Startled, she turned to track its path—and saw an elderly man watching her from the shadow of a grocer’s cart. Like her, the man was dressed in a black wool coat despite the heat. A white fringe peeked out from underneath the hem. He wore a white beard, neatly trimmed, and his face beneath his hat was a net of deep lines. He watched her calmly, but the thought she heard was tinged with fear: could she be what I think she is?
Hurriedly the Golem stood and walked away, not looking back. Ahead of her was a crowd of men and women, passengers from the Second Avenue Elevated. She tried to lose herself among them, following the main part of the crowd as small groups splintered away at corners and doorways. At last she ducked into an alleyway, then dared to look out. The man in the black coat was nowhere to be seen.
Relieved, she emerged from the alley and continued east. Now the air smelled of the sea again, of salt and coal smoke and engine grease. The shops were mostly closed, and the pushcart vendors were packing up their suspenders and cheap trousers, their pots and pans. What would she do once night fell? Find a place to hide, she supposed, and wait for morning.
A stab of reflected hunger struck her. A scrawny, dirt-stained boy was loitering on the sidewalk ahead, eyeing a nearby vendor who stood sweating over his cart. As she watched, a man in shirtsleeves approached the vendor and gave him a coin. The vendor plucked up a sheet of waxed paper, dipped into his cart, and emerged with a doughy disk the size of his fist. The man bit into it as he walked toward the Golem, fanning the steam from his mouth. The boy’s hunger rose, desperate and all-consuming.
If the boy were not starving, if the man had not passed so near—if, most of all, her experiences that day had not drained her so—she might have controlled herself, and walked away. But she was not so lucky. The boy’s visceral plight had transfixed her. Didn’t he need the meal more than the man did?
No sooner had she formed this thought than her hand reached out, plucked the man’s meal from his grasp, and handed it to the boy. In the next moment he was running away down the street, as fast as his legs could carry him.
The man grabbed her arm. “What did you mean by that?” he snarled.
“I’m sorry,” she began, about to explain; but the man was red-faced and furious. “You thief!” he shouted. “You’ll pay for that!”
Others were beginning to notice. An older woman stepped to the man’s side. “I saw the whole thing,” she said, glaring at the Golem. “She stole your knish and gave it to the boy. Well, girl? What do you have to say for yourself?”
She looked around, bewildered. Men and women were forming a crowd around her, eager to see what would happen. “Pay up,” someone called.
“I don’t have any money,” she said.
A hard laugh ran through the crowd. They wanted her to be punished; they wanted her to pay. They were flinging their angry desires at her like stones.
Panic filled her—and then, strangely, it ebbed away. She felt as though time was slowing, stretching. Colors grew sharper, more focused. The low sun seemed bright as noon. Fetch a policeman, someone called, and the words were slurred, elongated. She closed her eyes, feeling as though she were on the edge of an abyss, teetering, about to fall.
“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice.
Instantly the crowd’s attention shifted—and the Golem felt the abyss recede. Relieved, she opened her eyes.
It was the old man in the black coat, the one who’d been watching her. He was coming quickly through the onlookers, concern on his face. “Will this pay for your knish?” he asked, and handed the man a coin. Then, slowly, as though not to startle her, he placed a hand on the Golem’s arm. “Come with me, my dear,” he said. His voice was quiet, but firm.
Did she have a choice? It was either he, or the crowd. Slowly she stepped toward the old man, away from her accuser, who stood frowning at the coin.
“But this is too much,” her accuser said.
“Then do something good with the rest,” replied the old man.
The crowd began to disperse, some clearly feeling they’d been robbed of entertainment. Soon it was just the two of them, together on the sidewalk.
He regarded her again as he had in the cart’s shadow. Then he leaned forward, and seemed to sniff the air around her. “As I thought,” he said, a touch regretful. “You’re a golem.”
Shocked, she took a step back, ready to run. “No, please,” he said. “You must come with me, you can’t be wandering the streets like this. You’ll be discovered.”
