Passover stretched on, and the Lower East Side turned into one giant craving: for a pastry, a bagel, anything really, as long as it wasn’t matzo. Finally, mercifully, the holiday ended, and the neighborhood streamed to the local bakeries in relief. Knowing that her morning shopping trip would be akin to a mob scene, the Sheltering House cook deputized Joseph Schall to go with her to Shimmel’s, their new supplier, and help carry back as much bread as possible. Michael had justified the switch from Radzin’s with talk of better labor practices and the need to support younger businesses; but the cook remembered the gift of almond macaroons, noticed Michael’s recent glum mood, and didn’t ask too many questions.
On this day, though, Shimmel’s was a madhouse. The line stretched far out the door; inside, the employees were running around in a panic, searching for ingredients and frantically rolling out dough, or else apologizing to disgruntled customers whose favorites had already disappeared from the cases. The cook stuck her head in, frowned, came back out. “We’re going to Radzin’s,” she told Schall. “Michael won’t know the difference.”
Yehudah Schaalman could not have cared less which bakery they bought their bread at. The strain of passing himself as kindly old Joseph Schall was taking its toll. He’d been to every synagogue, every yeshiva, every place of Jewish learning he could find, and he felt no closer to his goal, to the secret to life eternal. Never once had he felt a pull from his dowsing spell, even though he knew without doubt that it had worked. Was this why he’d come to New York, to run errands and settle dormitory squabbles? For a month now he’d gritted his teeth and continued, having no other choice. This was his only hand; he’d play it out until he won, or it killed him.
With as much enthusiasm as he could counterfeit he followed the cook back through the sodden, overcrowded streets. The line at Radzin’s was no shorter, but at least it moved. Inside, he hovered near the door, distrusting the crowd. The bakery was packed with people, their steamy exhalations fogging the glass and turning the air thick and humid. Schaalman began to sweat in his wool coat. At least the workers were diverting to look at. They moved quick as machines, especially the tall girl at the near table, who was rolling out dough as if she’d been born to it. He found himself fascinated by her hands. They moved without pause, without a single wasted gesture. He looked up at her face—a plain girl, yet familiar-looking—
There was a sharp, insistent tug as the dowsing spell came to bear. And in that moment, he recognized her.
The girl looked up, startled. Her eyes confusedly roved the crowd, as though not sure what she was looking for.
But Schaalman had already slipped out the door. He forced himself to keep calm, his mind clear, until he reached the end of the block, and then leaned against a wall, trembling with shock.
His golem! The golem he’d built for Rotfeld! She was here, in New York! He’d imagined her rotting away in some rubbish dump—but did that mean that Rotfeld had brought her to life on the ship, before he died? He must have; he’d been more than fool enough to do it. And now she was roaming masterless in New York, a hunk of clay with teeth and hair, a dangerous creature who looked like a woman. And Schaalman had no idea what it could possibly mean.
It lasted only the briefest of moments: a sense that someone had seen her, seen to the heart of her, and been afraid. But in the next instant there were only the customers, their desires for rye bread and rugelach. Still, she stood listening with all her senses until Mrs. Radzin shot her a strange look. “Chava? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I thought I heard someone call my name.” She smiled quickly, and then bent back over her work, wondering. Occasionally someone would wander in off the street with an unquiet mind, from drink or illness or misfortune; perhaps it was one of these, someone who’d arrived at the right answer for the wrong reasons. Or else she’d been working too quickly, and had been noticed. In any case, there was nothing she could do about it, not with a line out the door and six sheets of cookies in the oven. For the rest of the day she listened, but heard nothing; and other, more insistent worries rose to eclipse it.
Anna’s situation was growing worse. The girl was now retreating at least twice a day into the water closet to vomit, and the Radzins had, inevitably, taken notice. At each of Anna’s hurried departures, Mrs. Radzin’s mouth would pinch in distaste, and Mr. Radzin’s expression would turn sour. It was clear to all that the jig was up, but still, maddeningly, no one said a word. They said plenty to themselves, though; and by midweek the Golem thought she might go deaf from the noise.
At night, over her sewing, she reviewed the silently gleaned details of Anna’s situation. The girl was at least two months along. Her young man still didn’t know. She’d told two girlfriends, sworn them to secrecy, though who knew how long that would last. She thought about having it taken care of, but she couldn’t afford to go uptown, and the places on the Bowery frightened her more than telling Irving. She liked to tease and quarrel with him, liked making up after an argument even more, but who was he at heart? Who would he be, when she told him?
The Golem turned it over and over, trying to decide what Anna should do, but she could find no advice to give. The Rabbi would say that her friend had acted rashly, made poor choices, and this was undoubtedly true. But when placed next to Anna’s her own life seemed a pale shadow, without even the opportunity to make Anna’s mistakes. She wasn’t human. She would never have children. Love itself might be beyond her. How could she say she wouldn’t have done the same as Anna, if she’d been born instead of made?
At dawn she was still hunched over these thoughts, irritably stabbing her needle into someone’s trouser-leg. Not even a week had passed since her heedless run in Central Park, and the easy joy of it seemed like someone else’s memory. Then again, it had been a strange experience. She remembered the insistent pull of the earth, and the way her senses had stretched out in every direction, taking in the whole of the park. And the Jinni: he’d looked so oddly lost in the alleyway, so unlike his usual confident self, and she couldn’t even guess the reason. She’d grabbed his hand out of an impulse to reassure herself that he was still there.
She tied off the thread, snipped it close to the knot. There. Trousers mended. She only wished these men would stop ripping them.
She put on her cloak and walked to the bakery, braced for another day of fears and silences. And then Anna came through the back door and ripped the ground from beneath her feet.
“Chava!” She grabbed the Golem’s hands, every inch of her radiating happiness. “Congratulate me, I’m getting married!”
“What?”
“Irving proposed last night! He proposed and I said yes!”
“Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs. Radzin. She swooped down on the girl, all offenses instantly forgiven. “How wonderful! Come here, tell me everything!”
“Well, we’re just terribly in love, so we’re getting married as soon as we can—”
Mr. Radzin fell to coughing.
“—and then, you’ll never guess, we’re moving to Boston!”
Mrs. Radzin gasped, as she was meant to, and Anna went on to explain about Irving’s friend who’d left New York to help out at his uncle’s textile mill. “And now there’s a job waiting there for Irving if he wants it. He’ll be an assistant manager, with men under him and everything. Imagine me, a boss’s wife!”
