The Cricket in Times Square

by George Selden

  “Do you think he’d chirp for me?” asked Mr. Smedley.

  “Maybe,” said Mario. He put Chester on the counter and said, “Chirp, please.” Then, so Chester couldn’t misunderstand, he made a chirping noise himself. It didn’t sound much like a cricket, but Chester got the idea. He uncrossed his wings and made a real chirp.

  Papa and Mr. Smedley exclaimed with delight. “That was a perfect middle C,” said Mr. Smedley. He raised his hand like an orchestra conductor, and when he lowered it, Chester chirped on the downbeat.

  “Do you want to give him music lessons, Mr. Smedley?” asked Mario.

  “What could I teach him?” said Mr. Smedley. “He’s already been taught by the greatest teacher of all, Mario—Nature herself. She gave him his wings to rub together and the instinct to make such lovely sounds. I could add nothing to the genius of this little black Orpheus.”

  “Who is Orpheus, Mr. Smedley?” asked Mario.

  “Orpheus was the greatest musician who ever lived,” said the music teacher. “Long, long ago he played on a harp—and he played it so beautifully that not only human beings but animals and even the rocks and trees and waterfalls stopped their work to listen to him. The lion left off chasing the deer, the rivers paused in their courses, and the wind held its breath. The whole world was silent.”

  Mario didn’t know what to say. He liked that picture of everyone keeping quiet to listen. “That must have been awfully good playing,” he said finally.

  Mr. Smedley smiled. “It was,” he said. “Perhaps someday your cricket will play as well. I prophesy great things for a creature of such ability, Mario.”

  “You hear?” said Papa Bellini. “He could be famous, maybe.”

  Mario heard, all right. And he remembered what Mr. Smedley had said later on that summer. But right now he had other things on his mind. “Papa, can I go down to Chinatown and get my cricket a house?” he asked.

  “A house? What kind of a house?” said his father.

  “Jimmy Lebovski said that the Chinese like crickets very much, and they build special cages for them,” Mario explained.

  “It’s Sunday,” said Papa. “There won’t be any stores open.”

  “Well, there may be one or two open,” said Mario. “It’s Chinatown—and besides, I could see where to go later on.”

  “All right, Mario,” Papa Bellini began, “but—”

  But Mario wasn’t waiting for any “buts.” He scooped Chester into the matchbox, shouted “Goodbye, Mr. Smedley” over his shoulder, and headed for the stairway leading to the downtown subway trains. Papa and Mr. Smedley watched him go. Then Papa turned to the music teacher with a happy, hopeless expression on his face, shrugged his shoulders, and the two of them began talking about opera again.

  SIX

  Sai Fong

  Mario took the IRT local subway downtown. He held the matchbox up at the level of his chest so the cricket could see out. This was the first time Chester had been able to watch where he was going on the subway. The last time he had been buried under roast beef sandwiches. He hung out of the box, gazing up and down the car. Chester was a curious cricket, and as long as he was here in New York, he meant to see as much as he could.

  He was staring at an old lady wearing a straw hat, wondering if the flowers on it were real, and if they were what they would taste like, when the train lurched to a halt. Like most people who first ride the subway, Chester wasn’t used to the abrupt stops. He toppled out of the matchbox into Mario’s lap.

  The boy picked him up again. “You’ve got to be careful,” he said, putting his finger over the open end of the box so there was just enough room for Chester to poke his head out.

  At the Canal Street stop Mario got off and walked over several blocks to Chinatown. Chester craned his head out as far as he could to get his first look at New York by day. The buildings in this part of town weren’t nearly as high as they were in Times Square, but they were still high enough to make Chester Cricket feel very small.

  In Chinatown, as Papa had said, all the shops were closed. Mario walked up and down the narrow, curving streets, zigzagging across them so he could look in the windows on both sides. In some he saw the cardboard shells that open up into beautiful paper flowers if you put them in a glass of water, and in others the glass wind harps that tinkle when they’re hung in the window where the breeze can reach them. But he couldn’t find a cricket cage anywhere.

