The Golem and the Jinni

  The boy shook his head vehemently, then pulled on the Jinni’s shirt again. Puzzled, the Jinni leaned down, heard the small, urgent whisper:

  “Bring her back!”

  Astonished, the Jinni stared at him. Bring her back? The woman was dead!

  “Who told you I could do this?” he said. But the boy spoke no more, only let his expression of stubborn hope say it all for him.

  Slowly the realization dawned on the Jinni. This why Matthew had stayed by his side for these months? Not friendship, or admiration, or a desire to learn? The boy had run to him, instead of Maryam, or Dr. Joubran—someone, anyone else, who could’ve truly helped—and all because he’d thought the Jinni could heal his dying mother, as easily as patching a hole in a teapot!

  The day’s angers and disappointments roiled inside him. He crouched down, took the boy by his thin shoulders.

  “Let me tell you,” he said, “about the souls that go on after death, or are brought back against their will. And this is the truth, not some story told to children. Have you ever seen a shadow that flies across the ground, like that of a cloud? Except that when you look up in the sky, there are no clouds to speak of?”

  Hesitantly Matthew nodded.

  “That is a shade,” the Jinni said. “A lost soul. In the desert there are shades of every type of creature. They fly from here to there in perpetual anguish, searching and searching. Can you guess what they are searching for?”

  Matthew had gone pale and still. He shook his head.

  “They’re searching for their bodies. And when they find them—if they find them, if their bones haven’t long turned to dust—they crouch over them, and weep, and make the most horrible noises. Would you like to know what they do then?”

  The boy’s frightened eyes were filling with tears. The Jinni felt the first twinge of remorse, but pressed on. “They find the nearest of their kin, and plead with them, asking to help them find rest. But all their kin can hear is a kind of wailing, like a high wind. And all they feel is the cold chill of death.” The Jinni gripped the boy’s shoulders harder. “Is this what you want, for your own mother? To see her soul go howling down Washington Street, and hear her shrieking like a windstorm? Looking for her bones that lie rotting in the ground? Looking for you?”

  The boy gave a hiccupping gasp, tore from him, and ran.

  The Jinni watched Matthew disappear across the roof, heard his feet clattering down the fire escape. He turned away from the ledge. The boy would go to someone else now: Maryam or Arbeely, or the priest, or one of the sewing women. They would comfort him, dry his tears. And the next time he was in need, he would go to them, and not to him.

  Alone, he smoked down the last of his cigarette, letting it crumble to ash between his lips.

  Inside the tinsmith’s shop, the mood was grim. Maryam had stopped by briefly while the Jinni was away, to give Arbeely the sad news of Nadia’s death—a death that apparently the Jinni had witnessed.

  “He was here earlier,” Arbeely said, confused. “He said nothing of this.”

  “Boutros, I have no business telling you who to associate with . . . but isn’t there something strange about him?”

  More than you could say, Arbeely thought. “I know he can be difficult—and he’s been in a terrible mood, lately—”

  “No, it’s not that.” She hesitated, as if weighing words. “At Nadia’s—it was as though he’d never seen someone ill before. He had no idea what to do. He was holding her, and he looked up at me, and for a moment—Boutros, he didn’t even seem human.” Her eyes turned pleading. “Does that sound awful? Am I making any sense?”

  “I think I know what you mean,” he said.

  Then Maryam had left, and the Jinni had returned from whatever errand he’d run—but still he’d said nothing about Nadia. Watching him now from across the cramped shop, Arbeely wondered what had happened to their feelings of friendship. Perhaps it was simply too unnatural an arrangement to succeed. Wasn’t that the moral of the stories he’d been told by his mother, his aunts? That the jinn and their kind were meant to be left alone, far removed from flesh and blood? He’d been blinded by the Jinni’s mask of humanity, and had neglected to remind himself that beneath it lay a different creature altogether.

  Without warning, the door burst open. It was Maryam again, but she was utterly changed. After a lifetime of empathy and understanding for every soul that had crossed her path, the woman finally looked angry enough to kill.

