Relief rushed through Arbeely. “Agreed.”
The men clasped hands. Maloof took one last melancholy look at his new ceiling, and left.
Matthew was still sitting on the floor next to the tin desert, which now lay almost entirely in shadow. The boy raised a hand and traced the peaks of a nearby mountain range, hovering above the tin’s surface, as if afraid to touch—or, Arbeely thought, as though he were imagining his fingers to be hawks or falcons, skimming the mountain crests, traversing the backbone of the world.
“Thank you, Matthew,” Arbeely said. “You were a great help to me today.”
Matthew gave no reply. An impulse struck Arbeely: he must somehow make this strange, solemn boy smile! He said, “Would you like to meet my assistant Ahmad? The one who made this ceiling?”
That earned him the boy’s full attention.
“Then come back tomorrow, after school, if it is all right with your mother. Will you do that?”
A vigorous nod, and then Matthew clambered to his feet and up the stairs. He did not actually smile, but there was a lightness and energy to his small frame that hadn’t been there before. Then he was gone; the door slipped shut behind him.
“Well,” Arbeely said, alone in the empty shop. “Well, well, well.”
Night was falling, and still Saleh followed the glowing man. It seemed inconceivable that they were still in New York. The frigid wind sliced through his clothing. His wrenched arm had gone numb, and his legs trembled with fatigue. A memory rose: a carved wooden lamb attached to a string, with wheels for hooves. His daughter’s favorite toy. She would pull it around the courtyard for hours, calling “baaa, baaa,” the lamb trailing behind her. He grinned, rictuslike, fixed his broken vision on the glowing man, and kept walking. Baaa.
On and on they went, until the buildings to either side of them turned from glass-fronted shops to gigantic brick houses behind tall black fences. Even with his shadowed vision he could see the gleam of marble columns and rows of lighted windows. What business could the man possibly have here?
At perhaps the most magnificent house of all, his quarry slowed, then continued past it and turned a corner. Saleh caught up and poked his head around the corner in time to see the glowing man step through a metal fence. There was a rustling of branches.
He stumbled over to where the man had vanished. Two of the fence’s bars were gone. Beyond was nothing but a dense and forbidding wall of shrubbery.
The glowing man had gone through, hadn’t he? Then so could Saleh.
He stepped over the bottom rail, nearly tripping into the hedge. There was a narrow space between the hedge and the fence, and he wormed his way along it, crabbing sideways, until he was free. He stood at the edge of an enormous garden that ran the length of the mansion, and was bordered by a high brick wall. Even in the dead of winter, the garden had a stately, formal grace. Dark evergreen borders marked out empty flowerbeds. Along the wall, austere, leafless trees stood pinioned, their branches trained into candelabras. Next to the house sat a patio with a marble fountain, its basin full of rotting leaves.
The glowing man, it seemed, had disappeared—but then Saleh looked up, and saw him climbing the face of the mansion, snaking from drainpipe to railing. Saleh goggled. Even in his youth, he could never have accomplished such a feat. The man reached one of the larger balconies on the top floor, vaulted over, and disappeared from view.
The Jinni stood on Sophia’s balcony, the door handle unmoving beneath his hand. Locked. He cupped a hand to the glass and peered inside.
The room was dark and uninhabited. Large white drop cloths shrouded her writing desk and dressing table. The bed had been stripped of its linens. Sophia Winston, it seemed, was no longer at home.
He’d never even considered she might not be there. He’d pictured her as a princess trapped in a brick-and-marble palace, waiting for her release. But of course that wasn’t so. She was a wealthy young woman. Likely she could go wherever she wished.
His anger and anticipation began to drain away. Had he been in a better mood he might have laughed at himself. What to do now? Go back to Washington Street, tail between his legs?
As he stood pondering, the door on the other side of Sophia’s bedroom opened. A woman in a plain black dress and apron entered, carrying a large feather duster.