  Down at the end of an alley there was an especially old shop. The paint was peeling off the doors and the windows were crammed with years’ and years’ collection of knickknacks. A sign hanging out in front said, SAI FONG—CHINESE NOVELTIES, and printed underneath, in smaller letters, was “also do hand laundry.” Sitting cross-legged on the doorstep was an old Chinese man. He was wearing a silk vest over his shirt with dragons embroidered on it in red thread, and he was smoking a long white clay pipe.

  Mario stopped and looked in the shop window. The old Chinese man didn’t turn his head, but he looked slyly at the boy out of the corner of his eye. Slowly he drew the pipe out of his mouth and blew a puff of smoke into the air.

  “Are you Mr. Fong?” asked Mario.

  The man smoothly twisted his head, as if it were on a pivot, and looked at Mario. “I Sai Fong,” he answered. His voice sounded strange, yet musical, like a plucked violin. Sai Fong had come from China many years ago, and he had a curious way of talking. But Mario liked it very much. He enjoyed the individual chirps of human beings almost as much as those of his cricket.

  “I would like to buy a cricket cage, if you have any,” said Mario.

  Sai Fong put the pipe back in his mouth and took a few puffs. His eyes became even narrower than they had been before. “You got cricket?” he asked finally in a voice so soft that Mario could hardly hear it.

  “Yes,” said Mario. “Here he is.” He opened the matchbox. Chester and Sai Fong looked at each other.

  “Oh, very good!” said Sai Fong, and a remarkable change came over him. He suddenly became very lively, almost dancing a jig on the sidewalk. “You got cricket—very good!” He was laughing delightedly.

  Mario was startled by Sai Fong’s quick change. “I want to buy him a house,” he said.

  “Come in shop, please,” said Sai Fong. He opened the door and they both went in.

  Mario had never seen such a cluttered room. It was a jumble of Chinese odds and ends. Everything from silk robes to chopsticks to packages of hand laundry littered the shelves and chairs. And there was a faint, sweet smell of incense in the air. Sai Fong brushed a pile of Chinese newspapers to the floor. “You sit, please,” he said, motioning Mario to the chair he had cleared. “I back soon.” And he disappeared through a door at the back of the shop.

  Mario sat very quietly. He was afraid that if he moved, he would be buried under an avalanche of Chinese novelties. In a glass case right in front of him was a row of Chinese goddesses, carved in ivory. They all had the strangest smile on their lips—as if they knew something nobody else did. And they seemed to be staring straight at Mario. He tried to look at them, but he couldn’t keep it up and had to look away.

  In a few minutes Sai Fong came back into the room. He was carrying a cricket cage in the shape of a pagoda. There were seven tiers to it, each one a little smaller than the one below, and it ended in a slender spire. The lower parts of the cage were painted red and green, but the spire was golden. At one side was a gate with a tiny latch on it. Mario wanted to own the cage so much that he tingled all over. But it looked awfully expensive.

  Sai Fong held up the first finger of his right hand and said solemnly, “This very ancient cricket cage. Once cricket who belonged to Emperor of all China lived in this cage. You know story of first cricket?”

  “No, sir,” said Mario.

  “Very good,” said Sai Fong. “I tell.” He set the cage down and took the clay pipe out of his pocket. When it was lit and a thread of smoke was curling up from the bowl, he used the pipe to emphasize what he said, draw
ing little designs, like Chinese writing, in the air.

  “Long ago, in beginning of time, were no crickets. But was very wise man, who knew all things. This man had name Hsi Shuai and spoke only truth. All secrets were open to him. He knew thoughts of animals and men, he knew desire of flower and tree, he knew destiny of sun and stars. Entire world was single page for him to read. And the high gods who lived in palace at summit of heaven loved Hsi Shuai because of truth he spoke.

  “Now from many lands came men to hear their fate from Hsi Shuai. To one he say, ‘You very good man. Live long as cedar tree on mountainside.’ To other he say, ‘You wicked man—die soon. Goodbye.’ But to all men Hsi Shuai speak only truth. Of course wicked men most unhappy when hear what Hsi Shuai say. They think, ‘I wicked man—now everyone know how wicked I am.’ So all together wicked men decide to kill Hsi Shuai. Hsi Shuai know very well they want kill him—he know everything—but he not care. Within his heart, like smell of sweetness within lotus blossom, Hsi Shuai have peace. And so he wait.

