Two hours after lights-out, the man known as Joseph Schall woke in the darkness of the Sheltering House dormitory. All day he’d been a model of industry, distributing blankets and cots and bars of soap, and washing dishes in the kitchen. At the evening roll call he’d struck names from the list and settled the inevitable disputes, before taking to his cot and sinking into a deep and grateful sleep. But now, as he dressed quietly and found his shoes, the role of Joseph Schall fell from him like a skin. It was near midnight, and Yehudah Schaalman’s day was just beginning.
Ever since the night of his opium-fueled revelations, Schaalman’s search had taken on a new energy. He realized now that he’d made the mistake of imagining his quarry as something hidden away, like a jewel at the center of a maze. But his eyes had been opened. Whatever it was, it traveled. It was something that could be carried, even passed on, knowingly or unknowingly.
At first he’d returned to the Bowery, hoping to pick up the trail again. For a week of nights he walked across the rooftops, one more anonymous soul among the masses. But the traces that once had felt so fresh had begun to fade. Even Conroy, the trader in stolen goods, had lost his undeniable pull; now he seemed only mildly interesting.
Schaalman refused to be deterred. He’d found the trail once before, completely by accident. Surely he could do so again.
And so he struck out once more, traveling at random, into unfamiliar neighborhoods where the Yiddish faded from the signs. These streets were much less trafficked at night, and with no crowd to hide in, Schaalman felt wary and exposed. But the risk came with reward: soon the dowsing spell was pulling him north past long blocks of columned buildings to a large and open park where stood an enormous illuminated arch, its alabaster-white surface fairly glowing with interest. His quarry had been here, and recently.
He studied the arch for nearly an hour, trying to understand its significance. Had it been part of a building, or the gate of a now-fallen city? An unreadable quotation in English was carved into one side, but somehow Schaalman doubted it would provide answers. He risked muttering a few basic formulae to reveal the unseen, but found nothing. The arch merely hung above him, an incalculable weight of marble. A carved eagle rested on a pediment at the apex of the arch, and stared down at Schaalman with one cold eye. Unsettled, Schaalman left the park and walked back to the House, falling into his cot just before dawn.
He went back to Washington Square Park a few nights later but, like the Bowery, its fascination was already ebbing. So he continued north, wandering the side streets along Fifth Avenue, catching hints of interest here and there. He had to concentrate, for the surroundings themselves were a constant distraction: the monumental granite buildings, the expanses of perfect plate glass. How could a street continue straight as a rod for miles and miles, without bending even once? It felt unnatural; it made his flesh creep.
Eventually the spell pulled him to another park, this one tree lined and studded with bronze figures in antique dress. Derelict men lay asleep here and there on the grass, but none drew his interest. So back to the Sheltering House he went, sunk deep in melancholy, feeling as though he were chasing Levy’s uncle all over again.
And that, of course, was the other thread in this tangled knot: the unknown connection between his quarry and the new Mrs. Levy. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the dowsing spell showed no interest in her husband. She was counterfeiting the life of an ordinary newlywed; was she counterfeiting a second life as well? It would certainly answer the question of how she spent her nights.
And so he followed her home from the bakery one afternoon, immediately noting with frustration that she too was losing the attention of the dowsing spell. Could it be that her presence in New York was pure coincidence? No, she was too intertwined with his search, with Levy and his dead uncle. There was more here, he only needed to find it.
Even as tall as she was, she was a hard woman to follow. She walked quickly through the crowd, giving peddlers and pushcart-men little chance to approach her. She only stopped once, at a general store, for flour and tea, thread and needles. She shared no womanly chatter with the shopkeeper, wasted no words other than please and thank you. Carrying her unremarkable packages, she went straight home and vanished into her building.
Well, perhaps an evening’s observation would bear more fruit. He went back later that night, tailing Levy after lights-out. The man made no detours on his way home, but that was unsurprising. So far he had proved as interesting as a brick.
Schaalman took up position in a doorway opposite, fortified himself with wakefulness charms, and settled in for a long night’s watch. But neither of the Levys appeared until after dawn the next day, when Michael emerged yawning from the front door. His wife followed a few minutes later, striding briskly toward the bakery. Schaalman hadn’t put much trust in his theory; still, he felt obscurely disappointed in his creation. What did she do with herself all night? Listen to her husband snore while washing his socks by candlelight? He felt like scolding her. The most remarkable golem in existence, and she was content to play house! But then, perhaps it was part of her nature: the urge to replace her lost master, to find someone to obey.
He dragged himself back to the Sheltering House. His feet ached; his head pounded with fatigue and the aftereffects of the charms he’d used. He had to remind himself that he was making progress, slow though it might be. But it was maddening. He collapsed onto his cot, not even bothering to remove his shoes. An hour later he woke again as harmless old Joseph Schall, ready for his daily duties.
And already the day was proving a challenge for the Sheltering House staff. Down in the kitchen, the cook was near apoplexy. No one had put the sign in the window for the iceman, and now she had to serve up three days’ worth of herring for breakfast, or else watch it all spoil. What’s more, the delivery from Shimmel’s Bakery had come up short; there wouldn’t be nearly enough rolls for supper.
