The King of Mulberry Street Read online

“Napoli.”

  Gaetano stared at me. Then he gasped. “You're not from the Bronx at all. You're fresh off the boat, aren't you? You're really lost.” He slapped one fist into the other palm. “I should have known it.”

  “Why? How could you have known?”

  He flushed. “If you had a mother, she'd have come storming down here by now.” His temples pulsed. His jaw tightened.

  “Is your mother really sick, like you told that woman?”

  “That's none of your business.”

  “Do you have a mother?” I asked.

  “Shut up. I mean it. Don't ever ask about my family.”

  I raised my hands in surrender, to calm him down. Then I leaned toward him. “Get me onto that ship and these shoes are yours.”

  “I don't go down to the wharves. You know that.” Gae-tano shook his head at me now. “You're alone. You don'teven have a padrone. Now I get it. The way you act so much older than you are. That's all it takes—a few days alone, and you grow up just like that. What else could you do? I've seen it before. Kids like you, acting so big.”

  “You don't have to talk to anyone in English out there,” I said. “Just come with me to the wharves—come and listen and watch. Figure out a way to get me on the ship. Please. I want to go home.”

  Gaetano looked away. I knew by now that that was what he did when he was trying to make up his mind. I squeezed my hands together.

  He turned back to me. “I'm not promising a thing. But I'll see what I can find out. When's this ship sailing?”

  “I don't know, but it's got to be soon.”

  “Meet you back here at suppertime.” He got up and walked down Mulberry. “And don't follow me,” he called over his shoulder.

  So I went the other way, up Mulberry. No one talked to me. No one looked at me.

  Mulberry ran into another street at an angle. If I kept going in the same general direction, there was no way I could get lost. The only thing I needed to know was where to angle off on the way back. I counted the number of streets I crossed. At the fifth corner, my street angled again. Well, okay, I could keep track of that. At the fifth corner, this street angled, too. That was easy to remember—five and five. I was at the edge of a park.

  The street sign said PARK, with the little letters A-V- E in the upper right corner. I knew park. It was the one word of English I could read. And suddenly I made the connection—the Italian word parco and the English wordpark—they must mean the same thing. English wasn't such a hard language, after all.

  Could this possibly be the same Park Street that ran into Chatham Square? Just in case it wasn't, I counted blocks again. I walked along looking around at the tall buildings, the passing carriages, the people. Stores were closed and shuttered, but I looked at the carvings in the stone over doorways and the huge, feathered hats that the ladies wore. Most of the women held on to the arm of a man. One woman strode by me with a frilly white blouse and a skirt with a wide waistband. Two rows of buttons ran down the front of her blouse. She wasn't pretty, but she caught the eye. Mamma would have been beautiful in those clothes.

  I lost count of the blocks somewhere after twenty, because I looked up and my breath was taken away. A giant building loomed ahead. There were three levels of windows. I walked along one side counting the cupolas. Behind the building was a large train shed. Oh, it was a railway station.

  I went inside. Men in white straw hats with black bands around the center and broad brims stood in groups. Some carried canes, though they weren't old. They wore ties and vests under their jackets and spoke English.

  But then I saw men with curly black hair and mustaches and bow ties. They spoke Napoletano and they bought tickets to Bronxville. Eight cents for a twenty-minute ride. They complained about the high fare, but that was what it cost to visit the relatives on Sunday.

  I went out to the train platforms. A gleaming steam engine pulled in. I watched people and trains for hours. When I got too hungry to stay still, I left, passing an areawhere they kept baggage. A penny to check your belongings overnight.

  A penny for this, a penny for that. Life in New York was measured out in pennies.

  It was hours yet till suppertime. So I let myself wander. After all, I could say “park” and anyone could point me back to the right road.

  Within a couple of blocks I wound up on a broad street. I followed it a long way and came to the countryside. Look at that. Manhattan wasn't such a big place after all. I'd walked the whole length of it. Where there was country, there were farms—and where there were farms, there was food.