The two women went on chatting happily while the Golem stood there dazed. A wedding? Boston? Was this possible? She’d seen Anna’s dilemma as a harrowing choice from among deeply flawed options. Now, listening to the women debate the merits of a lace wedding dress versus embroidered satin, she realized that she’d never once imagined a happy outcome.
Soon Mr. Radzin began to complain that they were running behind, and that they should plan Anna’s trousseau on their own time. All went back to work, and the mood in the bakery returned to something like normal, though little Abie still snuck occasional peeks at Anna, as though expecting her to turn into a fairy princess. At the end of the day, watching Anna retrieve her cloak in the back room, the Golem realized she hadn’t even properly congratulated her. She crossed the room and caught Anna in a hug. Startled, the girl gasped a laugh. “Chava, you’re squeezing the life from me!”
She let go immediately; Anna’s face was red and smiling, there was no real damage done. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just wanted to say congratulations! But I’ll miss you terribly, is Boston very far away? Can you get there by streetcar? Oh, no, I suppose not.”
Anna was laughing now. “Chava, you goose! You’re a mystery, I swear.”
The words were pouring out, all her week’s worry relieved in a single torrent. “I’m just so happy for you! What did he say when you told him—” She stopped, clapped a hand over her mouth. Thankfully the Radzins were in the alley outside, waiting to lock up for the night.
Anna stifled a nervous giggle. “Hush, for heaven’s sake! I’ve done a poor job of hiding it, I know, but everything’s all right now. He was surprised, of course, who wouldn’t be, but then he got so sweet and solemn, it nearly made my heart break. He started talking about Boston, and how this was a sign he should grow up and settle down. And then he just swooped down on his knees and asked me! Of course I burst into tears, I couldn’t even say yes properly!”
“Are you two staying the night?” called Mr. Radzin from the alley. “If not, some of us would like to get home.”
Anna rolled her eyes, and they went out and said their good-byes to the Radzins. “What a beautiful evening,” Anna said to the Golem as they walked, taking no note of the garbage-smelling alleys, the damp and chilling breeze. The Golem smiled, watching her. Tonight she could relax over her sewing, even enjoy it a little. And tomorrow, she could tell the Jinni that everything was better at the bakery. Perhaps, just this once, they wouldn’t even argue.
Anna said, “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” the Golem said. “A friend. Why?”
“I’ve never seen you smile like that. Is this friend a man? Oh, don’t turn shy, Chava! You can’t hide from the world forever, even widows need to live a little! All due respect to your late husband, of course—but would he have wanted you to lie in an empty bed for the rest of your life?”
She tried to imagine Rotfeld’s opinion on the matter. Likely he would have wanted exactly that. “I suppose not,” she muttered, conscious of the lie.
“Then come out and have fun for once.”
She had the sense of the conversation veering out of her control. She laughed, a bit panicked. “Anna, I wouldn’t even know how.”
“I’ll help you,” the girl said, with the grand generosity of the newly happy. “We’ll start tomorrow night. There’s a dance at a casino on Broome Street. I can get you in for free, I know the doorman. I’ll introduce you to my friends, they know all the best men.”
A dance? In an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers? “But I’ve never been—I don’t know how to dance.”
“We’ll teach you! There’s nothing to it. If you can walk, you can dance.” She grabbed the Golem’s hands. “Oh, please come, Chava. It would mean so much to me. You can meet Irving! He promised me he’ll be there.” She giggled. “I want to dance with him while I can still see my feet!”
Well, perhaps that changed things. Meeting Irving would put to rest any lingering fears about what sort of man he was. As for dancing, perhaps she could plead fatigue, or sore feet. But, wait: what about the Jinni? She’d be meeting him tomorrow! “What time is the dance?”
“Nine o’clock.”
So early? That settled it. The Jinni never arrived before eleven. She could go to the dance hall and meet Irving, and perhaps even dance once or twice if it made Anna happy. And then she’d plead her excuses, and meet the Jinni under her window. “All right,” she said, smiling. “I’ll come.”
“Wonderful!” cried Anna. “Meet me at eight-thirty, at my friends Phyllis and Estelle’s place—” and she gave the address, a tenement on Rivington. “We’ll walk over together, not too early. You never want to be early to a dance, it makes you look too eager. Don’t worry about what to wear, just put on your best shirtwaist, that’s what most of us do. Oh, I’m so excited!” Anna clasped her in a fierce hug, which the Golem returned, amused; and then the girl was off down the street, head high, cloak swinging behind her.
The Golem continued home. It was growing dark, and the street-cart vendors were making their final sales. Near her boardinghouse she passed a man pushing a cart piled high with women’s clothing. There was a sign nailed to the side of the cart: BEST WOMEN’S FASHIONS, it said, and then below that, in smaller letters, PARDON ME I’m mute. The Golem thought about what Anna had said about shirtwaists. She glanced down at her own tired cuffs, frayed past the point of mending. Her other shirtwaist, she knew, was no better.
She walked up to the man and tapped him on the shoulder. He put down the cart and turned, eyebrows raised.
“Hello,” she said, nervous. “I’m going to a dance tomorrow. Do you have shirtwaists for dancing in?”
He raised one hand, a gesture that said, say no more. From his pocket he pulled a cloth tape measure, and mimed for her to hold out her arms. She did so, amused at the expressive precision of his gestures, which left no room for dissembling. Perhaps we should all learn to be mute, she thought.
He took her measurements with quick movements, then rolled the tape measure away and put one hand to his chin, considering. Turning back to the pushcart, he rifled through a stack of shirtwaists. With a flourish he pulled one out and held it up. It was certainly no workaday waist. The cream-colored fabric was closely woven, much finer than her own. Sheer ruffles ran up the length of the bodice and behind the high collar; the cuffs were ringed with them as well. It tapered to a midriff so narrow that the Golem wondered how a woman would breathe in it. The man proffered it—yes?
“How much?”
He held up four fingers; in his mind she saw three. She stifled a smile. Perhaps some subterfuges were universal, no matter the language.
It was an extravagance, but one she could afford. She opened her wallet, counted out four dollars, and handed them to the peddler. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. He handed her the shirtwaist, and accepted the money with, she saw, some measure of embarrassment. “Thank you,” she said, and went on her way.