“I can fetch the rolls, at least,” said Joseph Schall. “But perhaps I’ll buy them at Radzin’s.” He smiled. “I’d like to give my regards to Mrs. Levy.”
That morning, Radzin’s Bakery was faring even worse than the Sheltering House. Ruby, the new girl, had taken the wrong trays from the ovens, and now all the challahs were raw and the pastries burnt. The customers waited at the register, muttering to one another, while everyone rushed about repairing the damage. Feeling their impatience, the Golem rolled and sliced and braided as fast as she dared. She found herself growing more and more irritated. Why should she shoulder the burden of Ruby’s mistake? If she slowed herself to a reasonable pace, and let the customers complain, the girl might be more careful next time.
She glanced across at the girl in question, who was frantically mixing a bowl of batter, her thoughts a torment of self-recrimination. The Golem sighed, disappointed in herself. When had she turned so bitter, so uncharitable?
The previous night had been difficult as well. Worried about her insomnia, Michael had urged her to see a doctor. She’d tried to reassure him that she felt perfectly fine; but it became clear that the only way to appease him was to feign sleep. And so she’d spent the entire night lying next to him, eyes closed, diligently breathing in and out. After a few hours it was all she could do to hold still. Her limbs trembled with cramp, and her mind ran riot. She imagined shaking him awake, shouting the truth into his face. How had he not seen it yet? How could a man be so blind?
And then at dawn he’d woken, and given her a drowsy smile. “You slept,” he murmured; and she cringed with guilt at his gladness.
At last the bakery recovered from the morning’s mishap and the customers began to relax. The Golem went into the storeroom to fetch her unnecessary midday meal. From the water closet came the sound of hitching sobs and a torrent of despairing thoughts. She knocked softly on the water closet door. “Ruby?” Silence. “Ruby, please come out. It’s all right.”
The door cracked open; the girl’s face emerged, red and swollen. “No it isn’t. He’s going to sack me, I know it.”
“Of course he won’t.” It was the truth; Mr. Radzin had been deeply tempted but was too exhausted to contemplate another new hire. “He knows you’re new to this. And we all make mistakes, especially at the beginning.”
“You don’t.” Ruby’s voice was sullen. “You never do.”
Guilt twisted at her again. “Ruby, I have made more mistakes than I can count. But when something goes wrong, it does no good to hide and cry. You have to take what you’ve learned, and keep going.”
The girl gave a doubtful-sounding sniff, but then wiped away the tear tracks on her face. “All right,” she said quietly, and left to face Mr. Radzin’s scowls.
The Golem ate her bread and butter with even less enthusiasm than usual. Meanwhile young Selma ran in and out, fetching eggs from the icebox, rolls of twine. A year ago she’d been a round-bellied girl in pigtails; now, long limbed and strong, she hoisted a bag of sugar to her shoulder, then dashed away again. The Golem watched her go, wondered what it would be like to have a daughter. She knew that Mrs. Radzin felt a constant stream of worries and anxieties for Selma, and wished occasionally that she could halt time, to keep the girl innocent of the world and its disappointments. Selma, meanwhile, could not wait to grow up, to at last understand the frustrating adults around her, their whispered arguments and sudden silences.
And where, thought the Golem, did she herself fit in? Somewhere between mother and daughter, she supposed: no longer innocent, not yet understanding.
Distantly she wondered how Michael was faring at the Sheltering House. Working too hard, no doubt. One of these days she would beg an hour for herself for lunch, and take him a plate of macaroons. It would be a wifely thing to do. A gesture of affection.
“Chava?”
She looked up, startled. Selma stood in the doorway. “Papa says it’s your turn at the register.”
“Of course.” She pushed her troubled thoughts to a distant corner of her mind and stepped up to the register, relieving the harried Mrs. Radzin. The woman gave her a grateful pat on the arm, and retreated. The Golem placed a smile on her face and began filling orders.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Levy.”
A small old man was standing before the counter, his eyes twinkling. “Mr. Schall!” she said, surprised. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding! How have you been?”
“Oh, well enough, well enough. And yourself? Does married life agree with you?”
Her smile threatened to waver; she steadied it. “Yes, though I’m afraid you see my husband much more than I do.”
He chuckled. “A pity. You must wish you didn’t have to work, or sleep.” Her pause lasted only an instant, before she smiled and agreed.
The line behind him was shuffling impatiently. She asked, “What can I get for you, Mr. Schall?” and focused in on him, ready to fetch whatever he wanted.
But there was nothing there.
She saw his mouth move, heard him say, “Can you spare three dozen dinner rolls? We’re having a hard day at the Sheltering House, I’m afraid.” But beyond them lay no desire at all. There was only a void, a vast expanse of nothingness.
“Of course,” she said weakly. Then, with more conviction: “Yes, of course. We can spare more, if you’d like.”
“No, three dozen should be enough.”
Quickly she boxed the rolls, wrapped the boxes with twine. To the last one she added a handful of macaroons. “For Michael, if you would,” she said. “And one for yourself.”
He smiled and thanked her, then paused, seeming to regard her. “You’re an exemplary woman, Chava. I never doubted you would make an admirable wife.” And then, he was gone.
