Hurray for Ali Baba Bernstein

by Johanna Hurwitz

  “I thought you wouldn’t notice. I wasn’t gone very long,” said Ali Baba.

  “Of course I noticed,” said Ms. Melrose. “I wouldn’t be a very good teacher if I didn’t notice that a student of mine had disappeared. I had to phone the school office and report you missing.”

  “Did you think I was kidnapped?” asked Ali Baba. “Are the police looking for me?” It was an exciting possibility.

  “I didn’t know,” admitted the teacher. “I had better call the school and tell them that you’ve turned up. Now go and pick out a book. I will have to think about how you are going to be punished.”

  “Punished?” asked Ali Baba. “All I did was go home and get my library card.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you had left your card at home this morning when I asked the class?” asked the teacher.

  “I didn’t want you to be angry,” said Ali Baba.

  “So I am angry now instead,” she said, but she smiled as she said it. “I think your punishment is that you will have to be my partner all the way back to the school building. I don’t want to have to worry about losing you again.”

  “All the way back to school?” asked Ali Baba.

  “All the way,” said Ms. Melrose.

  Ali Baba joined his classmates at the bookshelves. Ms. Melrose helped him to select two biographies. One was about George Washington and the other was about Abraham Lincoln. “Neither of these men told lies,” she said. “They were both known for their honesty.”

  “Maybe neither of them left their library cards inside the pockets of library books underneath their beds,” said Ali Baba. “Maybe they would have told a lie then.”

  Ms. Melrose went over to the shelves and selected a third book. “Perhaps you should read this biography instead,” she said, handing it to Ali Baba. “It’s about a man with a vivid imagination. The world needs people like that.”

  Ali Baba looked at the book. It was about Thomas Edison.

  “Did he ever tell lies?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Ms. Melrose. “You will have to read the book to find out.”

  The students lined up and checked out their books. Then they put on their jackets and walked down the steps out of the library building. This time, instead of being at the end of the line, Ali Baba was up at the front. He walked all the way back to school next to Ms. Melrose. It was supposed to be a punishment, but it wasn’t bad at all. Ali Baba thought he wouldn’t mind being punished like that every day.

  2. ALI BABA AND THE CASE OF KELLY’S DELI

  Ever since he was very young, Ali Baba had been intrigued by mysteries. He loved television programs and movies that showed how mysteries were solved. He tried to imitate the detectives and the private eyes that he had seen on the screen. He knew that a good detective kept his eyes open at all times. No detail was too insignificant. Everything was a potential clue. And so every day at school and at home, Ali Baba watched carefully and noted all. He considered himself the private eye of the public school. Who knew? Perhaps someday he would solve a really big mystery and make a real name for himself.

  Ali Baba was always on the lookout for things that seemed suspicious. Recently he had become aware that his neighbor Mr. Salmon had been behaving strangely. Ali Baba lived on the sixth floor, and several times in recent weeks, when he had ridden in the elevator, Mr. Salmon had been there, too. Mr. Salmon was a large, balding man with a mustache and a small beard. His wife was a tiny woman only half his size.

  Once Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein had been speaking about the Salmons and Ali Baba learned that Mr. Salmon worked at home as a C.P.A. That in itself was quite strange. Ali Baba didn’t know what C.P.A. meant, but he didn’t think it could be good. If his neighbor was a doctor or a lawyer or a salesman, wouldn’t he come out and admit it? Hiding his business behind some mysterious initials seemed very suspicious to Ali Baba.

  The first few times he had found himself in the elevator with Mr. Salmon, Ali Baba occupied himself with trying to figure out what the letters C.P.A. stood for. Captain of the Police Association? Criminal and Pirate Activities? Chief of Private Arsonists? It was about the third or the fourth time that they were riding up together in the elevator that Ali Baba realized that Mr. Salmon always got off on the fifth floor. There was nothing wrong with getting off on the fifth floor of the building if you lived there. But Mr. Salmon lived on the seventh floor. Certainly this was most peculiar and suspicious behavior.

  Ali Baba decided that the next time he was in the elevator with Mr. Salmon, he would get off on the fourth floor and quietly walk up the stairs and spy on his neighbor. He also kept a lookout for Mr. Salmon when he was out on the street. That’s when he discovered that Mr. Salmon spent a lot of his time in Kelly’s Deli.