  “But high gods, who live in palace at summit of heaven, would not let Hsi Shuai be killed. More precious to them than kings was this one man who spoke only truth. So when wicked men raise swords above Hsi Shuai, high gods change him into cricket. And man who spoke only truth and knew all things now sings songs that no man understands and all men love. But high gods understand, and smile. For to them beautiful song of cricket is song of one who still speaks truth and knows all things.”

  Sai Fong stopped speaking and smoked his pipe silently. Mario sat still too, looking at the cricket cage. He was thinking about the story and how much he wanted the cage. In his matchbox Chester Cricket had listened carefully. He was very touched by the tale of Hsi Shuai. Of course he couldn’t tell if it was true, but he sort of believed it, because he personally had always thought that there was more to his song than just chirping. As usual when he didn’t know what else to do, he rubbed one wing across the other. A single clear note sounded in the shop.

  Sai Fong lifted his head. A smile curled up the ends of his ancient lips. “Ah so,” he whispered. “Cricket has understood.” He puffed a few more times.

  Mario wanted to ask him how much the cage cost, but he was afraid to.

  “Because this cricket so remarkable,” said Sai Fong, “I sell cage for fifteen cents.”

  Mario sighed with relief. He could afford that. In his pocket he found a nickel and a dime, all that was left of his weekly allowance, which was a quarter. “I’ll take it, Mr. Fong,” he said and handed Sai Fong the money.

  “I also make present free,” said Sai Fong. He went behind the counter and took a little bell, no bigger than a honeybee, out of a drawer. With a piece of thread he hung it up inside the cage. Mario put Chester into the cage. The cricket jumped up and knocked against the bell. It tinkled faintly. “Sound like littlest bell in Silver Temple, far off up Yangtse River,” said Sai Fong.

  Mario thanked him for the bell and the story and everything. As he was about to leave the shop, Sai Fong said, “You want Chinese fortune cookie?”

  “I guess so,” said Mario. “I never had one.”

  Sai Fong took down a can from the shelf. It was full of fortune cookies—thin wafers that had been folded so there was an air space in each one. Mario bit into a cookie and found a piece of paper inside. He read what it said out loud: GOOD LUCK IS COMING YOUR WAY. BE READY.

  “Ha he!” laughed Sai Fong—two high notes of joy. “Very good advice. You go now. Always be ready for happiness. Goodbye.”

  SEVEN

  The Cricket Cage

  That same night, after the Bellinis had gone home, Chester was telling Harry and Tucker about his trip to Chinatown. The cat and the mouse were sitting on the shelf outside, and Chester Cricket was crouched under the bell in the cage. Every minute or so, Tucker would get up and walk around to the other side of the pagoda. He was overcome with admiration for it.

  “And Mr. Fong gave Mario a fortune cookie too,” Chester was saying.

  “I’m very fond of Chinese food myself,” said Harry Cat. “I often browse through the garbage cans down in Chinatown.”

  Tucker Mouse stopped gaping at the cricket cage long enough to say, “Once I thought of living down there. But those Chinese make funny dishes. They make soup out of bird’s nests and stew out of shark fins. They could make a soufflé out of a mouse. I decided to stay away.”

  A low rumble of a chuckle came from Harry Cat’s throat. “Listen to the mouse,” he said and gave Tucker a pat on the back that sent him rolling over and over.

  “Easy, Harry, easy,” said Tucker, picking himself up. “You don’t know your own strength.” He stood up on his hind legs and looked in through the red-painted bars of the cage. “What a palace,” he murmured. “Beautiful! You could feel like a king living in a place like this.”

  “Yes,” said Chester, “but I’m not so keen on staying in a cage. I’m more used to tree stumps and holes in the ground. It makes me sort of nervous to be locked in here.”

  “Do you want to come out?” asked Harry. He sprung one of his nails out of the pad of his right forepaw and lifted the latch of the gate to the cage.

  Chester pushed the gate and it swung open. He jumped out. “It’s a relief to be free,” he said, jumping around the shelf. “There’s nothing like freedom.”

  “Say, Chester,” said Tucker, “could I go in for a minute? I was never in a pagoda before.”

