Eventually she led him up the back stairs to a squalid bedroom, where she laid him down on the sprung mattress and stripped him of his trousers. He watched uncaring as she found the billfold, frowned at its contents, and removed all but one of the bills. Then she climbed on top of him. A dumb show began, a grotesquerie of the act of love; but he was unresponsive, and she soon abandoned the attempt. Shrugging, she reached behind the mattress and lifted up a tray of chipped black lacquer. Resting atop it were a thin pipe, a squat oil lamp, a metal needle, and many small lumps of what looked like tar. The girl lit the lamp, speared one of the lumps with the needle, and held it over the flame. When it began to smoke, she dropped it into the pipe, put it to her lips, and inhaled deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed in what looked like pleasure, then opened to see Schaalman watching her. Grinning, she prepared a fresh pipe and offered it to him.
The smoke was harsh and acrid, and sent his head swimming. For a long moment he thought he might vomit. Then his body relaxed, and a slow, delicious lassitude crept through his limbs. Within minutes his despair had been wholly smothered by an overpowering sense of calm and well-being. His eyelids drooped; he began to smile.
The girl giggled, watching, and then her own eyes began to close. Soon she was asleep. Looking at her, he noticed she was not so young as he’d thought: the blush on her cheek was mostly paint, the skin beneath it sallow and lined. But it did not matter. He saw now that the material world was only an illusion, thin as a cobweb. He gazed about in calm wonder. Then he found his trousers, retrieved his money, and left the bedroom.
He went through the dim hall to the back fire escape, and was about to go down to the street when he heard voices and footsteps from above. Idle curiosity made him climb the rusting stairs to the rooftop. To his surprise he found it heavily populated. A dozen young men were smoking cigarettes while girls in rags whispered to one another. Nearby, a group of children threw dice by lantern-light.
Looking over the roof, he felt for the second time the bone-deep pull of his dowsing spell. Even in his altered state, it was impossible to mistake. Every man, woman, and child, even the roof itself—all of it seemed unbearably interesting, a fascination that grabbed at his soul.
Joy suffused him, so strong he thought he might weep again. He drifted across the roof, looking at each of their faces, trying to guess at the meaning of it. One man, unsettled by Schaalman’s stares, raised a fist in warning, but Schaalman only smiled dreamily and moved on.
The roof’s edge abutted the next building, and that roof too was populated by men and women who seemed fascinating for no reason he could name. He climbed over the low ledge between the buildings, ignoring the creaking protest of his bones. The euphoria of the opium was fading, but a new sense of purpose was taking hold. What had he left but to follow the trail, and see where it led?
Soon he was crossing from rooftop to rooftop, judging his direction by feel. He was deep into the Bowery now, far from the Jewish neighborhoods. What business had his golem here? Or—and now, beneath his calm, he felt the first twinges of excitement—did the trail not lead to her at all? Was there something else at work here, in which she only played a part?
At last he found himself on a roof with no outlet except its darkened stairwell. He descended to the street and looked about. A nearby sign practically jumped out at him from above a storefront. CONROY’S, it said. From the window it seemed to be only a small, narrow tobacconist’s shop. But on the sign, in each corner, was set a pair of symbols: a blazing sun, overlapped by a crescent moon. For centuries they had been the alchemical marks for gold and silver. He doubted they were there by accident.
A tinny bell rang over the door as he entered. The man behind the counter—Conroy, presumably—was small and narrow shouldered, and wore a thin pair of spectacles perched on his nose. He raised his eyes, examining his new customer. Schaalman saw in his hard gaze and small movements the wariness of the convict and knew that the man could see the same in him. They watched each other for a few moments, neither speaking. Conroy asked a question, and Schaalman shook his head, pointed a finger to his own lips. “No English,” he said. The man waited, uncertain and suspicious.
Schaalman thought for a moment. Then he said, “Michael Levy?”
Conroy frowned and shook his head.
“Avram Meyer? Chava?” The same response. Schaalman paused, then said, “Golem?”
Conroy turned his palms upward, clearly baffled.
