The room was spinning. He had nowhere else to go, no destinations in his life besides the Sheltering House and his now dubious home. And what about friends? He’d neglected them all, drifted away in a fog of work and exhaustion. There was no one left on whom he could impose, for conversation or a couch to sleep on. He needed someone willing to listen without judging, who could observe with a clear and sympathetic eye.
Joseph. He could talk to Joseph, couldn’t he? The man was as close to a friend as he had these days. Even through the alcohol, Michael knew that to wake an employee for a heartfelt outpouring in the middle of the night was beyond the bounds of acceptable behavior. Still, he forged up the stairs to Joseph’s dormitory.
Joseph’s cot was empty.
He stood in the restless dark, feeling obscurely betrayed. What business could Joseph have elsewhere at this hour? He sat down on the cot. Perhaps Joseph had gone for a walk to escape the dormitory heat. Nevertheless, a prickle of suspicion gathered like an itch. He thought of his wife asking after Joseph, and the measly bits of information he’d been able to tell her. Why had she been so interested in him?
He had never before invaded the privacy of any of his guests. There were men all around him who might wake and watch. But now, with one eye on the hallway door, he rummaged beneath Joseph’s cot. His hand encountered the handle of an old-fashioned carpetbag. He drew it from beneath the bed, wincing as it scraped the floor. It smelled old and musty, as though it had been stored beneath innumerable cots for generations. The latch creaked open at his touch. Inside were a few articles of clothing, neatly folded, and an old prayer book. That was all. No photos of relatives, no mementos or trinkets of home. Was this all Joseph owned in the world? Even for the Sheltering House, this was a meager collection. Michael might have felt a surge of pity, except that Joseph’s strange absence made the lack of belongings seem sinister—as though the man didn’t truly exist.
He knew he should put the carpetbag back and leave, but the liquor and his mood made him feel disinclined to move. He took the prayer book from the bag and began to leaf through it, as though it might tell him what to do. The moonlight caught its edge; and the ordinary prayer book transformed, became ragged and burnt. What he’d thought were prayers were now formulae, spells, incantations.
He turned the pages with growing disbelief. He had come to Joseph for reassurance, and found this instead? His uncle, his wife, and now this: it was as though they were conspiring against him, making him doubt everything he knew to be true.
On one page, smeared with what looked like dried mud, he read, in a slapdash handwriting he recognized as Joseph’s:
Rotfeld’s desires in a wife: Obedience. Curiosity. Intelligence. Virtuous and modest behavior.
Obedience innate. Intelligence the most difficult. Curiosity the most dangerous—but that is Rotfeld’s problem, not mine.
And then, farther on:
She is complete. A fine creation. Rotfeld sails tomorrow for New York.
She will make him an admirable wife, if she doesn’t destroy him first.
24.
In the lobby of an otherwise nondescript tenement near the Hudson River docklands, Yehudah Schaalman craned back his grizzled head and stared, perplexed, at an undulating metal ceiling.
He was perhaps half a mile from Hester Street as the crow flies, but it had taken him nearly an hour to come this far. The path had twisted and turned, through back alleyways and up fire escapes to well-traveled rooftops, across plank bridges and down again. At last he’d reached Washington Street, where he faced a baffling profusion of choices. The paths overlaid one another so that every storefront, every alley hummed with interest. He’d walked up and down the street, getting his bearings, until finally the strongest path had pulled him into the tenement with the well-lit lobby. Inside, the spell and the lights had conspired to lift his eyes upward.
He could not have said how long he stood beneath the shining waves and peaks, one hand stretching to the wall for balance. At first he thought it some sort of interesting defect of the building—perhaps the ceiling tiles had melted and begun to drip—before he realized it was a deliberate piece of art.