She turned to the next customer, only half-hearing the order. Never doubted? What an odd choice of words! Hadn’t he only met her once? Unless perhaps he’d heard Michael speak of their engagement. But—she shuddered to think of that bizarre void, that utter lack of fears or desires. It was quite different from what she’d felt from the Jinni: the Jinni’s were still there, only muted, hidden from her sight. With Joseph Schall, it felt as though they’d been deliberately excised. She thought of the surgeon on the Baltika cutting out Rotfeld’s appendix, lifting it free of his body.
She spent the rest of the afternoon greeting customers and fetching their orders, her habitual smile covering her unease. But all the while, she could not shake her growing conviction that there was something very wrong with Joseph Schall.
“A success!” Sam Hosseini told the Jinni. “An immense success!”
The necklaces, it seemed, had all been sold, and at a handsome profit. “Could you perhaps make another dozen?” Sam had asked. “And this time, with bracelets to match?” So once again the Jinni took up his tools. But the novelty of the necklaces had worn off; soon, he predicted, he’d be as bored with them as he’d been with the skillets.
Meanwhile, Arbeely’s hours at the forge were growing ever longer. Swamped with orders, he’d even broached the subject of bringing on another assistant, an apprentice perhaps. The Jinni was less than pleased with this idea. Other than his barely tolerable room, the shop was the one place where he could be fully himself—but no doubt Arbeely would insist he hide his more unorthodox methods from a newcomer.
Despite the silence and the tension—or perhaps because of it—their work progressed steadily; and late one afternoon the Jinni realized that he and Matthew had completed half of Sam Hosseini’s order, and were even ahead of schedule. The Jinni smiled as he watched Matthew disappear out the door. Perhaps, he thought, he would open his own shop, without Arbeely, and take Matthew as an apprentice. AHMAD AND MOUNSEF, METALSMITHING. Arbeely was out on one of his occasional errands, negotiating a better price from a supplier, and it felt good to be alone, without the man’s grumpy silences. He bent to his work again, feeling a sliver of something that might be contentment.
The door flew open.
It was Matthew, pale with panic. He ran to the Jinni and grabbed his arm, his entire body a plea; and the Jinni found himself pulled onto his feet, and out the door.
The boy dragged him through the street at a run. From the corner of his eye, the Jinni saw Maryam Faddoul look up startled from a conversation at a sidewalk table, watching them dart past carts and pedestrians. They went up the steps of Matthew’s building, through the lobby—the tin ceiling flashed above them—and up and up, to the fourth floor. One of the hallway doors hung open, and Matthew ran through it. The room beyond was dim and close, the curtains heavily shaded. The Jinni braced himself and followed Matthew.
A woman lay crumpled on the floor, her face to the bare wooden boards. Matthew ran to her side, shook her arm—there was no response—and looked up at the Jinni, silently begging him.
Carefully the Jinni lifted the woman from the floor and turned her over. She weighed barely more than a child. Even he could see that she was extremely ill. Her eyes were closed, her skin sallow, except for a livid raised blush that spread across her cheeks and nose. Surely that wasn’t normal? Beneath it, her face had the same delicate features as Matthew’s.
“This is your mother?” A nod, impatient: yes, of course! Please help her!
What could he do? Why had Matthew come to him? At a complete loss, he laid the woman on the couch and bent an ear to her chest. There was a heartbeat, but far too faint. Sweat ran down her forehead; her skin was nearly as warm as his own. He felt her take a struggling breath, and then another. His own body tensed in response, as though trying to help—but no, that was useless, what was he supposed to do?
Footsteps on the stair; and then Maryam ran in, quickly taking in the tableau. Until that moment he’d felt nothing for Maryam Faddoul but wary dislike, but now he felt a wash of relief. “I think she’s dying,” he told her, the statement somehow a plea.
Maryam only hesitated a moment. “Stay here with Matthew,” she said. “I’ll fetch a doctor.” And she was gone again.
The woman’s neck was bent at an awkward angle. He placed a pillow under her head, hoping that might help. Matthew ran from the room, and the Jinni wondered if the boy was too frightened to watch; but then he reappeared, carrying a small paper packet and a glass of water. The Jinni stared while Matthew measured out a spoonful of white powder from the packet and poured it into the water. This was . . . medicine? The boy stirred for a few moments, then held the glass up to the dim lamplight, squinting at it with a critical eye. The gesture spoke of endless repetition. Matthew struggled to lift his mother’s head from the sofa and the Jinni quickly maneuvered her into a sitting position. He took the glass from Matthew and tilted it to her lips. She sipped at it weakly, then began to cough and splutter. He wiped the water away, and looked to Matthew; urgently the boy gestured, more. He tried to coax her to drink again, but she had sunk back into unconsciousness.
More footsteps on the stair—and then a silver-haired man was in the parlor, carrying a leather satchel. “Move aside, please,” he said, and the Jinni retreated into a corner. Wordlessly the man—a doctor, the Jinni surmised—examined the rash on her face, then listened to her breathing. Grasping her wrist in one hand, he removed his pocket watch and timed her pulse. After a few long moments he put the watch away. “Is this woman in your care?” he asked the Jinni.
