The Golem and the Jinni

  He was becoming a familiar figure among the nocturnal population of southern Manhattan: a tall, handsome man who wore no hat or overcoat, and who surveyed his surroundings with a detached, bemused air, like a visiting dignitary. The policemen found him particularly puzzling. In their experience, a man roaming the streets at night was generally looking for a drink, a fight, or a woman, but he seemed interested in none of these. They might have thought him an uptown gent slumming in costume, which happened sometimes; but when he spoke to them, which was rare, it was in an accented English far from that of the New York swell. Someone suggested he might be a high-class gigolo, but then why would he be trawling the streets like a two-penny whore? Finally, their speculations exhausted, they categorized him as a miscellaneous oddity. One of them took to calling him the Sultan, and the nickname stuck.

  On rainy nights, the Jinni stayed in his tenement room and occupied himself by practicing his metalwork. He was now making regular trips to the Bowery storefront where he purchased gold and silver, and fashioned them into small birds of every kind. He made a kestrel, with its wings outspread, building the sculpture from the base upward to distribute the weight evenly. He sculpted a silver peacock and decorated its tail feathers with melted gold, painting it onto the cooled silver with a straw from Arbeely’s broom. Soon he had amassed a half-dozen of these sculptures, all in various states of completion.

  The month lengthened, and it began to rain nearly every night. Sick of his sculptures, the Jinni took to working all night in the forge, or else merely pacing his room, waiting for sunlight. What, he wondered, was the point of emerging from the flask, if he was only to be caged again?

  Finally, on a night in early November, the rain ended and the sky cleared, revealing a few weary stars hanging above the gas lamps. The Jinni walked through the streets with swift relief. He traveled north and east, choosing his turns at random, enjoying the cold air on his face. The restlessness of his pent-up nights had turned him lonely; and now, without quite consciously willing it, he found himself heading for the Winston mansion.

  It was early enough that the Elevated was still running. The Jinni purchased his ticket and waited with the crowd; but when the train came, instead of boarding he stepped between two cars, onto the metal platform above the coupling. He braced himself and held on as the train lurched away. It was a wild, giddy ride. The noise was deafening, a rattle and screech that penetrated his entire body. Sparks from the track leapt past, blown by a violent wind. Lamp-lit windows flashed by in bright, elongated squares. At Fifty-ninth Street he jumped out from between the cars, his body still shaking.

  It was past midnight now, and the genteel thoroughfare of Fifth Avenue was nearly deserted. He reached the Winston mansion and found that the hole he had created in the fence had been repaired. He wondered what they had made of that, and smiled to think of their consternation.

  He removed the same two bars, and stepped through. The garden was dark and silent, the windows on the upper stories unlit. Climbing to Sophia’s room was even easier, now that he knew the route. In a matter of minutes he was standing on her balcony, gazing through the beveled glass.

  Sophia lay in her bed, asleep. He watched her chest rise and fall beneath the covers, piled deeply against the night’s chill. He placed a hand on the door handle. To his surprise the door moved under his hand. She had left it open—only a crack, but open.

  The hinges were well oiled, and silent. Slowly he opened the door just wide enough to pass through, and then closed it again. His eyes adjusted to the dark of the room. Sophia’s face was turned toward him, her hair tangled across her pillow. He felt an unexpected pang of guilt at the thought of waking her.

  After so long spent in his cramped room, the space felt shockingly large and opulent. The walls were upholstered in a fine, dove-gray fabric. An enormous, ornate armoire took up most of one wall. A porcelain washing basin and a pitcher of water rested on a marble-topped table next to the bed. Under his feet was a white rug, made from the hide of something large and furry. A nearby movement startled him—but it was his own reflection, multiplied in a three-paned mirror. The mirror was set on top of a narrow dressing table covered with bottles, gilt-backed brushes, small delicate boxes, and other trinkets—including the bird in its cage, looking a bit lost amid the clutter.

  He went to the dressing table and examined the mirror. Its quality was exceptional, with no flaws or distortions. He wondered at the technique; even had he all his powers, he never could have achieved such precision. Then his attention turned from the mirror to his own face reflected in it. He’d seen it before, of course, but never so clearly. A broad forehead. Dark eyes, set below dark eyebrows. A chin that came to a rounded point. A strongly angled nose. Strange, that this was truly he. In his old life, he’d never concerned himself about physical appearance; he’d merely thought jackal and become one, giving no thought to the particulars. He had nothing against the face in the mirror; he supposed his features were pleasing enough, and he was certainly aware of the effect they had on others. So why did he feel as though he’d been robbed of some essential choice?

  Movement behind him, and a gasp: Sophia was sitting up in bed, staring at him, her face white. “It’s only me,” he whispered quickly.

  “Ahmad.” One hand had raised in fright. She sighed now, and let it drop to the covers. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your door was open.” It came out awkwardly, like an excuse.