  Kelly’s Deli was just around the corner from where Ali Baba lived. His mother, who did most of her shopping once a week in the large supermarket three blocks away, nevertheless always seemed to be out of groceries at crucial moments. Hardly a day went by that she didn’t need an extra quart of milk or a half-dozen eggs. It was a nuisance to have to run these errands all the time, but it did give Ali Baba a chance to keep his eye on the neighborhood. Everyone used Kelly’s Deli. So Ali Baba wasn’t surprised the first time he discovered Mr. Salmon in the delicatessen when he went on one of his mother’s emergency errands.

  As Ali Baba paid for the jar of mayonnaise his mother had sent him to get, he watched Mr. Salmon. He had bought a wedge of cheesecake from the row of cakes that were displayed behind the glass divider at the counter. Ali Baba had often admired the cakes. There was a fudgy chocolate one that looked especially delicious, but his mother had never, ever bought any of them. Now he watched as Mr. Salmon removed the cheesecake from the paper bag in which it had been placed and began to devour it right inside the store. It was gone in about three mouthfuls.

  Ali Baba watched as Mr. Salmon licked his upper lip, then took a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed his mustache and lips. Ali Baba felt thirsty at the thought of eating a whole piece of cake without a single drop of milk to wash it down. However, Mr. Salmon did not seem to miss a glass of milk, and after crushing the paper bag, he set it on the counter and walked out of the store.

  Cheesecake Partners Association?

  The second time he met Mr. Salmon in Kelly’s Deli, the man was eating again. When Ali Baba walked into the store, he saw Mr. Salmon standing off to the side and holding a large slice of carrot cake on a paper plate. What made the carrot cake look so delicious was that it had fluffy white frosting on top and between its layers. Mr. Salmon succeeded in eating the carrot cake in just a few bites. It was almost suppertime, and Ali Baba thought he would die of hunger as he watched Mr. Salmon chew up his last mouthful of cake.

  When Ali Baba got back to his building, Mr. Salmon was waiting for the elevator. The man and the boy got into it together. Ali Baba pushed six, which was his floor. Then he noticed that Mr. Salmon had pushed five. It reminded him that he was going to spy on his neighbor, and so he pushed number four. The elevator started up, and when it reached the fourth floor, the door opened. If Mr. Salmon thought it strange that Ali Baba got off at the wrong floor, he didn’t comment.

  Ali Baba dashed up the stairs and was poised near the top step, panting for breath, when the elevator stopped on the fifth floor. The door opened, and although he could not see him, he heard Mr. Salmon get out. The elevator doors closed again, and Ali Baba listened. He wondered what Mr. Salmon was going to do on the fifth floor. Did he stop to visit someone? Was he going to pass on some secret messages or a secret parcel?

  He heard Mr. Salmon’s footsteps. The older man had begun walking up the next flight of stairs. Was it possible that he knew that Ali Baba was hiding nearby, so he wasn’t going to deliver his message after all? Slowly Mr. Salmon climbed up step after step. And quietly, waiting until his neighbor was a flight ahead of him and therefore not in view, Ali Baba followed. Mr. Salmon paused briefly on the sixth floor and then continued to the seven
th. Ali Baba followed behind. On the seventh floor he crouched behind the stairwell and listened as Mr. Salmon opened a door with a key. Even without checking, Ali Baba knew the man was opening his own door. Why had he gotten off at the fifth floor? Had he realized that he was being followed? There was something fishy about Mr. Salmon and his activities.

  On the day that Ali Baba Bernstein was nine years, four months, and twenty-nine days old, his mother again asked him to go to Kelly’s Deli. She wanted a jar of olives to use in a new recipe she was going to make for supper. As Ali Baba didn’t like olives, he knew he would spend half his mealtime picking the olives out of his portion. It seemed unfair that he had to go and purchase the olives if he wouldn’t be eating them. Still, once he arrived at Kelly’s Deli, he was glad he was there.

  Standing in front of the glass case, studying the various pastries, was Mr. Salmon.

  “The cheesecake is extra fresh today. We just got it in this morning,” said the man behind the counter, who Ali Baba had always assumed was Mr. Kelly.

  Mr. Salmon shook his head. “I don’t feel in the mood for cheesecake just now,” he said.