Should she try to lose him again? But then, he had just saved her; and he seemed neither angry nor accusatory, only concerned. “Where will you take me?” she asked.
“My home. It’s not far from here.”
She didn’t know if she could trust him—but he was right, she couldn’t keep wandering forever. She decided she must trust him. She must trust someone.
“All right,” she said.
They began to walk back the way she had come. “Now tell me,” the old man said, “where is your master?”
“He died at sea, two days ago. We were crossing from Danzig.”
The man shook his head. “How unfortunate,” he said. Whether he referred to Rotfeld’s death, or the larger situation, she wasn’t certain. “Is that where you lived, before this?”
“No, I wasn’t alive,” she said. “My master didn’t wake me until the crossing, just before he died.”
That surprised him. “You mean to say you’re only two days old? Extraordinary.” He rounded a corner, and the Golem followed. “And how did you make it through Ellis Island, on your own?”
“I was never there. An officer on the ship tried to question me, because I had no ticket. So I jumped into the river instead.”
“That showed quick thinking on your part.”
“I didn’t want to be discovered,” she said.
“Just so.”
They walked on, back the way the Golem had come. The sun had long since ducked behind the buildings, but the sky still shone, brassy and thick with the day’s heat. Children began to emerge from the tenements again, looking for one last adventure before bedtime.
The man was quiet as they walked. She realized she didn’t even know his name, but she hesitated to ask—he was lost in his thoughts. She could feel the questions circling in his mind, all with herself at their heart: what should I do with her? And in one brief flash, she saw an image of herself struck down, turned to a formless heap of dirt and clay in the middle of the street.
She halted, stock-still. But instead of panic, she only felt a deep weariness. Perhaps it would be for the best. She had no place here, no purpose.
He’d noticed she was no longer at his side and doubled back, concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“You know how to destroy me,” she said.
A pause. “Yes,” he said, guarded. “I have that knowledge. Few do, these days. How did you know this?”
“I saw it in your mind,” she said. “You considered it. For a moment, you wanted it.”
Confusion furrowed his brow—and then he laughed, without mirth. “Who made you?” he asked. “Was it your master?”
“No,” she replied. “I don’t know my maker.”
“Whoever it was,” he said, “was brilliant, and reckless, and quite amoral.” He sighed. “You can feel others’ desires?”
“And fears,” she said. “Since my master died.”
“Is that why you stole that knish, for the boy?”
“I didn’t mean to steal,” she said. “He was just . . . so very hungry.”
“It overwhelmed you,” he said, and she nodded. “We’ll have to address that. Perhaps with training . . . Well, that can wait, for now. We must deal with more practical matters first, such as finding you clothing.”
“Then—you won’t destroy me?”
He shook his head. “A man might desire something for a moment, while a larger part of him rejects it. You’ll need to learn to judge people by their actions, not their
thoughts.”
A moment’s hesitation; and then she said, “You’re the only one to speak kindly to me since my master died. If you think it best to destroy me, I’ll abide by that decision.”
Now he looked shocked. “Have your few days been so difficult? Yes, I see they must have been.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder; his eyes were dark but kind. “I’m Rabbi Avram Meyer,” he said. “If you’ll allow it, I will take you under my protection, and be your guardian. I’ll give you a home, and whatever guidance I can, and together we’ll decide what course is best. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” she said, relieved.
“Good.” He smiled. “Now, come with me. We’re almost there.”
Rabbi Meyer’s building was a tenement like all the others, its hard facade stained with dirt and smoke. The lobby was dark and close, but well kept; the stairs creaked with protest beneath their feet. The Golem noticed that her companion’s breathing grew labored as they ascended.
The Rabbi’s rooms were on the fourth floor. A narrow entryway led to a cramped kitchen with a deep sink, a stove, and an icebox. Socks and underclothes hung above the sink, drying. More laundry sat in piles on the floor. Dirty dishes lay jumbled together on top of the stove.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” said the Rabbi, embarrassed.
