The Metropolitans

by Carol Goodman

  “Did she say anything when she gave it to you?” Joe asked.

  “Only that I would need it,” Madge said. “I thought she meant to blow my nose.”

  Walt laughed, but then looked stricken. “She must have known that Mr. January would come for it. And that she and Dr. Bean would be taken—”

  “And that they’d take my father too.” Kiku’s eyes widened. “My father hasn’t been taken to Ellis Island—he’s been kidnapped. Just like Dr. Bean and Miss Lake!”

  “She must have been afraid that might happen, too,” Walt said. “So she gave the message to Madge for safekeeping.”

  “So we could decode the rest of it,” Joe said.

  “But we need the book for that,” Kiku said. “And it’s hidden.”

  “Miss Lake said that Sir Peanut Brittle guy left clues,” Madge said, still staring at the spy’s letter. “But we don’t have the clues.”

  “Are you sure she didn’t give you anything else?” Walt asked.

  Madge emptied her pockets. She had three gum wrappers, a broken pencil stub, a brass button, and a buffalo nickel, but no other piece of paper from Miss Lake. Walt examined the handkerchief for writing, but there was only Miss Lake’s initials—VdL.

  “She must not have had time to give the clues to you,” Kiku said. “Which means . . .”

  “They’re still here somewhere,” Joe said, looking around at the disordered workroom.

  “Unless Mr. January found them,” Madge said.

  “No,” Kiku said. “Miss Lake would have hidden them. She knew we’d come looking for them after Madge found the letter in her pocket.”

  “You’re right,” Walt said. “She thought we were the ones meant to find the book—that we’re the knights in the story even if we are just kids.”

  “I don’t know about us being knights—” Madge began, but Kiku, thinking of that image she’d had of the four of them standing on the battlefield, heard the voice in her head: You have to make them believe.

  But how? she thought, but she was already opening her mouth to speak. “If Miss Lake believed we’re the knights, then that’s good enough for me.” She looked around at the others and they each nodded, even Madge, who said, “Then what are we doing standing here gawping at each other? Let’s start looking!”

  * * *

  They spent the morning sorting through the mess. Kiku said that they might as well try to put it back the way it belonged, in case anyone came down looking for Dr. Bean, and Walt eagerly revealed that he had practically memorized where everything went.

  “You must have an eidetic memory,” Kiku said.

  “Yeah, I’ve got an I-get-it memory too,” Madge said. “Tell me something once and I get the picture. But something about this picture isn’t adding up.”

  They had reassembled the shelves and put back each piece of armor, looking inside every joint and hinge for loose paper. They’d felt under the torn tapestry linings and hung them back on the walls. They’d gone through Dr. Bean’s drawers and found a box full of keys.

  “Gee,” Kiku said, “Dr. Bean’s got keys for every gallery and display case in the museum.”

  “Ha!” Madge laughed. “The doc’s a sly one. I bet he and Miss Lake had them so they could search the museum for this darn book. Those might come in handy.”

  They’d tried to move the anvil to look underneath it, but when the four of them couldn’t budge it, they figured no one else could have. Joe had thumped the walls looking for hollow hiding places. They had tested sword hilts to see if they unscrewed, and peered inside helmets—Walt getting one stuck on his head for a claustrophobic moment—for secret compartments, but the only paper they’d found in the whole room was the shreds of the water-ruined book, a torn-up newspaper, and a ledger Miss Lake kept of repairs and their costs. They had gone through each page, holding the paper up to the light for invisible writing. Walt suggested applying lemon juice to the ledger, but he couldn’t find any in the alcove where Miss Lake kept the tea things.

  “What about those cookies” Madge asked.

  “You think the clue is in the cookies?” Walt asked.

  “Nah, but I’m starving. I’d murder a cup of tea.”

  “What did Miss Lake say?” Kiku mused. “That the solution to all life’s problems could be found at the bottom of a teapot. . . .”

  Kiku’s eyes widened and met Madge’s equally wide eyes.

