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The Residents of Cranberry Street – Part 04

“Up we go.”

The next room was as bizarre as expected. Hanging from the ceiling were upside-down trees and benches, and a chandelier sat upside down on the floor. The left wall was filled with bookshelves, but the books were arranged upside down. It was a room designed to flip everything on its head.

Kazuya looked around, surprised, while Victorique walked to the right wall. He followed her.

Several black-and-white photos were pinned to the wall.

“I put those up,” the woman explained.

The three of them stared at the photos.

In the first, a black-haired girl and a blonde young man were standing in a forest. The girl wore an old-fashioned dress, and the young man, dressed in shabby immigrant clothes, was sitting on a bicycle. Dense trees loomed behind them.

The old woman squinted. “This is… Arthur and me when we were young. Arthur was… about your age. I was still a child. I… fell in love with poor Arthur. He was kicked out of his house, and we got married. Well, that’s an old story.”

“Where is this place?” Kazuya asked.

“Central Park, right in the middle of Manhattan.”

Victorique pointed at the girl’s face. “Hmm. It looks like the face of the war goddess in the entrance. Were you the model?”

“Yes. That’s me when I was young. There’s a bigger statue of the same goddess in Central Park.”

Victorique pointed to the next photo. “And this? Is this your son?”

The girl, now grown, held a small child.

“Yes. My son… Edgar. He was a little unusual, like his father.”

Victorique nodded thoughtfully, then scanned the room again. Her gaze landed on the left wall full of bookshelves, each spine labeled Celtic Project, with volume numbers. There was a small gap, as if one book had been removed. Victorique’s eyes fixed on the empty space.

The elderly woman noticed and said, “There was a thick book there, but my son… took it last year. Um, THE BOOK OF… what was the title again?” She tilted her head.

Victorique, puffing on her pipe and scanning the bookshelf, replied, “This shelf is filled with books on ancient Celtic culture. And the house is called the Druid House, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband was an Irish immigrant, then?”

“That’s right. He used to brag about being a descendant of ancient Celts from Ireland. He was old-fashioned, a unique man. He took pride in ideas no one else could think of.”

Victorique smiled faintly. “You can tell just by looking at this house.”

“I agree!” The elderly woman nodded happily. “My husband worked in architecture and landscaping. His work is scattered around New York’s skyscrapers. Stations, parks, hotels, libraries. His designs were very popular.”

She paused, then suddenly remembered. “Oh, what was it you needed again?”

“Uh, chairs,” Kazuya answered.

“If that’s the case, there are plenty in the next room.”

She pressed a button next to the bookshelf. It slowly groaned open, revealing the next room.

Kazuya jumped. “Whoa!”

The room was small, filled with various chairs, tables, and chests in different styles.

“These are my collection. I gathered furniture from all over the world, like traveling. But now that I’m older, I want to share them with people who need them.”

“This one’s perfect!” Victorique murmured, pointing at an old wooden chair with a triangular backrest and seat. She walked over, sat gently, and smiled as the frills of her dress billowed softly.

The elderly woman smiled. “That’s the queen’s chair from Africa. Isn’t it lovely? And you, young man?”

“Oh, yes!” After some hesitation, Kazuya chose a simple chair with a backrest that doubled as a trouser press.

He hugged one chair in each hand, thanked her, and turned to leave. The elderly woman walked alongside, chatting.

At that moment, something rustled in the corner of the room. Kazuya stopped and turned around.

On top of an old dresser were over thirty milk bottles, each containing a bill.

Kazuya peered into the nearest bottle. “There’s a one-dollar bill inside.”

Victorique glanced at the bottle too. “Hmm. Because the back of this bill is green, people started calling money green in the New World.”

She continued walking, then stopped, took a clumsy step backward, and returned to Kazuya.

She pointed sharply at the next bottle. “The one-dollar bill shows George Washington, but whose face is on the bill in the bottle next to it?”

Kazuya leaned in to peer inside.

The next bottle held a bill almost identical to the one-dollar bill, with the same green geometric back. But the face on the front was a man with a top hat, prominent beard, large hooked nose, muscular build, and a smug smile.

The elderly woman approached. “That’s a colonial currency.”

Victorique nodded. “I see, this is it!”

Kujou looked puzzled.

Puffing on her pipe, Victorique explained, “In the mid-19th century, the Old World’s powers colonized Africa and Asia. Then, the New World expanded into Southeast Asia and even acquired Hawaii. Each nation issued paper money for use only in their colonies. These were called colonial currencies. Many types existed, but over time they became obsolete. Now, they’re just scraps of paper.”

The elderly woman peered into the milk bottles and sighed. “That’s right. I collect bills as a hobby—both current and obsolete. I display them in these glass bottles like this.”

Victorique groaned thoughtfully and removed the pipe from her mouth. “But who is this grinning man in the silk hat? I don’t recognize his face. Colonial currencies often featured important figures from finance and politics, so we can surmise that he’s likely from that group.”