  A family sprawled on tablecloths spread out on the grass, finishing a meal. The smell of strange spices hung in the air. Fancy food. And these people looked fancy—not at all like farmers. They wore their Sunday best.

  I hid behind a tree and watched. A few children took handfuls of leftovers and ran toward a pond. Three huge waterbirds, white things with long necks, swam at the edge. They looked toward the children expectantly. One of them got out of the water and waddled up.

  The children screamed and laughed and threw food at the birds. Perfectly good food.

  I ran out and grabbed a handful. It looked like a pastry with something green in the middle. Spinach?

  Honk! A big bird charged me, flapping giant wings. Honk honk honk! I clutched the food and ran. The bird ran faster. It bit the back of my pant leg, its huge bill clamping onto my flesh. I threw the pastry at it. The bird let go andswallowed it whole, then honked at me. But I was already running again. The bird went back to the water.

  I watched from a safe distance. How could such beautiful birds be so nasty? I was sure they weren't as hungry as I was. They looked sleek and clean.

  I was so dirty. And thirsty. That water looked pretty good. I circled the pond and went down to its edge farther up, far from the dangerous birds.

  I drank and washed my face. Then I rolled up my pant legs and waded in. The bird had left two red marks on the back of my calf, but the skin wasn't broken.

  My hair was clumped with filth, so I leaned forward and dunked my head and rubbed at my hair. It felt so good.

  When I turned, a woman stood on the shore. She was from the family whose children had fed those birds. She waved and put a piece of paper on the ground with food on it. Then she walked away.

  I waded out and grabbed the paper. I wolfed down a pastry: spinach with a sour white cheese. And there was eggplant with beef and a sauce. The sauce was white—oh, no. I licked it. It didn't taste like milk or cheese, so maybe it was white from flour. If that was so, the dish was kosher—no mixing of milk and meat. Should I risk it?

  Chi nun risica nun roseca—He who doesn't risk, doesn't gain. One of Nonna's proverbs. But I'd never heard her say it about risking breaking kosher laws. Still …

  I nibbled. It was good. I ate all of it. Then there was a corner of sweet pastry with nuts and honey. What a feast. Not Italian food, but good food.

  I wandered off to view the farms I expected to find pastthe next set of trees. There were only more trees, though, and more paths with more people. I came upon a throng of people. Out for a Sunday stroll in the sun. And here was a wide set of stairs with a big fountain and another pond. People took rides on little boats with awning tops. This wasn't the countryside at all. It was a colossal park. The atmosphere was like that at a saint festival; everyone was happy and talking and calling to their children. The women had parasols with lace at the edges. In Napoli rich women held them to keep the sun off their faces.

  I could pick out English easily. But there were many other languages, too.

  Bicyclists went past with white caps and numbers on their shirts. On another path, people rode by on horseback. How big was this park, anyway?

  I went in a straight line until I hit a road on one side. Then I went in a straight line in the opposite direction until I hit a road on the other side. It was as far across this park as it was from my home in Napoli to the bottom of Via Toledo.

  Now I walked along one edg
e to find out how long the park was north to south. But it was getting late and people were leaving, so I had to start back. I walked and walked and walked. It took more than an hour to get to the south end of the park. I ran. Stupid me. Gaetano would be waiting on the steps by now.

  The street was empty of walkers and only the occasional carriage passed. I tried to flag one down. The driver yelled at me and sped up. The next one did the same.

  I ran faster. I heard a train to my left. Good, that was where the depot was supposed to be. I ran a long way.

  Then I turned and went two streets over. The streetlamps were lit now, and the sign said PARK. Everything was exactly how it was supposed to be, except that I was late. I couldn't run anymore. I was out of breath. And I got spooked by every shadow. The buildings were too tall here. Who knew what could jump out from between them, or fall from a window high up?