  “How about a nice slice of pecan pie?” offered Mr. Kelly.

  Mr. Salmon again shook his head. “No, not today.”

  Suddenly an idea occurred to Ali Baba. Could it be that the cakes and pies in Kelly’s Deli were a sort of code? Did carrot cake mean one thing and cheesecake mean another? If Mr. Salmon selected a particular dessert, would he really be telling Mr. Kelly about some sort of a deal? Perhaps cheesecake meant “Meet me at the bank” or “I have the documents for you.”

  Ali Baba watched as Mr. Salmon chose a slice of the fudgy chocolate cake. It had three layers, and each was attached to the others by a thick frosting that made Ali Baba’s mouth water just looking at it.

  C.P.A. — Chocolate, pure and appetizing? Crime Patrol Anonymous? Citizens for a Proud America? Convicted Prisoners Association? The possibilities were endless. And the number of cakes on display seemed endless, too. How could Ali Baba ever break the code and discover just what Mr. Salmon was up to?

  He was so busy trying to work out the mystery of the cake code that he bought olives without pimientos, although his mother had especially reminded him that she wanted olives with pimientos. As a result, when Ali Baba got home, he was told to go back to Kelly’s Deli again. As he went down in the elevator, he wondered where Mr. Salmon was. Although he had left Kelly’s Deli, he hadn’t returned home after devouring his chocolate cake. If he had, Ali Baba would have seen him. When Ali Baba entered Kelly’s Deli for the second time that day, his question was answered. Mr. Salmon hadn’t gone home. Although Mr. Salmon had left the delicatessen before Ali Baba, he had, like Ali Baba, returned there again.

  C.P.A. — Counterfeit Presidential Agency? Ali Baba just couldn’t figure out what was going on. Mr. Salmon wasn’t buying any cake this time.

  “I want a pound of the health salad,” he said, pointing to a display of cut-up fresh vegetables.

  That seemed a very strange order coming from Mr. Salmon. He must have realized that Ali Baba was listening to him and changed his tactics. Or else the change from desserts to salad meant a complete change in Mr. Salmon’s plans. Ali Baba was becoming more and more certain he was watching a spy in action.

  “Anything else?” asked Mr. Kelly.

  “Yes. I’ll have a quarter of a pound of sliced turkey breast.”

  It was stranger and stranger.

  Mr. Salmon paid for his purchases and left the store. Ali Baba quickly explained to Mr. Kelly about his error. Luckily olives with pimientos cost the same as olives without. So it was a simple matter to exchange the one for the other, and Ali Baba was out of the shop within seconds. He raced home, hoping to catch up with Mr. Salmon.

  The heavy, bearded Mr. Salmon was waiting at the elevator. He was holding the paper bag with his purchases. The elevator stopped at the ground floor. Mrs. Cummings, who lived on the third floor, got off. She nodded to Mr. Salmon. Ali Baba wondered if she knew what he was up to. “Nice day,” said Mr. Salmon with a smile. That was suspicious, too. It looked as if it might rain any second.

  Mr. Salmon got into the elevator and pushed five. Ali Baba resisted the desire to push four. His mother was waiting for the olives, and besides, Mr. Salmon was already suspicious of him. So Ali Baba pushed six. When the elevator reached the fifth floor, Mr. Salmon sighed. He did not get out. Instead, he leaned over and pushed seven, which was his correct floor. Now Ali Baba was more suspicious than ever. What was this man up to?

  C.P.A. — Chocolate Pastry Association? Communist Party of America! Ali Baba stood looking at his bearded neighbor. The elevator reached the sixth floor and Ali Baba got out quickly. He knew he had to do something, but he didn’t know what. He was convinced that while he had been buying olives, important American secrets had been delivered to Kelly of Kelly’s Deli. Health salad instead of cake. It had to mean something!

  Mrs. Bernstein was waiting impatiently for the olives. “I have to slice them up and mix them in the casserole,” she explained as she took the bag from her son.

  She tried to open the narrow jar. Her face turned quite red with effort, but she did not succeed. Ali Baba watched as she tapped the sides of the lid with a knife. Then she tried to turn the lid. Again she failed. Next she ran hot water over the jar. But it didn’t seem to make any difference. The lid refused to come off. Ali Baba grinned. Maybe he wouldn’t have to pick olives out of his supper after all.