All at once, as it had for so many other viewers, the ceiling snapped into focus. The world spun—
It was dusk, and he stood on a scorched plain, ringed by distant peaks. The western sun stretched his shadow narrow as a spear, turned his arms to long gnarled branches, his fingers to twigs. Before him lay the late-summer valley, its animal inhabitants beginning to wake. He blinked—and there in the empty valley appeared a beautiful palace made all of glass, its spires and ramparts shining in the last golden rays of the evening.
Something hard and flat struck Schaalman across the face. It was the lobby floor.
He lay there, trying to regain his composure, the tile cool beneath his stinging cheek. Carefully he levered himself up to his hands and knees; the room, thankfully, stayed put. He stood and, shielding his eyes from the ceiling, walked out of the lobby and sat on the front steps, one hand to his throbbing face. The fear he’d felt earlier, in the hallway with the pregnant woman, returned and grew. Yet another phenomenon he could not explain.
He fought down his alarm, and the urge to retreat to the Sheltering House. He felt vulnerable, exposed. Who was his quarry? Was it this mysterious Ahmad? Or the Angel of Death, playing with him?
The pain in his swollen cheek began to dim. He made himself rise from the stoop and continue down the street. The paths danced and wove before him, pulling him toward whatever encounter awaited him next.
Shortly after one in the morning, the Golem abandoned her attempts at sewing. Distraction had made her clumsy, and the shirtwaist she’d been mending now sported a new rip in the bodice. The few waking souls who passed beyond her window were all drunk or had to use the water closet; they only added to her restlessness and anxiety.
Michael’s note lay on the table, the paper deeply wrinkled from when she’d crumpled it in frustration. The wording was so unlike him, too formal by half. His usual endearments were conspicuous in their absence. Was there something he wasn’t telling her? She thought of their conversation about Joseph Schall. Had Michael run afoul of him somehow? Oh, how she hated bare words on paper! How was she supposed to know the truth, without him there in front of her?
There was no way to calm herself; she’d have to go to the Sheltering House. He might scold her for being out alone so late at night, but she’d explain she was too concerned about him to sleep. She fastened her cloak and left, walking quickly through streets dotted with anonymous, solitary pedestrians, all in search of various forms of release.
The House, from the outside, was dark and quiet. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, listening. A few of the men were only half asleep. The rest were sunk in an ocean of dreams, distorted reflections of their longings and fears. She inched the front door open, lifting it on its heavy hinges to keep it from creaking.
The lamp was lit in Michael’s office. She crept down the hallway and peered inside the half-gaping door. He had fallen asleep at his desk, slumped forward in his chair. His head lay in the crook of his arm, an open prayer book next to his elbow. He might have been dead, save for the rise and fall of his shoulders. She came closer and crouched down next to him. Why did he smell so strongly of alcohol? “Michael,” she murmured. “Michael, wake up.”
One hand convulsed, grasping at air. He moaned and pulled himself up. “Chava,” he groaned, still half-asleep.
And then he stiffened. His eyes flew open, found her, and focused.
His terror, like that of a cornered animal, hit her square in the chest.
He leapt up from the desk, scattering books and papers, and staggered backward. In his mind she saw a grotesque image: a gigantic woman with a lumbering body and a dark, rough face, her eyes cold in their sockets. Herself, seen in the mirror of his fear.
Oh God—what had happened? She reached for him and he jolted backward again, nearly losing his footing. “S
tay away from me,” he hissed.
“Michael,” she said, but couldn’t go on. So many times she’d imagined this scenario, her secret’s discovery; and now she found that none of her careful explanations, her sincere apologies, were near to hand. There was only horror and sadness.
“Tell me I’m imagining it!” he yelled. “Tell me I’ve gone insane!”
No, she realized. She couldn’t. She owed him that much. But neither could she bring herself to say the truth out loud. She strained to find words that might suffice. “I never meant to hurt you,” she said. “Never.”
A bloom of anger pushed Michael’s fears aside. She saw his face harden, his hands turn to fists.
She was in no true danger, of course; he was inebriated and had no skill at violence. But her senses reacted nevertheless. Reality began to bleed away into that awful calm. There was time only for one word, forced between clenched teeth.