  I walked in the street, at the edge so carriages wouldn't hit me. Finally, I came to the medium-size park and I ran by the steps of Saint Patrick's Cathedral to the mutual aid society.

  It was night by now; what a fool I'd been to stay in the park so long.

  No Gaetano.

  I went to my barrel and slept.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sandwiches

  On Monday the alley came alive with loud bangs long before dawn. I leapt out of my barrel and ran to the next street before I dared to look back. It was street cleaners, lugging trash out to a wagon and shouting in English. They took away the dead dog, and with it the stench that meant no one would come near my barrel.

  Who cared, anyway? I was leaving on the Bolivia soon. Maybe that day.

  Girls who were almost young ladies walked along the block toward me, arm in arm. They wore black skirts down to their ankles and white aprons and blouses with black bows at the neck. They had on black boots. I flattened myself against the wall as they passed, talking of someone named Maria Luisa, who had the good fortune to be getting married. Shewouldn't have to work anymore. Their voices were as-toundingly loud.

  I looked around. No Gaetano. I might as well head for the wharf.

  I got there in record time, running so hard I had to bend to wheeze on the last corner.

  The Bolivia was gone.

  Noooo. I ran into the nearest cafe. “What happened to the ship?” I asked.

  The man making coffee said something in English.

  “Bolivia,” I said. “Bolivia.” I pointed to the wharf.

  The man said something else in English, then went and served his customers.

  This wasn't possible.

  A policeman passed the window. I ran outside to him. “Bolivia,” I said.

  He looked down at me with fat, ruddy cheeks and said something in English.

  I pointed to where the ship had been. “Bolivia.”

  The policeman shooed me away.

  It couldn't have left. It must have just moved to another dock. Someone had to know.

  I looked around for the Italian bricklayers. But the sidewalk in front of the shop was perfect; they'd finished the job. Well, maybe they'd be back. I leaned against the shop window and sank to my bottom, my knees pressed against my chest.

  The shopkeeper showed up to unlock.

  “Bolivia?” I said.

  He got out a broom and shook it at me.

  I ran along the waterfront. I ran and ran. But who wasI kidding? If there was a ship docked anywhere along here, everyone could have seen it from far away.

  The Bolivia was gone.

  I kept running, without thinking, back and forth along the wharf, back and forth, back and forth. Tears blurred my vision.

  Traffic had picked up; the day was really started. Another day here. In New York, in America, an ocean away from home.

  I stopped and leaned my forehead against a pole and waited for my eyes to clear. Then I walked back up the road.

  “Who died?” It was Tin Pan Alley, standing on his corner, the tin cup at his feet, the triangle in his hand.

  “The ship left. The Bolivia. I was supposed to go on it. But it left without me.”

  “That's bad.” He tapped his triangle and whistled the tune about the bicycle built for two.

  I stood there, too sad to move.

  Tin Pan Alley reached in his pocket and took out a small brown rock. He threw it on the sidewalk. It split into shards. He scooped some back into his pocket and he put the rest in my hand.

  I looked at them.

  “Rock candy,” he said. “An old Chinese man gave it to me.”

  I looked at it. “I can't take that. I bet you almost never get candy.”

  “How often do you get ice cream? You're not the only one who can share.” He tapped his triangle again. “I haveto work hard now. The early crowd is good on Monday. Come back in a couple of hours.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “You got something better to do?” He whistled.

  I put my hands in my pockets and watched the people go by. The ship had left. Without me. But … another had to be coming soon. This was a delay—that was all. The job now was to get ready for the next ship. That was what Uncle Aurelio would have said.

  I sucked on the rock candy. The sweetness made my mouth water—and now all I wanted was real food. I went back to the produce vendor on Mulberry Street, who was polishing fruit with a towel and arranging it in piles.

  “Tomatoes should go in front,” I said.

  He turned around. “So you're back.”

  “They'll catch the eye better. Red does that. Then the green zucchini should go at the back. And the onions can stay in the baskets on the ground in front of the table. All they really need is for the ones on top to be brushed off a little.”

