The man making coffee said something in English.

"Bolivia," I said. "Bolivia." I pointed to the wharf.

The man said something else in English, then went and served his customers.

This wasn't possible.

A policeman passed the window. I ran outside to him. "Bolivia," I said.

He looked down at me with fat, ruddy cheeks and said something in English.

I pointed to where the ship had been. "Bolivia."

The policeman shooed me away.

It couldn't have left. It must have just moved to another dock. Someone had to know.

I looked around for the Italian bricklayers. But the sidewalk in front of the shop was perfect; they'd finished the job. Well, maybe they'd be back. I leaned against the shop window and sank to my bottom, my knees pressed against my chest.

The shopkeeper showed up to unlock.

"Bolivia?" I said.

He got out a broom and shook it at me.

I ran along the waterfront. I ran and ran. But who wasI kidding? If there was a ship docked anywhere along here, everyone could have seen it from far away.

The Bolivia was gone.

I kept running, without thinking, back and forth along the wharf, back and forth, back and forth. Tears blurred my vision.

Traffic had picked up; the day was really started. Another day here. In New York, in America, an ocean away from home.

I stopped and leaned my forehead against a pole and waited for my eyes to clear. Then I walked back up the road.

"Who died?" It was Tin Pan Alley, standing on his corner, the tin cup at his feet, the triangle in his hand.

"The ship left. The Bolivia. I was supposed to go on it. But it left without me."

"That's bad." He tapped his triangle and whistled the tune about the bicycle built for two.

I stood there, too sad to move.

Tin Pan Alley reached in his pocket and took out a small brown rock. He threw it on the sidewalk. It split into shards. He scooped some back into his pocket and he put the rest in my hand.

I looked at them.

"Rock candy," he said. "An old Chinese man gave it to me."

I looked at it. "I can't take that. I bet you almost never get candy."

"How often do you get ice cream? You're not the only one who can share." He tapped his triangle again. "I haveto work hard now. The early crowd is good on Monday. Come back in a couple of hours."

"Why?" I said.

"You got something better to do?" He whistled.

I put my hands in my pockets and watched the people go by. The ship had left. Without me. But ... another had to be coming soon. This was a delay-that was all. The job now was to get ready for the next ship. That was what Uncle Aurelio would have said.

I sucked on the rock candy. The sweetness made my mouth water-and now all I wanted was real food. I went back to the produce vendor on Mulberry Street, who was polishing fruit with a towel and arranging it in piles.

"Tomatoes should go in front," I said.

He turned around. "So you're back."

"They'll catch the eye better. Red does that. Then the green zucchini should go at the back. And the onions can stay in the baskets on the ground in front of the table. All they really need is for the ones on top to be brushed off a little."

"All right, all right, you've convinced me. Go to work."

"But I need three oranges today."

"Oranges get trucked up from Florida, in the south. They don't grow around here. It's not like the south of Italy. They cost."

"I'll work as long as it takes to earn them. I'm good at sweeping, too."

He threw his towel over his shoulder. "Arrange the produce. Then we'll talk."

I worked for an hour. I put everything in its perfect place.

"Beautiful," the vendor said. "What's your name, kid?"

"Dom."

"I'm Grandinetti. Francesco Grandinetti. Can I trust you, Dom?"

"Yes."

"Let's find out. Here's a penny. Go to the corner and pick me up an Italian paper."

"Do they speak Italian at the newsstand?"

"Yes."

I bought the newspaper. Then I ran back to Gran-dinetti's.

He spread out the paper on the weighing counter inside and pointed. "What can you make of that?"

The paper was full of drawings of people with words printed in little clouds over their heads. One guy was saying he needed to use the bathroom. The other was talking about money. It didn't make much sense to me. I glanced up at Grandinetti.

"Don't worry about the words," he said. "You don't have to be able to read to get it."

"I can read," I said.

He smiled like he didn't believe me. "Most people lie and say they can read. That's why there's lots of illustrations. See? I got a customer. You look at the paper."

I turned the page. These illustrations were of people working in factories. A man yelled at them and brandished a whip. The people were small and scrawny and dark-skinned. The boss was tall and fat and light-skinned.