Sighing, Schaalman nodded his thanks and left. He would have liked to see inside the man’s mind, but Conroy was no trusting rabbi to be charmed with a touch on the wrist. Something was at work here, a strange and tangled mystery, waiting to be solved. He walked back through the Bowery crowds, toward the House and his cot, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks.
Far to the north, in Fifth Avenue’s loftiest reaches, the Winston mansion was caught in a frenzy of activity. For weeks the household had been preparing for the summer move to Rhode Island, to the family’s seaside estate. The china had been wrapped and packed, the trunks filled with clothing. They only waited for the return of Mrs. Winston and Miss Sophia from their long voyage to Europe, a gift from Francis Winston to his daughter on the event of her engagement.
Then came a startling piece of news: the Winstons would not be summering in Rhode Island after all. The household, it seemed, would remain in New York.
And so the servants, exchanging dark and disappointed looks, unpacked the trunks and restocked the pantry. No reason for the change was offered, but rumors drifted down to the lower quarters, saying that Miss Sophia had become ill in Paris. Still it seemed odd: wouldn’t the breezes off the Narragansett be better for a convalescent than Manhattan’s noxious summer vapors? But the order had been given, and there was nothing they could do. So they uncovered the furniture in Sophia’s bedroom, swept away the dust, and polished the items scattered atop her dresser: the boxes and bottles and trinkets, and the little golden bird in its cage.
Meanwhile, the young woman in question lay shivering on a deck chair on the RMS Oceanic, wrapped deeply in blankets, a cup of hot broth clutched between her hands. It was morning, and her mother still slept in their cabin. Sophia had woken in the early hours, and stared up at the ceiling until the beginnings of seasickness drove her above-decks. Her persistent chill was worse in the open air, but at least she could see the horizon. And it was a relief to be away from her mother, who’d barely left her side for months—not since the moment she’d found Sophia lying unconscious on the floor of their rented flat on the Seine, her body racked with fever, blood staining her skirts and darkening the rug.
Her illness had started weeks earlier, even before they sailed for Europe. At first there was only an odd, uncomfortable pinprick of heat in her stomach. For a while she’d thought it merely the stress of the wedding plans. Her mother now talked of nothing else, only guest lists and trousseaus and honeymoon itineraries from sunup to sundown, until the very word wedding grew hateful to Sophia’s ears. But then the pinprick began to grow, and it occurred to her to wonder if something was wrong.
By the time they reached rain-sodden France it was the size of a coal, a tiny furnace burning inside her. Sophia was beset with a strange nervous energy and wandered from room to room, hemmed in by the terrible weather. She took to opening the shutters in her bedroom and letting the mist off the Seine blow in to soak her through. But not until her mother made a remark about finding a nursemaid for Sophia’s eventual lying-in—it’s never too early to think about these things—did Sophia realize she couldn’t remember the last time she’d menstruated.
Thankfully, Mrs. Winston mistook Sophia’s look of terror for a fear of her impending wifely duties. She took her daughter aside and, in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness, told her of her own long-ago fears, how they’d proven for the most part unfounded, and how quickly she’d come to take joy in the intimacies of marriage. It was the closest, the most vulnerable that Mrs. Winston had ever made herself to h
er daughter, and Sophia heard not a word. The girl excused herself and rushed to her room, where she paced, one hand over the fire inside her, counting the weeks since the last time the man named Ahmad had come to visit her. It had been over three months.
Oh God, could it be? But then, what was this? For she felt none of the supposed signs of pregnancy, no nausea or fatigue. Far from it: she felt like she could fly. Yet her menses still refused to arrive.
She had to do something, but what? She could say nothing to her mother. In New York there were friends who could help, but in Paris she knew no one. She barely spoke enough French to ask for cream in her tea. Blazing with heat and sick with worry, she stood in the middle of her bedroom, held a fist over her stomach, and closed her eyes. Go away, she thought. You’re killing me.
Amid the dark haze of heat and desperation, she felt something shift inside her. A tendril of fire shot up her spine—and then her mind was filled with a small frightened fluttering, a noise like a candle flame whipped by a breeze. At once she knew that there was something trapped inside her, tiny and half-formed, and that it was drowning in her body, even as it burned her. There was nothing that either of them could do.
