The Golem and the Jinni

  Behind the dais was a space that had once been a small room, likely the rabbi’s study. He stepped over the half-wall that remained. Burnt papers littered the floor in drifts. The rabbi’s desk was a seared oblong hulk of wood in the middle of the room. A drawer was set into its front. Schaalman grasped the handle, and the fitting came away in his hand, lock and all. He wormed his fingernails into the crack that lay between the drawer and the desk, and broke the face to smithereens. He reached inside the exposed drawer, and withdrew the remains of a book.

  Carefully he placed it atop the desk. The book’s spine had peeled away from the body, so that it could not properly be said to be a book any longer, but rather a sheaf of singed papers. Scraps of leather clung to the cover. He lifted the cover away, and placed it aside.

  The book had darkened from the edges inward, leaving only an island of undamaged writing on each page. The paper itself was as thick as rag, and the writing was of a spidery hand that held forth in an old-fashioned, declamatory Yiddish. With growing wonder he lifted each page, his fingers cold and trembling. Broken snippets of text ran together before his eyes:

  . . . a sure charm against fever is the recitation of the formula discovered by Galen and augmented by . . .

  . . . should be repeated forty-one times for highest efficacy . . .

  . . . aid in good health after a fast, collect nine branches from a nut-tree, each branch bearing nine leaves . . .

  . . . to make one’s voice sweet to others, direct this exhortation to the Angel of . . .

  . . . increase of virility, mix these six herbs and eat at midnight, while reciting the following Name of God . . .

  . . . speak this Psalm to ward away demonic influence . . .

  . . . of a golem is permissible only in times of deepest danger, and care must be taken to ensure . . .

  . . . repeat the demon’s name, removing one letter with each iteration, until the name has dwindled to one letter, and the demon will dwindle likewise . . .

  . . . to negate the ill effect that results from a woman passing between two men . . .

  . . . this sixty-lettered Name of God is especially useful, though it is not to be uttered during the month of Adar . . .

  Page after page, the secrets of long-dead mystics laid themselves before him. Many were irredeemably lost save for a few brief words, but some were whole and undamaged, and others were tantalizingly close to complete. This was the knowledge forbidden to all but the most pious and learned. His teachers had once hinted that wonders such as these would someday be his; but they’d denied him even the briefest glimpse, saying he was still far too young. To utter a charm or an exorcism or a Name of God without purity of heart and intention, they’d said, would be to risk one’s soul to the fires of Gehenna.

  But for Schaalman, the fires of Gehenna had long been a foregone conclusion. If that was to be his end, then he would make the most of the meantime. Some influence, divine or demonic, had led him to this place, and had placed unutterable mysteries in his hands. He would take that power, and he would use it to his own ends.

  The papers lay crisped and quietly crackling beneath his fingers. In the distant dizziness of his hunger, he could swear he felt them vibrate like a plucked string.

  5.

  After a few more days of nervous coaching, Arbeely decided that the time had come to introduce the Jinni to the rest of Little Syria. The plan he’d devised to do so relied on the very woman who was, in a sense, responsible for the Jinni’s new life in Manhattan: Maryam Faddoul, the coffeehouse proprietress, who’d brought Arbeely a copper flask in need of repairing.

  The Faddouls’ coffeehouse was famous for having the best gossip in the neighborhood, a distinction due entirely to the female half of its management. Maryam Faddoul’s great gifts in life were a pair of guileless brown eyes and an earnest desire for the happiness and success of all her acquaintances. Her sympathetic nature made her a popular audience for the airing of grievances; she agreed wholeheartedly with every opinion and saw the wisdom in every argument. “That poor Saleem,” she might say, “it’s so obvious how much he loves Nadia Haddad! Even a blind goat could see it. It’s such a shame that her parents don’t approve.”

  And then a customer might protest, “But, Maryam, only yesterday her father was here, and you agreed with him that Saleem was still too young, and not yet ready to be a good provider. How can both be right?”

  “If all our parents had waited until they were ready to marry,” she’d reply, “then how many of us would be here?”