  She looked to the door, as if puzzled at its betrayal. But then she said, “I started leaving it open. After . . .” She rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath, and started again. “For a week I barely slept. I left the door open every night. And then, I decided you weren’t coming back. Some days I tried to convince myself I’d imagined the whole thing.” She said the words quietly, without emotion. “But I never could, quite.”

  “Should I leave?”

  “Yes,” she said. “No. I don’t know.” She rubbed her eyes again, but now the gesture spoke of some inner conflict. She stood from the bed and drew a dressing gown about herself, keeping some distance between them. She regarded him. “Why did you come back now, after so long?”

  “To see you again.” It sounded insufficient even to his own ears.

  She laughed once, quietly. “To see me. I thought it might be for something else.”

  He frowned. This was growing ridiculous. “If you want me to leave, you only need to say—”

  But in one brief moment she crossed the distance between them. Her arms slid around him and her lips covered his, ending his words, and then his thoughts.

  This time she allowed him to carry her to the bed.

  Afterward they lay together, beneath the tangled covers, and he held her. The sweat of her body pricked at his skin. Slowly his thoughts came back. It was strange: this second tryst had been more satisfying physically—they’d had more time to explore and respond to each other, and let their pleasure build—but he found he preferred their first. Danger and transgression had charged that encounter. Now, lying in this gigantic bed with its drapes and covers, his lover half-asleep in his arms, he felt merely out of place.

  “You are so very warm,” she murmured. He trailed a hand idly across her hip and said nothing. He could hear small movements in the house—a servant walking downstairs, the creaking of pipes. Out beyond the garden, a horse went by at a slow trot, its hooves ringing distantly against stone. He felt, against his will, his restlessness begin to resurface.

  She turned in his arms, nestling into his chest. Her hair tickled his shoulder; he brushed a few strands away. Her hand came up to entwine with his, and found the iron cuff. He stiffened.

  “I hadn’t noticed this,” she said. Her head came up from his chest as she examined it. He felt her tug at the slender chain that held the pin. “It’s stuck,” she said.

  “It doesn’t open.”

  “Then you always wear this?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s like something a s
lave might wear.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to discuss it, not in this room; not with her.

  She rose to one elbow above him, her expression worried and frankly curious. “Ahmad, were you a slave? Is that what this means?”

  “It’s none of your concern!”

  The words rang sharply between them. She flinched and pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice edged with hurt. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He sighed inwardly. She was only a child, and it was not her fault. “Come here,” he said, and reached for her. After a moment she relented, and drew in close, returning her head to his chest.

  He asked, “Have you ever heard of the jinn?”

  “You used that word before,” she said. “Is that the same as a genie? When I was young I had a picture book, about a genie who was trapped in a bottle. A man released him, and the genie gave the man three wishes.”

  Trapped. Released. If he winced at the words, she didn’t notice. He said, “Yes, the jinn can become trapped. And sometimes they have it in their power to grant wishes, though that is very rare. But every one of them is made of a spark of fire, in the way that men are made of flesh and bone. They can take the shape of any animal. And some of them, the strongest, have the power to enter a man’s dreams.” He glanced down at her. “Should I go on?”

  “Yes,” she said, her breath warm on his chest. “Tell me the story.”

  He said, “Many, many years ago, there was a man, a human king, named Sulayman. He was very powerful, and very canny. He gathered the knowledge of the human wizards and increased it tenfold, and soon he’d learned enough to gain control over all the jinn, from the highest, most powerful to the lowest, meanest ghul. He could summon any of them at whim, and give them tasks to do. He made one jinni bring him the most beautiful jewels in all the land, and made another fetch endless basins of water to feed the gardens of his palaces. If he wanted to travel, he would sit on a beautiful woven carpet, and four of the fastest jinn would pick it up and carry it with them as they flew.”

  “The flying carpet,” Sophia murmured. “That was in the story.”

  He went on, his voice a whisper, his words all but swallowed by the hush of the room. “The humans revered Sulayman, and long after his death they still spoke of him as the greatest of kings. But the jinn resented Sulayman’s power over them. When he died, and his knowledge was scattered to the winds, they rejoiced at their freedom. But it was rumored among the oldest of the jinn that one day, the lost knowledge would be found. Mankind, they said, would again be able to bind even the strongest jinni to its will. It was only a matter of time.”

  He stopped. The story had poured out of him—he could not recall ever speaking so much at once.

  Sophia stirred. “And then?” she whispered. “Ahmad, and then what?”

  He stared up at the flat white ceiling. Yes, he thought, and then what? How could he explain how he’d been bested, when he himself didn’t know? He’d pictured it often enough: a spectacular battle, the valley shuddering and the walls of his palace cracking as he traded blows with his foe. He imagined—he hoped—that it had been a close contest, that perhaps the wizard had even been gravely injured. Could that be why he had no memory of it? Had he won in the end, but too late? The frustration of not knowing coiled inside him like a viper. And how would Sophia ever understand? To her it would be a child’s tale. A dead legend, from long ago.