“No,” the Jinni said at once. “I’m—I don’t know her.”
Instantly the doctor’s attention turned to Matthew. “You’re her son?” A nod. “What were you giving her just now?” Matthew handed him the packet; the doctor examined it, dipped a finger in the powder and tasted it. Then he frowned. “Acetanilide,” he said. “Headache powder. This the only medicine she takes? Nothing else?” Another nod.
Maryam ran in carrying a bucket. “I brought ice,” she said.
“Good,” said the doctor. “We’ll need it.” To Matthew he asked, “Was she seeing a physician?” Matthew whispered a name, and the man’s mouth tightened in distaste. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, removed a bill. “Fetch him,” he said. “If he doesn’t want to come, give him this. But don’t tell him I’m here.” And then Matthew was gone again, running out the door.
The Jinni stood frozen in the corner. He didn’t know Matthew’s mother. He didn’t even know her name. He wanted desperately to leave but couldn’t bring himself to move. He watched as Maryam placed a cold cloth on the woman’s forehead and murmured quiet words. The woman’s eyes moved beneath her lids. From his satchel the doctor extracted a vial of clear liquid, and a cylinder with a needle at one end. He performed some maneuver between vial and cylinder—again that sense of an action endlessly practiced—and positioned the needle’s tip at the inside of her elbow. Maryam winced and turned away.
The Jinni watched as the needle disappeared into the woman’s arm. “What is that?”
“Quinine,” said the doctor. He pulled the needle out again, leaving only the barest drop of blood. It seemed an illusion, a conjurer’s trick.
“What about the powder?”
“If she took enough of it,” the doctor muttered, “it might relieve her headache.”
They sat in tense silence, listening to the sick woman’s shallow breaths. The Jinni looked around, seeing the place for the first time. The room was so small it sent his skin crawling. The furnishings were worn and dilapidated. Dusty paper flowers stood in a vase on the mantelpiece, beneath a faded watercolor of a hillside village. Heavy curtains were tacked to the window frames, as though to block out every last ounce of sunlight.
This was where Matthew lived. It wasn’t what the Jinni had pictured. He’d pictured—what? Nothing. He’d never thought to picture anything at all.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Joubran,” Maryam said.
The man nodded, then looked up at the Jinni, his sharp eyes curious. “You’re Boutros Arbeely’s partner, aren’t you? The Bedouin.”
“Ahmad,” the Jinni muttered.
“You’re the one who found her?”
“Matthew found her. He brought me here. I’ve never met her before.”
At last Matthew returned, trailing a shabbily dressed man who carried his own leather satchel. The man cringed at the sight of Dr. Joubran. It looked like he might flee, but Maryam quickly rose and blocked his path.
“You’ve been treating this woman, is that correct?” said Dr. Joubran. “What, if I might ask, was your diagnosis?”
The man shuffled nervously. “She complained of headaches, aching joints, and fevers. I suspected nervous hypochondria, but prescribed acetanilide.”
“I suppose you’ve never seen a case of lupus erythematosus before?”
The man blinked. “Lupus?”
“One look at her face should have been enough!”
The man leaned forward and peered in confusion.
“Get out of here,” the doctor said. “Go and pray for her.” And the man slunk away down the stairs.
“Useless charlatan.” Dr. Joubran reached for the needle and vial again. Seeing this, Maryam said, “Come with me, Matthew, let’s fetch your mother more ice,” and led the boy from the room.
The Jinni watched the needle disappear again, this time into the skin of her stomach. It made him strangely dizzy. He lowered himself into a chair. “And that will make her better?” he asked.
“It’s possible,” the doctor said. “But not likely. She’s too far advanced. Her organs are failing.” He picked up the woman’s hand and pressed a finger to the back of her palm; for a few moments, her skin kept an impression of the fingerprint. “You see? Her body is filling with fluid, and it’s pressing against her lungs. Soon it will reach her heart.” He took out his watch again, held her wrist, and then said, “I’ll ask Maryam to send for a priest.”
The commotion had not gone unnoticed by the neighbors. Timidly a woman poked her head inside. She and Maryam whispered together, and the woman withdrew. Door knocks sounded up and down the hall. Slowly and silently, the room began to fill with women. They brought plates and bowls of food, bread and rice and glasses of milk. They brought chairs and sewing baskets. Solemnly they settled in, unspeaking.
Maryam’s husband, Sayeed, appeared as well, and the Jinni watched the two share quiet words. How, he wondered, was their regard for each other so very evident, when they did not embrace, didn’t even so much as touch? Sayeed left again, clearly on some errand; and the Jinni felt freshly superfluous, an obstruction in the room.
A weight fell against his leg. It was Matthew. The boy was sitting at his feet and had fallen asleep. Maryam woke him gently. “Matthew? Perhaps you should go to bed.” But the boy shook his head, then reached up and gripped the Jinni’s hand, as though for protection. She seemed startled for a moment, even wounded; but then she sighed and moved away.