  Maryam was a master at the beneficial application of gossip. If a businessman was drinking coffee and smoking a narghile, and bemoaning the smallness of his shop—business was booming, if only he had space for larger orders!—Maryam would appear at his side, refill his cup with an easy tilt of her wrist, and say, “You should ask George Shalhoub if you can take over his lease when he moves away.”

  “But George Shalhoub isn’t moving.”

  “Is that so? Then it must have been some other Sarah Shalhoub I talked to yesterday. Now that her son is going to work in Albany she can’t stand the thought of being away from him, so she is trying to convince George that they must go as well. If someone hinted they were willing to take the lease off his hands, then George might find himself much more willing.” And the man would hurriedly settle the bill and head out the door in search of George Shalhoub.

  All the while, Sayeed Faddoul would be watching from the small kitchen, a smile in his eyes. Another man might grow jealous of his wife’s attentions, but not him. Sayeed was a quiet man—not awkward, as Arbeely could be, but possessed of a calm and steady nature that complemented his wife’s heartfelt vivacity. He knew that it was his presence that let Maryam be so free; an unmarried woman, or one whose husband was less visible, would be forced to rein in her exuberance, or else risk the sorts of insinuations that might damage her name. But everyone could see that Sayeed was proud of his wife and was more than content to remain the unobtrusive partner, allowing her to shine.

  At last Arbeely set his plan into motion. A message boy was dispatched to the Faddouls, alerting Maryam that her flask had been repaired. Accordingly she arrived that afternoon, still dressed in her apron and bringing with her the dark smell of roasted coffee. As always, Arbeely’s heart squeezed at the sight of her, a not unpleasant ache, as if to say, Ah well. Like many of the men of the neighborhood, he was a little bit in love with Maryam Faddoul. What luck to be that Sayeed, her admirers thought, to live always in the light of her bright eyes and understanding smile! But none would dream of approaching her, even those who regarded the conventions of propriety as obstacles to be overcome. It was clear that Maryam’s smile shone from her belief in the better nature of those around her. To demand more of that smile for themselves would only serve to extinguish it.

  “My dear Boutros!” she said. “Why don’t I see you at the coffeehouse more often? Please tell me business has doubled and you must work night and day, because that is the only excuse I’ll accept.”

  Arbeely blushed and smiled, and wished he were not so nervous. “Business has been good, actually, and I have more work than I can handle alone. In fact, I must introduce you to my new assistant. He arrived a week ago. Ahmad!” he called toward the back room. “Come meet Maryam Faddoul!”

  The Jinni emerged from the storeroom, ducking his head to clear the threshold. In his hands he held the flask. He smiled. “Good day, madam,” he said, and offered the flask to her. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  The woman was plainly astounded. She stared at the Jinni. For a moment, his eyes darting between them, Arbeely’s fears were lost in a sudden flush of envy. Was it only the Jinni’s good looks that caused her to stare like that? No, there was something else, and Arbeely had felt it too, at their calamitous first encounter: an instant and compelling magnetism, almost instinctual, the human animal confronting something new, and not yet knowing whether to count it as friend or foe.

  Then Maryam turned to
Arbeely and swatted him across the shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “Boutros, you’re horrible! Hiding him from everyone, and not saying a word! No announcement, no welcome—he must think us all terribly rude! Or are you ashamed of us?”

  “Please, Mrs. Faddoul, it was at my request,” the Jinni said. “I fell ill during the crossing, and was bedridden until a few days ago.”

  In an instant the woman’s indignation turned to concern. “Oh, you poor man,” she said. “Did you cross from Beirut?”

  “No, Cairo,” he said. “In a freighter. I paid a man to hide me on board, and it was there I became ill. We docked in New Jersey, and I was able to sneak away.” He spoke the learned story easily.

  “But we could have helped you! It must have been so frightening, to be sick in a strange country, with only Boutros for a nursemaid!”

  The Jinni smiled. “He was an excellent nursemaid. And I had no wish to be a burden.”

  Maryam shook her head. “You mustn’t let pride get the better of you. We all turn to each other here, it’s how we make our way.”

  “You are right, of course,” the Jinni said smoothly.

