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Lost in Manhattan – Part 03

Victorique plummeted deeper into the abyss. Into a pitch-black void.

She clasped her head in both hands, groaning. A creepy voice reverberated from the depths of her memory.

My…

Victorique shut her eyes and hugged her head.

You’re not getting away, Gray Wolf.

“Uh… Wh-Who’s there?”

She shook her head.

This creature… my… daughter.

Uh?

Victorique felt herself being pulled away, dragged somewhere else.

A corner near the main street. Despite its proximity to the bustling road, this area was deserted and quiet.

Among the colorful shops lining the street, there stood a modest building with plain, unembellished windows fitted with simple iron grilles. Peculiar fairy sculptures protruded from the corners of the façade, silently observing the street below. The entrance had a straightforward sign that read: Italian Furniture Sculpture Import Association.

It was an old furniture wholesaler, with several black cars bearing red flags parked out front.

Tourists fled as soon as they spotted the building, saying, “It’s the Italian Mafia’s office. Let’s get out of here!”

On the fifth floor, furniture, sculptures, and tableware were neatly arranged. In one corner was an unusually luxurious sofa. A man dressed in black lounged comfortably on the seat, surrounded by young Italian men who looked like bodyguards. A destitute Caucasian man stood nervously before him, clutching a crumpled hat to his chest.

“I’ll return it by tomorrow, no, tonight, sir. Please. Sir!”

“Hmm… Very well.”

The man on the sofa pulled out a stack of bills from his pocket. The nervous man gratefully accepted it, closing his eyes in relief.

Seizing the moment, one of the guards plucked a bill from the stack, used it to blow his nose, and grinned mischievously at his comrades.

Unaware, the Caucasian man muttered, “Eddie! Eddie Sawyer! I’m coming. Hang in there. I’m coming to help ya!”

Gunshots rang out from outside the building, followed by an angry shout.

The men in black sighed wearily and glanced out the window, muttering, “Another brawl, huh?”

Kazuya raced through the city. He darted through the lower part of Manhattan, turning right and right again, in hot pursuit of the prison wagon.

“Victorique? Victorique!”

He dashed through crowded streets filled with carts, delivery bicycles, and battered wagons. He weaved through throngs of impoverished pedestrians on the sidewalks, apologizing as he bumped into people and nearly tripping. He ran, looked around, and before he knew it, he had made it through East Village.

“Wh-Where am I?”

Kazuya stopped, unfolded a map, and examined it.

He was in the neighborhood south of East Village. The map depicted the houses as round pizzas loaded with cheese, and the roads rivers of hot red spaghetti.

Kazuya looked up to see red, white, and green signs crowding either side of the street.

The smell of tomatoes, chicken, and chili peppers filled the air. Men in hunting caps, suspenders, and vests chatted animatedly. Women in sauce-stained aprons bustled about. Mountains of tomatoes, black olives, and bell peppers spilled out from a green-grocer’s storefront. On the open terraces of restaurants, young men in stylish hats and suits smoked fine cigars. It felt like he had been magically transported to another country, surrounded by an entirely different scene.

“So this is Little Italy. Wait, I have no time for this. V-Victorique!”

Kazuya ran again, weaving past chatting men, angry women, and young men who looked like gangsters-in-training.

The prison wagon he was chasing was about to disappear down the street. He trailed behind a rickshaw pulled by a laborer, overtaking it just before the intersection.

He crossed several intersections. He blinked, puzzled. He was surrounded by a completely different landscape again.

A bustling, chaotic town with signs in Chinese characters, painted in dark red and blue. Eggplants, cabbages, green onions, and large fresh fish were piled up haphazardly in front of shops. Whole pigs, pigeons, and ducks hung from the storefronts. Elderly women, bent over, sat on the streets playing board games similar to shogi. A young girl was baking round bread in a wok placed on the sidewalk, muttering “One dollar, one dollar,” like a mantra.

Muscular laborers pulled huge carts. The potent aroma of spices wafted in the air. Drums rolled and trumpets blared, loud and boisterous, as if for a festival or a funeral. Firecrackers popped and sent up white smoke everywhere.

Kazuya opened the map and quickly scanned it. A golden and green dragon was flying over an ostentatious Chinese palace painted in bright orange.