Sayeed Faddoul returned, accompanied by a young priest dressed in long black robes, his face plump above a squarely cut beard. One by one the women stood and bowed to him, and he made a sign above their heads. After a moment’s hesitation, he made the sign above the Jinni’s as well. He began to speak quiet words, a prayer of some sort. The women bowed their heads; the doctor took Nadia’s hand.
The Jinni wondered, if he were on the verge of death, who would come to help him? Arbeely? Maryam? Would they call a priest? Would his neighbors, with whom he’d never exchanged a word, come to his tiny room and keep watch? And how would anyone know to tell the Golem?
It was almost midnight when Nadia Mounsef took her last breath and let it out in a long, thin sigh. The doctor looked at his watch and made a note. Many of the women started to cry. The priest began to pray again. The Jinni stared at the woman’s face. He could point to no difference, yet she was entirely changed.
The priest finished his prayer. A pause, a silence; and then the room began to stir. Maryam and the other women gathered near the door, murmuring together. The Jinni heard the word Matthew once, twice. A few of them glanced across at him, at the small sleeping form at his side, still clutching his hand. He realized Matthew had slept through his own mother’s death. Someone would have to wake him. Would have to tell him.
Carefully the Jinni gathered Matthew in his arms and stood. The knot of women fell silent as he approached. He handed the sleeping boy to Maryam—she took him with a look of surprise—and walked out the door.
On the street, he walked not caring where he went. Every fiber of his being yearned to turn east, to go to the window on Broome, to stand underneath it until she came down to meet him. He would wait there a day, a week, a month. The longing for her, as stark as any he’d ever felt, brought a confused anger; with an effort he turned his steps to the shop. He had left the fire going in the forge. Arbeely would be furious if he knew.
An envelope jutted from the doorframe of the shop, where it had been wedged into a crack. Carefully he removed it. Ahmad was written on the front, in Hebrew characters, in a woman’s hand.
He tore it open and drew out the letter inside. But within moments his brief hope turned to confusion, then irritation, and finally a swift, incredulous anger.
Mr. Ahmad:
My name is Anna. We met at the Grand Casino. I remembered that you speak Yiddish, so I hope that you can read it as well. I doubt that you’ve forgotten what happened that night in the alley. I haven’t forgotten it either.
My life hasn’t been easy since then. My baby is coming soon and I have no one to turn to. I can’t go home to my parents. I have no money and no one will hire me. I am asking you for one hundred dollars. Please bring the money to the corner of Hester and Chrystie Streets at noon tomorrow. The building on the southwest corner has a flowerpot at the top of the stoop. Put the envelope underneath the pot and then leave. I will be watching you.
If you don’t bring the money, I will go to the police and tell them the truth. I will say it was Chava who attacked Irving, and tell them where they can find her. I’m not a bad person, but I am desperate, and I must take care of myself and my baby.
Sincerely,
Anna Blumberg
“Joseph Schall came by the bakery today,” the Golem said.
“Did he?” Michael helped himself to more noodle pudding. “Oh, the macaroons! I nearly forgot.” He smiled at his wife. “Thank you, they were delicious.”
“Mr. Schall’s an interesting man,” she said. “Can you tell me more about him?”
“Joseph?” His brow furrowed in puzzlement. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything, I suppose. Where he’s from, or what he used to do for a living. Does he have any family here?”
She’d mean to feign only a nonchalant interest, but already Michael was beginning to smile. “Chava, you sound like the board at Ellis Island!”
“It’s just that I know so little about him, except that he reminds you of your uncle. And you think very highly of him.”
“I do indeed. Sometimes I think he’s the only thing holding the House together.” He chewed for a moment, thinking. “He’s Polish. From somewhere near Danzig, I think.” Then he laughed. “You know, now that you ask, I know almost nothing about him. He must have been a scholar at one point, if not a rabbi. At least, he talks like one. He never married, and he has no family in America.”
“I wonder why he came here, then.”
“Times are hard in Europe, you know that as well as anyone.”
“Yes, but the elderly are usually set in their ways. To come to a strange country all alone, and agree to live in the Sheltering House, and work so hard, for so little—”
“I do pay him, you know,” said Michael.
“I only meant that coming to New York must have filled some great desire in him. Or perhaps there was a reason he couldn’t stay in Europe.”
He gave her a concerned look. “Are you implying that he was running away from something?”
“No, of course not! He’s a puzzle, that’s all.”
“Not as much as others I could name.”
She laughed at this, as he’d meant her to, and began clearing the dishes. She hadn’t been careful enough; he still wondered at her motive. Well, maybe that was for the best. Perhaps he’d keep a closer eye on Schall, and tell her if he did anything strange.
Michael had a faraway look in his eye. “He asked me about Uncle Avram once,” he said.
The Golem paused, a dish in her hand. “He did?”
“About his library, actually. He was looking for a particular book. One from his school days, he said.”
“Did he say which book?”
“No, I told him I’d given them all away. He seemed rather disappointed. Do you know, it’s the one time I’ve regretted doing it.” He smiled. “But can you imagine, living here with all those books? What would we do with them?”
“We’d have to get rid of the bed,” she said, and he laughed.