The bedroom was large enough only for its bed and a wardrobe. Beyond the kitchen was a small parlor, with a deep, worn sofa of green velvet set beneath a large window. Next to it was a small wooden table, with two chairs. A large collection of books lined one side of the room, their spines cracked and faded. More books were stacked in haphazard piles about the room.
The Rabbi said, “I don’t have much, but it’s enough. Consider this your home, for the time being.”
The Golem stood in the middle of the parlor, not wishing to dirty his sofa with her dress. “Thank you,” she said.
And then, she caught sight of the window. The sky was darkening, and the gas lamps in the parlor were bright enough to create a reflection. She saw the image of a woman, superimposed against the neighboring building. One hand fluttered up slightly from her side, then lowered; the woman in the window did the same. She stepped closer, fascinated.
“Ah,” said the Rabbi quietly. “You haven’t seen yourself yet.”
She studied her own face, then ran a hand through her hair, felt the thin strands stiff with river water. She gave it an experimental tug. Would it grow, or remain forever the same length? She ran her tongue over her teeth, then held out her hands. Her nails were short and square. The nail on the left index finger had been set a bit off center. She wondered if anyone beside herself would ever notice.
The Rabbi watched her examine herself. “Your creator was quite gifted,” he said. But he couldn’t keep a hint of disapproval from his tone. She looked back down to her fingertips. Nails, teeth, hair: none of these features were made of clay.
“I hope,” she said, watching her own mouth move, “that no one was harmed in my making.”
The Rabbi smiled sadly. “So do I. But what’s done is done, and you are not to be blamed for your own creation, whatever the circumstances. Now, I must go find you some clean clothes. Stay here, please—I’ll be back shortly.”
Alone, she watched her reflection for a little while longer, thinking. What if the Rabbi had not come when he had? What would have happened? She’d been standing inside the angry crowd’s circle, feeling the world fall away, as though she were about to cross a threshold into—what? She didn’t know. But in that moment, she’d felt calm. Peaceful. As though all worries and decisions were about to be lifted from her shoulders. Remembering, she shivered with a fear she didn’t understand.
It was growing late, and most of the shops were closed; but the Rabbi knew that a few would still be open near the Bowery, willing to sell him a woman’s dressing gown and a few pairs of underclothes. He could barely afford the expense: besides his small pension from his former congregation, his only income came from teaching Hebrew to young boys studying to become bar mitzvot. But it must be done. Warily he crossed the raucous thoroughfare, avoiding the paths of drunken men, and the eyes of the women who stood beneath the Elevated, waiting for custom. On Mulberry he found a clothing store still open, and bought a woman’s shirtwaist and skirt, a dressing gown, slips and drawers, and stockings with garters. After a moment’s hesitation, he added a nightgown to the pile. She wouldn’t need it for sleeping, of course, but the selection of women’s things had overwhelmed him; and besides, she couldn’t simply wear a dressing gown with nothing on beneath it. The clerk frowned at his coat and fringe, but took his money quickly enough.
He carried the string-wrapped package back across the Bowery, thinking. It would be difficult, living with someone who sensed one’s desires. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall to chasing his own mind, trapped in the maddening game of don’t think about that. He’d have to be completely honest and unabashed, and hide nothing. It wouldn’t come easy. But any misplaced courtesy would do her a disservice. The larger world would not be so accommodating.
There would be consequences to his actions, to his sheltering of her: he had known this from the moment he’d recognized her nature and decided not to destroy her. Childless, retired, a widower for close to ten years, Rabbi Avram Meyer had planned for himself a quiet old age and an uneventful death. But the Almighty, it seemed, had planned otherwise.
In a nondescript tenement hallway, Boutros Arbeely opened a door and stepped back to allow his guest admittance. “Here it is. My palace. I know it’s not much, but you’re welcome to stay here until you find a place of your own.”