  “You!” She pointed at the Jinni. “Explain yourself!”

  The Jinni had risen from his bench; his look of surprise was now replaced by a cold and wary stare. “And what must I explain?”

  “Why Matthew Mounsef is now hiding in my storeroom, sobbing and shaking, frightened half to death!”

  Arbeely’s heart squeezed at the image. He thought he saw the Jinni cringe as well; but then the Jinni said, “Why should I be the cause? Didn’t the boy’s mother just die? I believe you were there when it happened.”

  Maryam inhaled sharply, as though slapped. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, her voice like splintered ice. “You’re not who you say you are, that’s certain. You’ve taken in Boutros, because he’s too trusting for his own good, and you’ve taken in this entire street. But you haven’t fooled Mahmoud Saleh, and you haven’t fooled me. You are dangerous. You have no place here. I knew all this and said nothing, but I won’t stay silent any longer. Any man who would tell a seven-year-old boy that his dead mother’s soul will come looking for her body, and chase him up and down the street—anyone who would do something so cruel deserves neither compassion nor understanding.”

  “Oh my God,” Arbeely said. “Is that true? Did you really say that to Matthew?”

  The Jinni threw him a glance of wounded exasperation, and Arbeely thought he would explain himself. But then he turned back to Maryam and said, “Yes, that is what happened. I did it for my own reasons. Why should I care whether you comprehend them—especially when, as you say, you’ve disliked me from the start? I never asked for your compassion or understanding, not that you were ever inclined to give them. Neither you, nor Mahmoud Saleh, nor you for that matter,” he said, looking at Arbeely, “may dictate my actions. My life is my own, and I’ll do what I wish.”

  A held breath of silence. Like two titanic forces of nature, Maryam and the Jinni stared each other down.

  “Enough,” Arbeely said. “We’re through here. Take what’s yours and leave.”

  At first the Jinni seemed not to understand. Then he frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You heard me. Get out. I dissolve our partnership. You’ll do what you wish, but not here. Not anymore.”

  A hesitation, perplexed. “But—the order for Sam Hosseini isn’t finished yet.”

  “I’ll explain to Sam,” Arbeely said. “Consider yourself absolved of all responsibility. For you, that shouldn’t be difficult.”

  The Jinni looked from Arbeely’s angry glare to the righteous triumph in Maryam’s eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m done here.” He put away his tools, then carefully rolled the unfinished necklaces in flannel and placed them atop the worktable. And then, without so much as a backward glance, he was out the door and gone.

  Chava,

  A number of unavoidable difficulties have arisen at work, and I’m afraid I have to stay for the night. Don’t worry about supper, I’ll eat at the House. Will see you tomorrow.

  Your husband,

  Michael

  She gave the errand boy a penny and closed the door, then read the note again. Michael had told her once that he’d always fought against staying overnight at the House, afraid that it would become expected of him. She wondered what could have happened, to make him break his rule.

  She had only just set the table; now she cleared away the dishes and cups, the bread and schmaltz, the frying pan that sat in anticipation of the liver he’d promised. She paused, her hand on the icebox door. He would expect her to have eaten, of cours
e. Would he notice that there was still as much food as before?

  A frustrated anger rose in her—would she always be trying to anticipate his responses? She slammed the icebox shut, harder than she’d meant. If he asked, she would tell him she hadn’t been hungry.

  She retreated to the parlor, took up her sewing. At least, for one night, she would not have to try to ignore his fears and desires, or lie awake remembering to breathe. She felt her body relaxing at the thought; in the next moment she was seized with guilt. Her husband was working through the night, and all she could think of was her own comfort. Perhaps she should take him supper after all, to show that she was thinking of him.

  She put down her needle and thread, then frowned in rebellion and picked them up again. She would stay home. For just one night, she would return to her old life: sewing alone, with a window between herself and the world.

  The Jinni was in his room, trying to decide what to take with him.

