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Hello, New York! – Part 02

“Um, wait a sec. Oh, the article about the suspicious gang boss ends here. Next we have the upcoming presidential election. A big feature on the leading candidate, Mr. Goldsworthy. He’s a descendant of the esteemed Puritans and comes from a wealthy family that owns a vast apple orchard.”

“I know him! He has such a nice smile. I don’t know why, but I kinda like that guy.”

Kazuya looked at Mr. Goldsworthy’s photo. “Indeed. He’s famous for his clean reputation, not involved with the Mafia or the business world. Next is about the establishment of the government’s special agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation! A mysterious gentleman named Hoover became the first director, and his creation, the Hoover Files, seems quite…”

“I don’t care about that. What’s next?”

“Wow, you really have no interest in the FBI, huh? Next is… Oh, it turned into entertainment news.”

“Read it, read it!”

“Uh… It’s about River Valentine, one of Hollywood’s iconic stars. He’s like the public hero for you Italian immigrants. Apparently, a rising European actor is going to make a cameo in his next film.”

As Kazuya read the article, Nico suddenly looked up at the winter sky as if he had lost interest. Then, without a word, he took the magazine from Kazuya’s hand, startling him, then casually returned it.

“Hey, Nico! You’re not buying it?” the stand owner barked, but Nico ignored them and walked away briskly.

Kazuya apologized, bought the magazine, and even bought a bunch of cupcakes made by the owner’s daughter. As a bonus, he received even more, increasing his load.

He started after Nico, saying, “You know, Nico, I’m starting to understand you a bit lately.”

Exiting from Little Italy into Chinatown, they gazed up at the towering Empire State Building to their right, heading west towards the southern tip of Manhattan.

Gradually, modern buildings made of reinforced concrete increased in number. Art deco skyscrapers with gold-trimmed octagonal windows. Stone tapestries carved with mythological motifs.

Passing through a small green park, they arrived at a corner known as Newspaper Row. Simple buildings of major newspaper companies stood like trees in a dense forest. Men and women in suits and black cars hurried past.

Kazuya straddled a vintage black bicycle. Nico waved his long arms, tucked the camera under his arm, then entered the building of the Daily Road newspaper.

“I’ll stop by home for a bit. Kinda worried,” Kazuya said.

“Oh, really? Wait, again?!” Nico laughed behind him.

Turning away from the building, Kazuya started pedaling his bicycle away.

The early 1930s.

In the winter following the second storm that was the Second World War.

Unlike the many countries in Europe and Asia, this vast and untouched nation was never ravaged by the flames of conflict. The magnificent United States of America, the New World, was just beginning its ascent to prosperity. Its people dreamed of success. If the nation’s history were personified, it would resemble emerging from stormy adolescence into a golden youth. The era of superstition and wonders, fueled by the mighty ancestor that was the Old World, had come to an end, paving the way for the new nation to reign as the material ruler of the world.

In the eastern expanse of the American continent lay Manhattan Island, the heart of the young prince—a land brimming with hope, a borough as fierce as it was compact.

In tumultuous New York, the winter sky stretched clear as far as the eye could see.

Leaving Newspaper Row, Kazuya traversed the Brooklyn Bridge, which spanned the East River, brushing past commuters.

The residents of this city seemed perpetually busy, and Kazuya was gradually becoming one of them. Pedaling his bike, he crossed the long bridge.

Pedaling, pedaling.

Still pedaling.

His breath was growing labored. Kazuya shivered from the chilly sea breeze. He adjusted his pea coat collar, his jet-black hair bouncing with each pedal.

Pedaling.

Pedaling.

Still pedaling.

Finally, he arrived at the end of the bridge.

Brooklyn. A quaint borough separated from Manhattan Island by a river. Known as the Jewish quarter, it was distinguished by its monochromatic black-and-white scenery.

Turning right at the bridge, Kazuya followed the river’s path. Skyscrapers of New York loomed across the water.