  “All right, all right, you've convinced me. Go to work.”

  “But I need three oranges today.”

  “Oranges get trucked up from Florida, in the south. They don't grow around here. It's not like the south of Italy. They cost.”

  “I'll work as long as it takes to earn them. I'm good at sweeping, too.”

  He threw his towel over his shoulder. “Arrange the produce. Then we'll talk.”

  I worked for an hour. I put everything in its perfect place.

  “Beautiful,” the vendor said. “What's your name, kid?”

  “Dom.”

  “I'm Grandinetti. Francesco Grandinetti. Can I trust you, Dom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let's find out. Here's a penny. Go to the corner and pick me up an Italian paper.”

  “Do they speak Italian at the newsstand?”

  “Yes.”

  I bought the newspaper. Then I ran back to Gran-dinetti's.

  He spread out the paper on the weighing counter inside and pointed. “What can you make of that?”

  The paper was full of drawings of people with words printed in little clouds over their heads. One guy was saying he needed to use the bathroom. The other was talking about money. It didn't make much sense to me. I glanced up at Grandinetti.

  “Don't worry about the words,” he said. “You don't have to be able to read to get it.”

  “I can read,” I said.

  He smiled like he didn't believe me. “Most people lie and say they can read. That's why there's lots of illustrations. See? I got a customer. You look at the paper.”

  I turned the page. These illustrations were of people working in factories. A man yelled at them and brandished a whip. The people were small and scrawny and dark-skinned. The boss was tall and fat and light-skinned.

  Grandinetti came back in and weighed carrots and lettuce and tomatoes and onions for a woman in a bright flowered dress. Her face was powdered so white she lookedsick. She watched every move he made, as though afraid he'd cheat her. She left in a haze of strong perfume.

  “She watched you weigh everything,” I said.

  “She's a widow.” Grandinetti tsked. “She's got it as hard as anyone. Most people would cheat her if they could.”

  “Not you.”

  �
�No. But you don't know me well enough to say that yet. Did you read the paper?”

  I pointed. “Are the workers Italian?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is the boss Irish?”

  Grandinetti smiled. “You've got it all figured out.”

  “At church yesterday, the Italians went into the basement, while the Irish went upstairs.”

  “The church belonged to the Irish first. This used to be their neighborhood.”

  “Doesn't a church belong to whoever goes to it?” I asked.

  “Spoken like an Italian, my boy. Look, the Irish fill the offering basket with money. They pay for the church. The Italians have close to nothing to give, but even if they had it, they wouldn't pay the same way. To us, the priest is like a friend. We offer him produce or a pie. We have him over to supper. So … that's how it is … the Irish get the upstairs.”

  “And they get all the jobs. So why stay here? Why not get on the next ship back to Italy?”

  “Is that what your father says? Listen here, Dom. Lots of us had it rough at first. America's not perfect, God knows. In Calabria I farmed—and after living an outdoor life like that, being in the city is like being in a cage.Sometimes I can hardly stand it. But in Italy my family was always struggling. Here, we're doing better.”

  I tapped the illustration. “That's 'cause you're not working in a factory.”

  “In Italy workers get paid whenever the boss feels like it—here they get paid every week. In Italy men have to work till the job's finished, no matter how long it takes— here they work till quitting time. It's better here. Your father will get used to it. An Irish boss who pays on time is better than an Italian boss who doesn't.” He waved to someone out on the sidewalk. “A customer. There's a bushel of new potatoes in the storeroom. Go through them and set the biggest ones on the floor.”

  I had sorted the potatoes by the time Grandinetti finished with his customer. He put the small potatoes aside and wrapped the big ones in newspaper. “The Cassone family lives on Mott, at the corner of Canal Street, left-hand side. There's a high tenement there. They're two flights up. Bring these to them, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He handed me three oranges. “Valencias. Juicy. See you tomorrow?”