  “It couldn’t be,” Joe said. “It’s too obvious. Wouldn’t they have looked?”

  Walt had already lifted the heavy glazed teapot off the shelf in the alcove. “At least they didn’t break it,” he said, putting it down on the table. They all leaned toward the teapot, but no one made a move to take off the lid.

  It’s because there’s nowhere else to look after this, Kiku thought. And if it’s not there, we’ll have to admit that we can’t find the clues, and if we admit that, we’ll know we’re not the ones meant to find the book. That Dr. Bean was right. We’re only children.

  She needed to believe she could be someone other than the girl everyone saw when they looked at her, but she wondered why it was so important to the others. Of course Walt needed to find that spy after all he had seen in Germany, and Joe—well, anyone with eyes to see could tell he was running from something and if he couldn’t stop here, he’d have to keep on running. But why was it so important to Madge?

  Then she remembered how disgruntled Madge had been this morning when she’d found out her aunt Jean hadn’t come home. For all her brave talk, Madge was afraid that the magic wouldn’t turn out to be real.

  She needs it more than any of us, the voice in her head said.

  “Here,” Kiku said. “I’ll look—”

  As she put her hand on the teapot, Madge reached out and laid her hand on top of hers and then Walt put his hand on hers and Joe rested his on top of all of theirs.

  Why, it’s warm, Kiku thought. As if it were full of tea. It even smelled like the sencha her mother liked.

  “It smells like the Barry’s Breakfast tea my mother used to make,” Madge said.

  “Huh,” Walt said. “I think it smells like the honey my grandmother used to stir into her glass of tea.”

  “It smells like the sweetgrass my grandmother uses to weave her baskets,” Joe said as he lifted the lid.

  “There’s something in there!” Kiku cried.

  “A rolled-up piece of paper!” Walt said.

  Kiku reached her hand into the pot and drew out a slim scroll no bigger than a cigarette. It was tied with twine. She picked the knot apart, amazed that her fingers weren’t shaking. It could still be all a sham—

  But when she unrolled the scroll and read the first line, she knew it wasn’t.

  9

  TWO-FACED

  SEEING THE LOOK on Kiku’s face, Joe took the paper out of her hands and read aloud: “‘The story of the Two-Faced Knight is the first chapter of our heroes’ adventure.’”

  “The Two-Faced Knight,” Walt repeated. “I dreamed about a two-faced knight last night. When his helmet came off . . .”

  “His face came with it,” Madge said, shuddering.

  “And there was another face beneath it,” Kiku said, “that grinned up at the knight who killed him.”

  “That was me. I was the knight who slew him,” Joe said. Then he felt his face go hot. It sounded like he was bragging, like he thought he was a knight. “I mean . . . it was me in the dream.”

  They were all staring at him, but then he realized it wasn’t because they thought he was bragging.

  “We all had the same dream,” Walt said. “Just like we all dreamed about Mr. January.”

  “What does it mean?” Kiku asked.

  “I think it has something to do with the book,” Madge said.

  “You mean you don’t think it’s just a bunch of malarkey?” Walt a
sked.

  Madge shook her head. “Not anymore. When I was watching the knights fighting, it felt . . . real. Like something I had lived through. And when the silver knight slew the Two-Faced Knight, I felt relieved.” She turned to face Joe. “But that’s not how it felt to you, did it?”

  Joe looked down, ashamed. How did she know that killing the Two-Faced Knight in the dream had felt like striking the principal all over again? Could they all see the stain of that, like the gold dust that still clung to his hands?

  Madge startled him by touching his hand. “I think it’s because of the gold dust. It’s on my hands too. Maybe it’s how the book works its magic on the people who read it. I think it’s made us all have the same dream—”

  “We all dreamed about Mr. January before we touched the gold dust.”

  “True,” Kiku said, “So we must have been connected somehow even then because we were all called by the book.”

