Arbeely was stoking the forge when the Jinni came in. “Good morning,” the man said. “Would you mind watching the shop? I have errands to run, and then I’m going to see Matthew’s mother. I’m not sure she knows how much time he’s spending here.” When the Jinni didn’t respond, Arbeely looked up at him, and blanched. “Are you all right?”
A pause. “Why do you ask?”
Arbeely wanted to say that the Jinni looked sick at heart, as though he’d lost something of immense value and spent all night searching for it. But he only said, “You look ill.”
“I don’t fall ill.”
“I know.”
The Jinni sat down at his bench. “Arbeely,” he said, “would you say you’re satisfied with your life?”
Oh God, thought Arbeely, something’s happened. Nervously he considered his response. “It’s difficult to say. But yes, I think I’m satisfied. Business is good. I eat well, and I send money to my mother. I work hard, but I like my work. There are many who can’t say as much.”
“But you live far from your home. You have no lover that I’m aware of. You do the same thing every single day, with only myself for company. How can this possibly satisfy you?”
Arbeely winced. “It’s not as bad as that,” he said. “Of course I miss my family, but I’m more successful here than I ever could have been in Zahleh. Someday I’ll go back to Syria, and find a wife and start a family. But for now, what more do I need? I’ve never wished for riches, or adventure. I just want to make a good living, and have a comfortable life. But then, I’m not exactly a complicated man.”
The Jinni let out a hollow laugh. Then he leaned forward and put his head in his hands. It was a startlingly human gesture, full of weakness. Chagrined, Arbeely busied himself at the forge. Were the Jinni anyone else, Arbeely would have steered him toward a comforting talk with Maryam. But of course the Jinni couldn’t do this, not without leaving out everything that mattered. Was he himself the Jinni’s only confidant? The thought made him want to pray for them both.
Perhaps he could offer a distraction, at least. “I’ve been thinking,” Arbeely said. “Would you be interested in making women’s jewelry? Sam Hosseini gets a lot of business from wealthy women outside the neighborhood, looking for exotic things to wear. If we approach him with a sample, he might set aside a display for us.” He paused. “What do you say? A necklace, perhaps. Not as exciting as a ceiling, but more interesting than pots and pans.”
There was a long silence. Then the Jinni said, “I suppose I could make a necklace.”
“Good! That’s good. I’ll call on Sam after I speak with Matthew’s mother.” He left the shop with a concerned backward glance, hoping that whatever was bothering his partner would resolve itself soon.
The Jinni sat alone in the shop and watched the fire burn in the forge. At the mention of a necklace, an image had come to mind: an intricate chain of gold and silver, with hanging disks of blue-white glass, all woven with filigree. He’d never seen such a necklace before; it had simply appeared before him, like the tin ceiling. He was grateful, he supposed. It gave him something to do.
He got up to gather supplies and felt something shift in his pocket. The Golem’s square of paper. He’d forgotten all about it.
He took it out and held it warily, half-daring himself to open it. Her most secret possession, and he’d stolen it from her. The thought was satisfying, in a small and petty way, but as he held it, he felt a growing dread. It crossed his mind to destroy it, but at that he faltered too. He’d taken it almost without thinking, and now it was a weight he didn’t want.
What to do with it, then? The shop was unsafe; his own tenement room was little better. After a moment’s deliberation, he pulled back his shirtsleeve and maneuvered the paper beneath his iron cuff, fitting it between the warm metal and his skin, as though sliding a note through a crack under a door. There was just enough room. He flexed his wrist, trying to dislodge it, but the paper stayed where it was. He could almost forget it was there.
When Matthew opened the shop door a few minutes later, he spied the Jinni sitting with his back to him, bent over his work. With his noiseless footsteps he came to the edge of the workbench, just beyond the Jinni’s sight.