She hadn’t made it more than a few steps before the peddler hurried around in front of her and held up his hands: wait. From a coat pocket he withdrew two imitation tortoiseshell combs, their heads cut to resemble roses. He reached up and neatened the part in the Golem’s hair, sweeping a few errant strands across the crown of her head. Then he smoothed back the hair to the left of the part and pinned it with a comb, its teeth snug against her scalp. He performed the same maneuver on the right side, giving the hair a half-twist before setting the comb tightly in place. He stepped back, nodded at his work, and walked back to his waiting cart.
“Wait!” the Golem called. “Don’t you want me to pay?”
He shook his head, not even turning, and trundled his pushcart back up the street. She stood there for a few moments, perplexed, and then walked the rest of the way home.
In her room, she slipped out of her old shirtwaist and buttoned up the new one. The reflection in her mirror was wholly startling. The ruffles behind the collar framed her face, accenting the hollows of her cheeks, her wide-set eyes. Her hair, shaped by the combs, spilled in waves to her shoulders. The frilled cuffs softened her hands, turning them slim and elegant. She studied herself for long minutes, pleased but uneasy. A mask or costume would’ve been less unnerving than these small transformations. She’d changed just enough to wonder if she was still herself.
The next day was full of excited whispers and meaningful giggles from Anna, and by the afternoon Mrs. Radzin had caught wind of their plans. On some pretext she maneuvered the Golem into the back room. “You know your own mind, I’m sure,” the woman said. “But be careful, Chavaleh. You’re fond of Anna, I am too, but there’s no need to risk your reputation. And there are other men, better men than you can find at a dance hall. What about the Rabbi’s nephew? Wasn’t he sweet on you? I know he’s poor as a mouse, but money isn’t everything.”
The Golem had had enough. “Mrs. Radzin, please. I don’t intend to ‘risk my reputation,’ certainly not in the way you mean. I’m going with Anna to meet Irving, and see what sort of man he is. Nothing more.”
The woman snorted. “I can tell you what sort of man he is. No better than the rest.” But she released the Golem back to her duties, and confined all further protests to dark looks.
Finally the day ended, and the Golem went home and put on her new shirtwaist. The combs were trickier than she’d thought, but before long she’d arranged her hair to her satisfaction. She went to the address Anna had given her, and the door was thrown open at her knock. “You came!” Anna cried in surprise, as though the Golem hadn’t promised her half a dozen times. She beckoned the Golem inside. “You look so lovely with your hair like that—oh, and let me see your shirtwaist! Beautiful!”
In the parlor two young women stood in their underclothes, sorting through a pile of garments. Their chatter stopped as Anna burst in, trailing the Golem behind her. “Girls, this is Chava. Be nice to her, she’s shy. Chava, this is Phyllis, and that’s Estelle.”
The Golem froze beneath their curious gazes, fighting down sudden panic. How could she have thought she was ready to do this, to pass as a woman among women? What could possibly have possessed her?
But the women smiled at her, welcoming. “Chava, so nice to meet you! Anna’s told us all about you. Come here, help us pick out what to wear,” said one of them—Phyllis? “I think this waist fits me better, but I just adore the buttons on this one.”
“I’m wearing that one,” the other girl said.
“It’s too tight on you!”
“It certainly is not!”
Tentatively the Golem joined them, unsure of the etiquette. Should she undress as well? No, they seemed to think it was perfectly natural for her to stand there in hat and boots while they tried on various pieces and then flung them off again. At length they noticed her shirtwaist, and gasped and cooed over it, and begged her to tell them where she’d gotten it. The attention unnerved her, but it was so honestly friendly that she began to relax, even to smile.
All at once she noticed that Anna had disappeared. “Where’s Anna?”
Phyllis and Estelle grew quiet and leaned their heads toward her, concerned and conspiratorial. “In the water closet. She won’t let us see her get dressed,” Estelle said. “I think she’s embarrassed.”
“She’s been crying, too,” Phyllis said. “He was supposed to come calling last night, and he didn’t.”
“But he’s coming tonight, isn’t he?”
The girls glanced at each other; but just then Anna entered in her usual flurry, dressed in a full-skirted suit that fit tightly at the seams. On her head she wore an enormous straw hat, topped by a quivering, somewhat shabby willow-plume.
“Are we ready?” she said brightly. “Then let’s be off!”
The Golem wanted to stay on the periphery of the evening, but on the way to the hall it grew clear that Anna and her friends intended to make her its focus. They clustered around her, peppering her with instructions and advice. “Don’t be too eager, but then don’t be too choosy,” they said. “Don’t dance all night with the first one who asks. And if you dislike the look of a man, say no. Stand your ground if he comes on too fresh.”
“It’s all right,” said Anna, seeing the Golem’s panicked look. “We’ll take it in turns to watch out for you, won’t we?” The girls nodded, giggled, squeezed her arm; and the Golem resigned herself to the evening.
They neared their destination, and were caught up in a crowd of well-dressed young women and men, all funneling toward a nondescript Broome Street door. The Golem could hear music. She felt herself pushed and jostled, in her mind as well as her body. Fortunately the crowd was in a good mood, cheerful and flirtatious; the women exclaimed over one another’s finery while the men joked and sipped from flasks.
A large man sat on a stool next to the door, collecting the admission: fifteen cents for the ladies, a quarter for the men. “That’s Mendel,” Anna said. She waved, and flashed him a dazzling smile. Mendel grinned back, a bit stupefied, and waved them through. “He’s carried a torch for me for years,” Anna whispered.
Through the door was a dark hallway, full of bodies, all pressing forward. For a moment the Golem began to panic, thinking she would crush someone by accident. Then the eager crowd surged behind her—and the Golem was propelled into the most amazing room she’d ever seen. Enormous, high-ceilinged, it swallowed the crowds eagerly. Brass chandeliers hung with cut-glass pendants cast a flickering dazzle on the people below. The walls glittered with gas lamps and candelabra, multiplied by mirrored columns. It looked like a twinkling fairyland that stretched on and on.
The Golem stared, enthralled. Any other time, a crowd of this size might have overwhelmed her; but the sheer unanticipated spectacle, and the uniform high spirits of the dance-goers, tempered her anxiety with something that felt very like delight.
“What do you think?” Estelle nearly had to shout into the Golem’s ear to be heard. “Do you like it?”