Oh, she thought, you poor little thing.
Helpless, she felt it gutter and go out—
The next time Sophia opened her eyes, she was in a hospital bed, her mother asleep in a chair next to her. She felt weak and hollowed out, a dried husk shaking in an autumn wind. She began to shiver.
The doctor, his English excellent, said it had been nothing more than an unusual thickening of the womb’s lining, which her body had taken care of on its own. No lasting damage had been done, and there was no reason why Sophia’s mother shouldn’t be a grandmère someday. As Mrs. Winston sobbed with relief, the doctor leaned over and murmured to Sophia, “Be more careful next time, non?” before smiling and taking his leave.
But Sophia couldn’t stop shivering.
Only a lingering anemia, the doctors said; it would end soon enough. But days passed, and then weeks, and still she shivered, sometimes so violently she could barely stand. It was as though her body had grown accustomed to the heat and now refused to readjust.
At a loss, they sent her to Germany, to the spa at Baden, where a large hired nurse dunked her in steaming pools of water and fed her restorative tonics. And she did feel better, for a time—the hot spring water felt pleasantly lukewarm, and if left on her own she would’ve stayed in the dry-heat rooms till she was mummified. But as soon as she emerged, the chill would return. Finally the German doctors, like the French, washed their hands of her. When Mrs. Winston demanded an explanation, they implied that any remaining ill health rested not in her daughter’s body, but her mind.
Even worse, Sophia half believed them. Lying in bed, immobile under her blankets, she would wonder if indeed her wits had left her in that bedroom in Paris. And yet, deep down, she knew the truth of what she’d felt.
Mrs. Winston refused to tolerate any suggestion that her daughter’s mind was unsound. If the European doctors would not help, then they would be quit of Europe. As for Sophia’s engagement, there was no hint that it might be altered or postponed; her malady, it seemed, belonged in the category of things best left unmentioned, much like the uncle who’d died in a sanatorium and the cousin who’d married a Catholic.
In her one act of rebellion, Sophia announced that she’d only leave Europe if she could return to New York, where she might at least be warm, and not to that drafty, hateful mansion in Rhode Island. Her mother fought her, calling the idea ridiculous, but a cable from her father declared the battle in Sophia’s favor. Only then did Sophia think of her father, sitting in his study for months, waiting for secondhand news of his daughter’s illness; and her heart went out to him.
To Charles Townsend, her fiancé, Sophia wrote that she’d been ill briefly in France, and had gone to Baden to take the waters. For his amusement she described the more exasperating Teutonic habits of the spa attendants. Charles replied with all the proper sentiments, wishing her a speedy recovery, and ended with a few wry remarks about the dull summer ahead. He was a perfectly nice young man, and handsome, to be sure. But the truth was they were little more than strangers.
Sophia looked out over the ocean and tried to relax. She sighed, and sipped at the cooling broth, and wondered distantly what Charles would think when he saw her trembling. She knew she should be more concerned about these things, but found it difficult to muster the interest. Occasionally her thoughts drifted back to the moments before her collapse, and a raw, unfocused grief would rise inside her. She felt like a sad old woman, cosseted in blankets. And not yet even twenty.
She wished she could blame the man who’d come to her balcony, but she couldn’t, not in fairness. He hadn’t forced her, had never so much as pressured her. He’d only presented himself as an opportunity, and his confidence had made it seem the most natural thing in the world. Another woman might have tracked him down and told him what he’d done, but she shuddered at the thought. No, she had not lost her pride, merely her health.
From the corner of her eye she saw her mother emerge onto the deck. She closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. Only a few more days at sea, and then she would be home, where she could shut herself away in her bedroom and sit in front of the fire for as long as she wished. And this time, she would make certain the balcony door was good and locked.
Dressed in a white wedding gown, her gloved hands folded in her lap, the Golem sat on her bed and listened for the step on the stair that meant someone was coming to bring her to her groom.
