Free The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto by Mitch Albom Page A

in your arms these souls, and take your burden heavenward to the most high.’ ”
    She turned to Frankie.
    “Somebody has to say that for them, or else they won’t get to heaven.”
    She wiped the tear away with a knuckle.
    “We can climb down now. And you can play me your guitar.”

    Here is what I know of love. It changes the way you treat me. I feel it in your hands. Your fingers. Your compositions. The sudden rush of peppy phrases, major sevenths, melody lines that resolve neatly and sweetly, like a valentine tucked in an envelope. Humans grow dizzy from new affection, and young Frankie was already dizzy when he and the mysterious girl descended from that tree.
    They walked together without talking. She led him to the lip of the burial field.
    “Not so close,” she said, when he edged up on her heels.
    “Sorry.”
    She smiled.
    “You’re still afraid.”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “The soldiers won’t come back.”
    “How do you know?”
    “They never do.”
    “Were all those people dead?”
    “Yes.”
    “How did they die?”
    “They probably got shot.”
    “Why?”
    “Because there’s a war. My daddy says the Generalísimo kills whoever he wants.”
    Frankie had heard this name before. Generalísimo. It made him shiver.
    “I don’t like war,” he said.
    “I hate war.”
    “Me, too.”
    “You talk funny.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Where did you learn English?”
    “From my teacher.”
    “Your schoolteacher?”
    “My guitar teacher.”
    Frankie swallowed, realizing he had just violated El Maestro’s trust.
    “You can’t tell anyone.”
    “I won’t.”
    “It’s a secret.”
    “I can keep a secret.”
    She looked at his guitar. The hairless dog looked at her looking at it.
    “Can you really play?”
    “Yes.”
    “Play something.”
    “For you?”
    She turned to the freshly dug field.
    “For them.”
    “What should I play?”
    “I don’t know. Something that says we won’t forget them.”
    Frankie wanted very much to please her. He thought about all the music he’d learned. He recalled one of the stolen discs, a song from the Philippines that his teacher said was “sad enough to melt the phonograph needle.” El Maestro had taught it to Frankie. Its title was “Maalaala Mo Kaya,” written by a Filipino composer named Constancio de Guzman. (“An elegant name,” El Maestro had mused.) It depicted two people from different social classes promising not to forget their love. On the record label, the translated title was “Will You Remember?”
    Frankie sat on a rock and put the guitar on his knee. He was keenly aware of his new friend watching him, and he tried to play perfectly. I felt it in the touch he applied to the strings, in the tenderness he draped over each and every note.
    Had you watched the scene from a distance, it might have seemed odd, two children near a mass grave, one playing the guitar, one listening, the sun hot in the sky, the tracks of a Spanish army truck still fresh in the dirt.
    But I saw something else. I saw a boy all but bending the strings in a girl’s direction. It was the first time Frankie Presto attempted to give his music to someone else.
    Which is how I knew he was in love.

    “How do you play like that?” she said when he finished.
    “I don’t know.”
    “It’s quite good.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you think they heard it?”
    She looked at the dirt field. “I don’t know. It’s not a proper grave.”
    “What does proper mean?”
    “It’s when you do something the right way.”
    “What is the right way?”
    “For a grave? You make it very nice. You put the body in a box. The family comes to say good-bye. And they put flowers on top.”
    “Why flowers?”
    “So the dead people have something pretty to look at as they go up to heaven.”
    “Oh.”
    “Have you never seen a grave?”
    “My mother has one.”
    “Your mother died?”
    “Yes.”
    “Was she nice?”
    “I never met her.”
    “Where’s her