The Golem could only nod.
Anna laughed. “I told you so. Now come on, before all the good tables are taken.”
They passed a long wooden bar stocked with bottles and growlers. Beyond were rows of round, cloth-draped tables. Jacketed waiters passed among the tables, to the bar and back again, their trays laden with beer. The rest of the room was an open expanse of wooden parquet, on which men and women were already congregating. The band sat on a raised stage in a corner. A plump man in faded tails stood in front of them, beating the air with a thin baton.
The Golem followed Anna and her friends to a table at the edge of the dance floor. Soon they were inundated with acquaintances, all hugging and laughing and exchanging gossip. Anna, clearly enjoying her role as the Golem’s shepherdess, made sure that everyone was introduced to her. The Golem said hello a dozen times, smiled, learned everyone’s names. She was a bit slow to make small talk, but that was easily forgiven: it was her first dance, and they all remembered what it was like. Someone whispered that she was a widow, and instantly her quiet manner was transmuted to an air of sad, romantic mystery.
After a short break the band struck up again, and the dancing began in earnest. As the Golem watched, pairs of women took to the floor, clasping each other at shoulder and waist. They danced in small step-hopping circles, skirts and ruffles bouncing, and glanced over each other’s shoulders at the men who now ringed the edges of the dance floor.
“Look at them,” said Estelle to the Golem, indicating two men on the periphery. “They’re gathering their courage.” Sure enough, the men walked out onto the dance floor and approached two of the dancing women. Smiling, the women let go of each other, and took up with their new partners.
“You see?” said Estelle. “That’s how it’s done. Now it’s your turn.” She took the Golem’s hand and made to drag her onto the floor.
“But—”
“Come on!”
It was no use, she dared not resist: if Estelle pulled on the Golem’s arm much longer the girl might notice how very immovable she was. So she followed Estelle onto the floor, suddenly mindful of all the eyes.
Estelle faced the Golem and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re so tall, you’ll have to lead!” She laughed. “Here, hold me.” She placed the Golem’s hand on her own slim waist. “I’m going to teach you the two-step. Now do what I do, except backward.”
As it turned out, the Golem made a very good dancing student. At first she moved awkwardly, afraid to tread on Estelle’s toes—but within minutes she was easily mirroring her teacher’s moves, aided by her feel for what Estelle wanted her to do. Soon she didn’t even need to look at her feet. She was a bit stiff perhaps, but all Estelle noticed was the progress. “Chava, you’re a natural-born dancer!” she said.
“You think so?”
“I know so. And don’t look now, but I think Anna is telling those boys to dance with us.”
“What? Who?” Sure enough, Anna was talking to a pair of young men, one tall and one small, in jackets and porkpie hats. Both men were looking their way. The smaller one nudged the taller one, and they strolled around the table toward the dance floor. The Golem threw Anna a look of desperation, but the girl only waved, laughing.
“Don’t worry,” Estelle said. “I know them, they’re nice boys. You take the taller one, Jerry. He’s a lummox, but he’s sweet. His friend’s a little grabby sometimes. Don’t worry, I can handle him.”
The Golem felt the men approach. The taller one—Jerry?—wanted mainly to make it through the evening without being laughed at. The smaller one nurtured the hope of a romantic interlude in the alley outside. Both men were eager to dance.
There came the tap on her shoulder. Reluctantly she let go of Estelle, who gave her hand a comforting squeeze before turning to face her partner. The taller man gave her a shy grin. “I’m Jerry,” he said.
“I’m Chava.”
“Nice to meet you, Chava. I hear you’re new at this.”
“Yes. Very new.”
“S’all right, I’m no good at it neither.”
There was some confusion as each reached for the other’s waist, and then the Golem remembered that the man was supposed to lead. She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and put her other hand in his.
“Gosh, you got cold fingers,” he said, and they were off.
Jerry, it transpired, wasn’t being falsely modest. He had trouble keeping time, and was too busy concentrating on his feet to lead her very well. It wasn’t long before the other dancers were giving them a wide berth. But he was a gentlemanly partner, and kept his hand clasped at her waist without letting it drift slowly south, as she’d noticed other men doing. She felt him fight down a mild fear of conversation. “So you’re a friend of Anna’s,” he said.
“I work with her at the bakery,” said the Golem. “How do you know her?”
“Oh, from around,” he said. “Everyone knows Anna. But, not in a bad way,” he added hastily. “She’s not, y’know, one of those girls.”
“Of course not,” she replied, vaguely sensing what he meant. “I only thought you might be a friend of Irving’s. Her fiancé.”
Surprise registered on his face. “They’re engaged?”
“Yes, very recently. I suppose the news hasn’t spread yet.”
“Huh. Whaddya know,” Jerry said.
“You’re surprised?”
“Yeah, a little. Irving don’t seem like the marrying kind. But hey,” he said, smiling, “we all gotta settle down someday, right?”
She made no answer, only smiled back. Jerry’s friend went sailing past, Estelle on his arm; Estelle gave her encouraging glances over her partner’s shoulder.
“You’re really good at this,” Jerry said. “You sure you just learned?”
The song ended, and the dancers all turned and applauded the musicians. The man with the baton announced a short break, and the dancers drifted back toward the tables, where the waiters descended on them with their growlers of beer.
At their table, Anna was beaming. “Chava, you liar! You said you’d never danced before!”
“I hadn’t, honestly,” the Golem said. “Estelle’s a very good teacher.”
“No, I told you, you’re just a natural-born dancer.” Estelle had come back with Jerry’s friend and now spoke from a precarious perch on the young man’s knee.
“But I still have to look at my feet sometimes,” the Golem said.
“Aw hell, I look at my feet and I’ve been dancing for years,” said Jerry, and his friend snorted.
“Chava never misses a chance to cut herself down,” said Anna, wiping beer foam from her lips. “Learn to take a compliment, girl!”
Faced with this barrage of support, the Golem had to relent. “All right, I’ll admit it. I’m good at dancing.”
“I’ll drink to that!” said Estelle, lifting her beer. Anna drank too, and smiled across at the Golem. The table conversation dissolved into a mix of gossip, flirtation, and friendly teasing, and the Golem sat in the middle, feeling strangely pleased. It was such an unaccustomed sensation, to be surrounded by people enjoying themselves. There were needs and fears, of course; everyone had hopes for the evening, and many feared going home alone, or dreaded the workday to come. And the Golem noticed that Anna’s attention often left the table, to look for Irving’s face in the crowd. But even that nagging anticipation was softened by drink and conversation, and the glitter of their surroundings. Mrs. Radzin’s warnings now seemed mean-spirited, even laughable.
