The King of Mulberry Street Page 19

  “What?” said Gaetano. “No one loves working.”

  “You do. You love this business. Both of you.”

  “Well, the business,” said Gaetano. “Sure, I'm happy with the business.”

  “Tell me why.”

  Gaetano held out his hands. “It's simple. We make money.”

  “You could make money in a factory job,” said Grandi-netti.

  “Not as much,” said Gaetano. “Besides, I'd hate it.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Someone else would tell us what to do all the time.”

  “Appunto! Exactly.” Grandinetti pointed at me. “Okay, so maybe you've got to give these boys more responsibility. More authority.”

  “Never,” said Gaetano. “We decide what happens with our cart.”

  But I saw what Grandinetti meant. “We could buy a second cart.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Gaetano. “That's got nothing to do with anything.”

  “I'd stay with one cart, you'd stay with the other.”

  “What? Compete with each other? Are you nuts?”

  “I'd set up on a different corner, a few blocks away.”

  “But who would speak to the customers at my cart?”

  “Come on, Gaetano. You know you can speak English.”

  His temples pulsed.

  “You're such a hardhead.” I threw up my hands. “You know you can do it. And you can do the numbers, too. You're fast at adding now.”

  “How would it solve anything? We'd both need helpers then. We'd double our problems.”

  “We'd take partners—maybe Umberto and Emilio. They're smart. And they'd watch out that their friends didn't steal. People aren't going to steal from a friend anyway.”

  “I can't believe you'd say that,” said Gaetano. “You'll die a mook, you know that?”

  “I'll die the king of Mulberry Street.”

  Grandinetti laughed. “I believe you will, Dom.”

  “Because, look, we'd pool the money from both carts,” I said, without slowing down, “and earn more.”

  “Double,” said Gaetano. “We'll earn double.”

  “Well … see, that's the point of having partners. The carts would pull in double, but we'd each make the same, because our new partners would share. Twenty-five percent for each of us, because we'd all be equal.”

  “Whoa. We don't need more partners.”

  “Sure we do. We'll have double the number of sandwiches to buy and cut up and rewrap. Double the work. They have to be partners, too.”

  “I don't know, Dom. We'd have to get along with them. Pay attention to what they think. It could ruin us.”

  “We paid attention to what Pietro thought—and we did good. We did better because of him.” My whole body went hot. “Pietro was proud to be a partner,” I said softly. “Let's give Umberto and Emilio a chance.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Gaetano. “Wait just one minute.” He looked away. He walked around Grandinetti's store. He rubbed above his mouth at the thin mustache that anyone could see now. “No.”

  “But …”

  “No. You and I get thirty percent each. They get twenty each. Until we see how it works out.” He grinned. “And I get Emilio on my cart.”

  ———

  By December both carts were doing all right, and nobody stole from us.

  It was almost Christmas. On the weekends I took walks and eavesdropped on passing conversations. No one could stop talking about their mother, it seemed. About what she always cooked for the holidays, about her every ache and pain, about how she should have been named Maria (if she wasn't) after the Virgin Mary. There's a Napoletano proverb that goes, “Mamma e giuventù s'apprezzano quanno nun se teneno chiù”—Your mother and your youth you appreciate only when they're gone. But it's not true. Italians love their mother every day of their lives, and especially at Christmastime.

  This wasn't my holiday. Hanukah happened around now; I didn't know exactly when. But my birthday was coming, so I thought I'd buy myself a present.

  Vendors had set up tables all along Mulberry Street with nativity scenes, just like the ones down Via dei Tri-bunali in Napoli. I walked up and down, looking over the tiny wire baskets filled with clay eggs and the minuscule paper bags overflowing with ceramic apples—all just like in Napoli. And I smiled to realize that it was a true memory. I'd forgotten about these scenes. But I remembered now.

  Then Signora Esposito got a letter from her daughter, who lived way across the country in San Francisco, California. She couldn't read it, so I read it to her. And she praised me to the skies. She brought her friends to me so I could read the letters they got from relatives during the holidays. I was just like Uncle Vittorio, reading letters to the women. And that was a true memory, too. I used to want to get aletter from someone who loved me—and to write a letter to someone I loved. I remembered that.

  And now I couldn't stop the memories. The way a woman held her baby reminded me of Aunt Sara and Baby Daniela. The way another woman lugged two large bottles of wine, one in each hand, reminded me of Aunt Rebecca. And, yes, the way a woman stopped and squatted in front of her son and smoothed his shirt reminded me of Mamma.

  I couldn't keep myself from remembering Mamma. A woman tucking a towel over a basket of produce was Mamma tucking the sheet over me to keep out mosquitoes. A woman tapping a winter melon to see if it was ripe was Mamma tapping me on the head for coming home late. That woman running her hands through her hair as she stood wistfully in front of a flower store was Mamma—and that one swinging a package in one hand and holding tight to a child's hand in the other was Mamma—and that one throwing her shawl proudly over her shoulders was Mamma. Mamma everywhere, in everyone. Even Signora Esposito frying meatballs became Mamma.

  Christmas Eve was a Saturday. I walked through the last-minute shoppers, my feet pinched in those well-worn shoes. People's breath puffed out in front of them. I couldn't remember seeing breath like that before; Napoli got cold, but not this cold. It was as though our souls danced in front of our lips.

  I buttoned my jacket and headed for Mott Street, for the shoe store where I'd bought Pietro's and Gaetano's shoes. It was already early evening, so the Sabbath was over. I bought a pair of shoes with plenty of room, and Iput my old ones in the box, and I went outside and lost myself in the crowd again. I walked and walked.