“Run,” she told him.
A fresh terror surged through him—and then he did as she’d ordered, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. The heavy front door slammed shut.
She stood alone in Michael’s office, trembling, as little by little her control returned. She’d always wondered if she’d be relieved when the truth finally came out; but she would have lived with the strain forever, rather than see Michael run from her. She supposed she should worry about whether he meant to tell anyone, but at the moment she cared little. Let the mob destroy her, if it wanted. At least it would spare her further agony.
She looked around at the chaos she’d created: chair knocked askew, papers spread across on the floor. Numbly she pushed his chair back in place and straightened the mess. She picked up the prayer book she’d glimpsed at his elbow, and it turned into a cascade of loose, half-burnt pages that spilled onto the desk.
In calling forth a demon, one must be certain to know its lineage . . .
The letter chet is one of the alphabet’s most powerful, and often misapplied . . .
She frowned. Whose book was this?
She began to turn the damaged pages, skimming the meticulous directions and many-limbed diagrams. It was, she supposed, a type of cookbook, offering lists of ingredients, precise instructions, warnings against mishaps, suggestions for alterations. Except that instead of baking a chicken or a spice cake, the reader could bring about the impossible, could alter Creation itself. Whatever had Michael been doing with this? Had the Rabbi given it to him?
One page, she noticed, was stained at the edges with mud. She read it over—and then again, and again. Stunned, trembling, she turned the page, and read what was written on the reverse.
Obedience. Curiosity. Intelligence. Virtuous and modest behavior.
She will make him an admirable wife, if she doesn’t destroy him first.
And in her memory Joseph Schall rose before her, clutching a box of dinner rolls and smiling his secretive smile. I never doubted you would make an admirable wife.
Mahmoud Saleh could not sleep, but not for the usual reasons.
He’d waited long past dark to sneak into the Jinni’s tenement, the key warm in his sweating hand. The Jinni had given him the key freely—he felt no guilt on that front—but neither did he wish to be labeled a squatter or a thief. He found the door, fumbled the key into the lock. Even in the near pitch-dark, the room had an abandoned, empty feeling. The only light shone from the naked window, a lurid orange glow that illuminated nothing. He walked with outstretched arms, waiting to bump into a chair, a table; but soon his hands touched the far wall. A few candles sat on the sill, and he felt in his overcoat’s many pockets for his matches. The light revealed the room as devoid of all furniture, save a writing desk, a wardrobe, and a number of cushions scattered across the floor.
He gathered the cushions together, forming a sort of mattress. When finally he laid himself down, he nearly cried at the comfort. In the morning he would bring up a bucket of water, and wash properly. For now he would merely sleep.
Or so he thought. Hours later, he had to admit that the room had defeated him. It was too quiet, too empty. But then what had he expected, a harem full of houris and a magic lamp for sleeping in? The truth was that in this neat and ordinary room he felt an interloper, a piece of refuse blown in through the window. Resentfully he turned over, sank farther into the cushions. Damn the Jinni, he would sleep.
A knock came at the door.
Saleh froze in the darkness. A visitor, this late? What sort of life did that creature lead? He held his breath, willing the room to utter silence. But the knock came again, and with it quiet words in a man’s voice, first in a language he didn’t understand, and then an inexpert English: “Hello? Please?” A pause. “Ahmad?”
Saleh cursed. He fetched a candle and opened the door. “No Ahmad,” he said, staring down at the man’s dim and faraway shoes.
A question, in that other language, something that sounded near to German. He shook his head, said no again, and decided he’d done enough. Let the man work out his dilemma for himself, whatever it was. He started to close the door again.
One of the man’s shoes shot forward, blocking the doorframe.
Saleh jumped back in alarm. The man was pushing his way into the room. Saleh shut his eyes tight and pushed back, opened his mouth to shout for help—but a cool and papery hand grabbed at his wrist, and suddenly he could make no noise at all.
