it is time.”
He sipped his coffee. Frankie scowled.
“Whose dresses are in the closet?”
He didn’t mean to ask that. He was angry, and it just slipped out. The blind man put down his cup.
“Finish eating, Francisco.”
Every loss leaves a hole in your heart. El Maestro, as you may have surmised, suffered a great loss earlier in his life, one that led him to a drunkard’s despair. His wife died. The beautiful woman who would lead him from the stage and plant a kiss on his lips. Once she was gone, he wanted nothing from this earth. He let himself sink—into melancholy, into drinking, into a haunted, restless sleep. If he could have unplugged his heart and shut the lights on his memory, he would have.
But over the months with his new protégé, the teacher healed considerably. He walked better. His belly shrank. His head hurt less. His skin had more color. Without the constant cloud of alcohol, he gradually returned to a sense of purpose. He found himself almost glad to be waking up, smelling the toast that Francisco was making. He enjoyed the respect that the child showed him, pulling out his chair, handing him his guitar. He liked hearing Frankie sing around the flat, songs the two of them shared in their secret library of shellac recordings. He even, begrudgingly, accepted the dog. Sometimes, the creature would lay its head in El Maestro’s lap and he would scratch its ears.
“He likes you,” Frankie said.
“He smells like gutter water,” El Maestro said.
Deep down, the blind man knew that Frankie remained heartbroken over his father. And having come to care about the boy himself, he could only imagine what pain Baffa was going through. So one night, at the taberna, El Maestro took a chance. He asked the owner if there were any soldiers in the audience.
Yes, he was told, a group of them sitting near the front.
“Introduce me,” El Maestro said.
Throughout the evening, he played many flamenco favorites—the kind of music the Generalísimo approved of—and he dedicated them all to the “brave men serving our leader.” People clapped and the owner smiled and the soldiers were appreciative. Later they invited the guitar player to sit with them. He bought them drinks and told them stories and bought more drinks and laughed in a way that he never usually laughed. It was, deep down, agonizing for El Maestro. He had an ugly history with war, and had no use for soldiers or generals. But, like practicing scales, some things you endure for a reason. As the soldiers drank more and more, he braved a few questions.
By the end of the night, he had learned the fate of a sardine maker named Baffa Rubio.
On August 3, 1945, two days before Frankie left the country for good, El Maestro paid a visit to a prison many miles outside Villareal. It took lies and bribes and a gypsy on a motorcycle to accomplish. More details are unimportant to this story. What is important is, that afternoon, in an empty yard behind a redbrick jail, a final conversation took place between the unmarried man who found a baby in a river and the blind guitarist who taught him his destiny.
They spoke for twenty-four minutes, in a whispered, mosso pace, 7/4 time—a jerky, interrupting rhythm. Baffa Rubio, who was pale and bruised and much thinner than he had ever been, saw the man with the dark glasses and began to tremble. He waited for the guards to move away. His first two whispered words were: “My son?”
“I have him—”
“Thank God.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“He is all right?”
“He is all right.”
“Does he ask for me?”
“Of course.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“I am a poor father. I never planned if something happened to me.”
“I am watching him, Señor Rubio.”
“You must not tell anyone he is mine.”
“Why not?”
“The factory. Three workers—they hated me—they told the police I was Socialista, that the others were from trade unions. When I denied this, they said I lied. They said the boy was proof. That a good Catholic would never take in a bastard. That his mother was a leftist—”
“Wait. He is not your child?”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“Of course not.”
“I saved a life.”
“Of course.”
“These pigs—”
“Softly, Señor Rubio.”
“This Franco—”
“Do not speak of him, Señor Rubio.”
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“I understand.”
Tears. Breathing. Silence.
“Are you teaching him guitar?”
“Every day.”
“And his playing?”
“It is exceptional.”
“I wish I could hear him.”
“How long will they keep 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 TABERN
A, 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 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 to pack his own suitcase, and he noticed the hairless dog sticking close to him, sometimes bumping against his leg.
Late in the afternoon, El Maestro asked, “Where is the sun?”
“Almost gone,” Frankie answered.
The blind man told the boy to take him to a nearby restaurant. Frankie and the dog waited outside. Frankie ran his hand gently over the new guitar case. He hoped El Maestro would bring out some food. He was hungry again.
An hour passed. It was nearly dark. When the teacher finally emerged, he had nothing with him. His voice was deep and slow.
“Let’s go, Francisco.”
“Where, Maestro?”
“To the taberna.”
“I can see you play?”
“This one time. Yes.”
Frankie, at first, was so excited he forgot about his hunger. But El Maestro did not share the enthusiasm. His breathing was labored. He made groaning noises. As he walked, holding the new guitar, he wobbled a bit. Frankie realized that his teacher had not been eating in that restaurant. He had been drinking.
“What color are your pants today, boy?”
Frankie frowned.
“I asked you a question.”
“Brown, Maestro.”
“And your shoes?”
“Also brown.”
“And your hair?”
Frankie didn’t want to answer. He felt sad that his teacher had broken his promise, as if bad things were going to start happening again.
“Your hair, boy?”
“It looks black.”
“And your eyes? I don’t even know.”
“My eyes are blue, Maestro.”
“Ah. Blue.”
He inhaled deeply through his nose. He dropped his chin into his chest. He sang something in a half mumble.
“Am I blue? . . . Am I blue? . . .”
He coughed.
“It’s a song, boy. You will learn it one day.”
Man searches for courage in drink, but it is not courage that he finds, it is fear that he loses. A drunken man may step off a cliff. That does not make him brave, just forgetful.
That night, on the taberna stage, the drink helped El Maestro forget about restrictions imposed on artists in his country. The result was the most fearless performance of his career. Barely pausing between songs, he played American compositions like “St. Louis Blues” and “Tiger Rag.” He played “Parfum” from the gypsy legend Django Reinhardt. He did a haunting rendition of the French classic “Parlez-Moi d’Amour” (“Speak to Me of Love”), as well as works by Schumann and Vivaldi and Ferdinando Carulli. His guitar sounded powerful and passionate, and I must confess, I surged through him that night like a shooting fountain. He rocked back and forth, feeling the vibration of every note. People in the crowd were so silent, at times it seemed as if the room was empty. Such music was forbidden by the government. But when performed that beautifully, I can mesmerize a crowd. For the next two hours, no one raised a protest. Not even a heavily clothed figure who was watching from the back.
Toward the end, El Maestro reached up under his dark glasses to rub his eyes. Then, for the first time all night, he spoke.
“This last song, my fellow countrymen, is for the finest student I have ever had.”
He turned his head toward where he had put Frankie in a chair, near the kitchen.
“Come, boy. Let’s play together.”
He began to strum the chords of “Avalon,” a song by Al Jolson that Frankie loved to listen to on the stolen phonograph. Customers looked back and forth. Some pointed at the child in the corner.