“I wonder who he is,” the elderly woman said, tilting her head, then suddenly clapped her hands. “Ah! This gentleman is, if I recall correctly, Rothschild the Third of the Rothschild banking family. The Rothschilds, who started the first bank in Germany in the 18th century, dominated the financial world there, then moved to the New World and ruled the finance sector here. The current head is the fifth generation.”

She gazed wistfully at the bottle. “Even though it’s colonial currency… having his face on the bill… I wonder if Rothschild the Third was proud of it. The current head never shows his face, though. Even though he’s a well-known Finance King, hardly anyone’s seen him. Yet the face of his great-grandfather boldly appears on the bills.”

“Ah, that’s it!” Kazuya suddenly exclaimed. He pulled a scrap of paper from his wallet. “Madam, if you’re interested, you can have this.”

It was a bill from an Eastern island nation that he had taken out of a puzzle box that morning.

The elderly woman’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, how wonderful. I want it. Really? You’ll give it to me?”

She was so delighted that she handed him a green mini-dress she had worn when she was young, as well as an old black bicycle her husband had used.

Then, she gave Kujou the one-dollar bill from the first milk bottle. “Rather than rare bills… this one’s probably more useful to you now,” she said.

Kujou thanked the elderly woman repeatedly, then left the Druid House with Victorique, carrying his heavy load.

---

A sunny summer morning. At the entrance of Cranberry Street in Brooklyn, charming, miniature-looking apartments and pink-flowered trees lined both sides. From here, the massive Brooklyn Bridge loomed ahead, with the calm East River flowing beneath it. Beyond the bridge, Manhattan’s towering skyscrapers stood in the distance.

At the corner, a chic black-and-white café bustled with local customers having breakfast. The men, wearing black hats and sporting long sideburns, followed traditional Jewish attire, while the women wore heavy black clothes. Worn-out tables extended onto the street, topped with rye bread, milk, egg dishes, boiled turnips, jam, and butter.

An elderly man, reading a newspaper, exclaimed, “Oh, Kid escaped from prison!”

Nearby customers turned at once and started talking.

“Huh, he’s still alive? I thought he died forty years ago.”

“What happened to him?”

“Remember? He wrote Federal Reserve Bank, watch out! in the sky with contrails. There was a gunfight in the bank, and the floor turned into a sea of blood.”

“Only Kid survived. He got a 150-year sentence, didn’t he?”

“D’Artagnan was wild and charming. It’s a shame he died.”

“I was on Kid’s side. His smile was so cute.”

“But why did they fail that time? Something was strange.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Maria was beautiful. She was one of the female members, dressed in sexy outfits.”

“And there was Cupid. She was cute.”

“Yeah. But what’s Kid gonna do now?”

“Well, you know what he’ll do. He’ll probably…”

A soft wind blew.

One man crumpled his newspaper. “He’s going to rob a bank. Public Enemy No.7 is finally back in New York!”

“What?”

“But alone? D’Artagnan, Maria, and Cupid are gone.”

“Maybe he has new companions?”

As the customers fell silent, they all turned to look down the street.

“Huh?”

“Oh?”

“Well!”

A cool breeze blew, and something green and black flew out from Cranberry Street.

A stunning figure appeared, dressed in a deep-green mini dress with pink flower buds adorning the collar, five tiers of ruffles in green satin and pink organza, and sparkling pink high heels. Her slender legs were wrapped in silk stockings embroidered with roses. A hundred and forty centimeters tall, the living doll’s silver hair fluttered in the wind, her almond-shaped emerald eyes flickering. A small, perfectly shaped nose and glossy lips completed her features. The little pink ribboned hat perched on her head sparkled like candy  as she sat demurely on the back of an old black bicycle.

Pedaling was a young man of Asian descent. His jet-black hair stirred in the wind, and his eyes of the same color carried a look of earnestness. He wore a vintage hat and old but well-kept shoes. In his left hand, he firmly held the leather bag he’d used since his student days abroad, steering the bike with only his right.

The two passed in front of the café, heading toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Were there residents like them on Cranberry Street?” one person finally asked, breaking the stunned silence.

But there was no answer. Everyone was too mesmerized to speak, watching the bicycle pass by.

From the back of the café, a girl with short red hair and freckled cheeks peeked out. “They moved into the fourth floor of our apartment last night.”

“Where are they from? Strange immigrants, huh?”

The other customers exchanged uneasy glances.

At the round table with the caretaker, a milkman with black hair and a bakery owner with red bobbed hair both nodded and began chatting.

“I heard the woman’s from the Kingdom of Sauville. She must be nobility, right? I’ve never seen such a proud girl.”

“And the guy’s from some little island in the East. He’s kind of cute, huh?”

The other customers glanced at each other.

“Huh.”

“Really?”

The caretaker, munching on a boiled egg, said, “Anyway, they’re residents here, so be nice to them. If you have any questions, just ask us.”

The customers nodded in agreement.

“Well, if you say so.”

“If they’re from your place, it should be fine.”

“Right.”

They went back to enjoying their rye bread, boiled eggs, and fluffy Jewish-style cheesecake.