  “That’s all,” he said at last. “I don’t know how it ends.”

  Silence. He felt her disappointment in the tension of her body, the changing of her breath. As if it had mattered to her, somehow.

  After a moment she pulled away from him, to lie on her back. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be here in the morning,” she said.

  “I know. I’ll leave soon.”

  “I’m engaged,” she said suddenly.

  “Engaged?”

  “To be married.”

  He took that in. “Is he to your liking?”

  “I suppose so. Everyone says it’s a good match. We’ll be married next year.”

  He waited to feel jealousy; none came.

  They lay together for a few minutes more, their bodies separated, only their hands brushing. Her breathing grew more even; he surmised that she was asleep. Carefully he rose from the bed and began to dress himself. Dawn wouldn’t break for hours yet, but he wanted to be gone. The thought of lying motionless next to her for hours was more than he could bear. The button of his shirt cuff caught on the chain at his wrist, and he cursed under his breath.

  When he straightened from dressing, he saw that she was watching him. “Will you come again?” she asked.

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then I will,” he said, turning to leave; and he did not know if either or both of them were lying.

  Night fell in the Syrian Desert, a cold spring night. Earlier that day, a lone Bedouin girl and her doting father had both looked down into the valley, and seen a shining palace that could not possibly be there. And now, lying in her family’s tent beneath a pile of hides and blankets, Fadwa began to dream an unusual dream.

  It started with a mix of images and emotions, at once portentous and meaningless. She glimpsed familiar faces: her mother, her father, her cousins. At one point she seemed to be flying across the desert, in pursuit of someone. Or was she being chased? And then it shifted, and she was in the middle of an enormous caravan, hundreds of men marching through the desert, on foot and on horseback, their eyes dark and stern. She walked among them, jumping up and down and shouting, but they took no notice, and her voice was only a thin echo. She realized that this was the caravan that her father had seen when he was a young boy. It had been there all this time, traveling on its endless path. But now it was herself, not the caravan, that was the phantom.

  An unnamed fright filled her. She had to stop the caravan. She stepped directly in front of one of the men, bracing herself, clenching her fists. The impact knocked her off her feet as easily as if she were made of nothing at all.

  She spun, and fell. Dizziness took hold of her. Finally she landed with a jarring thump and lay sprawled on the ground, gripping cool, sandy soil between her fingers. She waited for the whirling to stop, and opened her eyes.

  A solitary man was standing over her.

  She staggered to her feet and took a few steps backward, wiping the dirt from her hands. He was not one of the caravan men. He wore no traveling-clothes, only a spotless white robe. He stood taller even than her father. She searched his features, and did not recognize him. His face was bare, not even a hint of a beard; and to her eyes it gave him a strikingly androgynous appearance, despite his obvious masculinity. Could he see her, unlike the caravan men? He smiled at her, a knowing smile, and then turned and walked away.

  It was clear he wanted her to follow him, and so she did, making no effort to muffle her footsteps. A full moon was rising over the valley, though some part of her knew it couldn’t be so—in the waking world the moon was waning, close to new.

  She followed him to the edge of a small hill, where he paused, waiting for her. She drew to his side, and realized that they were standing on the crest where she’d seen the mirage. And indeed, there in the valley beneath them was the palace, whole and solid and beautiful, its curves and spires glowing in the moonlight.

  “This is a dream,” she said.

  “True,” said the man. “But the palace is there regardless. You saw it, this morning. And so did your father.”

  “But he told me he saw nothing.”

  The man cocked his head, as if thinking. The world spun again—and then she was down in the valley below, looking back at where she’d just been. It was daylight. Her father was standing on the crest. She knew it was him even from this distance; and she could see, with eyes somehow stronger than her own, the shock and fear on his face. He blinked, and then backed away from the hillside; and Fadwa felt a quick stab of hurt at
his lie.

  She turned back toward the tall man, and day melted once more into night. In the impossible moonlight she studied him with a frankness she never would have shown when awake. Distant pinpricks of golden red flickered in his dark eyes.

  “What are you?” she asked.

  “A jinni,” he said.

  She nodded. It was the only answer that made sense.

  “You aren’t afraid?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, though she knew she should be. This was a dream, but not a dream. She looked down and saw her own hands before her, felt the cool earth under her bare feet; but she could also feel her other body, her sleeping body, sheltered in the warmth of blankets and hides. She existed in both places at once, and neither seemed more real than the other.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  Her back straightened. “I am Fadwa, daughter of Jalal ibn Karim, of the Hadid.”

  He bowed, matching her solemnity, though with a hint of a smile.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked.

  “Only to talk. I mean you no harm. You interest me, you and your kind.”

  He leaned back on a deep cushion, his eyes still watching her. She looked around, surprised. They were in an enormous glass room. Moonlight shone through the curving walls, bathing the floors a bright silver-blue. Rugs and sheepskins were scattered across the floor. She and the man were facing each other, seated on cushions of a beautiful weave.