“You’ll never lose weight that way,” warned Ali Baba.
“I know.” Mr. Salmon sighed.
“I guess I better take these to my mother,” said Ali Baba. He had suddenly realized that he was still holding the olive jar in his hand.
Mr. Salmon nodded. “Sorry if I chewed off your ear,” he said.
Ali Baba rubbed his ears. “It’s okay,” he said. “You helped me solve a mystery.” He now knew that chocolate cake and cheesecake were not part of a secret code after all. They just meant that Mr. Salmon loved to eat.
“Really? What sort of mystery was that?”
“Never mind,” said Ali Baba. “But could you just tell me what C.P.A. means?”
“Sure,” said Mr. Salmon. “I’m an accountant. C.P.A. means Certified Public Accountant.”
“Oh. Thanks. And thanks for opening the jar, too. I’ll ring your bell when I get home from school tomorrow. We can go running then, if you want.”
“Perfect,” said Mr. Salmon.
Ali Baba Bernstein walked back down the stairs with the half-empty jar of olives. It was a relief to know that his neighbor wasn’t an enemy agent after all. Still, he was a little sorry, too. It had been exciting to consider the possibility. But at least he had found himself a running partner. And who knew? Perhaps when he was out running, he would find another mystery to solve.
3. ALI BABA BERNSTEIN, KING FOR A DAY
On the Tuesday in November that Ali Baba Bernstein was nine years, five months, and twenty-seven days old, school was closed. It was Election Day, and while citizens aged eighteen and over were voting, and the teachers at his school were holding an all-day conference, the students were free to do as they wished. At least that’s what Ali Baba thought. His mother had a different idea.
“We’re going shopping today,” she informed her son when he was eating his breakfast. “You need new underwear, and I need new towels.”
“I wanted to play with Roger today,” Ali Baba protested. “I don’t want to go shopping.”
“You played with Roger yesterday, and you’ll see him in school tomorrow,” said Mrs. Bernstein.
“But today’s a school holiday. Who wants to buy underwear on a holiday?” Ali Baba grumbled. It didn’t seem fair that his mother should make plans for him. Sometimes he wished he were king of the world. Then no one could tell him what to do.
“It won’t be so bad,” his mother tried to assure him. “We’ll have lunch out, and we’re going to a part of New York where you’ve never been. Maybe you’ll see a few new things.”
“New things? What new things?” asked Ali Baba crossly. “New underwear?”
“One never knows. Just keep your eyes open,” suggested Mrs. Bernstein.
Ali Baba always kept his eyes open, except when he was sleeping. But his mother was right. Even though there was nothing he hated more than shopping, going to a new neighborhood might prove revealing. There was always the possibility of observing some mysterious goings-on that he would have missed had he stayed home. And so, with that thought, Ali Baba finished his bowl of cornflakes and finished his complaining.
They took a subway to lower Manhattan. “I heard of a store that has wonderful bargains,” Mrs. Bernstein told her son over the rumble of the subway train.
Ali Baba nodded his head as he looked around. The train was filled with people going off to unknown destinations. He wondered if anyone else in the subway car was in need of new underwear. He wondered if anyone was off on a secret mission. Most of the people looked half-asleep, but perhaps that was the way you had to look if you were on a mission. If you looked alert and eager, you might give yourself away.
They got off the train at Houston Street and walked two blocks. Ali Baba smiled to himself as they passed several Chinese restaurants. Maybe they could go to one of them for lunch. He thought of himself crunching down on a mouthful of crisp Chinese noodles, and he licked his lips in anticipation.
Mrs. Bernstein stopped and pulled out a piece of paper from her pocket. On it she had written the address of the store she was looking for. “It must be at the end of this street,” she said, and sure enough, in another moment they had reached their first destination: Barney’s Bargains — The Home of the Underwear King.
Who would have imagined a king on this street, thought Ali Baba as his mother opened the door and motioned for him to follow. Inside, behind the counter, was a balding man with a big smile. Ali Baba supposed he was Barney the Underwear King, even though he was only wearing a plaid flannel sport shirt and a pair of slacks. He’d always assumed that kings wore long flowing robes and crowns on their heads.