  “But now the gold paint is making the connection stronger,” Madge said, “like we’re becoming the people in the book. Joe was the knight with the diagonal-striped shield—”

  “That’s Lancelot’s shield!” Walt said excitedly. “Does that mean Joe is Lancelot?”

  “I’m nothing like Lancelot,” Joe said. “He was a brave knight who went around saving people and I . . . I . . .” He hesitated. “I hit the principal because he was beating my sister Jeanette.”

  “That sounds just like the sort of thing Lancelot would do,” Walt said.

  “But then I ran,” Joe said, fighting back tears. “And I left Jeanette in the Mush Hole. That’s not something Lancelot would do.”

  “Lancelot wasn’t thirteen,” Kiku said. “And I’m sure your sister didn’t want you to stay and get in trouble. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “Yeah,” Madge said. “And when we find Dr. Bean, I bet he’ll be able to talk to your school to make sure.”

  Joe nodded, grateful for their assurances, but none of them knew how bad the Mush Hole was. “We should probably read the clue before we worry about who’s who,” he said. He looked down at the paper in his hands and read it out loud.

  The story of the Two-Faced Knight is the first chapter of our heroes’ adventure. A fitting place to start, for who amongst us is not two-faced? One face we present to the world, the other we keep to ourselves. But if we never show our true face, we will never see the truth in others. Only the true of heart may set out on this road, so the first chapter lies in a place where only the truthful dare go.

  Joe stopped and turned the paper over to make sure there was nothing on the other side.

  “Is that it?” Walt asked. “No wonder Dr. Bean and Miss Lake couldn’t figure it out. It doesn’t tell us where the first part of the book is at all!”

  “It’s a clue,” Joe said. “We have to figure out the place where only the truthful dare go.”

  “Like the confessional,” Madge said. “Maybe we’re supposed to look in a church.”

  “But Sir Bricklebank hid the book in the museum,” Kiku said. “There’s lots of religious art in the museum, but I don’t think there’s a confessional.”

  “What about a Bible?” Joe said. “People put their hand on the Bible to swear to tell the truth.”

  “I suppose. Are there Bibles in the museum?” Madge asked Kiku.

  “I think so. We’ll have to look through each one.”

  “There are other things that people swear truth by,” Walt said. “In a book of Norse myths I read once, the heroes swear by a drinking cup called a bragarfull.”

  “All right,” Madge said, “we’ll look at all the beer mugs and Bibles. Jeez Louise, I wish Sir Peanut Brittle had drawn a map.”

  “Kiku knows the museum well enough,” Joe said. He wanted to let Kiku know that he was grateful for what she’d said about Jeanette, but when he looked at her, he saw that all the color had drained from her face. She was staring at a scrap of newspaper she’d picked up from the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  Kiku shook her head and handed Joe the scrap of newspaper.

  “What is it?” Madge asked, craning her neck to read over Joe’s shoulder.

  “Read it to them,” Kiku said. “They should know.”

  “It says”—Joe cleared his throat—“that Mayor La Guardia directed that Japanese nationals be confined to their homes pending decision as to their status . . . 2,500 Japanese nationals living in New York, some of whom are Japanese who were born in the United States, to be taken into custody and that . . .” He hesitated, but Kiku nodded for him to go on. “. . . the Public Safety Director of Newark ordered policemen to board all trains in Newark and to take into custody ‘all suspicious persons of Oriental character.’”

  “So you see,” Kiku said, her face so pale she nearly faded into the whitewashed wall behind her, “I can’t really help you look for the book. Maybe . . . maybe I should just go home.” She faltered. Because she has no home to go to, a voice said inside Joe’s head.

  “You can’t,” Walt said. “We’ve got to do this together or not at all. All for one . . .”

  “One for all,” Joe finished for him. One of his teachers—who hadn’t lasted long—had read to them from The Three Musketeers. “Walt’s right. We’re all in this together.”

  “Yeah,” Madge said, looking uncomfortable, “but maybe you should stay down here and tell us where to look.”