In one hand the Jinni held a short silver wire, clamped in a pair of round jeweler’s pliers. With the other hand he was slowly, carefully stroking the wire. Matthew watched as the wire began to take on the shimmer of heat. Then, in a smooth quick movement, the Jinni grasped the free end of the wire and bent it around the pliers so that it formed a perfect circle. He released the wire from the pliers and pinched the two ends together, fusing them. Now Matthew saw that a chain of these links dangled from the one just formed. The Jinni turned to pick up another small piece of wire, and saw Matthew.
Boy and jinni stared at each other for a few long moments. Then the Jinni said, “You already knew?”
The boy nodded.
“How?”
The boy whispered, “The ceiling. I heard you and Mr. Arbeely. You used to live there.”
The Jinni recalled the private conversation in the lobby. “Did anyone else hear?” The boy shook his head, no. “Did you tell anyone?” No. “Not even your mother?” No.
The Jinni sighed inwardly. It was bad, but it could have been much worse. “Don’t tell Arbeely you know. He’d be angry with me if he found out. Will you promise?”
A firm, wide-eyed nod. Then the boy reached over and lifted one of the Jinni’s hands. He began a careful examination, poking at the palm with his fingertips, as though expecting it to burst into flame. The Jinni watched for a while, amused, and then sent a small pulse of heat into his hand. The boy gasped and let go, sticking his fingers in his mouth.
“Are you hurt?”
Matthew shook his head. The Jinni took the boy’s hands and examined them: no red spots or rising blisters. He’d only been startled.
“There’s a price for knowing my secret,” the Jinni said. “You must help me make this necklace.” The boy, who’d started to look alarmed, broke into a wide smile. “I need many short pieces of silver wire, about the length of your thumbnail.” He cut a piece from the roll to demonstrate, then handed the boy the wire-snips. “Can you do this?”
In answer, the boy began to measure wire and cut it with great care. “Good,” the Jinni said. “Be careful not to bend them.” He’d have to tell Arbeely that the boy knew; it couldn’t be kept a secret for long. Arbeely would be furious. First Saleh, then Matthew: who’d be next? Perhaps his luck would hold, and he’d only be unmasked by half-insane men and silent children.
He rubbed absently at his cuff, wondering if she’d noticed yet that the paper was gone. Then he wrenched his thoughts away. He had work to do.
A few days later, a delivery boy pedaled his way to Washington Street and found the sign that read ARBEELY & AHMAD—TIN, IRON, SILVER, ALL METALS. Arbeely answered the knock at the door to see the boy standing there, holding a small parcel. “Afternoon,” the boy said in English, touching his hat.
“Ah, hello,” Arbeely said in his uncertain English.
“I was told to give this to a smith named Ahmad,” the boy said. “That you?”
“I’m Ahmad,” the Jinni said, rising from the workbench. “He’s Arbeely.”
The boy shrugged and handed him the parcel. The Jinni gave him a coin and closed the door.
“Were you expecting something?” asked Arbeely.
“No.” There was no return address, no marking of any kind. He undid the twine and unwrapped the paper, revealing a hinged wooden box. Inside, sitting in a nest of excelsior, was a small silver bird. Its round body tapered to a spray of feathers at the tail, and it held its head demurely turned to one side.
Ignoring Arbeely’s protestations, the Jinni cast the bird into the fire, and watched as it slumped to one side, then melted into a grayish puddle that ran among the coals. He was through with her, then. Forever. He rubbed at his cuff, and the hidden paper whispered the word back to
him: forever.
20.
DANCE HALL ATTACK MYSTERY
Victim of Unknown Assailant Near to Death While Police Wrestle with Perplexing and Contradictory Testimonies
Authorities are puzzled over the strange case of Irving Wasserman, 21, a Jew who resides on Allen Street. Three nights ago, Wasserman was the victim of blows delivered by an unknown person or persons behind the Grand Casino on Broome Street, a dance hall popular with the Hebrew youth of the area. Witnesses who came upon the injured man called for help, but the assailant or assailants fled the scene and disappeared. Wasserman now lingers close to death at Beth Israel Hospital.