Grandinetti came back in and weighed carrots and lettuce and tomatoes and onions for a woman in a bright flowered dress. Her face was powdered so white she lookedsick. She watched every move he made, as though afraid he'd cheat her. She left in a haze of strong perfume.

"She watched you weigh everything," I said.

"She's a widow." Grandinetti tsked. "She's got it as hard as anyone. Most people would cheat her if they could."

"Not you."

"No. But you don't know me well enough to say that yet. Did you read the paper?"

I pointed. "Are the workers Italian?"

"Yes."

"And is the boss Irish?"

Grandinetti smiled. "You've got it all figured out."

"At church yesterday, the Italians went into the basement, while the Irish went upstairs."

"The church belonged to the Irish first. This used to be their neighborhood."

"Doesn't a church belong to whoever goes to it?" I asked.

"Spoken like an Italian, my boy. Look, the Irish fill the offering basket with money. They pay for the church. The Italians have close to nothing to give, but even if they had it, they wouldn't pay the same way. To us, the priest is like a friend. We offer him produce or a pie. We have him over to supper. So ... that's how it is ... the Irish get the upstairs."

"And they get all the jobs. So why stay here? Why not get on the next ship back to Italy?"

"Is that what your father says? Listen here, Dom. Lots of us had it rough at first. America's not perfect, God knows. In Calabria I farmed-and after living an outdoor life like that, being in the city is like being in a cage.Sometimes I can hardly stand it. But in Italy my family was always struggling. Here, we're doing better."

I tapped the illustration. "That's 'cause you're not working in a factory."

"In Italy workers get paid whenever the boss feels like it-here they get paid every week. In Italy men have to work till the job's finished, no matter how long it takes- here they work till quitting time. It's better here. Your father will get used to it. An Irish boss who pays on time is better than an Italian boss who doesn't." He waved to someone out on the sidewalk. "A customer. There's a bushel of new potatoes in the storeroom. Go through them and set the biggest ones on the floor."

I had sorted the potatoes by the time Grandinetti finished with his customer. He put the small potatoes aside and wrapped the big ones in newspaper. "The Cassone family lives on Mott, at the corner of Canal Street, left-hand side. There's a high tenement there. They're two flights up. Bring these to them, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

He handed me three oranges. "Valencias. Juicy. See you tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir."

I put an orange in each pocket and kept the third in my hand.

Sure enough, Gaetano was by my side within a half block, and his eyes went immediately to the orange in my hand.

"The ship's gone," I said.

"I know. It left last night."

I knew he'd know. "I'm a mook. I took a walk way up by this huge railway station. ..."

"Grand Central Depot? You saw Grand Central Depot? What's it like?"

"It's huge. And then I went to a giant park with ponds and people on boats. ..."

"Central Park. I can't believe you went all the way to Central Park. Did you see the swans? Did you play in the fountain?"

"And by the time I got back here it was night. I'm the biggest mook there is."

"You're not a mook," said Gaetano.

"You don't have to be nice to me," I said. "I'm going to give you this orange anyway. You earned it by finding out how to get me on the Bolivia, whether I ruined everything or not."

"I couldn't get you on that ship. The security is tight. Everyone told me it's impossible. The only way on that ship is with a ticket. So it doesn't matter whether you were late last night or not. Keep the orange."

"It's for you." I handed it to him. He tried to hand it back. "Eat it," I said. "We're friends."

"Friends." He tossed the orange from hand to hand. "This is just 'cause we're friends?"

I smiled. "Well, it's for helping me get on the next ship, too."

"Oh. Look," said Gaetano softly. "There's something else."

"What?"

"Maybe with a lot of bribing you could have gotten onthat ship without a ticket-or if not that ship, another one. I don't know. It's not likely."

"What do you mean, it's not likely? Another ship will be different," I said. "They can't all be so hard."

"I don't know, Dom. Maybe bribing would work. Only ..."

"Only what?"

"The guy I talked to said you needed documents to get on a ship-any ship-because if you get caught, the crew member gets in trouble. And the penalty for letting someone sneak on is worse if the stowaway doesn't have documents."

I practically laughed in relief. "I've got documents."

"No, you don't."

I reached into my pocket. But the folded papers the translator on Ellis Island had given me were gone. I stopped and stared at Gaetano. He looked down. His temples pulsed. "You knew they were gone. You stole them!"