Chapter Text
"When the clouds roll by I’ll come to you,
Then the skies will seem more blue."
From The Doughboy’s Book of Songs (1919)
New York, January 2. 1927
Dear Mr Kowalski,
Please don't be surprised to find this book on your counter. It had to be delivered on Sunday, since I couldn’t risk being seen gifting it to you, or even taking it into your shop myself. Everything went tiptop, though - once I gave the bearer clear and repeated instructions to leave the cash register well alone.
(He may have pilfered a chocolate coin. Bearer 2, who saw to your locks, is adamant that he did. But then, he would. Bearer 2, I regret to say, tends to "grass" on his pals when feeling under-appreciated.
Still, no pastries were harmed in the making of this delivery.)
Anyway. The book. The book is a gift, and, well. It’s a tribute. You’re a good man, Mr Kowalski. And these "critters", as I heard a little boy tell his mother through a clear puff of breath (your New York winter is as I remember it) upon leaving your shop, all your buns and breads? They, too, are good. With no purpose to them other than to sweeten, and nurture, and delight. And inspire. They saw me through a year when I often found myself in one-man places, thoughts of war at my heels, and only two things made me glad. One was to write. And the other was to picture you in your little shop, lighting your warm-hearted stove at break of day, being what you wanted to be.
A baker.
And a maker.
I, too, have made – a book. It won’t be famous. Not in the world that surrounds you, where "creature" is an insult nine times out of ten and Mr. Lindbergh has a monopoly on wings. But I hope – I really hope – that you will like it, and won’t think me a nuisance.
Wishing you the best in this newborn year,
Yours sincerely,
Newton (‘Newt’) Scamander
Sir,
Triage just sent this up. Shall I file it for you?
P. G.
Report ID: 448-2719-5311
Report date: January 4, 1927
Issued by: S. S. S. S.
Adressed to: Director Graves, D. M. L. E.
Rogue Maj presence spotted two days ago at the southwest corner of Spring Street and 6th Avenue. A cursory investigation ascertained that the Kowalski Bakery, a venue recommended by POMA for follow-up surveillance, had been entered in the owner’s absence. No verbal magic used. No wand signature. No No-Maj item reported missing. A flagrante delicto-based search produced 1 (one) human hair, crinkly, Venetian blond, and 4 (four) animal hairs, short and black. We have accordingly profiled our suspect as a young person of the female persuasion in a sable coat. Inquest postponed pending your decision.
For the Statute of Secrecy Supervision Section,
Arcanus Lee
Tina,
Indeed. "Classified", please, and initial it for good measure.
P. G.
(Better warn your sister to be careful. Or I’ll wake up to a memo that I had another Goldstein thrown in at the deep end without my informed knowledge, and I won’t be happy.)
QUEEN MABILY GOLDSTEIN, if you HAVE to call on a certain party’s day off, DON’T BREAK INTO THE PREMISES! And sables, Queenie? Sables?! I did NOT raise you to accept furs from a bachelor gentleman, no matter his status! Next Sunday you’re helping me sort out the Chicago spell records, missy, AND THAT’S THAT.
New York, January 3. 1927
Dear Mr Scamander,
Here’s round 3 of me trying to answer yours, and I betcha there’ll be a 4th. I’m not much of a writer, see, because I never know where to start. Usually, it’s the other end that gets me. I don’t know when to quit. With the war, and with the sweatshop that came after, it took me ages to find the door. But that’s all behind me now.
Okay, it’s not all true that I never write. I had a pen-pal back in ’18, and that was my Grandma Oliwia. When the word got to her that I was enlisting, she told her "doughboy" two things. One was how to make potluck bread with cornmeal and mashed potatoes. And the other was that letters are like little kids: they have their own sense of time, and, sometimes, they take the wild way home.
So I ain’t the type that gets scared when a letter finds him out of the blue, because it’s happened before. Even in Vladivostock, it did.
It’s happened before with a gift, even. Fancy that!