The Jinni gazed inside with alarm. Arbeely’s “palace” was a tiny, dim room barely large enough for a bed, a miniature armoire, and a half-moon table pushed up against a dingy sink. The wallpaper was pulling away from the wall in thick ripples. The floor, at least, was clean, though this was something of a novelty. In honor of his guest, Arbeely had kicked all his laundry into the armoire and leaned against the door until it shut.
Eyeing the room, the Jinni felt a claustrophobia so strong he could barely bring himself to enter. “Arbeely, this room isn’t fit for two inhabitants. It’s barely fit for one.”
They’d been acquainted for little more than a week, but already Arbeely had realized that if their arrangement was to work, he’d have to curb his irritation at the Jinni’s offhand slights. “What more do I need?” he said. “I spend all my time at the forge. When I’m here, I’m asleep.” Gesturing to the walls, he said, “We could string a sheet across, and bring in a cot. So you don’t have to sleep in the shop anymore.”
The Jinni looked at Arbeely as though he’d suggested something insulting. “But I don’t sleep in the shop.”
“Then where have you been sleeping?”
“Arbeely. I don’t sleep.”
Arbeely gaped; for he hadn’t realized. Every evening when he left the shop, the Jinni would still be there, learning to work the delicate tinplate. And each morning, on returning, he’d find the Jinni hard at work again. Arbeely kept a pallet in the back room, for the nights when he was too tired to drag himself to his bed; he’d simply assumed that the Jinni was using it. He said, “You don’t sleep? You mean, not at all?”
“No, and I’m glad of it. Sleep seems like an enormous waste of time.”
“I like sleeping,” Arbeely protested.
“Only because you tire.”
“And you don’t?”
“Not in the way you do.”
“If I didn’t sleep,” Arbeely mused, “I think I’d miss the dreams.” He frowned. “You do know what dreams are, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know what dreams are,” the Jinni said. “I can enter them.”
Arbeely paled. “You can?”
“It’s a rare ability. Only a few clans of the highest jinn possess it.” Again Arbeely noted that casual, matter-of-fact arrogance. “But I can only do so in my true form. So there’s no need to worry, your dreams are safe fr
om me.”
“Well, even so, you’re more than welcome—”
Irritated, the Jinni cut him off. “Arbeely, I don’t want to live here, awake or asleep. For now, I’ll stay in the shop.”
“But you said—” Arbeely paused, not wanting to go on. I’ll go mad if you keep me caged here for much longer, the Jinni had said, and it had stung. Their plan required that the Jinni be kept out of sight until Arbeely had taught him enough to pass as a new apprentice; but this meant that the Jinni was forced to stay hidden in the back of the shop during the day—a space nearly as small as Arbeely’s bedroom. Arbeely understood that the Jinni chafed at the restriction, but he’d been hurt by the implication that he was the Jinni’s jailor.
“I suppose I would feel odd if I had to stay in a room all night and watch a man sleep,” Arbeely conceded.
“Exactly.” The Jinni sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked around once more. “And really, Arbeely, this place is terrible!”
His tone was so plaintive that Arbeely started laughing. “I don’t mind it, really,” he said. “But it isn’t what you’re used to.”
The Jinni shook his head. “None of this is.” Absentmindedly he rubbed the cuff on his wrist. “Imagine,” he said to Arbeely, “that you are asleep, dreaming your human dreams. And then, when you wake, you find yourself in an unknown place. Your hands are bound, and your feet hobbled, and you’re leashed to a stake in the ground. You have no idea who has done this to you, or how. You don’t know if you’ll ever escape. You are an unimaginable distance from home. And then, a strange creature finds you and says, ‘An Arbeely! But I thought Arbeelys were only tales told to children! Quick, you must hide, and pretend to be one of us, for the people here would be frightened of you if they knew.’ ”
Arbeely frowned. “You think I’m a strange creature?”
“You miss my point entirely.” He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “But yes. I find humans strange creatures.”
“You pity us. In your eyes, we’re bound and hobbled.”