Romanian isn’t coming after us.
9
MONEY. A MYSTERY, I MUST ADMIT. While it clearly means a great deal to humans, it seems, to me, an enormous burden. I have never held it. Never experienced its benefits. All I know is that while some of my disciples have grown quite rich, many more, in need of money, have chosen to abandon me. Why? Wealth has never defined music. What is played from the heart can be played anywhere.
On anything.
Frankie made his first music on his cheap braguinha. He graduated to a six-string when El Maestro approved, directing him to take one from the closet, a caramel body with a mahogany neck. Because Frankie was now going for lessons several times a week, often while Baffa was at work, Baffa purchased him a wagon the color of a pale green apple, which Frankie used to pull his new guitar through the streets.
A boy with his guitar in a wagon stood in marked contrast to the war that was overtaking the country—and the world. I was quite busy during those years collecting talent that was snuffed out before its time, left on battlefields, drowned in sunken ships, shot out of the sky. Such a waste. Why humans kill each other is beyond my comprehension, but I can testify that you have been doing it since your inception. Only the weapons change.
The war affected everyone. Baffa began to have trouble at the sardine factory, because some of his workers were given blue uniforms and taken away to fight. Others argued over party allegiances. The government ordered Baffa to produce a certain amount of sardines to help the war efforts—something, I gather, he did not wish to do. Baffa came home at night, dropped in his chair, and placed a wet towel across his forehead. The hairless dog crouched at his feet.
“Go outside to practice,” Baffa would tell Frankie. The boy was sad to see his papa this way, and he made him cheese and mustard sandwiches before going to the garden with his guitar. He cut the nails on his left hand each day before playing, then practiced the arpeggios that El Maestro had taught him, breaking down each chord by notes and playing them in a different order. He practiced all his scales. He walked his fingers along the frets like a spider’s legs, fast and faster, but never crossing.
“Have you ever seen a spider trip?” El Maestro had asked.
“No, Maestro.”
“No, you have not. And your fingers must not trip, either.”
“ Sí , Maestro.”
“Say ‘Yes,’ boy.”
“Yes.”
“Speak English.”
“The teachers say we must speak only Spanish.”
“With them, you speak Spanish. With me, English. You don’t tell them about me or our lessons. You understand?”
“Sí.”
“Our secret.”
“Sí.”
“Say ‘Yes.’ ”
“Yes.”
“Keep practicing.”
“Yes.”
El Maestro had good reason to be secretive. Politics is not my concern, but the repression in Spain was widespread, and as the months passed, more and more people were arrested in Villareal for being antigovernment. Many of them were artists. A piano player I had gifted was pulled from his home in the middle of the day and thrown into a prison cell. So were two cellists, a flutist, and several singers. As I understood it, the reigning Spanish leader—a balding man named Franco—had created a tyrannical society in which any deviation was viewed as criminally disloyal. I have witnessed such governments before. Their citizens always look the same. Tired. Glancing back and forth. And battling a constant, choking fear.
Art suffers under such conditions, and it suffered in Spain. People were afraid to express themselves. Afraid to write or to dance a certain way. Poets were jailed. Regional music was banned. The varied radio music programs were replaced with traditional Spanish fare.
“This Franco,” El Maestro grumbled. “If he had his way, we would play only flamenco.”
Still, sometimes good is found amid bad, just as major-key notes can be played over minor chords. One day, as Frankie was
9
MONEY. A MYSTERY, I MUST ADMIT. While it clearly means a great deal to humans, it seems, to me, an enormous burden. I have never held it. Never experienced its benefits. All I know is that while some of my disciples have grown quite rich, many more, in need of money, have chosen to abandon me. Why? Wealth has never defined music. What is played from the heart can be played anywhere.
On anything.
Frankie made his first music on his cheap braguinha. He graduated to a six-string when El Maestro approved, directing him to take one from the closet, a caramel body with a mahogany neck. Because Frankie was now going for lessons several times a week, often while Baffa was at work, Baffa purchased him a wagon the color of a pale green apple, which Frankie used to pull his new guitar through the streets.
A boy with his guitar in a wagon stood in marked contrast to the war that was overtaking the country—and the world. I was quite busy during those years collecting talent that was snuffed out before its time, left on battlefields, drowned in sunken ships, shot out of the sky. Such a waste. Why humans kill each other is beyond my comprehension, but I can testify that you have been doing it since your inception. Only the weapons change.
The war affected everyone. Baffa began to have trouble at the sardine factory, because some of his workers were given blue uniforms and taken away to fight. Others argued over party allegiances. The government ordered Baffa to produce a certain amount of sardines to help the war efforts—something, I gather, he did not wish to do. Baffa came home at night, dropped in his chair, and placed a wet towel across his forehead. The hairless dog crouched at his feet.
“Go outside to practice,” Baffa would tell Frankie. The boy was sad to see his papa this way, and he made him cheese and mustard sandwiches before going to the garden with his guitar. He cut the nails on his left hand each day before playing, then practiced the arpeggios that El Maestro had taught him, breaking down each chord by notes and playing them in a different order. He practiced all his scales. He walked his fingers along the frets like a spider’s legs, fast and faster, but never crossing.
“Have you ever seen a spider trip?” El Maestro had asked.
“No, Maestro.”
“No, you have not. And your fingers must not trip, either.”
“ Sí , Maestro.”
“Say ‘Yes,’ boy.”
“Yes.”
“Speak English.”
“The teachers say we must speak only Spanish.”
“With them, you speak Spanish. With me, English. You don’t tell them about me or our lessons. You understand?”
“Sí.”
“Our secret.”
“Sí.”
“Say ‘Yes.’ ”
“Yes.”
“Keep practicing.”
“Yes.”
El Maestro had good reason to be secretive. Politics is not my concern, but the repression in Spain was widespread, and as the months passed, more and more people were arrested in Villareal for being antigovernment. Many of them were artists. A piano player I had gifted was pulled from his home in the middle of the day and thrown into a prison cell. So were two cellists, a flutist, and several singers. As I understood it, the reigning Spanish leader—a balding man named Franco—had created a tyrannical society in which any deviation was viewed as criminally disloyal. I have witnessed such governments before. Their citizens always look the same. Tired. Glancing back and forth. And battling a constant, choking fear.
Art suffers under such conditions, and it suffered in Spain. People were afraid to express themselves. Afraid to write or to dance a certain way. Poets were jailed. Regional music was banned. The varied radio music programs were replaced with traditional Spanish fare.
“This Franco,” El Maestro grumbled. “If he had his way, we would play only flamenco.”
Still, sometimes good is found amid bad, just as major-key notes can be played over minor chords. One day, as Frankie was
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