The band began again, and this time it was Phyllis who grabbed the Golem’s hands, and danced with her until two men cut in. Her new partner was a much better dancer than Jerry, and he wanted to show off. He led her in a variety of complicated moves, but she found she was able to mimic them easily, led by his cues. Surprised and pleased by his partner’s adaptability, the young man’s thoughts turned more amorous; he spun her away, and when they came back together, his hand was on her bottom.
Instantly she wanted to freeze, make an excuse, run from the floor. But after a moment’s hesitation she merely did what she’d seen the other girls do: she lifted his hand from where it had wandered and replaced it firmly on her waist. After that he restrained himself. When the dance was over, he thanked her and then left to seek a more pliable partner. She felt oddly elated, as though she’d won some small but necessary battle.
“Good,” said Estelle when the Golem told her what had happened. “Don’t let men like that ruin your evening. If he doesn’t take the hint, just step away and find one of us. We’ll give him a cursing out!”
The next hour was a blur. She sat, she danced, she listened to the chatter and smiled at the jokes. The evening was in full swing; the band seemed never to stop playing. Three more men asked her to dance, the last an inebriated boy a foot shorter than her who kept stepping on her feet. She was trying to decide what to do about it when Jerry stepped in and shooed him away.
“Thank you,” she said, relieved.
He was grinning. “I woulda cut in earlier, but he looked pretty funny peeking up over your shoulder. Anna nearly busted her gut.” Indeed the young woman was still giggling so hard she looked in danger of falling off her chair.
“I hope Irving gets here soon,” she said. “I’d like to see Anna dance.”
“Yeah,” Jerry said. “Hey, Chava, d’you think—”
But then whatever Jerry might have asked her was lost, as their two-step took the Golem within sight of the large, ornate clock hanging on the wall behind him, a clock whose hands were already long past eleven.
“No!” she cried. How had so much time passed without her noticing? She turned from the confused Jerry and hurried back to the table to fetch her cloak. “I’m sorry, Anna, I have to go!”
Anna and her friends immediately protested. What could she possibly be late for? Didn’t she want to meet Irving? “You’re having too much fun to leave!” said Anna. But the Golem couldn’t stand the thought of the Jinni waiting for her, thinking she’d forgotten him.
Maybe, she thought suddenly, she didn’t have to choose. She looked at the faces of her newfound friends, and the beauty of the hall around them. Perhaps, this once, it was her turn to show him something new.
“Don’t worry,” she told them. “I’ll be right back.”
Impossible as it seemed, the Golem wasn’t at home.
The Jinni scowled up at her window, caught between irritation and concern. Where else could she be? Not still at work, surely, and as far as the Jinni knew there were only two places in her life, the bakery and the boardinghouse. Even if she’d lost track of the day, she should still be sitting above him, working by candlelight on her interminable repairs. Certainly she wouldn’t have gone out on her own, not with her horror of impropriety. And even if she had, she’d have left him a note, a sign, something. Wouldn’t she?
To add insult to irritation, he’d finally made up his mind to take her to Washington Street and show her the tin ceiling. Already it was becoming a local attraction. At least one visitor could usually be found gawking up at it. The neighborhood’s Arabic broadsheet had even mentioned it, calling it a “proud civic achievement by a local artisan.”
Of course, now the entire decision seemed to be moot. He felt absurdly like a pet dog leashed to a fence post. Did she expect him to hold vigil all night?
There was a noise of pounding footsteps. From down the street, a woman came running. It was the Golem, and she was alone. She ran, if not with the inhuman speed she’d shown in the park, then with an excited urgency that bordered on carelessness. She dashed past two startled men; one of them shouted something after her, but she didn’t appear even to notice. “I’m late, I’m so sorry!” she called as she neared. And then, with a simple ceasing of motion, she was standing at his side.
He stared at her, astonished. Why did she look so different? He saw the combs in her hair, the ruffles of the new shirtwaist, but there was something else. Then he realized: she was happy. Her eyes were sparkling, her features animated; she was leaning toward him, smiling, full of eager confidence.
“I’m sorry, I was at a dance hall! Will you come back with me? Please say you will. Anna and her friends are there, and I want you to meet them. And you must see the hall, it’s beautiful!”
A dance hall? Who was this woman? “But I don’t dance,” he said, bemused.
“That’s all right, I can teach you.”
And so he forgot about the ceiling and consented to follow along beside her, feeling half-caught up in her newfound exuberance. Whatever it was that had done this to her, he supposed it must be worth a look. Apparently he was walking too slowly for her, for she grabbed his hand and began to practically pull him along. “Is the dance hall on fire?” he asked.
“No, but I promised I’d be right back. And Irving must be there by now. He’s Anna’s—oh, I didn’t tell you! Everything’s all right at the bakery, they’re going to be married!”
What on earth was she talking about? He couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. “Oh, stop it!” she said, but she was laughing too. “I’ll explain later.”
“But will it make sense?”
“If you keep teasing, I’ll leave it a mystery. Look, we’re here.”
She pointed at an unassuming doorway, from which music was spilling in a torrent. A few coins to the man at the door, and then they were inside.
A long, dark hallway—and then in an instant the Jinni was stunned from levity into silence. It wasn’t just the sheer expanse of the dance hall, nor the teeming crowd of people that filled it. No, what left him rooted to the spot, his thoughts thrown into bittersweet confusion, was the simple fact that if he’d wished to create, in the middle of New York, an approximation of his faraway and longed-for palace, the result would barely have differed. The walls were made of mirrors, not opaque glass, and the lights in them shone from gas lamps and chandeliers, not the sun or the stars; but it had the same expansiveness, the same sumptuous play of glittering light and soft shadow. It felt more like home than any other place in New York, but in the face of this shocking familiarity, he found that the gulf between his home and himself had only grown. This is the most you can hope for, the dance hall was telling him. This much, and no more.
