Saleh shook his head.
“I caught a terrible fever, and the doctor told my mother I had little chance. He told her to take me to the Shrine of Saint George, in Jounieh.”
Saleh frowned at the thought of a doctor offering this advice. “I know,” Maryam said, “but she was desperate. Do you know this shrine?” He shook his head. “It’s a pool, in a cave above Jounieh Bay. Where Saint George washed his spear, after slaying the dragon. She took me to the cave, and she lit a candle and dipped me in the water. It was spring then, and the water was freezing cold. The moment I touched the water, I started to howl. And she cried, because it was the first real noise I’d made in days. She knew then that I’d be all right. She told me this story over and over—that Saint George had answered her prayers, and saved my life.”
Saleh could think of any number of explanations for the miraculous recovery. The doctor had made a poor diagnosis; or else the cold water had broken the fever. But he said nothing.
“Childless women go to the shrine too,” Maryam said. “Sometimes I think . . . But I don’t want to ask for his help twice. I feel it would be greedy of me.”
“No it wouldn’t,” Saleh said.
“No? Why not?”
“It’s his duty. A good healer can’t pick and choose. If he can help, then he must.”
A pause. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she said, musing. “A good healer. How I wish Nadia’s doctor had been a healer. She might have stood a chance.”
“What did she die of?”
“I can’t remember the name. It was long, and in Latin. But she had pains that came and went, and fevers, and a rash on her face. Dr. Joubran saw it, and he knew right away.”
“Lupus erythmatosus.”
He hadn’t meant to say it. The words had appeared in his mind, and then their echo was hanging in the thick morning air. He’d give all the coins in his pocket, and the churn as well, to take them back again.
He could feel her looking at him, considering him anew. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That was it.”
He tried to ignore the feeling of her scrutiny. “The boy,” he said, staving off the questions. “No father?”
“Not to speak of. He disappeared, peddling out west.”
“His mother’s family will take him in?”
“I imagine so. They haven’t seen him since he was a baby. It seems cruel to make him leave the only home he’s known. But how can he stay here, with no family?” The sigh again. “Maybe he’ll do well in a village, a quieter place than this. At least he’ll be away from the tinsmith’s shop.”
“The tinsmith’s shop?”
“Oh, I don’t mean Boutros! He’s a wonderful man, I only wish he would come out of there and talk to people. No, it’s his partner. The Bedouin.” He felt her sudden tension. “Mahmoud, may I tell you something? I’ve never liked that man. Never. I feel like he’s fooling us all somehow, laughing when our backs are turned. And I could not for the life of me tell you why.” Her voice had a hardness he’d never heard before. “But Matthew adores him, he’d spend all day in that shop if Boutros let him.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t let the boy spend time in the shop. With the Bedouin.”
“Why not?” She was closer now, leaning toward him; he turned his head away, looking at the gray pavement, the dim shadow of his cart. “Mahmoud, do you know something about him? Is he dangerous?”
“I don’t know anything.” He picked up the cart’s handle. “But I don’t like him either. Good day, Maryam.”
“Good day,” she said faintly. And he trudged away, up the street, the ice cream in the churn long since melted.
Anna Blumberg stood on a baking-hot roof at the corner of Hester and Chrystie, and peered from behind a chimney at the building across the street. She’d chosen the corner carefully: it was well traveled and convenient, and she could see the stoop clearly. But now, drenched in sweat and wreathed in fumes of tar paper, she was beginning to regret her decision. She blotted her face with her sleeve and willed herself not to gag. If all went as planned—if he actually came with the money—then the misery would be worth it.
But what if he didn’t? What would she do then?
She swallowed against bile and panic, and felt the baby shift below her ribs. Wasn’t it past noon already? Her pocket watch was long since pawned, but she’d checked the clock at the pharmacist’s—
There. A tall man, walking confidently against the crowd. Even at this distance, she knew him instantly. She watched, heart pounding in her throat, as he reached the bottom of the stoop. He looked around, scanning the traffic and the pushcarts, the men chatting on the sidewalk. She resisted the urge to duck behind the chimney. Even if he thought to look up, the sun would be in his eyes, making her near impossible to see. But then, hadn’t she seen him do the impossible already?
From a pocket he took an envelope, thumbed through whatever was inside. She leaned forward, straining to see; but he turned and strolled up the stoop, past the boys that loitered on its bottom steps. At the top he slid the envelope beneath the flowerpot, so graceful and quick that even someone standing next to him might not have noticed. Without another glance he returned to the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner.
Was that it? Could it possibly be that easy?
She hurried down to the sidewalk, then checked up and down the street. Had he doubled back to catch her? No, he was too tall, too noticeable, she would’ve spotted him instantly. Trying to walk calmly, she crossed the street and climbed the steps, ignoring the boys who sniggered at her swollen middle. She crouched next to the flowerpot—not nearly so quick as he, not in her condition—and retrieved the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was a stack of five-dollar bills. She counted: twenty of them. It was all there.