That night she lay next to him, once again feigning sleep, and thought about Joseph Schall. Was there something sinister in his asking about the Rabbi’s books? Or was she now creating suspicions from thin air? There were any number of private Jewish libraries on the Lower East Side; perhaps she could volunteer to help find what he was looking for. No, that would seem too strange an offer. She’d have to rely on Michael. Besides, Joseph Schall was likely just a peculiar old man. She was merely inventing distractions for herself.
She turned over, trying to find a more comfortable position. It was barely one in the morning, and already her legs were beginning to ache. The worst of the summer’s heat had passed, and most of the building’s residents were enjoying a pleasant night’s sleep. Only a few remained awake to trouble her with their thoughts. Outside, a man was strolling down the street, enjoying the night air, at ease with himself and his life. He wanted no more than to walk until the sun rose. Beneath a lamppost he stopped to roll a cigarette.
A tentative hope rose inside her.
The man’s thoughts turned to frustration as he searched his pockets for his matches. At last he found them, lit his cigarette, and moved on.
She scolded herself for her foolishness. Of course it wasn’t him. If it had been, she wouldn’t have felt him at all. He didn’t know where she lived now, had no idea she was married. She would never see him again.
“Chava!”
Oh, no. Michael had woken, terrified. She was too still. She’d forgotten to breathe.
She turned, feigned grogginess: “What is it? What’s wrong?”
His eyes were wide with panic. “I thought—for a moment I thought—” Then he sighed. “I’m sorry. It was nothing. A nightmare.”
“It’s all right. Shhh, go back to sleep.”
He wrapped his arms around her, his chest to her back. She twined her fingers in his, pulling them away from where her heart would be. Together they lay until dawn, the Golem caught inside Michael’s arms, counting the minutes as they passed.
The remnants of Michael’s nightmare still dogged him the next morning, coloring his thoughts. He’d woken—or thought he’d woken—to find his wife lifeless beside him, still as marble. But then she was herself again, alive and breathing. Strange, how dream and reality could merge so seamlessly. He wondered where the dream had come from. There must have been a folktale along those lines, something his mother or his aunt had once told him: a corpse-woman or sinister wooden changeling.
He watched his wife move about the kitchen. “Were you able to sleep at all?”
She gave him a distracted smile. “A bit, I suppose.”
“Shall I pick up anything for supper? Some liver from the butcher’s?”
“It’s not too expensive?”
“Oh, I think we can afford it once in a while.” He smiled, reached for her, and kissed her. “Besides, we need to keep you strong.”
In case we should start a family, he nearly added, but held back at the last moment. He’d never asked her if she wanted children. It was one of the many conversations they’d passed over on their way to the altar. They would have to discuss it, and soon. Not just yet, though—already he was late to work. He kissed her once more, and left.
He was halfway to the Sheltering House when he recalled Chava’s questions about Joseph Schall. It was of a piece, somehow, with his nightmare—folktales, childhood stories . . . Yes, of course: Joseph was looking for a book from when he was a schoolboy. And he’d hoped Michael’s uncle might have owned it. He remembered, on that last night of shivah, finding his uncle’s satchel of old books and placing them in the bookcase. If he’d known, he might have kept them—perhaps one of them had been the book that Joseph wanted. . . .
He frowned. Hadn’t he found a stack of his uncle’s papers as well, tossed them into that satchel and brought them home? The memory had the dreamlike quality of illness—it was right before he’d been sent to Swinburne—but yes, he was certain that this had actually happened. What had he done with the satchel? It wasn’t at home, surely—they had so few things, he would have seen it. Could it still be at his old building?
He was already late to work, but the memory of the satchel and the papers had seized hold of his thoughts. And his former tenement was only a few streets away. Quickly he changed course.
At the old building, one of his erstwhile roommates opened the door, blinking owlishly, still half in slumber. A leather satchel? Full of papers? Let me see—maybe there’s something like that around . . . And there it was, hidden in a pile of laundry beneath an occasional table. Exactly where Michael had left it, months before. He took it to the Sheltering House, not wanting to open it until he could be alone. He’d kept so few of his uncle’s things that even though the papers would be of no practical use, they seemed nonetheless precious.
At the House, he checked with the staff to make certain that the morning’s chaos was still at a manageable level. Satisfied, he closed his office door and opened the satchel.
Instantly his excitement faded. The papers seemed to be notes on some mystical project. He flipped through diagrams, concentric circles and spirals and sunbursts, all scattered about with Hebrew letters. Here and there the esoteric scribbles were interspersed with comments in Yiddish, reporting on his progress. He flipped through the pages, feeling little interest, only fresh sorrow. He’d thought his uncle to be more sensible than to go in for this sort of thing.
Then a sentence caught him, and stopped him cold.
I have named her Chava.
He stared at the words, at the familiar handwriting. He took in the date at the top of the page, not more than a year past. Slowly he turned back to the beginning.
Who am I to destroy her? She’s no less innocent than any other newborn . . .
The incident with the knish: she hears others’ desires and fears, and they overwhelm her. How to counteract? Training, discipline. Must apply to my own mind as well, or risk causing havoc.