“Do you like it?” the Golem asked. She was watching him, concerned, and the evening seemed to rest on his answer.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
She smiled. “Good. I thought you’d like it. Look, there are my friends,” she said, pointing to a distant table. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Again he followed behind her as she weaved politely through the crowd. Here they were, among hundreds of people, and she showed no qualms, no hesitation at all. Had this change been building in her, and he simply hadn’t noticed? A few months before she’d hidden her face on the street, and now she couldn’t wait to introduce him to her friends. That too—she had friends now?
At the table, a woman in a ridiculous plumed hat looked up at the Golem and said, “There you are! Wherever did you—” Then she saw the Jinni following a few steps behind, and the rest of her words were lost in astonishment.
“Oh, Anna, it’s not like that,” the Golem said at once. “He’s a friend of mine. Ahmad, this is Anna from the bakery, and this is Phyllis and Estelle. That’s Jerry, who I danced with, and Jerry’s friend—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Stanley,” said a small man with a squashed-looking face.
“Ahmad, this is Stanley,” she finished triumphantly. She was speaking English—of course, for he wouldn’t be expected to know Yiddish.
Anna was the first to recover. “Pleased to meet you, Ahmad,” she said in accented English, and shook his hand firmly. She was a pretty girl, the most attractive at the table, but he couldn’t help feeling her hat was about to attack him. She asked, “How do you know our Chava?”
A touch of worry colored the Golem’s eyes. “By sheer accident,” he said. “We crossed paths one day at Castle Garden. She said she’d never been to the aquarium, and I insisted on taking her.” He glanced over at the Golem, who gave him a look of grateful relief.
“How nice,” said Anna.
“How romantic,” Phyllis murmured.
The taller man at the table—Jerry?—was scowling at him. “That’s a queer accent you got,” he said. “Where you from?”
“You’d know it as Syria.”
“Huh,” Jerry said. “That’s over by China, right?”
“Jerry, you dunce, Syria is nowhere near China,” Estelle said in Yiddish, and Stanley cackled. Reddening, Jerry busied himself with his beer.
They might have been the Golem’s friends, but the scrutiny of the table was beginning to bore him. “Chava, you promised to teach me to dance,” he said, and the group stared after them as they walked away.
She led him to a corner of the dance floor, and turned to face him. “You place your hands here and here,” she instructed, amusingly prim. “And I hold you here and here. Then it’s just a step, and a hop. We mirror each other.”
“Wait a moment,” he said. “Let me see the others do it first.” They stood out of the way and watched the crowd. How they managed to not all crash into each other he could only guess. He wasn’t certain he saw the point of spending so much energy only to end up in roughly the same place, but kept the thought to himself.
“Are you ready now?” she asked.
“I think so.”
He placed his hands where she’d instructed, and took his first careful steps. The pattern wasn’t difficult, and he learned it quickly. At first they bumped up against a few of their neighbors, but then he developed a feel for leading, his hand pressing at her waist in the direction he meant her to go. His height was an advantage; he could seek out openings in the crowd, and keep them from getting hemmed in.
The crown of the Golem’s head brushed his chin. “You’re doing very well,” she said.
He laughed. “How can you possibly judge? You just learned yourself.”
“Yes, but you aren’t stepping on my feet, or knocking me into the others. You’re a natural-born dancer,” she said with a certain relish.
“I’m afraid I surprised your friends,” he said.
“And you had to lie to them,” she said, sobering. “That was my fault. I should’ve realized.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. You might not have brought me, and I would’ve missed this.”
“So you’re enjoying yourself?”
“Very much,” he said, and realized it was the truth.
The dancers turned around them; their enthusiasm, and the band’s, seemed inexhaustible. “Anna isn’t at our table anymore,” the Golem said, craning to look over his shoulder. “Maybe she’s found Irving.”
“Ah, yes, the mysterious Irving.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry, I never explained.” And she told him the whole story: Anna’s pregnancy, the subsequent engagement, the imminent move to Boston. “I doubt I’ll ever see her again,” she said. “I know so few people, and they all leave eventually. I suppose that’s the way of things.”
She sounded so wistful that he said, “Well, I don’t seem to be going anywhere.”
He’d meant to make her laugh, but she was quiet for a moment. “And what if you do leave? What if, someday, you find a way to free yourself of this?” Her cool fingers brushed his cuff, beneath his sleeve. “Promise me something,” she said, with sudden urgency. “If that ever happens, I want you to come see me one last time. Don’t leave me wondering what happened. Please promise me this.”
Bewildered, he said, “I wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye, Chava. I promise.”
“Good,” she said. “Thank you.”
They were still dancing, though the jaunty music now clashed with the serious mood that had fallen between them. He tried to imagine it: freed through some miracle, rising above the dirt-clogged streets and suffocating tenements, flying on the wind to her familiar window. He’d bid her farewell—and here something seized inside him. He missed a step, moved to correct it.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, and tightened his grip on her waist. “I was only imagining it. Being freed.” He paused, not knowing what he would say next, only that he must say something. “I wish I could show you—”
The band ended their tune with a flourish, and the crowd’s applause startled him from his words. She was waiting for him to go on, concern on her face, but now the crowd around them was chanting at the bandleader: A spiel! A spiel! The Jinni gave the Golem a questioning look; she shook her head, apparently as baffled as he.
The bandleader smiled and bowed in acquiescence. A giant cheer went up. More couples rushed to the dance floor, filling it to overflowing. The bandleader mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and took up his baton again—and this time, the tune was faster, more raucous, with a high, crying melody. Each man grabbed his partner around the waist and clasped her close, much closer than before, and then whirled her in a tight circle, moving quickly from one foot to the other. Peals of laughter rose from the women. Those still at the tables clapped in delight.
The music surged through the Jinni. Whatever half-formed thing he’d meant to say had lost its shape, melted back into the larger pool of yearning. He closed his eyes, at once utterly weary and full of a hectic energy.
“I suppose this is a spiel,” the Golem said, leaning close to his ear. “I didn’t learn it.”
“But I already know it.” He pulled her close.
She started with surprise. “Ahmad—”
“Hold tight,” he said, and stepped off.
Around and around he spun her, one hand in the small of her back, the fingers of the other twined with hers. He kept his eyes closed, kept his balance by feel. At first he feared she would pull away; but then she relaxed into his arms, a gesture of trust that sent a surge of gladness through him. “Close your eyes,” he said.
“But we’ll fall!”
“We won’t.”
