The King of Mulberry Street by Donna Jo Napoli

Author:Donna Jo Napoli [Napoli, Donna Jo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: C429, Extratorrents, Kat
ISBN: 9780756979454
Publisher: Yearling
Published: 2005-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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