  Her eyebrows arched. “And our secretive Mister Arbeely, how did you meet him?”

  “Last year I passed through Zahleh, and met the smith who taught him. He saw that I was interested in the craft, and told me about his apprentice who had gone to America.”

  “And imagine my surprise,” interjected Arbeely, “when this half-dead man knocks on my door and asks if I am the tinsmith from Zahleh!”

  “This world works in strange ways,” Maryam said, shaking her head.

  Arbeely studied her for signs of skepticism. Did she really believe this concocted story? Many Syrians had traveled odd and winding paths to New York—on foot through the forests of Canada, or fording box-laden barges out of New Orleans. But hearing their tale spoken aloud, Arbeely felt it was too remarkable for its own good. And the Jinni had none of the pallor or weakness of one who had been seriously ill. In fact, he looked like he could swim the East River. Too late to change it now, though. Arbeely smiled at Maryam, and hoped the smile looked natural.

  “And are you from near Zahleh?” Maryam asked.

  “No, I am Bedouin,” the Jinni replied. “I was in Zahleh to deliver my sheepskins to market.”

  “Is that so?” She seemed to look him over again. “How astonishing you are. A Bedu stowaway in New York. You must come to my coffeehouse, everyone will want to meet you.”

  “I would be honored,” the Jinni said. He bowed to Maryam and returned to the back room.

  “Such a story,” Maryam murmured to Arbeely as he saw her to the door. “Obviously he has the endurance of his people, to have made it here. But still, I’m surprised at you, Boutros. You might have had better sense. What if he’d died in your care?”

  Arbeely squirmed in very real embarrassment. “He was adamant,” Arbeely said. “I didn’t want to go against his wishes.”

  “Then he placed you in a very difficult position. But then, the Bedouin are certainly proud.” She shot a glance at him. “Truly, he is Bedu?”

  “I believe so,” Arbeely said. “He knows very little of the cities.”

  “How odd,” she said, almost to herself. “He doesn’t seem . . .” She trailed off, her face clouding; but then she came back to herself. Smiling at Arbeely, she thanked him for the repair. Indeed, the flask was much improved; Arbeely had smoothed away the dents, restored the polish, and then reproduced the patterned band down to the tiniest awl-mark. She paid and left, saying, “By all means, you must bring Ahmad to the coffeehouse. No one will speak of anything else for weeks.”

  But going by the immediate flood of visitors to Arbeely’s shop, it grew clear that Maryam had not waited for their visit; rather, in her enthusiastic manner, she had spread the story of the tinsmith’s new Bedouin apprentice far and wide. Arbeely’s own little coffeepot bubbled constantly on the brazier as the entire neighborhood filed in and out, eager to meet the newcomer.

  Thankfully, the Jinni performed his part well. He entertained the visitors with tales of his supposed crossing and ensuing illness, but never spoke so long that he risked tangling himself in his story. Instead he painted in broad strokes the picture of a wanderer who one day decided, on little more than a whim, to steal away to America. The visitors left Arbeely’s shop shaking their heads over their strange new neighbor, who seemed protected by the accidental good fortune that God granted to fools and small children. Many wondered that Arbeely would take on an apprentice with such meager credentials. But then, Arbeely was considered a bit strange himself, so perhaps it was a case of like attracting like.

  “Besides,” said a man at the coffeehouse, rolling a backgammon piece between his fingers, “it sounds like Arbeely saved his life, or close to it. The Bedouin have rules about repaying such debts.”

  His opponent chuckled. “Let’s hope for Arbeely’s sake that the man can actually work a smith!”

  Arbeely was heartily glad when the flood of visitors lowered to a trickle. Besides the pressure of maintaining their story, he’d spent so much time entertaining his neighbors that he’d fallen far behind on business. And it seemed that each visitor had brought along something that needed mending, until the shop was crammed full of dented lamps and burned pots. Many of the repairs were strictly cosmetic, and it was clear that their owners had been moved more by a sense of neighborly support than actual need. Arbeely felt grateful and a little bit guilty. To look at the rows of damaged items, one would think Little Syria had been struck by a plague of clumsiness.