And indeed they didn’t, nor did they collide with their neighbors. For others were noticing them now, this tall and striking couple that spun together in a world of their own. The crowd began to pull away from them, giving them space, the better to watch. Faster and faster they went—with their eyes closed! How did they do it?—and now the Golem’s steps were small precise movements that fitted to his exactly, describing a circle with himself at its center. In the midst of all that movement a stillness rose inside him, and for a long and beautiful moment everything else fell away—
Someone touched his shoulder.
He opened his eyes, and nearly crashed into the girl called Phyllis. The Golem stumbled; he caught her up about the waist and held her steady. Phyllis cringed away until she was certain they wouldn’t collide with her; then, with an apologetic glance at the Jinni, she said in Yiddish, “Chava, I’m sorry, but it’s Anna. She found Irving with another girl, and now they’re fighting. He’s drunk, and saying terrible things. I’m scared something will happen. Could Ahmad step in? I hate to ask, but Jerry and Stanley left already.”
The Jinni listened, pretending not to understand. An irritating turn of events; but he’d do it, if only to restore peace to their evening. The Golem, though, had gone still. “He’s fighting with Anna?” she said—and the tone in her voice made Phyllis pull back in alarm. “Where are they?”
“Outside.”
She clamped her hand around his and pulled him nearly off his feet, cutting like an arrow through the crowd. “Chava, wait,” he said, but she was past hearing. He could feel the tension in her frame, her rising anxiety on her friend’s behalf.
They were through the hallway, and out the door. On Broome a few loiterers stood smoking cigarettes, but there was no sign of Anna or this Irving. Then he heard a man’s distant shouts, answered by a woman’s. The Golem’s head swiveled. “The alley,” she said.
They turned the corner, the Jinni still following in her wake. At the end of the alley, her friend Anna was struggling with a man. She was holding on to him, trying to pull herself up, sobbing. The man said something and slapped her across the face, then grabbed her hands away from his jacket and threw her to the ground. Her head hit the cobbles; she cried out.
“Anna!” the Golem cried.
The man stood unsteadily, clearly inebriated. He peered at them as they approached. “Who the hell are you?”
“Leave her alone!” She was advancing on him, almost running; the Jinni struggled to keep up. He wanted to put a hand on the Golem’s arm, to slow her down, but she was just out of reach.
Irving stepped forward so that Anna lay behind him. He fixed a bleary eye on the Golem, and then the Jinni. “Your lady needs to mind her own business.”
This had gone far enough. “Walk away,” he told the man. “Now.”
The man smirked and pulled back a fist, his aim weaving.
The Jinni felt the change that came over the Golem as much as saw it. Her movements became even quicker, more liquid as she reached for Irving; she seemed almost to grow—and then, she was upon him. A blur of motion, and Irving lay sprawled across the cobbles, blood pouring from his mouth. With terrible speed the Golem seized him, lifted him up and drove him into the wall. The man’s feet dangled above the refuse, kicking feebly.
“Chava!” The Jinni grabbed her shoulders, tried to pull her away. She hurled Irving aside—he hit the ground moaning—and shoved the Jinni backward. Her face was drained of all expression, her eyes flat and dead. It was as though she’d disappeared from her own body.
The Jinni grabbed her waist and pulled her off her feet. They tumbled to the ground, and he felt his head ring against stone. She was on top of him, already struggling to break free. She twisted away and launched herself at Irving. The Jinni jumped up and ran straight at her, ramming her off her course. She fell against the wall and he pinned her there, hands on her shoulders, feet bracing against the ruts in the cobbles. “Chava!” he shouted.
She tried to push away from the wall, grimacing with the effort, her lips stretching back from her teeth like a jackal’s. Her strength was incredible. He had the advantage of height, but already his feet were slipping. If she got away from him, she’d tear the man to shreds. He had to do something.
He concentrated—and her shirtwaist began to smolder beneath his hands. There was the smell of burning cotton, and then scorched earth. Her eyes clouded, confused; and then she screamed, a shriek so high it was all but inaudible.
He slapped her hard across the face—once, twice—and knocked her to the ground, pinning her. Even if he’d only enraged her, at least she’d be fighting him now, and not Irving.
But she wasn’t struggling. She was blinking up at him, bewildered, like a human waking. “Ahmad? What’s happened?”
Was it a ruse? Slowly he released her. She sat up and put a hand to her face, and then to her chest. Her shirtwaist and underclothes hung in charred scraps. Above her breasts were long, dark marks: the outlines of his fingers. She touched them, then looked around, as if for some clue to her condition. Quickly he moved to block her view of Irving. She tried to stand—and then convulsed once, and fell. He caught her just before she hit the ground. Her eyes were half-lidded, unseeing.
A movement in the corner: it was Anna, rising shakily to her feet. He cursed quietly; he’d forgotten all about her. How much had she seen? An ugly bruise was forming on the side of her face, and one eye was swelling shut. Dull with shock, she looked from Irving to the Golem, and then to the Jinni.
In Yiddish he said, “Anna. Listen to me. A strange man attacked your lover and then ran away. You were hit on your head, and you didn’t see him clearly. If anyone else says otherwise, they’re drunk and mistaken. Now fetch a doctor.”
The girl only stared at him. “Anna!” he said; and she jumped, startled. “Do you understand me?”
A nod. She took a last look at Irving’s broken form and then picked her way unsteadily back down the alley. Did she believe him? Probably not—but it was no use, there was no time. Someone was already shouting for the police. He dragged the Golem into his arms and rose to his feet, staggering for a moment. And then, he ran.
“We were speaking of you taking a mate,” the Jinni said.
Fadwa opened her eyes. No—they were closed, weren’t they? She’d just closed them. She was asleep in her tent—no, of course not, she was awake, in the Jinni’s glass palace. She’d only been dreaming she was asleep.