Schaalman peered at the unkempt vagrant who stood rigid in front of him, candle tilted in his frozen grip. Curious, he thought. The man had brought a light to the door but would not look at him; his first act of defense had been to close his eyes. Was he blind? Addled in some way?
Schaalman asked, Who are you?
The man opened his mouth, moved his lips to speak: but whatever he meant to say was obscured by a thin, high, otherworldly screaming, just on the edge of perception.
Schaalman ground his teeth in frustration. He knew what this meant. He’d seen cases of possession before, half a lifetime ago, in remote Prussian villages and the backwoods of Bavaria. This must be a minor instance, if the man could still speak and function; but even the most paltry demonic fragment would be an unbearable nuisance. The being would take every opportunity to get Schaalman’s attention, to beg freedom from its imprisonment. Schaalman had even seen spirits choke their hosts with their tongues, just to gain release. Unless the offender was dealt with, he’d learn nothing but nonsense.
Schaalman weighed his options. It would be quickest to exorcise the thing and be done with it, but the process was not a gentle one. The man would certainly remember it. Any chance of an unobtrusive questioning would be lost.
But he was so close, so very close! And this was no venerated rabbi, but an unwashed vagrant, likely half-mad from his possession. Who would believe the truth, if he tried to tell it? And how could Schaalman afford not to take the risk?
He placed a hand to either side of the man’s face, and braced himself.
Mahmoud Saleh only knew that someone, somewhere, was screaming.
A hand was pushing itself into his mind, searching by feel, its fingers sliding between layers of sense and memory. Saleh could only stand rigid and dumb as it burrowed deeper, inch by inch. It paused, and then closed itself about something small and unseen, grasping it in an iron-tight fist; and then slowly, patiently, ripped it out shrieking like a mandrake from the soil.
Saleh tried to collapse, but the paper-skinned hands held him upright. The grip shifted. Long, dry fingers opened his unresisting eyes.
Mahmoud Saleh looked into the man’s face.
He was old and thin, his pale skin mottled with age, but his deep-pouched eyes burned with intelligence. A large bruise was blossoming across one cheek. He was frowning in concentration and distaste, like a surgeon elbow deep inside a man’s guts. Saleh trembled in his grip.
Who are you? asked the man.
Doctor Mahmoud, part of Saleh replied; another part said, Ice Cream Saleh.
Then where is Ahmad?
And b
efore Saleh could think to reply, a memory burst out of him: the Jinni passing him on the sidewalk, tossing him the key. I’ll be in the Bowery, if anyone finds that they need me.
Abruptly the man let go of Saleh, and he crumpled boneless to the floor. He heard the door close as the man left. The candle rolled from his hand, its wick guttering; and the last thing Saleh thought, before the flame went out and he fell unconscious, was that it had been years since he’d seen a candle burn so brightly.
The Jinni stood on a Bowery rooftop, watching the tattered crowd below. The skies had refused to deliver on their promise of rain; the thick clouds hung low and unmoving over the city like the pale underbelly of some gigantic worm. The rooftop was a patchwork of dirty mattresses, the prostitutes having moved business outdoors, hoping for a breeze.
In the back of his mind sat the nagging sense that he should develop a plan that extended beyond the next quarter-hour. Irritated, he pushed it away. Plans, timetables, contracts—these were all human conceits. He would do what he wished, when he wished. Was that not what he’d told Arbeely? He’d passed Conroy’s earlier, had considered going inside. Perhaps he could barter his services, perform odd jobs for silver. No; was that not still servitude of a sort? Besides, why barter at all? In the desert, the silver had simply been there for the taking.
And just like that, the idea took form. He smiled, watching it grow. Why not? It would be a challenging and worthy diversion; it would require all his skill, far more than his siege of Sophia’s balcony. And if there was little honor in thieving from a thief, he imagined he would feel little shame in it, either.
Reckless, the Golem said inside him. Immoral, inexcusable.
This is how I lived before you, he said. It’s how I’ll live again.