  He was leaving Little Syria. There was nothing left for him there—and what, really, had there ever been? An occupation for his daylight hours, a place to shelter from rain and snow. No more than that. Still, it surprised him, surveying the tiny room, how little he’d accumulated. A few shirts and trousers, two pairs of shoes, a coat. The awful woolen hat that the Golem had insisted on. The cushions on the floor, bought cheaply and with little enthusiasm. A few hand tools that he’d liberated from the shop, intending to bring them back at some point. The jar that held all his money. The necklaces he’d bought from Conroy. The umbrella with the silver handle. And, in a cupboard, his figurines.

  He took them out and lined them up on the writing desk. There were birds and mice, tiny insects built from tinplate, a rearing silver cobra with a diamond-patterned hood. The ibis, stubbornly unfinished, its bill still not quite the right shape.

  He pocketed the money and the necklaces, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, the figurines. Immediately he took the figurines out again, and placed them back on the desk. Let the next tenants make of them what they would. What did he need, besides a roof over his head when it rained? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  On the street again, he felt energetic, untethered—as though he were back in the desert, free to go wherever he wished. Why had he partnered with Arbeely in the first place? The old rationales seemed flimsy, cowardly even, compared to this freedom. Where would he go? He glanced up: the sky was turning cloudy. Perhaps he would need somewhere to stay for the night. The Bowery? He hadn’t been there in weeks, save to buy necklaces from Conroy.

  He passed Matthew’s building, and paused. Perhaps, before he left, he would see his ceiling, one last time.

  The lobby was dark and cool, the gas jets not yet lit for the evening. Overhead the tinplate desert shone in early twilight. On the wall nearby, someone had hung a framed copy of the newspaper article about the ceiling. One hopes, the article declared, that the ceiling is only the first of many new civic improvements by this distinguished Syrian talent.

  The inverted peaks cast their shadows on the valley floor. His palace, as always, was missing; and he found himself unable to tear his eyes from the spot where it should have been.

  All at once his hectic energy drained away. He’d never be completely free of Little Syria, not as long as the ceiling stood. He could rip it down, he supposed, or melt it to a puddle; but the very thought made him cringe. All right, then—they could keep the ceiling. Arbeely would see it, and perhaps remember what the Jinni had done for him and his livelihood. And Matthew—he would see it too.

  He returned to the street. Overhead, the clouds were thickening. No more sightseeing; it was time to leave.

  On the edge of the neighborhood he passed Saleh, trudging back home with his empty churn. The old man stopped when he saw him, nearly backed himself against the wall.

  “Saleh,” the Jinni said. “What did you tell Maryam Faddoul?”

  There was fear in the old man’s eyes, but he said, “Nothing she didn’t know already.”

  The Jinni snorted. Then he dug in his pocket and came up with the key to his room. He tossed it to Saleh, who caught it, surprised. “A farewell present,” the Jinni said, and told him the address. “It’s paid through the end of the month. I’ll be in the Bowery,” he added as he walked away, “if anyone should find that they need me.”

  In his darkened dormitory, Yehudah Schaalman readied himself for another night of hunting. He dressed quietly, padded down the creaking staircase, and crept out the front door.

  He’d thought to go north again, back to the park where the dowsing spell had last led him. It seemed less than promising, but what else could he do? He had so little to go on, with these trails appearing and fading at random, like the marks of a restless spirit . . .

  The realization exploded through him, and he nearly stopped in his tracks. His quarry, the thing he was looking for: it was a person. The Bowery rooftops, the parks—someone was wandering the city, and Schaalman was following him like a bloodhound. It explained why the trails left off the way they did: having reached his destination, the wanderer would then retrace his steps to his home. Which meant that all Schaalman had to do was find a path and follow it back to its source, and there his quarry would be waiting.