So I’m gonna do what I did last year with the letter that made it an all-year-round Thanksgiving, and the silver egg things that shone bright and clear, like a fairy-tale’s good morning. (I set one aside for keeps, before I got Sam at the factory to cast them into ingots.) I’m not gonna call the police, and I’m not gonna ask who the heck picked my locks when I had my back turned, leaving my place one book richer. Mister, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say: I have no idea who you are, if you’re just a body that caught sight of my breads and got ideas of his own, and hit the pen. Or if there’s more to the tale and you’re my silver-egg fella.
In the end, it don’t matter much. It’s thank you kindly, as the case may be.
Night o’clock now, with the brittle dough all set to rise. Time to leave this where I found yours. I hope your complicated won’t get in the way of my thanks, Mr Scamander, and if Bearer 1 finds his way in again, he’s welcome to the coin in the envelope. But the sweet roll is for you.
Sincere New Year greetings,
Jacob Kowalski
Weenie-Wizzies! This Is Your Book Day!
Bring Along the Grown-Ups for Tuesday’s Special Beastie Celebration!
A perfect Twelfth Night gift for any youngster with a love for fantastic pets. Get your copy of Mr Newton Scamander’s new book and, even better! get it signed by the Man In the Blueberry Coat, who has patted Hippos on the head all over the world. Only 2 Dragots, and free pumpkin soda for all!
The Thilly Thunderbird, Main Floor
Greenwitch Village
Dear Miss McDolphin,
I confirm my presence at next Tuesday’s event.
However, while I wrote my book with the general public in mind, I doubt that "tiny tots" are the best target audience. The animals in my book are no toys. With many of them, there is a terrible cast to their beauty and strength, and you may want to warn the parents about a few entries (see enclosed list).
Also, one does not pet, pat, least of all pit oneself against the average Hippogriff. Ever. What do they teach at that "best" school of yours?
N. Scamander
Dear Mr Kowalski,
Please. Please, call me Newt.
Thank you for your letter and the roll. It was v. sweet indeed and made up for the ban on milk, lemon and tea-leaves other than Mr Folger’s "instant tea-flavoured" abomination in my lodger’s kitchen. And Bearer 1 was quite pleased with the coin – until it melted on him (his stash is a bit close to my tropical quarters) and left him with a bad case of sticky paws. Poetic justice, if you ask me.
The book… is my current alibi. That is, I’m really supposed to be in England these days, only I talked my publishers into setting up a promotional tour in New York, the which I’m doing my best to do. Can’t say it’s been a hoot. I mean, everybody’s been awfully nice, it’s just that I’m not one-hundred-per-cent sure any of them has read my work.
Once (and I’m courting Manhattan-size trouble in quoting you to yourself, but I have to) you told me you liked "a good yarn last thing at night". I was faking sleep and you were reading about some fancy cat named Gustavus, your breath laughing a little as you did. Nothing fake about you. Not then, not ever. So I glanced along to where the bright lamplight had gathered around you and the book, and then - just then - I felt... impatient, I guess, because that cat wasn’t "the real deal". At all. Kneazles, now, that’s another And so I let you in on the deal. Let you into my vibrant, my unique underworld, and the more I shared it with you, the more that sharing dazzled me. Brought it home to me what an outsider I was. You were so very chuffed with everything you saw, and I was chuffed up just watching your chuff, and something in me
Sorry, sorry, I know I’m not making much sense. But not long after, when you were gone and all I had were one-sided memories and a one-way passage to England, I placed my case on my lap and used it as a portable desk. To continue the sharing. Or to get one over Gustavus, who knows.
All I know is, I started writing and I never stopped until... well, the sum of it is in your hands.
What I’m trying to say, Mr Kowalski, is that if I am your egg fella, then you owe me nothing. I am indebted to you. Because you co-hatched my book, so to speak.