She saw the Jinni and froze. The duster fell from her hand.
The maid’s piercing scream rattled the windowpanes as the Jinni cursed, vaulted onto the railing, and grabbed for the drainpipe.
Saleh stood, wavering, in the middle of the garden.
Perhaps, he thought, I should sit down to wait.
In the next moment his legs crumpled beneath him like straws. The frozen ground cradled him, bleeding his heat away. The windows and darkened balconies stared down at him. His eyes drifted to the roof, where four chimneys stood in a line above the gables. Smoke wafted gray-white from one of them. So many chimneys, for only one house.
His eyes drifted closed, and the noise of the world receded. Waves of fatigue washed over him, almost like the contractions of a woman in labor. As though his musings had come to life, he thought he heard a woman scream. At last a slow, dreamy warmth rose in his core and began to spread throughout his body.
Someone tried to peel back one of his eyelids.
Irritated, he tried to bat the hand away, but his arms could barely move. He cracked open his other eye, then squinted against a glare.
The glowing man was crouching in front of Saleh. “What are you doing here?”
Leave me alone, Saleh said, I’m trying to die. All that came out was a croak.
There was a shout, and distant sounds of a commotion. The glowing man hissed something unintelligible. “Can you stand? No—you’ll be too slow—”
With almost no effort the glowing man bent down and hoisted Saleh over his shoulder. Then he turned and ran.
All hope of a peaceful death fled as Saleh hung over the glowing man’s back, his head lolling and banging. The mansion disappeared as the glowing man dragged Saleh through the hole in the fence. Saleh couldn’t see the men following them, but he could hear the slaps of their shoes, their angry English shouts.
The glowing man ran faster, ducking down alleys, turning right and then left. Saleh jostled on the man’s shoulder and cried out against a wave of agony. For a long moment the world went away. When his eyes opened again, cobbles and pavement had turned to a forest floor. The air smelt of cold water. The trees gave way to open sky, and the pavement of a carriage path sounded under the glowing man’s feet—and then they were plunged into forest again.
Time slowed, turned elastic; and then the glowing man was lowering him carefully from his shoulder, leaning him against what felt like a wooden wall.
“Stay here,” the glowing man said. “Don’t move.” And then he was gone, soft footsteps running away.
Saleh hitched himself up on the wall and peered around. There was a dusty window inches from his nose. It looked into a large storeroom, where neat lines of wooden rowboats lay on their sides, their oarlocks threaded with thick chains. He turned his head in the other direction, and decided that his senses had indeed left him—or he’d died after all and simply not noticed—for spread before him was a vista of incredible beauty. He was at the edge of a frozen lake that stretched away to either side, its shore curving sinuously, closely edged with bare-limbed trees. At the far side of the lake—he blinked, and tried to wipe at his eyes, but it was still there—a tall, winged figure floated above the frozen water. It was an angel.
He laughed once, raw in his throat. At last.
But the angel did not move. It only hovered, as if waiting. Considering.
Footsteps, and then the glowing man’s voice: “They’re still looking for us—can you walk?” But he could make no answer, and darkness overtook him.
He woke again when the Jinni set him on his feet. Lake and forest had disappeared; they were on a city street. “You must walk,” the glowing man said, impati
ent. “We’ll be too conspicuous if I carry you.”
“Where are we?” Saleh croaked.
“West of Central Park.”
Saleh took a few steps, leaning on the man’s arm. The pain in his legs was unbelievable. He retched once, but nothing came up. He saw the glowing man grimace with distaste.
“I was nearly caught because of you,” the man said. “I should have left you there.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You might have led them back to me.”
Saleh took one more step, and his legs buckled. The glowing man caught him before he hit the pavement.
“This is intolerable,” the man muttered.
“Then leave me here.”
“No. You accosted me once, and now you’ve followed me. I want you to tell me why.”
Saleh swallowed. “Because I can see you.”
“Yes, you said that before. What does it mean?”