How did her creator instill her mental qualities, her personality? A complicated task . . . Just the power of speech alone requires some degree of free will. Perhaps only within certain boundaries, a middle ground between autonomy and enslavement? Yes, true of all of us, but not nearly so precarious a balance, or so dangerous to miscalculate.
Have resisted testing her physical strength, afraid of where it might lead. But today she picked up a corner of the brass bed-frame to sweep beneath it, as easily as I would lift a teakettle.
An experiment today: a walk alone, for five blocks. She performed admirably.
Nights are hardest for her. What would I do, if I didn’t need sleep, and was disinterested in reading? My own sleep has been poor lately—always the fears for her future, for the safety of others. She must know, of course, but we do not speak of it.
Her mental discipline is improving. Another walk on her own, to the store and back, without incident. Observation: of all the desires she must condition herself to ignore, none are sexual in nature. Too consistent to be coincidence, unless she’s simply not telling me, to protect my modesty. Did her creator, knowing he was building a man’s wife, make her resistant to others’ advances? Would ensure fidelity—and of course she’d have to respond to her master, by force of their binding. A terrible, sickening thought. Cannot bring myself to broach the subject aloud.
Living arrangement growing uncomfortable. Must find her an occupation. Seamstress? Laundress? Certainly she needs physical activity. If only women could be bricklayers, stevedores . . .
Will she ever be capable of real love, of happiness? Beginning to hope so, against my own better judgment.
Took her to meet Michael today, at the Sheltering House. She did well, though perhaps a bit stiff, and had difficulty ignoring the men’s thoughts. Still, I believe she is ready for some measure of independence. Michael, clever as always, suggested Radzin’s.
I have named her Chava. Signifying life. A reminder to myself.
Michael put down the paper with a shaking hand. His uncle had gone insane. That was the only explanation. She was a woman, a living woman. She was his wife. She was quiet, kind, considerate. An exemplary woman, an excellent cook and housekeeper.
She rarely slept. She always seemed to know what he was thinking.
A torrent of small details began to fill his mind, as though his uncle’s words had broken a secret dam. The coolness of her skin. The way she listened with her entire body, as though hearing something beyond sound. Her uncanny habit of anticipating his every need. The rarity of her laugh. The distance in her eyes.
No. He struggled against the flood, ordering himself to be sensible. His uncle was suggesting—what? That she was a creature of some kind? That his nightmare was real?
There were only a few sheets of paper left. He didn’t want to read any more—he was beginning to feel sick—but his hand, mutinous, turned the pages. His uncle had begun to simply scribble furiously, like a student cramming for an exam. Ideas were circled, crossed out, rewritten. Check against fragment from Alphabet of Akiba ben Joseph, then compare with theory of Abba ben Joseph bar Hama. Incompatible? Is there precedence? As he turned the pages, the handwriting grew more slapdash, the words scattered across the page in haste or fatigue.
On the last page, only two lines were written. One was a long, unbroken stream of letters. And above it, underlined, his uncle’s hand shaking with effort:
To Bind a Golem to a New Master
Night was falling in the desert. It woke the serpents and the voles and brought them out from their hiding places, giving fresh meat to the falcons. It flattened the hills and stones, so that from its mouth, ibn Malik’s cave seemed an endless abscess in the earth. As the far horizon dimmed, Abu Yusuf built a fire just outside the cave, wrapped himself in sheep hides against the coming cold, and tried not to imagine what might be happening in the darkness behind him.
Ibn Malik, it seemed, had not been exaggerating when he said he’d been waiting for this all his life. “Most jinn are inferior things,” he’d told Abu Yusuf as they went deeper and deeper into the warren of caves, pausing only to light the greasy torches set into the passage walls. “Ifrits, ghuls, even the minor and middling jinn themselves—I could capture a hundred of them if I wished, but why take the trouble? Dull and stupid, easily distracted, what use is such a servant? But a powerful jinni—oh, that is something very different.”
Abu Yusuf was only half listening, concentrating instead on carrying the still-unconscious Fadwa through the narrow, twisting corridor. Some of the passages were barely wide enough for a man, and Abu Yusuf, who’d lived his whole life under the open sky, felt a creeping horror, an urge to turn and run.
“I assume you’re familiar with the stories of King Sulayman,” said ibn Malik, and Abu Yusuf chose not to dignify this with a reply: only a wild orphan might be ignorant of the tales. “They have all been embellished, of course, but at their heart they’re mainly true. The magic granted to Sulayman allowed him to control even the strongest of the jinn, and use them to his kingdom’s benefit. When Sulayman died, the magic disappeared with him. Or, rather, most of it disappeared.” Ibn Malik glanced back at Abu Yusuf. “I have spent the last thirty years combing the desert for the remnants of that magic. And now, you have brought me the key.”
Abu Yusuf looked down at the silent girl in his arms.
“Not your daughter—what’s inside her. The spark that the jinni left behind. If we harness it properly, we can use it to find him, and control him.”
“And that’s why you say she can’t be healed yet.”
“Of course,” ibn Malik said, the words floating over his shoulder. “If we lose the spark, we lose the key.”