Sincerely yours,
Newt Scamander
Froglet,
All quiet on the Dorset front. Well, nearly. The mater got wind of you hopping it west and owled me for your coordinates. Said she had Plans for you. Thought I’d let you know, since Mother’s latest Plan for me involved (a) my challenging Grindelwald, (b) to a game of gobstones, (c) using Basilisks’ eyes as stones. Semper paratus and all that. So I told her you were kipping with Graves. He’s a wand-in-the-mud, but he’ll know better than to side with her. Not after she "accidentally" locked the two of us in Fido’s playpen on his last visit.
Have fun, and don’t do anything I would do lady-wise. Or booze-wise. Or otherwise.
Tease
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Almighty Wands and ‘Dying a Little’: A Glossary of Grindelwaldian Innuendoes by Sigmund Silberbaum. The true – and taboo – story behind G.G.’s irresistible charisma.
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Contact MM. Booklegger & Smutelf, Tin Man Alley, Brooklyn.
Mr "Smutelf",
I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding.
N. Scamander
Hot socks, Newt! Thanks for Tuesday night! It was swell seeing you again – once they’d peeled the kiddies off your legs and arms, awww. You looked spiffy! Tina thought the same, and she’s real proud of you for making good on the book. Just saying. But, honey, can you do a girl a big favor?
It’s Jacob. Teen doesn’t want me to visit him too often, even though Mr Graves has been a real sweetheart, looking the other way. But he – Jacob, I mean – has set up that Koffeeski Happy Hour, eleven to noon. That’s when he’ll give you a cup of coffee across the counter, free gratis for nothing, and will talk a bit more with you. I went once, but… the gents at the counter, see, they want to talk to me. It’s not practical. So I been thinking, what if I bring Newt along to keep the gents off, so I can have a word with Jacob – I'll be real careful, promise. Honor bright!
Can you? Please? When you’re not too busy with the book or the beasties?
Work’s calling – gotta run!
Queenie
Dear Newt,
Ever been to Coney Island at the peak of July?
It was the one time for me, before the War. Coney was still quiet then, private, with only three or four rides on the Bowery. Nothing like today, when every good must be cranked up to a hundred an hour to bring the nickels home, and the Sunday Joes are packed like beach sardines on the sand. Back then, the beach was off reservation. But Baba Liwia had saved for a treat, and she and I had a bet that if I kept my wits (and my tummy) about me on the Red Devil, she’d buy me a frankfurter after. I loved frankfurters best after my Grandma, my Grandma's paczki, and Gentle Jesus (who produced five thousand of them on a good day and turned down the nickels), and I rode that coaster out. But when I got my land legs back, I couldn’t speak at first. My head was like a jackpot of sky and sun and long splashes of colour.
Buddy, that book of yours? It’s the ride. The jackpot. All over again.
I read it yesterday night and today first thing, waiting for the milk, and again at lunch. Some places, it wasn’t like reading. More like I could see right through the page and what was behind stared back at me. And I knew them - the beasts. The little black guy and Old Man Whiskers, with his silver coat of hair, I knew them! And, next thing I knew, I was seeing me on the ice, bolting like I was still Private Kowalski of the 8th Division and this was Siberia, 1920. But… the air was clean. It wasn’t bleeding. Or tasting like rot and frozen iron.
And there was somebody with me that made them all right, the cold and the bolting. Real close he was, his face a breath or two away, right next to me on the ice, even if I couldn’t make out any of it. And he cheering me. Newt, I never was a skinny kid, and today I’m a roly-poly man, but in that dream-picture? It felt like my heart was a big guy on its own.
I’ve only felt something like this once or twice, with a sweet young dame that comes to look at the bread. But that’s neither here nor there.
So I have to ask. Newt… was it the War? Were you there, with me, when it was so bad half the lads were chopping their brains in two and keeping half of it for what wasn’t there, so the other could hold up? Like, say, an underworld. With no man allowed, only creatures that are good and clever and bolt for the fun of it – not dear life. Because if you did, and it kinda vaporized on me, then it’s okay. It’s okay, pal. A body does what a body gotta do to see himself safe, and if it ends in a book or breads that will make folks smile, that’s the okayest thing.
I sure would smile to see all of that friend’s face.
Jacob