Police say that descriptions given by the witnesses, mostly youth loitering outside the dance hall, were less helpful than they wished. The assailant was described variously as a man, a woman, or, even more strangely, a man dressed in women’s clothing. Still others said that two assailants, not one, fled the scene. After performing an examination of the victim at Beth Israel, physician Philip White declared his belief that the blows were too many and too severe to have been dealt by only one man, and impossible for a woman. “If I didn’t know the circumstances,” the doctor said, “I’d think he’d been trampled by a horse.”
The case was put before Sergeant George Kilpatrick, who soon discovered that Wasserman was known in the neighborhood for his many love affairs, and that he had been seen that evening arguing with one of his sweethearts. The sergeant speculated that Wasserman had been set upon by the girl’s friends or relations—though the girl in question strongly denied this—and suggested that those who’d reported a female assailant were trying to confound the police. For now, the case remains under investigation.
Spring edged its way toward summer. In Central Park, men in straw hats pulled at the oars of their rented rowboats, their sweethearts in the prows searching the banks for friends and rivals. At Coney Island, young parents ate ten-cent frankfurters while their screaming children raced down the beach. In the new subway tunnel beneath the bay, sweating men laid down lengths of track and ignored the killing weight of water above their heads.
Everyone, it seemed, had been rejuvenated by the changing of the seasons, save for one man. It had been weeks since Yehudah Schaalman had first spied the Golem at Radzin’s bakery and felt the twinge from his dowsing spell; and in that time he’d fallen into a dark depression. He spent nights awake on his thin cot, endlessly ruminating. Had she been the aim of his search? Impossible! She was only a golem! An intelligent one, and apparently blessed with abilities he hadn’t intended—but still a golem, made for drudgery and protection. If he wished, he could create a dozen of her. And yet at the sight of her, the dowsing spell had finally awakened. His dream had whispered that life eternal could be found somewhere in New York: and could not a golem, nearly invulnerable and free of the confines of a lifespan, be said to enjoy eternal life?
He tossed and turned, the sheets twisting around his bony frame, and wondered if the Almighty was playing games with him. What could he do? He couldn’t even follow her, not without alerting her to his thoughts. And all the while the Angel of Death was edging closer.
Enough, he thought. He would gain nothing from self-pity. So the dowsing spell had pointed to his golem; what of it? The spell was one of his own untested creations, and these were imprecise at best. Perhaps it was simply responding to her origins, the deathless knowledge of Jewish mystics from centuries past.
It was a thin hope, perhaps, but he couldn’t give up looking. Otherwise he might as well end his own life, and concede the Almighty His victory.
And so, fueled by dogged willpower and little else, Schaalman resumed his search. He retraced his steps, going back to the oldest Orthodox synagogues, the ones with the most learned rabbis, the largest libraries. At each, he begged an audience with the head rabbi, saying that he was a former yeshiva teacher, recently arrived in America. He was interested in volunteering his time, in whatever capacity they needed. What could the rabbi tell him about the congregation? Did it keep to the old ways, the traditional teachings?
Each rabbi, thrilled at this unlooked-for gift—volunteering, did you say?—ushered Schaalman into his office and described the virtues of the congregation, how they fought against encroaching secularism and unhealthy modern influences. Some congregations had even begun to allow the taking of snuff during the sermon, could he imagine? Schaalman would nod sadly, commiserating, and then reach over and pat the rabbi’s hand in a very particular way.
The rabbi would grow silent and still, a dreamy look on his face.
Your most precious book, Schaalman would say. The dangerous one, that you hide from your colleagues. Where do you keep it?
The first few rabbis said, I have no such book; and Schaalman released each one, watched them blink away their confusion, made his apologies, and went on his way. And then, one rabbi said:
I no longer have it.
Interesting, thought Schaalman. What happened to it?
Avram Meyer took it. God rest his soul.
Why did he take it?
He wouldn’t say.
Where is it now?
I wish I knew.
He let the man go, not daring to question him any longer—the charm caused permanent damage in longer doses, and he had no wish to leave a trail of fuddled rabbis in his wake. He wondered who Avram Meyer was, and what had happened to him.
The next day another rabbi told him the exact same thing. And then, a third.