“My son needs new underwear,” Mrs. Bernstein said. “Undershirts and pants. He needs socks, too.”
The king smiled at Ali Baba. “Young man, take off your jacket. Let me see what size you need.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ali Baba replied as he unzipped his jacket and took it off.
Mrs. Bernstein gave her son a poke. “Behave yourself,” she hissed at him.
But the Underwear King beamed. “I like you,” he said to Ali Baba. “You have a sense of humor. That’s a good thing to have, believe me.
Ali Baba nodded as the Underwear King took a tape measure and held it up against his shoulders, then measured his waist.
“Here you are,” he said, showing Mrs. Bernstein packages of undershirts and pants. “Now, as to socks, do you want hundred-percent cotton, or do you want nylon? There’s a special on cotton tube socks,” he added quickly. “Three pairs for the price of two, today only.”
“We’ll take six pairs of the ones on sale,” said Ali Baba’s mother.
“Smart woman!” said King Barney. “Anything else? How about pajamas? T-shirts? What about a fancy dress shirt for a special occasion?”
Mrs. Bernstein shook her head. “No, he doesn’t need anything else today.”
“What about you? Panty hose? Slips? Bras? I have everything here at fantastic prices.”
“No, not today,” said Mrs. Bernstein. “Perhaps I’ll be back another time for those things.”
“Your husband? He must need something. Shirts, socks, a nice bathrobe, a new tie?”
“Nothing. No, this is all,” said Ali Baba’s mother. “What do I owe you for these things?”
The Underwear King began adding up the prices of the underwear and the socks. He showed Mrs. Bernstein the total, and she paid him.
“Come back again soon,” he said as they took the shopping bag he gave them.
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Ali Baba, bowing low. It wasn’t every day that he met a king, even if it was only a king of underwear.
“Now the towels,” said Mrs. Bernstein when they were back out on the street.
“Is there a towel king?” asked Ali Baba.
“Don’t be silly,” said his mother. “I was very embarrassed the way you spoke to the man in that shop. He isn’t a real king. I was afraid you were going to get down on your knees and kiss his hand, the way you were acting.”
Ali Baba hit himself on the forehead. “I forgot,” he said. “I saw it in a movie once, but I forgot to do it.”
“This is the United States. We don’t have royalty here,” said his mother. “That man is no more a king than you or I.”
Ali Baba didn’t say anything, but he didn’t agree with his mother. How could someone call himself a king if he wasn’t? Of course, they had seen the Underwear King.
They hadn’t walked more than half a block when Ali Baba spotted another Chinese restaurant. The sign in the window read EGG ROLL KING.
“Look at that!” said Ali Baba. “If the owner of that restaurant came from China, he could have been a king there.”
“In China they had emperors, not kings, and they don’t have them anymore,” said Mrs. Bernstein.
Ali Baba was not convinced. He liked the idea that in this section of New York there was royalty.
Ali Baba found the towel store incredibly dull. Who could enjoy an entire store filled onl
y with towels and sheets and pillowcases? There were some blankets, too, but none of those things were exciting. Ali Baba leaned against one of the counters and waited while his mother deliberated between sea-blue towels and sky-blue ones.
Finally she made a decision in favor of sea blue, only to discover that there were no matching washcloths left in that shade. What a waste of time, Ali Baba thought. When the sky-blue towels and washcloths were packaged and paid for, they walked out of the shop.
“When are we going to eat?” asked Ali Baba.
“Soon,” said Mrs. Bernstein. “I just want to look in that pocketbook store we passed on the way here.”
“You didn’t say anything about buying a pocketbook,” complained Ali Baba.
“I didn’t know there was a sale there,” said his mother.
As they walked back, Ali Baba discovered a store that he hadn’t noticed before. The Donut King was just across the street from the pocketbook store.
“Can I go and buy a doughnut?” begged Ali Baba. “I’m going to die from hunger.”