Her own building lay farther down the street, and she cried a bit as she walked there, from exhaustion and relief. For weeks now she’d slept on a dirty pallet in a tiny, windowless room with five other women, three Jewish and two Italian. The pallet was so thin and lumpy that she could barely sleep, and the others all hated her because she got up so often to use the water closet. For this luxury she paid the landlady fifteen cents a day. When she woke that morning, she’d had two dollars to her name.
But for now, at least, her newfound luck was holding: none of her roommates were at home. She could take her time and decide where best to hide the money. And after that, she would go to the fancy cafeteria down the street, and treat herself to a plateful of chicken and a baked potato. She lit the candle they kept in a teacup next to the door and began to search for a likely hiding spot: a gap in a floorboard, or a loose bit of plaster.
“I wouldn’t,” said a voice behind her. “Too easy to discover. Better keep it with you, since you’ve worked so hard to earn it.”
He was standing in the doorway, filling it. In two steps he was inside. He closed the door, slid the bolt home.
Terrified, she scrambled back and struck the wall with her shoulder. The candle fell from its cup and rolled, still lit, across the floor. He bent with that same grace and picked it up, regarding her in its light.
“Sit down, Anna,” he said.
She slid down the wall and sat, her arms shielding her stomach. “Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered.
He gave her a scornful look but said nothing, only glanced about the dark and tiny space. For a moment he seemed uncomfortable, even haunted. “I have no wish to stay here any longer than necessary,” he said. “So, let us talk.”
He sat down and placed the candle upright between them. Even cross-legged on the floor, he towered over her like a magistrate. She began to cry. “Stop it,” he said flatly. “If you have the nerve to blackmail and threaten me, then you can face me without whimpering.”
With an effort she calmed herself and wiped her face. She was still clutching the envelope. If she apologized and gave it back, he might forgive her, and go.
Her finger
s tightened, rebelling. The money was her future. He’d have to take it from her.
But he seemed uninterested in force, at least for the moment. He said, “How did you find me?”
“Your shop,” she said in a thin voice. “I went to Little Syria and walked until I saw your name on the sign. Then I watched until you left, to make sure it was you.”
“And you told no one else? You have no accomplices?”
She gave a quavering laugh. “Who would believe me?”
He seemed to accept this, but went on. “Have you blackmailed Chava as well? You might recall she’s the one who injured your lover. I merely saved his life.”
“I remember everything,” she said, ire growing despite her terror. “Although you might recall that I was being beaten half to death at the time.”
“Then answer my question.”
She hesitated—and her unguarded face answered for her. “I see,” he said. “You’re afraid of her. More than of me, it seems.”
She swallowed against a dry throat. “What is she?”
“That’s her secret. Not mine.”
A faint laugh. “And what are you?”
“What I am is not your business. You need only know that, like her, I’m dangerous when angered.”
“Is that so?” She sat up straighter. “Well, so am I. I meant what I said. I will tell the police, if I have to.”
“A strange threat, when the money is there in your hand. Or do you mean to repeat your blackmail, when this first payment is spent? Will you rob me little by little, relying on my discretion and goodwill? Because both have reached their limit.”
“I’m not a thief,” she shot back. “I don’t mean to do anything like this ever again. I only need something to live on until the baby is born and I can find work.”
“And what will you do with the baby? Keep it here?” He glanced around with distaste.
She shrugged. “Give it away, I suppose. There’s plenty of women who want one. Some’ll even pay.” She affected a carelessness she didn’t feel in the least.
“And your lover? He knows of this plan?”
“Don’t call him that,” she snapped. “He isn’t anything to me, or to the baby. Why should I care what he thinks? He told me to get rid of it, that night. Called me a scheming whore and said I couldn’t prove it was his. It would be over between us even if Chava hadn’t—” Her throat tightened. “But that doesn’t make it right, what she did. I heard he can’t even walk now. The doctors say he’ll be in pain for the rest of his life.”
She saw him wince. “Does Chava know this?”
“How should I know? I haven’t even set foot in the bakery since then. I only heard about her marriage from the papers.”
At that, the Jinni went absolutely still. “What marriage?”
“You didn’t know?” She stifled a smile, sensing the upper hand at last. “She married again, very soon after that night. To a man named Michael Levy.” The naked shock on his face emboldened her, made her rash. “He’s a social worker, so of course he’s poor as dirt. But she married him anyway, so there must be something between them, don’t you think?”
“Be quiet,” he whispered.
“And you two seemed so friendly, dancing together—”
“Be quiet!”
He was staring fixedly at the wall. He wore a look she remembered from her father, whenever he heard bad news: as though he was trying to undo the truth by sheer willpower. In that, then, he was no more than just a man. For a moment, she nearly pitied him.
“The money in your hand,” he said, his voice strained. “Consider it a loan. It will be repaid, someday soon. And if any more threats are made against myself—or Chava, or anyone else—they will be answered. My patience with you has reached its end.”
With that, he reached out and put a finger to the candle’s burning wick. The flame erupted, turning to a white-hot jet of fire. She cried out and turned away, covering her eyes. Almost immediately the candle dimmed to its usual glow; and by the time she could see again, he had disappeared.