A lingering unease pricked at her, but she pushed it aside. She was with the Jinni again; what else did she need to know? She was reclining on a cushion, facing him across the low table that once again bore a week’s bounty of food. She nibbled on a date, drank cold clear water. He smiled, watching her. They hadn’t seen each other in—days? Weeks? She wasn’t certain. Lately she couldn’t keep track of time. One morning she’d gone to milk the goats, only to find that their bags were empty. She ran to tell her mother, who told her she must have gone mad, that she’d milked them already, hours earlier. There were other odd happenings too. Shadows moved in the corners of her eyes, even in full daylight. Faces changed when she wasn’t looking. One afternoon she was at the pool fetching the last of the water, and the carving of the goddess began telling her stories, of the ridiculous men who’d tried to conquer the desert. They’d laughed together, like sisters, until someone called her name. It was one of her uncles. Her mother, concerned at the girl’s lateness, had sent him to find her. Fadwa turned back to the goddess, to say good-bye, but she’d gone silent again. Later Fadwa overheard her uncle whispering to her mother that he’d found her sitting in the shallow water, giggling to herself. Tell none of this to her father, her mother had said. Not a word.
But of course none of that mattered now: she was with the Jinni, safe inside his glass walls, bathing in the starlight. Her eyes were clear, the shadows lay still at her feet. Nothing could hurt her here.
“A mate,” she said. “You mean, a husband.” She sighed, wishing they’d talk about something else, but it would be rude to change the subject. “My father will find a husband for me, someday soon. There are men in our tribe looking for wives, and my father will choose from among them.”
“How will he choose?”
“He’ll pick the one with the most to offer. Not just the bride price, but the size of his clan, their grazing, their standing in the tribe. And, of course, whether others think him a good man.”
“And attraction, desire—that figures nowhere in his decision?”
She laughed. “Women in stories have that luxury, perhaps. Besides, my aunts tell me that desire comes later.”
“Yet you’re frightened.”
She blushed; had it been so obvious? “Well, of course,” she said, trying to sound adult and unconcerned. “I’ll be leaving my family and my home, to live in a stranger’s tent, and be a servant to his mother. I know that my father spoils me, and I’m not so thankless as to think he will force me to marry someone horrible. But yes, I’m frightened. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Then why marry at all?”
Again his ignorance surprised her. “Only ill or feeble girls take no husbands. A girl must marry if she can, or she becomes a burden. Our clan is too small to support an unmarried daughter, not when there are growing children to feed, and wives to find for my brothers and my cousins. No, I must marry, and soon.”
He was watching her with pity now. “A hard life, with so few choices.”
Pride rose in her breast. “But a good life, too. There’s always something to celebrate, a wedding or a birth, or a good calving in spring. I know no other way to be. Besides,” she said, “we can’t all live in glass palaces.”
He raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Would you wish to, if you could?”
Was he toying with her? His face gave no hint. She returned the smile. “Sir, your home is very beautiful. But I wouldn’t know what to do with myself in a place like this.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t have to do anything.”
She laughed then, and it was a full laugh, a woman’s laugh. “That, I think, would frighten me more than any husband.”
The Jinni laughed too, and bowed his head to her, a gesture of defeat. “I hope that you’ll allow me to visit you, after you’re married.”
“Of course,” she said, surprised and touched. “And you could come to the wedding, if you’d like.” How funny, she thought: a jinni emissary at her wedding, as though she were a queen in a story!
“Your family wouldn’t object?”
“We won’t tell them,” she said, and giggled. It didn’t seem immodest, with him.
He laughed too, then leaned back, gave her an appraising look. “A wedding. Indeed, I’d like to see that. Fadwa, would you show me what a wedding is like?”
“Show you?” Had he meant tell? She frowned, unsure. But he reached out a hand—he was sitting next to her now; when had he moved?—and smoothed the creases from her brow. Again, the unexpected warmth of his skin; again that strange blossoming in her stomach. Show me, he whispered. She was so tired, all of a sudden. Certainly he wouldn’t mind if she curled up and went to sleep (and a part of her whispered silly girl, you’re already asleep, but that was a dream and she ignored it), and his hand on her brow felt so wonderful that she didn’t even resist, but gave herself to the fatigue as it pulled her under.
Fadwa opened her eyes.
She was in a tent, a man’s tent. She was alone. She looked down. Her hands and feet were painted with henna. She was dressed in her wedding gown.
She remembered her mother and aunts dressing her in the women’s tent, painting her hands. The negotiation of the bride price, the display of her possessions. Singing, dancing, a feast. Then the procession, with herself at its head. And now she waited, alone, in a stranger’s tent. From outside she could hear laughter, drumbeats, wedding songs. Before her was a bed, heaped with skins and blankets.
A man was standing behind her.
She turned to face him. He was dressed as a Bedouin now, in black wedding garments, slim and elegant. He held out his hands, cupped together, and in them was a necklace, the most amazing necklace she’d ever seen: an intricate chain of gold and silver links, and disks of flawless blue-white glass, all woven through with filigree. It was as though he’d taken his palace and turned it into a bauble to be worn around her neck. She reached out and touched it. The glass disks shifted and chimed against her fingers.
Is this for me? she whispered.
If you would have it.
His eyes danced in the lamplight. She saw desire in them, and it didn’t frighten her. Yes, she said.
He clasped the necklace around her throat, his arms almost embracing her. He smelled warm, like a stone baking in the sun. His fingers released the clasp, to trail down her shoulders, her arms. She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t shaking. His mouth lowered to hers, and she was kissing him as though she’d been waiting for years. His fingers buried themselves in her hair. Her dress was gone now, an embroidered heap at her feet, and his hands were on her breasts and she felt no fear. He lifted her effortlessly, and then she was on the bed and he was there too, and he was inside of her, and it didn’t hurt, not at all, not like her aunts had warned her. They moved together slowly, they had all the time in the world, and soon it was as if she had always known how. She kissed his mouth and twined herself around him and bit her lip in joy, and held on as the whirlwind that was her lover carried her far, far away—
Wake up!
Something was wrong.
Fadwa! Wake up!
The ground shook beneath them, a tremor first, then harder and harder. The tent began to collapse. He was trying to pull away, but she clung to him, she was terrified, she didn’t want to let go—
Fadwa!
She held on with all her strength, but he ripped himself away and was gone. The tent, the world, everything went dark.
Above the Bedouin encampment, the Jinni reeled on the winds. He’d never before been in such pain. He was torn, shredded, near dissolution. Dimly he realized he’d let himself go too deep, drawn in by her dreaming fantasies. It had taken everything he had to escape. A lesser jinni would’ve been destroyed.
He hung there for a while, recuperating as much as he could before the journey home—weak as he was, he’d be easy prey, and vulnerable until he reached his palace. And if the wind carried to him a commotion of terrified human voices, the wails of women and a father’s cries, then the Jinni tried not to hear them.