“All right,” agreed his mother. “Here is some money. But don’t leave the store. Wait right there and I’ll meet you.”
Ali Baba took the money his mother handed him. When the light turned green, he crossed the street, eager to eat a doughnut and to meet another king.
Inside the doughnut shop was a counter with three people at it, drinking cups of coffee and eating doughnuts. Behind the counter there was no king. Standing there, pouring coffee, was an elderly woman. Perhaps she was the king’s mother. Or his wife.
Ali Baba sat down on one of the empty stools and studied the list of doughnuts: sugared or honey-glazed, chocolate-covered or plain, filled with jelly or cream or custard, round or cruller-shaped. The possibilities seemed endless.
“What do you want?” asked the woman.
“First I want to meet the king,” said Ali Baba. “Then I’ll have a doughnut.”
“What king?”
“The Donut King. I already met the Underwear King this morning, and now I want to meet the Donut King.”
“You mean Harry? He’s the owner. He has the flu, and he won’t be coming in today. What about the doughnut? What kind do you want?” asked the woman.
It was a disappointment not to meet the king, but Ali Baba found solace in a chocolate-covered doughnut.
“Do you want some milk?” asked the woman. The pin on her stained white jacket read MILDRED.
“Hmm,” said Ali Baba, nodding his head in agreement.
Mildred poured him a glass of milk.
“Tell me about Harry,” said Ali Baba. “Is he like a king at all?”
“Well, he has a gold tooth,” Mildred said, laughing. “It’s right in front,” she said, pointing to one of her own front teeth to demonstrate. “So you can’t miss it when you are talking to him. But otherwise he’s a pretty ordinary guy. Just like everyone else around here.”
“I wish I could see a real king,” said Ali Baba. “You know, the kind they have in storybooks.”
“That kind don’t exist anymore, except in Europe or someplace,” said Mildred.
Ali Baba sighed. It was too bad. Perhaps his mother was right after all.
The door to the shop opened, letting in a gust of cold air and Mrs. Bernstein.
“Look at this,” she said as she held out a tan leather pocketbook. “It was a real bargain.”
“Do you want a doughnut?” asked Mildred, looking at Mrs. Bernstein and the new pocket-book.
“No thanks. I just came to pick up my son.”
“He’s a real sweet kid,” said Mildred. “You’re doing a good job bringing him up.”
“Why, thanks,” said Mrs. Bernstein.
Ali Baba licked the chocolate off his fingers and got down from the stool. “Okay, Mom. I’m done,” he said.
He paid Mildred for his doughnut and milk, and even remembered to leave her a quarter for a tip. Then they were on their way again. “Now will we go and have lunch?” asked Ali Baba.
“Lunch? You just had a snack,” said his mother.
“But I’m still hungry.”
“We’ll have lunch in a little while,” said Mrs. Bernstein. “But as long as we’re down in this neighborhood, I want to see if I can pick up a nice sweater for your father.”
Ali Baba was getting bored as they walked on to the sweater store. However, his mood lifted quickly when he saw where they were headed: The Sweater Palace. Who lived in a palace? A king! Ali Baba couldn’t wait to enter the store.
There were two men working behind the shop’s huge counters. Behind them were shelves and shelves of sweaters in every shade imaginable. Mrs. Bernstein began speaking with one of the men. Ali Baba could see that this was going to take a long time. However, being in a palace, he was determined to locate the king. He walked over to the unoccupied salesman and addressed him.
“Are you the king of the Sweater Palace?” he asked.
“My brother and I are co-owners,” said the man, smiling. “Does that make me a king?”
“Which of you is the oldest? The oldest son always inherits the kingdom and the throne,” said Ali Baba, remembering the fairy tales he had read when he was younger.
“It just so happens we are twins,” said the salesman. “I’m Fred, and that’s my brother Ed over there. Our parents were so excited when we were born that they couldn’t even remember which of us was born first.”
“No kidding?” said Ali Baba. He turned to look at the other twin, who was speaking to Mrs. Bernstein. He was showing her the various types of sweaters that he had in stock. The two men did look alike. They matched like two sleeves on the same sweater.