  Kiku nodded. “That’s a good idea. I’ll plan out where to search. I’ve got some maps of the museum and catalogues of the exhibits in my father’s office. I’ll get them and come back here.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a real smile. She looked like Jeanette had when she would try to please the teachers. Joe thought of what the clue had said. One face we present to the world, the other we keep to ourselves. But if we never show our true face, we will never see the truth in others.

  “I’ll stay here with Kiku and run messages back and forth,” he said. “That’s what I’m best at anyway. Running.”

  10

  THE EGYPTIAN BOY

  “DO YOU THINK Joe and Kiku are mad at us?” Walt asked as they walked around the Egyptian gallery. They had decided to go through each of the galleries looking for items that had something to do with truth telling and that had an opening that could be reached into. Walt had out his notebook to write down objects that looked promising. He had devised a rating system based on size, openings, and cultural lore relating to lie detection.

  Madge’s method was slightly different. She had already stuck her hand into a canopic jar (You know they kept organs in that, Walt had pointed out) and now she had her head in a sarcophagus. Walt’s question was partly to get her to take her head out before the guard saw her. But also he felt bad about leaving Kiku and Joe behind in the workroom.

  “Why should they be?” Madge asked, her voice echoing inside the sarcophagus. “It’s not our fault the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.”

  “No, but it’s not Kiku’s fault either, and I feel like we should be standing by her more. You know, to show we don’t think it’s fair to round up people just because they’re Japanese.”

  “But some of those people could be spies,” Madge said, batting a cobweb out of her hair. “They could even be part of Mr. January’s group who are planning to attack New York.”

  “But a lot of them are probably innocent people like Mr. Akiyama and Kiku. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

  They had stopped in front of a painting of a young boy with dark liquid eyes that reminded Walt of someone. “News flash, kiddo,” Madge said, “the world isn’t fair. Not everyone is your friend. I’d think you of all people would know that. And that you’d want anyone connected with Hitler rounded up and put away where they can’t do any harm.”

  “Yes, but it reminds me of how the Jews were treated in Germany,” Walt said, looking at the boy’s dark brown eyes to avoid looking
at Madge. “First they said we couldn’t have jobs in the civil service and universities, then we couldn’t be citizens. Then they rounded up ‘enemies of the state.’ No one spoke up for us or tried to stop it. I . . .” Walt felt his face go red, and he looked away from the painting. He’d realized who it reminded him of. “A boy I went to school with before I was kicked out said, ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be so bad. They’re just putting you someplace together to be safe.’ Safe from what? I wondered. That’s when my parents got me on the Kindertransport list to be taken out of Germany. So I’d be safe. My mother wrote a few months later that they had managed to get to France, where they were supposed to be safe, but then the Nazis invaded France. I haven’t heard from them in three months, and I’m beginning to suspect that they’re not safe at all.”

  “But that’s completely different,” Madge said. “We’re not Nazis. We won’t hurt those people. And if they’re really not spies, I’m sure they’ll be A-okay.”

  “Maybe,” Walt said. People acted differently when they felt threatened. He remembered how the old shopkeeper on the corner who used to smile at him and give him free candy had stopped looking at him. “Still, I feel weird that Kiku has to stay downstairs while we’re up here. I guess the least we can do is find this thing for her. And I don’t think it’s here. I’m going to go check out the Roman art. They were big on swearing the truth. Are you coming?”

  Walt walked away quickly, hoping Madge wouldn’t see that his eyes were filling with tears. She had nearly caught up with him in the Great Hall when a voice shouted at them. “You two chill-drun! Stop!”

  The sharp bark sounded like the German soldiers when they ordered someone to halt in the street. He’d seen an old man who hadn’t stopped get shot in the head. Madge grabbed his arm and tried to pull him toward the columns on the south side of the hall, but Walt couldn’t move. He stood frozen as Miss Fitzbane marched toward them, the heels of her alligator shoes going off like the gunshots that had killed that old man, her bulging girdle swishing like an angry cat’s tail behind her.