  He had no sooner reached this conclusion when, as if by reward, a path appeared beneath his feet. He halted, amazed. He was at the corner of Hester and Chrystie, still in the Jewish neighborhood. He’d walked these streets dozens of times—yet now the street corner glowed in his mind, every concrete inch a fascination. His wandering quarry had passed this way so recently it might have been that very day.

  He could have danced in the street, but he forced himself to remain calm. He turned in a slow circle. There: the building on the southwest corner, that was the one he wanted. The front stoop was lit with interest—and so, strangely, was the ill-tended flowerpot next to the door. But there the trail ended. The door itself was merely ordinary. So: his quarry had climbed these steps, perhaps for a conversation, or to see if someone was at home, and then set off again. But where?

  He wandered down the stoop again, letting his feet direct him. Halfway up the block was another building, shabbier than the first—and at this one, the trail did not stop at the door. Cautiously he entered the lobby, his shoes slipping on filthy tile. The trail drew him up a dark and treacherous staircase that led to a cabbage-smelling hallway, and at last to a particular door. He pressed his ear to the wood, but heard no voices, only what might have been breathing.

  As he stood debating whether to knock, someone emerged from the water closet in the stairwell. He retreated down the hallway and watched as a pregnant woman in a white nightgown navigated sleepily toward the very door that had grabbed his interest. The aura that surrounded her was so strong it drew his gaze like a compass-hand. “Excuse me,” he said.

  He’d spoken quietly, but she jumped nonetheless. “Good God,” she panted, one hand to her swollen belly.

  “I wonder if you can help me, I’m looking for a friend.” He paused to think, plucked a name from the dark. “Chava Levy?”

  The woman seemed to shrink from the name. “I haven’t seen her in months,” she said, fear and suspicion weighing her voice. “Why are you looking here?”

  “I was told she might have come this way. By a mutual friend.”

  “Ahmad? Did he send you?”

  He took the lead she’d offered. “Yes, Ahmad sent me.”

  She scowled. “You might have said so. Tell him he won’t get his money any more quickly by hounding me. And you, old man, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Frightening a pregnant woman in the dark!”

  Her harangue was growing louder. Soon someone would hear, and investigate. The time for subtlety was over. He gripped her wrist, as he had with each of the rabbis. For a moment she tried to pull away; then she went still.

  He asked, Who is Ahmad?

  And before she could open her mouth to reply, a vision shot through his mind: a searing light, an immense singular
flame, burning with the strength of an inferno.

  He dropped her wrist and stumbled back, trying to rub the light from his eyes. When he could see again, she was watching him with wary suspicion, oblivious to what had happened. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He pushed past her to the staircase, and fled in the darkness.

  On the street again, he paused, breathing deeply in the damp air. What was that, in her mind? A flame that burned like the fires of Gehenna, a flame that was somehow alive—but she had called it Ahmad, talked about it as though it were a man! How did this make sense? Was there another force at work here, something beyond his own considerable understanding?

  Ahmad. He wasn’t even sure what sort of name it was.

  At the Spotted Dog, the nighttime crowd was turning raucous and unruly. Already three patrons had been tossed out for fighting. But Michael, at his table in the corner, was roundly ignored. He wondered what he looked like to the regulars, the muscled factory workers and dockmen. A cowardly, henpecked bureaucrat, afraid to face the long walk home? Not far from the truth, he supposed.

  He sifted through his uncle’s notes again, his eyes skittering over the formulae and diagrams. He had sent the message to his wife at seven-thirty; it was now passing eleven o’clock. He’d dispensed with the tumbler and was now drinking the dubious whiskey directly from the bottle. Reason still insisted that the notes were full of delusions, the products of old age and superstition—but the battlements of his reason were crumbling.

  He took one last pull from the bottle, then picked up the papers, stumbled out to the alley, and vomited. It made him feel no better. He wove through the alley and back to the Sheltering House. All was dark and quiet; he’d missed lights-out. In his office, he opened an overflowing desk drawer and stuffed his uncle’s notes inside. To Bind a Golem to a New Master, screamed the one on top. He grimaced and slammed the drawer shut.