By the end of the week, five rabbis had reported their most secret volumes stolen by this Avram Meyer, now deceased. He began to think of Meyer as an adversary from beyond the grave, a meddling spirit who floated through the city a few steps ahead of him, sniffing out books and snatching them up.
With the last rabbi, Schaalman dared to stretch the interview to one more question. Did this Meyer have any family?
A nephew, the charmed rabbi said. Apostate. Michael Levy, his sister’s son.
Schaalman left the synagogue, his mind spinning. The name was laughably common; there must be over a hundred Michael Levys in the Lower East Side alone.
And yet, he knew.
At the Sheltering House, the man in question was in his office as usual, shuffling through papers. There was a new energy in his frame that Schaalman hadn’t noticed before. But then, he hadn’t been paying attention to Levy at all.
“Someone told me,” Schaalman said, “that you had an uncle named Avram Meyer.”
Michael looked up, surprised. “Yes,” he said. “He died, last year. Who was it who told you?”
“A rabbi I happened to meet,” Schaalman said. “I mentioned that I worked at the Sheltering House, and your name came up.”
Michael gave a wry smile. “With little enthusiasm, I’m sure,” he said. “My uncle and his friends wanted me to enter the rabbinate. Things turned out quite differently.”
“He said that your uncle had a wonderful private library.” It was a guess, but an intuitive one. “I only mention it because there’s a book I’m looking for.”
“I wish I could help you,” Michael said. “I gave all his books to a charity. They’ve been sent to congregations out west. Scattered to the winds, I suppose.”
“I see,” Schaalman said, keeping his voice light. “A pity.”
“What was the book?”
“Oh, just something from my school days. I’m possessed by these sentimental whims, as I get older.”
Michael smiled. “You know, it’s strange that you mention my uncle. I’ve been thinking about him lately, and it’s partly to do with you.”
That startled him. “How so?”
“You remind me of him, somehow. I keep wishing he could’ve met you before he died.”
“Yes,” said Schaalman. “I would’ve liked that.”
“And then there’s the wedding, of course. It’ll be strange, not having him there.” At Schaalman’s blank look, Michael laughed, incredulous. “Joseph, haven’t I told you? Good lord, where is my mind? I
’m getting married!”
Schaalman put on a broad smile. “Congratulations! And who is the fortunate bride?”
“Her name’s Chava. She works at Radzin’s Bakery. Actually, my uncle introduced us. She came to America as a new widow, and he became her guardian, of a sort.” And then: “Joseph? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” His own voice sounded thin and far away. “Too much time on my feet, perhaps. I should rest, before dinner.”
“Of course, of course! Don’t neglect your health, Joseph. If I’m working you too hard, just say so.”
Schaalman smiled at his employer, and then walked unsteadily out the door.
He went out to the street and walked with no purpose, a piece of flotsam led by the swirling crowd. It was early evening, a Friday, and the sun was setting. Come the Sabbath bride, Schaalman thought, and coughed out something like a laugh. All hope that the dowsing spell had been mistaken was now fled. Creation itself was dangling his own golem before him, like a toy for a kitten to swipe at. Silly old Schaalman, the dancing fool: he once tried to outsmart the Almighty.
The evening attractions of the Lower East Side were waking for business. Patrons in their weekend best crowded outside the dance halls and theaters. Casinos and saloons spilled thin yellow light onto the street. He barely noticed any of it. Someone stumbled into him; a knife slashed at his left trouser-pocket. He watched the thief run away, made no move to follow. His billfold was safe on the other side, but even if he’d been robbed he wouldn’t have protested. This place was a reflection of Hell, of Sheol, the Pit of Abaddon. Merely a taste of what was to come.
The crowd lifted him up and deposited him in the doorway of a saloon. He went in and sat at a table. A man in a filthy apron placed a drink in front of him, a watered beer that tasted of dregs and turpentine. He downed it, and then another, and then a whiskey. A young woman in a curled yellow wig and little else sat down next to him. She asked him something teasingly in English and put a hand on his thigh. He shook his head, then buried his face in her neck and began to sob.