“I’ve noticed a lot of kings in this neighborhood,” said Ali Baba. “There was an Underwear King named Barney, an Egg Roll King, and a Donut King who has the flu.”
Fred nodded his head. “Any man can be a king,” he agreed. “It’s no big deal. Around here you could call yourself a king, too, if you wanted to.”
“I’d like that,” said Ali Baba. “I could be King of the Davids. In the Bible there was a King David. But I would be King of all the Davids.”
“Fine, if that’s what you want,” said Fred.
“Wouldn’t it be great to be a real king over everyone?” asked Ali Baba. “To be in charge of the whole world?”
Fred shrugged his shoulders. “Some kings were good, and some were bad. But the worst thing about kings was that they had their job for life. You couldn’t vote them out of office like we can vote for the president or the governor or the mayor. And another thing — their sons automatically became the next king, even if they were stupid or wicked.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ali Baba said.
“Listen, kid, I can’t talk anymore. I just remembered something,” said Fred. He called over to his brother. “Ed, I’m going off to vote. I’ll be back in ten or fifteen minutes.”
Ed looked up from the pile of sweaters he had set out on the counter. He nodded to his brother. Ali Baba marveled that they did look very, very much alike. He walked over to his mother. The sweaters looked very much alike to him, too. He wondered how she would ever be able to make a decision. But eventually, just as Ali Baba thought he would collapse with exhaustion, she made her choice. Ed rang up the sale and put the sweater in a box.
“So long, Ed,” said Ali Baba as they walked toward the door.
“How did you know my name?” Ed asked.
“I know a lot of things,” said Ali Baba.
“Now we’ll stop for lunch,” said Mrs. Bernstein when they were out in the cold November air again. “Look,” she said, pointing to a store just ahead of them. “We can eat there if you want.” The sign read BURGER KING.
Ali Baba shook his head. “No,” he said. “Couldn’t we have Chinese food? Please.”
So the two of them crossed the street, and on the next block they found the China Castle. It was the perfect place for lunch, even though it wasn’t a real castle, and Ali Baba w
asn’t a real king.
4. ALI BABA MEETS SANTA CLAUS
In the first place, Ali Baba Bernstein was nine years, six months, and twenty-three days old, much too old to believe in the existence of Santa Claus. In the second place, Ali Baba was Jewish. That meant that he and his parents did not celebrate Christmas. Still, he knew all about Santa Claus from storybooks and television shows and from the tales his classmates told. Nevertheless, it was still a major surprise to get off the bus on his way home from school and to see Santa Claus walking toward him.
Ali Baba was not alone. Natalie Gomez the second-grader who lived on his street, got off the bus at the same stop and stood beside him.
“Look over there!” said Ali Baba, pointing toward the short, heavyset man with a thick head of white hair and a long, flowing white beard. “He sure looks like Santa Claus, doesn’t he?”
Natalie’s jaw dropped open. For a moment she didn’t say a word to Ali Baba. Even though he was wearing dark slacks and a tweed overcoat, she also recognized the man. “It is Santa Claus,” she whispered. “I know it’s him. I would recognize him anywhere.” Her voice was full of awe. After all, it wasn’t every day that you met Santa Claus walking down Broadway. “He lives at the North Pole,” Natalie reminded Ali Baba. “That’s a lot of bus and subway stops away from here.”
“It’s halfway around the world,” Ali Baba informed her.
“I wonder why he isn’t wearing his red suit?” Natalie asked as the man came toward them.
“Use your head,” Ali Baba told the little girl. “If he wore his bright red suit with the white fur trim, everyone would be chasing after him. That’s a disguise that he has on now.”
“Let’s follow him,” said Ali Baba as the man approached still closer.
“We can’t do that,” Natalie said with a gasp.
“Why not?” asked Ali Baba. “Don’t you want to see where he’s going?”
Natalie nodded her head. “But he might get angry. Then he won’t bring us anything for Christmas.”
Hurray for Ali Baba Bernstein Page 3