  “Go right ahead,” said Chester.

  Tucker scrambled through the gate into the cage and pranced all around inside it. He lay down, first on one side, then on the other, and then on his back. “If only I had a silk robe now,” he said, standing up on his hind legs again and resting one paw on a bar. “I feel like the Emperor of China. How do I look, Harry?”

  “You look like a mouse in a trap,” said Harry Cat.

  “Every mouse should end up in a trap so nice,” said Tucker.

  “Do you want to sleep in the cage?” asked Chester.

  “Oh—could I!” exclaimed the mouse. His idea of luxury was to spend a night in such surroundings.

  “Sure,” said Chester. “I prefer the matchbox anyway.”

  “There’s only one thing,” said Tucker, stamping with his left hind leg. “This floor. It’s a little hard to sleep on.”

  “I’ll go over and get a bunch of paper from the drain pipe,” volunteered Harry Cat.

  “No, it’ll make a mess,” said Tucker. “We don’t want to get Chester in trouble with the Bellinis.” He hesitated. “Um—maybe we could find something here.”

  “How about a piece of Kleenex,” suggested Chester. “That’s nice and soft.”

  “Kleenex would be good,” said Tucker, “but I was wondering—” He paused again.

  “Come on, Tucker,” said Harry Cat. “You’ve got something on your mind. Let’s have it.”

  “Well,” Tucker began, “I sort of thought that if there were any dollar bills in the cash register—”

  Harry burst out laughing. “You might know!” he said to Chester. “Who but this mouse would want to sleep on dollar bills?”

  Chester jumped into the cash register drawer, which was open as usual. “There’s a few dollars in here,” he called up.

  “Plenty to make a mattress,” said Tucker Mouse. “Pass some in, please.”

  Chester passed the first dollar bill up to Harry Cat, who took it over to the cage and pushed it through the gate. Tucker took hold of one end of the bill and shook it out like a blanket. It was old and rumply.

  “Careful you don’t rip it,” said Harry.

  “I wouldn’t rip it,” said Tucker. “This is one mouse who knows the value of a dollar.”

  Harry brought over the second dollar. It was newer and stiffer than the first. “Let me see,” said Tucker. He lifted a corner of each bill, one in either paw. “This new one can go on the bottom—I like a crispy, clean sheet—and I’ll pull the old one over for a cover. Now, a pillow is what I need. Please look in the
cash register again.”

  Harry and Chester searched the compartments of the open drawer. There was a little loose change, but not much else.

  “How about a fifty-cent piece?” said Harry.

  “Too flat,” answered Tucker Mouse.

  The rear half of the drawer was still inside the cash register. Chester crawled back. It was dark and he couldn’t see where he was going. He felt around until his head bumped against something. Whatever it was, it seemed to be big and round. Chester pushed and shoved and finally got it back out into the dim light of the newsstand. It was one of Mama Bellini’s earrings, shaped like a sea shell, with sparkling little stones all over it.

  “Would an earring do?” he shouted to Tucker.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Tucker said.

  “It looks as if it is covered with diamonds,” said Harry Cat.

  “Perfect!” called Tucker. “Send it along.”

  Harry lifted the earring into the cage. Tucker examined it carefully, like a jeweler. “I think these are fake diamonds,” he said at last.

  “Yes, but it’s still very pretty,” said Chester, who had jumped up beside them.

  “I guess it’ll do,” said Tucker. He lay down on his side on the new dollar bill, rested his head on the earring, and pulled the old dollar up over him. Chester and Harry heard him draw a deep breath of contentment. “I’m sleeping on money inside a palace,” he said. “It’s a dream come true.”

  Harry Cat purred his chuckle. “Good night, Chester,” he said. “I’m going back to the drain pipe, where I can stretch out.” He jumped to the floor.

  “Good night, Harry,” Chester called.

  Soft and silent as a shadow, Harry slipped out the opening in the side of the newsstand and glided over to the drain pipe. Chester hopped into his matchbox. He had gotten to like the feeling of the Kleenex. It was almost like the spongy wood of his old tree stump—and felt much more like home than the cricket cage. Now they each had their own place to sleep.