Around the corner from the Sheltering House lay a nondescript basement tavern called the Spotted Dog. A popular haunt for dockworkers and day laborers, it was nevertheless a quiet place at midafternoon, while the day shift waited for the whistle and the night shift slept off the morning’s excesses. Only two souls were in evidence: the barkeep, who was using the lull to sweep up the old sawdust and spread a new layer; and Michael Levy, who sat at a small table hidden in the shadows.
Michael hadn’t gone out drinking in the afternoon since his school years. Back then, his cohorts’ ideas had never seemed so right-minded, so noble, as when shared over a glass of schnapps. Now, though, he was merely drinking to get drunk. Before him were his uncle’s notes, a not-too-clean tumbler, and a bottle of something that called itself whiskey. It had a slippery taste, like rotting apples. The bottle was now a third gone.
He downed another swallow, no longer wincing at the taste. He’d come here to decide what to do with the papers. Written and dated in his uncle’s hand, they were a liability and an embarrassment. They said things that could not possibly be true. And yet Michael was beginning to believe them.
He’d told the Sheltering House staff that he felt ill, that he was going home for the day. They’d made sympathetic noises, assuring him that they could manage without him until morning. Joseph Schall in particular had insisted he only return when he felt better. A decent fellow, Joseph. He remembered his wife’s probing questions and winced. She’d made it seem as though she suspected him of something; but what if it was the other way around? Had he noticed something strange about her?
Good God, he would go mad if he continued like this.
He sat up straighter, ignoring the swimming sensations in his brain. Perhaps it would be best to treat the whole thing like a mental exercise. He would assume, purely for the moment, that his uncle had not been in the throes of senility, that the papers weren’t merely the fantastic ramblings of a superstitious mind. His own wife was a clay golem with the strength of a dozen men. She knew all his fears and desires. The dead husband—the man she never spoke of—was in fact her master, the man for whom she’d been built.
Suppose all this were true: what, then, would he do about it? Divorce her? Alert the local rabbinate? Go on as though nothing had changed?
He flipped back through his uncle’s notes, searching for the line that had had seized him like a fist:
Will she ever be capable of real love, of happiness? Beginning to hope so, against my own better judgment.
Was that not the crux of the matter? Could he stay married to any woman—flesh or clay—who wasn’t able to love him back?
He took another swig and thought of their first meetings, all those shy smiles and companionable silences. He’d loved her for those silences, as much as for what she said. Before her, he’d met women who thought the way to an intellectual’s heart was through an overflow of conversation. But not his wife. He recalled the silent trip to his uncle’s graveside. She’d said just enough—she’d seemed to understand him, just enough—that he’d hung on every syllable, treated her words like rare jewels. The fact that she was saying exactly what he wanted to hear had only made her remarks seem all the more precious. And when she’d refrained from speaking, he’d taken her silences and filled them with an alluring profundity.
A dull headache was gathering at the front of his skull. He felt the urge to laugh, stifled it with another swig of the liquor. Really, did it matter whether she was woman or golem? Either way, the plain truth remained: he had no idea who his wife really was.
The Jinni stood on the roof of his building, rolling and smoking cigarette after cigarette. The walk back from his meeting with Anna had not even begun to calm him down. He recalled the night he’d stared out Arbeely’s window, impatient to begin his exploration of the city. He should have stayed hidden in the shop, blissfully ignorant. He should have stayed in the flask.
She’d married.
Well, what of it? Already she’d removed herself from his life. It changed nothing. So why did it still seem to matter?
For weeks now he’d tried to relegate her to some remote corner of his mind, only to have her reemerge when least wanted. Perhaps he was going about it the wrong way; he’d never tried to forget anyone before. But then, he’d never needed to. Relationships between jinn were altogether different. A tryst could be calm or volatile, could last a day or an hour or years on end—and often overlapped with one another in a way that the residents of Little Syria would find completely amoral—but always they were impermanent. Whether begun out of lust, whim, or boredom, each pairing eventually ran its course, and over the years they all had softened equally in his recollection. Why was it not the same with her, when they’d spent so little time together? A few conversations and arguments, nothing more than that—she’d never even been his lover! And yet the memories refused to lie still, to grow weathered and distant, the way he desperately wanted them to.
Married. To Michael Levy. She hadn’t even liked the man.
He rolled another cigarette, touched the end, inhaled. The iron cuff peeked out from beneath his shirtsleeve, winking at him in the dull afternoon light. He considered it a moment; then carefully, from beneath it, he drew out the square of paper he’d taken from her locket. He opened one fold, so that only a single crease hid the writing from him. The paper was thick and heavy, but still he could see the shadows of the letters on the other side. He could open it and read it. He could drop it into the gutter. He could burn it in his fingers, and scatter the ashes to the wind.
A small hand pulled at his shirt.
He jumped, startled. It was Matthew, manifested from thin air. How did the boy do it? Quickly the Jinni folded the paper again and slipped it back under the cuff.
“I suppose Arbeely sent you,” he muttered. He was having a hard time looking at the boy. The morning’s events had pushed the previous night from his mind, but now it all came rushing back—the tiny parlor room, Matthew’s mother on the couch struggling for breath—and with it an obscure, uncomfortable shame.