  “You try,” said his mother. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  It wasn’t fair to ask him to prove his superior strength by opening a jar of olives that he wished would stay shut. But in the end it didn’t matter. Although he put all his might into it, Ali Baba also failed to open the jar of olives.

  Mrs. Bernstein sighed. “Your father won’t be home until six o’clock,” she said. “I need this jar opened now.”

  “Do you want me to take it back to Kelly’s Deli?” asked Ali Baba. It would be embarrassing to have to ask Mr. Kelly to open the jar for him. But perhaps Mr. Salmon would be in the store passing some new message.

  “I have a better idea,” said Mrs. Bernstein. “Mr. Salmon works at home. He should be upstairs now. Take this jar up and ask him if he can open it for us.”

  “Mr. Salmon?”

  “Yes. You know, he lives right above us, in apartment 7G.”

  Of course, Ali Baba knew that. He just couldn’t imagine asking an enemy agent to open a jar of olives. Still, it would be a chance to peek into his apartment. Ali Baba took the jar from his mother and walked up the flight of stairs to apartment 7G. He rang the doorbell and waited.

  “Who is it?” called Mr. Salmon from inside. He opened the little peephole in the door to look out. Perhaps he was expecting another spy.

  Ali Baba waved the jar of olives so that Mr. Salmon could see it. “My mother asked if you could open this,” he said.

  The door opened. Mr. Salmon looked much fatter when he wasn’t wearing a jacket. He looked too fat to be a spy, but maybe that was part of his disguise. Who would expect a fat, slow-moving man like him to be a C.P.A.?

  Surprisingly, Mr. Salmon was strong enough to open the jar. He removed the lid, then removed one of the olives, too. He popped it into his mouth. “Just a small payment,” he said as he chewed it up. And then he took another.

  “I don’t like olives,” said Ali Baba.

  “Unfortunately, I like everything,” Mr. Salmon said with a sigh. “That is my downfall.”

  Ali Baba stood in the doorway and wondered what Mr. Salmon meant. Did his downfall mean that he was going off to jail? Had someone else detected him passing secret messages at Kelly’s Deli?

  “I joined OA, but it hasn’t helped at all,” Mr. Salmon explained. He took another olive, then handed the jar to Ali Baba.

  “What is OA?” asked Ali Baba. Since Mr. Salmon seemed ready to spill the beans, Ali Baba was not going to stand around guessing what those letters m
eant.

  “Overeaters Anonymous. I’ve been put on a strict diet, and I’m supposed to do exercise every day, too. You’ve probably noticed that I sometimes get off the elevator on the fifth floor. The doctor said that if I walked up those two floors every time I come into the building, I’d burn up five hundred calories in a week. Five hundred calories! I can consume five hundred calories in three minutes. It’s a losing battle.”

  Mr. Salmon looked so unhappy that Ali Baba handed him the olive jar again. Perhaps another olive would cheer him up.

  Mr. Salmon shook his head. “Do you know how many calories are in one stuffed olive?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Seventeen,” said Mr. Salmon.

  “That’s not much,” said Ali Baba.

  “True. But no one ever eats just one olive. They’re like peanuts or potato chips. Eat one and you want another.”

  Ali Baba knew that wasn’t true. He loved peanuts and potato chips, and he could eat dozens of them. But he couldn’t eat one olive.

  “I’m a C.P.A. I work with numbers all day. But half the time when I’m supposed to be working on someone’s accounts, I’m really counting up the number of calories I consumed. I have charts, graphs, everything. And they all show just one thing — I eat too much.”

  “I don’t think you’re too fat,” Ali Baba lied. He was suddenly feeling sorry for this huge man who was always hungry.

  “Tell that to my wife. The first thing she is going to ask me when she gets home from work is if I bought any cake at Kelly’s Deli.”

  “Hey,” said Ali Baba suddenly. “Would you be interested in running with me? I did some running the other day and it was fun. I thought I’d go running in Riverside Park. But my father said he didn’t want me to go off running by myself. If we went together, I wouldn’t be alone, and you would lose a lot of weight.”

  “You know, that’s not a bad idea,” said Mr. Salmon. “I even bought a pair of running shoes once. But mostly I wear them when I go out to the deli.”