  The Jinni found the attention amusing. It wasn’t hard to keep his story consistent; most of the visitors were too polite to press him overmuch for details. According to Arbeely, there was a certain glamour to the Bedu that would work in his favor. “Be a bit hazy,” Arbeely had told him as they prepared their plan and rehearsed their stories. “Talk about the desert. It’ll go over well.” Then he’d been struck by a thought: “You’ll need a name.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “Something common, I would think. Oh, let’s see—there is Bashir, Ibrahim, Ahmad, Haroun, Hussein—”

  The Jinni frowned. “Ahmad?”

  “You like it? It’s a good name.”

  It was not so much that he liked it, as that he found it the least objectionable. In the repeated a’s he heard the sound of wind, the distant echo of his former life. “If you think I need a name, then I suppose it’s as good as any.”

  “Well, you’ll definitely need a name, so Ahmad it shall be. Only please, remember to answer to it.”

  The Jinni did indeed remember, but it was the only aspect of Arbeely’s plan that made him uncomfortable. To him the new name suggested that the changes he’d undergone were so drastic, so pervasive, that he was no longer the same being at all. He tried not to dwell on such dark thoughts, and instead concentrated on speaking politely, and maintaining his story—but every so often, as he listened to the chatter of yet more visitors, he spoke his true name to himself in the back of his mind, and took comfort in the sound.

  Of all the people whom Maryam Faddoul told about the newcomer, only one man refused to take interest: Mahmoud Saleh, the ice cream maker of Washington Street. “Have you heard?” she told him. “Boutros Arbeely has taken a new apprentice.”

  Saleh made a noise like “hmm” and scooped ice cream from his churn into a small dish. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of Maryam’s coffeehouse. Children waited before him, clutching coins. Saleh reached out a hand, and a child placed a coin in his palm. He pocketed the coin and held out the ice cream dish, careful to avoid looking at the child’s face, or Maryam’s, or indeed at anything other than his churn or the sidewalk. “Thank you, Mister Mahmoud,” the child said—a courtesy due, he knew, only to the presence of Maryam. There was a rattle as the child took a spoon from the cup tied to the side of his tiny cart.

  “He’s a Bedouin,” Maryam said. “And ra
ther tall.”

  Saleh said nothing. He spoke little, as a rule. But Maryam, practically alone among the neighborhood, wasn’t perturbed by his silence. She seemed to understand that he was listening.

  “Did you know any Bedu in Homs, Mahmoud?” she asked.

  “A few,” he said, and held out his hand. Another coin; another dish. He’d tried to avoid the Bedu who lived on the outskirts of Homs, close to the desert. He’d thought them a grim people, poor and superstitious.

  “I never knew any,” Maryam mused. “He’s an interesting man. He says he stowed away as if for a lark, but I sense there’s more. The Bedu are a private people, are they not?”

  Saleh grunted. He liked Maryam Faddoul—in fact, it could be said that she was his only friend—but he wished she would stop talking about the Bedu. Along that path lay memories he did not wish to revisit. He checked the churn. Only three servings of ice cream were left. “How many more?” he asked aloud. “Count off, please.”

  Small voices sounded: one, two, three, four, stop pushing, I was here first, five, six.

  “Numbers four through six, please come back later.”

  There were groans from his would-be customers, and the sound of retreating footsteps. “Remember your places in line,” Maryam called after them.

  Saleh served the remaining children and listened as they returned the flimsy tin dishes to their place on the cart, atop the sack of rock salt.

  “I ought to go back inside,” Maryam said. “Sayeed will be needing my help. Good day, Mahmoud.” Her hand squeezed his arm briefly—he caught a glimpse of her frilled shirtwaist, the dark weave of her skirt—and then she was gone.

  He counted the coins in his pocket: enough for ingredients for another batch. But it was late in the afternoon, and a film of clouds had formed across the sun. In the time it would take him to buy milk and ice and then mix the ice cream, the children would no longer be so eager. Best to wait until tomorrow. He tied down the contents of his cart and began his slow trudge up the street, head bowed, watching his own feet as they moved, black shapes against a field of gray.