“There’s something wrong with my eyes,” Saleh said. “I can’t look at anyone’s face. Except for yours.” He looked up at the man, into the flickering light behind his features. “You look as though you’re on fire, but no one else seems to notice.”
The glowing man regarded him in wary silence. Finally he said, “And you look half-dead. I suspect you need food.”
“I don’t have any money,” muttered Saleh.
The glowing man sighed. “I’ll pay.”
They found a plain, clean-looking cafeteria, full of men coming off their evening shifts. The glowing man bought two bowls of soup. Saleh ate slowly, afraid to overtax his stomach, holding his injured arm carefully at his side. The soup warmed him, an honest heat. The glowing man didn’t touch his own bowl, only watched Saleh. Finally he asked, “Have you always been like this?”
“No. It started ten years ago.”
“And you can’t see faces at all?”
Saleh shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I can’t see faces . . . as they are. They have holes in them.” His throat tightened. “Like skulls. If I look at them, I develop nausea and seizures. And it’s not just faces—the whole world is distorted. I suspect it’s a type of epilepsy, affecting my sight.”
“How did this happen?”
“No,” Saleh said. “I’ve told you enough. Now tell me why I can see you.”
“Perhaps I don’t know.”
Saleh laughed, harshly. “Oh, you know. That much, I can see.” He ate another spoonful of soup. “Is it some sort of illness?”
The man’s face hardened. “What makes you think I’m ill?”
“It seems logical. If healthy people look dead to me, then perhaps a sick man would appear whole and glowing.”
The man gave an insulted snort. “What use is logic, when it takes you so far in the wrong direction?”
“Then tell me,” said Saleh, growing irritated.
A long pause, while the glowing man regarded him. Then he leaned forward, peering deep into Saleh’s eyes, as if searching for something. Saleh froze, feeling giddy as the glowing face filled his vision. He could feel his pupils dilating against the light.
The man nodded, leaned back. “I can see it,” he said. “Barely, but it’s there. Ten years ago, you were still in Syria, weren’t you?”
“Yes. In Homs. What can you see?”
“The thing that possessed you.”
Saleh froze. “That’s absurd. A girl had a fever. I treated her, and I caught it. The fever caused the epilepsy.”
The glowing man snorted. “You caught more than a fever.”
“Bedouin such as yourself might believe in these superstitions, but it’s simply not possible.”
The glowing man laughed, as though he had a secret hidden in his pocket, and was waiting for the right moment to bring it out.
“All right, then,” Saleh said. “You say that something possessed me. An imp, I suppose, or a jinni.”
“Yes. Probably one of the lower ifrits.”
“Oh, I see. And what evidence do you have?”
“There’s a spark deep in your mind. I can see it.”
“A spark?”
“The smallest ember, left behind. The mark of something passing.”
“And I suppose,” Saleh said sarcastically, “it wouldn’t have been visible to any of the half-dozen doctors who examined me.”
“Not likely, no.”
“But you can see it.” Saleh laughed once. “And who are you, that you have this ability?”
The man smiled, as though he’d been waiting for Saleh to ask. He picked up his soup spoon, a twin to Saleh’s: thick and ugly metal, built to withstand years of customers. He glanced around, as if to ensure their neighbors weren’t watching. Then all at once, he crumpled it like paper into his fist. His hand began to glow more brightly—and then molten metal spilled into the man’s untouched bowl. The soup exploded with steam.
Saleh pushed back from the table so quickly his chair overturned. The other diners turned to look as he stumbled to his feet. The glowing man was wiping his hand nonchalantly on a napkin.
The scaffolding of rationality and reason that held Saleh together began to tremble at its base.
He turned and lurched for the door, not daring to look back. Only once he was on the street did he remember how cold it was, and that he had no hope of making it back alone. But none of that mattered. He had to get as far as possible from that thing, that monstrosity—whatever it was—that had sat across the table from him, speaking like a man.
