Berto's World: Stories

Berto's World: Stories
Автор книги: id книги: 1632787     Оценка: 0.0     Голосов: 0     Отзывы, комментарии: 0 557,66 руб.     (6,08$) Читать книгу Купить и скачать книгу Купить бумажную книгу Электронная книга Жанр: Публицистика: прочее Правообладатель и/или издательство: Ingram Дата добавления в каталог КнигаЛит: ISBN: 9780984651276 Скачать фрагмент в формате   fb2   fb2.zip Возрастное ограничение: 0+ Оглавление Отрывок из книги

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Описание книги

Come and spend a little time with Dr. Robert Galen, aka Berto, as he traverses the memories of the tenement neighborhood of his youth. Meet the Mad Russian&ndash;why does he always carry a meat cleaver whenever he goes to get a shave from Thomas the barber? Then there&#39;s Giuseppe&ndash;Joe the Junkman&ndash;who roams through a neighborhood too poor to throw anything away. There are the Old Guys, veterans of the Great War, one a radio repairman who returned home with shell shock, the other a shoemaker with nothing below the waist. There&#39;s Mr. Buck, the clockmaker, who shares a secret with his young apprentice. There&#39;s the Candy Lady, who isn&#39;t so sweet, and the little Jewish dentist who defeated the Nazis but falls victim to Cupid&#39;s arrow from a most unexpected direction. Be sure to meet Sal, Tomas, and Angie, Berto&#39;s pals who help him confront life&#39;s greatest mystery: the opposite sex. And above all there is his mentor, Dr. Agnelli, who along with a dead lady sets Berto along his life&#39;s path.<br><br>Come and meet them&ndash;and all of the unforgettable denizens of Berto&#39;s World.

Оглавление

R. A. Comunale M.D.. Berto's World: Stories

PREFACE

The Flower

The Mad Russian

The Tick-Tock Man

The Coal Man

The ’Bo

The Dove

The Candy Lady

The Tin Man

The Nazi

The Jew

The Junk Man

The Working Girl

The Cat

The Gnomon

The Tree

Отрывок из книги

I am now more than three-score-and-ten years old—but once I was a boy.

My name is Robert Anthony Galen, M.D., retired.

.....

About every six weeks I would show up at Mr. Putchenkov’s shop. There I would grab a broom handle—which was far taller than I was—and round up the piles of black, brown, blond, red, and gray-white hairs lying in clumps on the tile floor around each barber chair.

It used to remind me of the shaggy fur falling off the mange-laden dogs that wandered the neighborhood, often serving as large-sized cats when they chased down and ate the numerous rats living there.

.....

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