  The shoes Mamma gave me had saved me so many times. Without them, I might have been thrown in an orphanage after I was fished out of the water that first day in America. Without them, the translators at Ellis Island would have let that “uncle” claim me for the padrone he worked for. Without them, I wouldn't have been able to borrow twenty-five cents from Grandinetti to buy that first sandwich to cut up and sell. Mamma did a smart thing in buying those shoes for me—it was probably the smartest thing she could have done. And I knew she'd sacrificed to do it, maybe in ways that were awful. She'd tried to protect me, even though she was crazy to put me on the boat. She'd tried. Those shoes were the proof.

  I'd been walking for half an hour, up and down the streets. I'd been ready to be disappointed with my new shoes. Instead, with each step they felt better. They felt wonderful. In an instant I knew: Pietro's spirit lived in these shoes, just like my grandfather's spirit lived in the credenza in our home in Napoli.

  I stopped and looked down and made a promise to Pietro's spirit about what I'd do in these shoes. I'd find a way to fight the padroni—to fight the whole padrone system. I had no idea how, but I'd do it. I walked on with determination.

  Somehow I found myself on Eldridge Street, passing by Witold's synagogue. But I didn't stop. I walked north, block after block, enjoying my new shoes. The street was empty here, except for a boy, maybe six or seven years old,who stood on the sidewalk, his feet ghostly on the freezing pavement, and peeked through a lit window. I stopped beside him and looked in.

  The room was full of people standing in groups, drinking and eating and laughing.

  “What's going on?” I aske
d the boy in Napoletano.

  He looked at me briefly; then his eyes went back to the party scene inside.

  “What is this?” I asked, this time in English.

  He shook his head and said something in a language with a lot of rough sounds.

  I walked over to the door. The sign on it read NEIGHBORHOOD GUILD. I'd heard about this place. It was one of the new settlement houses that gave English lessons. Those people inside were probably all immigrants, celebrating the holiday with their classmates.

  I went back to the boy and looked through the window with him. Maybe that overweight man was his father. Or maybe the balding man. Or maybe the one missing a front tooth. Or maybe none of them.

  I handed the boy my shoe box. “Happy Hanukah.” I smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

  The boy blinked at me. He said something in his strange language, turned tail, and ran. A block away he stopped to open the box. He looked back at me and waved.

  I grinned and waved hard.

  Who could tell what that boy might do in those shoes.

  I thought of my promise to Pietro to fight the padroni. To do that, I'd have to go to school and get the education Mamma wanted for me. I could start with night classes at the settlement house.

  My cheeks were wet. White stuck to my eyelashes. White bits sparkled in the air. Snow! My first snowfall, dusting the world.

  I walked home to Signora Esposito's, leaving sharp footprints behind me in that perfect white. When I went into the kitchen, she was humming and grinding nuts to layer on fettuccine with cinnamon and powdered sugar—a sweet dish, my favorite. She was making all the best dishes for my birthday dinner. I kissed her on the cheek.

  She smiled softly and kept on humming.

  POSTSCRIPT

  This is a fictional story that takes place in 1892. I have dedicated it to Thad Guyer, my wonderful friend, who started me on the road to being a writer, and to the spirits of my grandfathers.

  My maternal grandfather was born Rosario Grandi-netti, but when he came to the United States from Calabria, Italy (leaving through the port at Napoli on the ship Bolivia), he was called Francesco or Frank. He was a house-painter and he died before I was born. Everything I have ever heard about him makes me think he had a spirit like that of the produce vendor in this story.

  My paternal grandfather went by various names over his lifetime, too, but his name as given on my father's birth certificate was Domenico Napolillo. His place of birth, according to that certificate, was simply Italy, but my father said he spoke a variety of the Neapolitan dialect. And my cousin Valeriesays he came from Positano. He was born on December 24, 1888. During the years that I knew him, he went by the name Dan J. Napoli. My father told me the J was for James, but my mother told me the J was just because he liked it. (There is no letter J in standard Italian words; J occurs in foreign words and sometimes in words from Italian dialects.)

  My mother told me that Domenico came to America alone as a stowaway when he was only five years old. She told me this years after both my father and grandfather had died. My cousin Valerie heard the same story from her mother, my father's sister. My other relatives seem to have varying and somewhat vague stories about him. Unfortunately, I have been unable to find any legal documents concerning my paternal grandfather other than my own father's birth certificate.

  But everyone agrees that he was an illegitimate child who started out penniless. And that he became a successful businessman quite young. My father told me stories of how Domenico started a business as a sandwich vendor in New York when he was just a child. He bought long sandwiches in Five Points for twenty-five cents, cut them into quarters, and sold them on Wall Street for twenty-five cents each. Soon he had many other children working for him.

  The events in this story, however, are more informed by my reading of histories of Napoli and New York and old magazines and newspapers, and by my looking at old photographs, and by my spending long days wandering both cities, than by my parents' anecdotes. I wish very much that it were otherwise. When my grandfather was alive, I had little interest in his history. What I wouldn't give to be able to sit down with him today and simply listen.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Donna Jo Napoli is the author of many distinguished books for young readers, among them The Great God Pan, Daughter of Venice, Crazy Jack, The Magic Circle, Zel, Sirena, Breath, Bound, and Stones in Water. She has a BA in mathematics and a PhD in Romance linguistics from Harvard University and has taught widely at major universities in America and abroad. She lives with her family in Swarth-more, Pennsylvania, where she is a professor of linguistics at Swarthmore College.

  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children's Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Text copyright © 2005 by Donna Jo Napoli

  Cover photograph: detail from Mullen's Alley, Cherry Hill.

  Museum of the City of New York, The Jacob A. Riis Collection.

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-48675-2

  July 2007

  v 3.0