His injured shoulder slammed into a pole, and a field of stars broke out over his eyes. Dizziness reached up for him, familiar and awful.
He awoke sprawled across the sidewalk, a froth on his lips. Men were stepping around him; a few were bent over, speaking to him. Quickly he looked away from their faces, stared instead at the sidewalk. A pair of shoes came into view. Their owner crouched down; the glowing man’s beautiful, horrible face hovered inches above his.
“For the love of God,” Saleh panted, “just let me die.”
The Jinni paused, as if truly considering it. “I think not,” he said. “Not yet.”
Saleh would’ve fought the man off if he’d had the strength. But once more he was lifted and carried, like a child this time instead of a sack of grain, held tight against his captor’s chest. He closed his eyes against the shame of it. Exhaustion pulled him under.
He surfaced once, briefly, on the Elevated. He moaned and tried to stand, but was held down by a pair of glowing hands, and fell back into sleep. His fellow passengers glanced over their newspapers, and wondered what their story was. When he woke again, he was slumped in a doorway within sight of Maryam’s coffeehouse. Painfully he stood and hobbled down the steps. Down the street the glowing man’s head was like a second moon, dwindling into the distance.
As he deposited Saleh in the Washington Street doorway, the Jinni wondered if he too had gone mad. Why hadn’t he done what Saleh had requested, and left him to die? Even worse, why had he revealed his nature?
He passed Arbeely’s darkened shop, and only then remembered the cause of his long day’s misadventure. Anger blossomed, fresh and painful. By now Arbeely had certainly dismantled the ceiling. He couldn’t bear to go in and check; he’d put in too much effort to see it turned to scrap.
So intent was the Jinni on these thoughts that he didn’t notice the man lying in front of his hallway door until he nearly tripped over him. It was Arbeely. The tinsmith lay curled in a ball, head pillowed on a folded scarf. Quiet snores drifted from his half-open mouth.
The Jinni stared down at his sleeping visitor for a few moments. Then he kicked the man not very gently in his side.
Arbeely shot upright, blinking, his head knocking against the doorframe. “You’re back.”
“Yes,” the Jinni said, “and I’d like to go inside. Should I guess at the password, or do you mean to ask me a riddle?”
Arbeely scrambled to his feet. “I’ve been waiting.”
“I can see that.” He opened the door, an
d Arbeely followed him in. The Jinni made no move to turn on the lamp; he could see well enough and had no wish to make the man feel comfortable.
Arbeely peered around in the gloom. “You don’t have chairs?”
“No.”
Arbeely shrugged, sat down on a cushion, and grinned up at the Jinni. “Maloof bought the ceiling.”
He’d so resigned himself to its loss that the Jinni was caught speechless. “It didn’t take long to find him,” Arbeely continued brightly. “I had to pay a boy named Matthew ten cents. He runs errands for Maloof, the rents and such. You’ll meet him tomorrow.” He looked around. “Why do you keep it so dark in here?” Without waiting for a reply, he stood and went to the nearest lamp. “Where are your matches?”
The Jinni only stared at him.
Arbeely laughed. “Of course! How silly of me.” He gestured at the lamp. “Would you?”
The Jinni removed the glass, turned the valve, and snapped his fingers over the jet. The gas burst into blue flame. “There,” he said. “You have light. Now tell me your story straight, beginning to end, or I will summon a hundred demons from all six directions of the earth and make them torment you till the end of your days.”
Arbeely stared. “Goodness. You could really do that?”
“Arbeely!”
Eventually the entire tale came out. As the Jinni listened, the day’s anger and frustration turned to glowing pride. Vindication, from Arbeely’s own mouth!
“I don’t think your tale will be complete without an apology,” he said when Arbeely was done.
“Oh, really?” Arbeely crossed his arms. “Then, please. I’d love to hear it.”
“I, apologize? You were the one who wanted to destroy the ceiling! You said Maloof would never purchase it!”