He turned left and entered a district resembling an intricate toy. Iron decorative plates danced in the cold wind. Narrow streets—Cranberry, Orange, Pineapple—stretched out in straight paths, flanked by leafless trees whose delicate branches trembled.

A cluster of modest yet endearing immigrant apartments, three to five stories tall, dotted the area. Access to each building was provided by concrete steps about five levels high, adorned with potted flowers that added splashes of color to the monochrome streetscape.

Kazuya’s bicycle easily traversed the narrow streets, which unlike the chaotic Manhattan, seemed like the setting of an old European fairy tale. Despite continuous pedaling, he showed no signs of fatigue.

Kazuya’s tight lips relaxed, and a gentle expression appeared in his jet-black eyes. His bicycle squeaked as it raced through the black-and-white streets.

Finally, he stopped before a small, slightly askew apartment building. It was even older than the others. The jet-black door featured a doorknob resembling a reclining dog, and there were several extra steps, about ten in total, leading up to it. Wooden flower pots sat on worn and chipped mosaic tiles.

The address was engraved on an iron plate: New York / Brooklyn / 14 Cranberry Street

As Kazuya parked and meticulously secured his bicycle, the round window on the ground floor facing the main street opened, revealing bright blue eyes and an adorable, freckled face. Sporting short red hair under a baseball cap, it was hard to tell if they were a boy or a tomboyish girl.

“Sup! Welcome back.” Though they spoke like a boy, the voice belonged to a young woman.

“Oh, hello, Ma’am. Yes, I’m back. But I’ll be off again soon.” Kazuya bowed politely.

“Kujou, was it? I think that scary beautiful lady is waiting for you.”

Kazuya was about to reply but hesitated, stammering briefly before ultimately stopping. His cheeks flushed slightly.

After finishing her favorite routine of teasing the earnest new tenant on the fourth floor, the caretaker winked and closed the window.

“G-Good day,” Kazuya said.

Then, he climbed the steps with a stack of cupcakes in both arms.

“Hey! Are you still here? Victorique?”

The apartment corridor featured low ceilings, fabric-covered walls, and black-and-white mosaic tile floors. There were no lights in the corridor. When the front door creaked shut behind him, the hallway plunged into near darkness.

Navigating with practiced steps, Kazuya went up the narrow staircase, avoiding missteps or collisions with walls and handrails. The small building housed only two units per floor—one overlooking the street, the other the small backyard.

Holding his stuff, Kazuya opened the faded pink door of the street-facing room on the top floor.

“Victori… uh?”

His voice trailed off as he tripped over something small and hard, tumbling flat on his face. Mini cupcakes in different colors—pink, orange, red, lime green—flew upward, toward the dim room’s floral-patterned ceiling.

“Whoa!”

Kazuya noticed a mound of heavy, thick books scattered like an anthill at his feet.

Brushing off the mishap, he abruptly sat up. He rose, calmly dusted himself off, and then reached out to pick up the stack of cupcakes.

The sound of a radio came from one of the two doors—one red, one black—that led to the inner rooms.

The kitchen was right next to the door, furnished modestly with a simple cabinet, a long table, and two chairs. The unit resembled the abode of a poor, newly arrived immigrant from the Old World.

Kazuya’s square-backed chair doubled as a pants press, clamping a pair of work pants between its boards. An old chair with a triangular backrest and seat sat neglected in a distant corner, reminiscent of a queen’s throne in some distant African land. One might wonder what sort of peculiar individual would befit such a chair.

Struggling with the mountain of cupcakes, Kazuya headed to the red door.

“Hey, Victorique. Are you still there?”

As his hand grasped the doorknob, bells tinkled. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere in the apartment.

“Hey, Kujou!” the voice of the red-haired caretaker came from down below. “I just remembered the rent for this month is due tomorrow! Don’t tell me you forgot!”

“I haven’t forgotten, Ma’am!” Kazuya replied, shrinking.

“If you don’t pay up, I’ll kick you out into the cold!”

“I-I understand.”

The bell’s chime stopped. Heaving a sigh, Kazuya turned the doorknob once more.