“Chinatown,” Kazuya murmured. “Uh, I have more important matters to take care of!” He put away the map and started running again.

He chased the wagon, crossing more intersections, his breathing growing heavy.

“Victorique?”

The atmosphere suddenly changed again. Having crossed through Chinatown, Kazuya found himself at the southeastern tip of Manhattan Island.

“Where am I?”

The smell of the sea drifted in from somewhere. The distant sound of men unloading cargo reached his ears. The sunlight felt even stronger.

The prison wagon stopped at a traffic light. A policeman was blowing his whistle in the middle of the intersection. Carts and trucks laden with goods bustled about.

Kazuya ran up, jumped, and clung to the prison wagon.

“Victorique! Victorique!”

The prisoners inside looked at him wearily. An older policeman got down from the driver’s seat, eyeing Kazuya suspiciously. When Kazuya began explaining about East Village, the policeman was surprised.

“You ran all the way from there?” he asked, showing Kazuya the inside of the wagon. “I’ve never seen your companion.”

“That’s impossible!” Kazuya searched inside the wagon and under the driver’s seat. But Victorique was nowhere to be found.

A young prisoner with large eyes and a large scar running from the upper right to the lower left of his face lifted his head.

I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before, Kazuya thought.

“What’s wrong? Looking for someone?” Contrary to his rough appearance, the man had a gentle, almost feminine voice. “But there’s no one here,” he said, showing Kazuya under the seats. Kazuya thanked him.

The signal changed, and the prison wagon drove off again.

Kazuya clutched his head. “Where did you go, Victorique?”

He realized he was standing alone in an unfamiliar town. Simple buildings lined the street, and carts and trucks packed with goods moved at high speed. Drawn by the smell of salt in the warm summer breeze, he turned the corner and saw the blue water shimmering under the sun.

He quickly checked his map. “It’s the East River.” A large river stretched out before his eyes. “I’ve come all the way to the southeastern tip of Manhattan. That means…” he looked around.

A bustling dock lay before him, filled with the shouts of people unloading cargo. Suntanned men operated cranes and carried boxes in groups. Squinting, Kazuya could see a row of buildings in an old residential area on the far side, across the river. For some reason, part of the town was tinged in pale pink.

“The Brooklyn Bridge should be around here. On the map, it’s depicted as an old man with a white beard.”

Kazuya trudged along, rounding the corner of a large building, and there it was—the Brooklyn Bridge. He was astonished by its size.

The bridge was impressive, with a simple and practical design. Its elegant iron arch stretched all the way to the other shore, forming a long elevated road. Black iron cables, like a spider’s web, extended into the sky, creating geometric shapes.

Men in suits, mothers with children, and elderly folks—all kinds of people were crossing the bridge.

Unlike the medieval stone bridges Kazuya was used to seeing in the Old World, these artificial iron cables glistened in the sunlight. It looked like a cold, steel beast lying in slumber.

“I wish Victorique were here to see this. A scene found only in the New World,” Kazuya murmured, recalling their conversation that morning.

“Bridges connect people, towns, individuals, and societies.”

“So, a bridge symbolizes the conscience of civilization, huh? How inane!”

Kazuya sighed. “She said she wanted to see the pink cake town on the other side of the bridge. I have to find her quickly.”

“No cakes here, but how about some ice cream, young man?”

Kazuya jumped at the sudden voice. At the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, an old wooden cart with the words Ice Cream scrawled on it stood in a modest little plot covered in lush grass. A small, elderly man in an apron was leaning against the cart, watching Kazuya leisurely.

“Oh, um, do you sell ice cream?” Kazuya asked.

“Yup. I sell ice cream in the summer and cocoa in the winter. It sells fairly well to people crossing the bridge. Welcome!” The man started selling ice cream to a group of three young women.

“Excuse me, sir,” Kazuya said hesitantly, “but have you seen a small girl with long white-blonde hair and green eyes?”

The old man shook his head. Kazuya’s shoulders slumped again.

“Quite a magnificent bridge, isn’t it?” the old man said, studying his face.

Kazuya nodded.

“It was built by former Mayor Trayton of Brooklyn. Modern, isn’t it? They said it was impossible, but he accomplished it over time. What a great man!”

Kazuya remembered reading about the bridge in the morning paper. The father of the national boxing champion was the former mayor of Brooklyn who built the bridge.