She’d made the gown herself. The high-necked bodice was adorned with lace and embroidery, the waistline shaped by dozens of tiny pin-tucks. In the mirror it seemed almost too delicate for her sturdy frame. Michael, she knew, considered such dresses an impractical extravagance. But she’d sewn it for herself, not him; and she’d worked on it diligently, investing each stitch with her determination to make this arrangement work, to adhere to the path she’d laid for herself. She refused to wear a veil, though. She would go to her wedding with her eyes uncovered.
Noises sounded from the parlor below: men’s voices, laughing together. It was nearly time.
She pressed one hand to her chest, feeling the solid shape of the locket beneath her bodice. Inside it, in place of the lost scrap of paper, there was a folded piece of newsprint. DANCE HALL ATTACK MYSTERY, the headline said. She carried it as a reminder of the mistakes she had made, and the path she was leaving behind.
She’d scoured the papers, but there were no further reports of Irving’s condition. She had no idea if he was still alive, or if they were still looking for his attacker. Even now, nearly a month later, whenever she went out on the street she half-expected to be arrested.
Anna hadn’t come back to work again, after that night. The Radzins sent little Abie around to her tenement, where the landlady reported that the girl had packed up and left, without a word. Mrs. Radzin declared herself worried sick, but Mr. Radzin said he had a business to run, and soon a girl named Ruby was standing behind Anna’s table. Ruby was bland and cow-eyed, and would guffaw nervously if anyone so much as looked at her; but she was obedient and spoke little, and for that Mr. Radzin tolerated her.
They were downstairs in the parlor now, the Radzins and Ruby, with her landlady and Michael and his small group of friends. “There’s no one else you’d like to invite?” Michael had asked. She’d smiled at his concern and shaken her head. For who else was there? No one at all, except for the one man who knew her best.
She frowned and smoothed her skirt, as though brushing something away. She had to be vigilant now; she could not ruin her chance at a fresh start. She would lock all thoughts of the Jinni away, and would not, would not, speculate on what he would say about this marriage, if only he knew.
The door opened, startling her. A thin, elderly man in a dark suit stood in the doorway.
“You must be Mr. Schall,” she said. “Michael has tol
d me so much about you.”
The old man smiled kindly. “Please,” he said, “call me Joseph.”
She stood and placed a hand on his offered arm. She was taller than him by almost a foot, but even so she felt small and unsure. Would her nerves fail her, after all? No: she held herself straighter, firmed her grip, and willed herself to go forward.
Together they stepped from her bedroom.
Yehudah Schaalman led the Golem down to the parlor, careful to maintain his composure. It was difficult; he kept wanting to burst into giggles. When Michael Levy had asked him to stand in for the father of the bride, it had taken all of his considerable will to keep a straight face. “If she agrees, then yes, I think that would be appropriate,” he’d managed to say. A week earlier, he’d have felt himself the butt of another cosmic joke, but now it was his turn to laugh. The blushing bride, and he’d built her himself!
He deposited her next to her betrothed, who stood before the black-robed justice of the peace. The temperature in the parlor was rising, and the younger men, no slaves to decorum, had taken off their jackets. Schaalman would’ve liked to do the same, but he couldn’t risk it. His left arm was hampered by a thick bandage below his elbow, and without the jacket it would be far more noticeable, especially if the bandage had started seeping blood again. But his discomfort was a small price to pay. For look at her! Deaf as a post to his thoughts and desires, with no inkling of who he was or what he wanted. His preparations had worked, as thoroughly as he’d hoped.
Once again he’d found the answer in his treasured sheaf of papers. After three nights of intense study, he’d arrived at the solution: a particular diagram, the sort of thing meant to be inscribed on an amulet and hung about one’s neck. But with no amulet at hand and no way of making one, he’d resorted to carving the diagram on the inside of his arm. He hadn’t expected it to be a pleasant experience, but still the pain had been shocking in its intensity, as though the knife was reaching beyond his body to slice into his soul. He’d spent the next day sick in bed, arm throbbing, racked with waves of nausea. But it had been so very worth it! Now he could follow her without detection, and he need not worry if Levy should bring his new wife around to the Sheltering House unexpectedly.