Abu Yusuf stopped walking. After a moment ibn Malik realized he was no longer being followed, and turned around. With his torch held above his head, he looked like a glowing skeleton, an image that his calm smile did little to alter. “I understand,” he said. “Why should you help ibn Malik, that insane old wizard? What do you care whether he finds this jinni or not? You have no taste for revenge, and rightly so—revenge for its own sake is worse than useless. You want nothing more than to heal your daughter, pay the price, and ride back to your tent, to your own bed and your sleeping wife.” The torchlight shone in his eyes, like a jinni-spark of his own. “Did you know that next summer will bring the worst drought the Bedu have seen in generations? It will last years, and turn every grazing field between here and the Ghouta to dust. This is no divination, no prophecy. The signs are there for anyone to read, in the movements of the moon and sun, the patterns of snakes, the formations of birds. All point to disaster. Unless, of course, you are prepared.”
Abu Yusuf tightened his grip on his daughter. The words might be a lie, to coerce him or throw him off his guard—but his stomach told him they were the truth. Perhaps he was not as skilled at reading the signs as ibn Malik, but he realized now that he had known, in a way beyond knowing. Maybe that was why he had kept Fadwa at home instead of sending her away to a new husband, a new clan, where she would be a stranger in their eyes, the newest mouth to feed. Where she might give birth only to watch her child wither and die.
Keeping his voice steady, he said, “And what has this to do with the jinni?”
“Use your imagination, Abu Yusuf. Think of what a bound jinni could do for your clan. Why risk life and limb scouting for water, when he could do it for you? Why huddle against the wind in a ragged tent, when you might sleep in a jinni-built palace?”
“Oh, so you plan to bind this jinni to my will? Or do you think he will consent to two masters?”
Ibn Malik smiled. “You’re right, of course. It would act under my own command, not yours. And now you will wonder why I would trouble myself to protect your family, what incentive I might have. I might tell you, and truthfully, that I care more for the well-being of my fellow Hadid than you think—”
Abu Yusuf snorted.
“—But I sense you would be a hard man to convince, so think on this instead. By all accounts, the jinn under Sulayman’s rule loved their master and accepted his yoke joyfully. At least, by all human accounts. The jinn tell their own tales, and in them Sulayman is an enslaver, cunning and cruel. It is not clear which of these is the truth. Perhaps they honestly loved Sulayman, or perhaps he bent their minds as well as their wills, and took their love through force. But this I can tell you: the jinni we seek will not love me. He will loathe me with every measure of his being. He will try to escape my service at every opportunity, through magic or trickery. And yet, whatever I command, he must in fact do.”
“You wish to keep him occupied,” Abu Yusuf said.
“Exactly. A jinni who must carry your sheep back and forth to the Ghouta will have little time for plotting.”
Abu Yusuf considered. If he consented to this, then he would be complicit in enslaving another being. A jinni, yes, but a slave nonetheless. And if not . . .
Ibn Malik was watching him carefully. “Would you value a jinni’s freedom over your family’s lives?” he said quietly. “The jinni that destroyed your daughter’s mind, no less?”
“You said that revenge is worse than useless.”
“Revenge for its own sake, yes. But if it can be gained along the way . . .” Again the jackal’s grin.
Abu Yusuf wondered, did he truly have a choice? Already Fadwa’s life was in the wizard’s hands. If he refused, and went back home with his raving daughter, what would he say to Fatim? Would he subject everyone he loved to ruin, just to preserve his own sense of honor? He asked, “Why take the time to convince me? If I disagree you could simply kill me, take Fadwa, and do whatever you like.”
Ibn Malik raised an eyebrow. “True. But I prefer reason and agreement. Allies are much more useful than bodies.”
The last of the linked caverns in the hillside was also one of the largest. Its corners were littered with scavenged items of every kind: singed hides and sheep bones, heaps of old metal ornaments, pitted sword-blades, clay jars and dried herbs. In a large cavity at the center of the cavern, ibn Malik had built a fire pit surrounded by a high ring of rough stones. Nearby stood an enormous, tablelike boulder. Presumably the wizard had maneuvered it into the cavern, though Abu Yusuf had no idea how. It was scarred and cracked in places, and covered with dark sooty streaks. Was it an anvil?
He watched ibn Malik as he scuttled here and there, fetching pots and powders and pieces of metal. From some recess he drew out a leather roll, and unwound it to reveal a collection of metal tools: hide-wrapped tongs, curved black hooks, blunt hammers, needle-thin awls. Abu Yusuf paled to see them, and ibn Malik chuckled. “They’re for metalwork, not your daughter,” the wizard said. With them, he explained, he would forge the instruments they would use to capture the jinni: a flask to contain him, and a cuff to bind and keep him in human form. “For the flask, copper, I think,” said ibn Malik, sorting through his stores. “And iron for the cuff.”
“But the jinn can’t abide the touch of iron.”
“All the better to control him.”
The forging, ibn Malik said, would take a day, possibly more. “Take your daughter, and wait outside the caves,” he said. “When night falls, build a fire, and don’t travel outside its light until sunrise. There are things in the desert I’ve angered over the years. It would be a shame if they attacked you by mistake.”
Abu Yusuf unloaded his supplies from his horse’s panniers and set up camp at the mouth of the cave. He created a makeshift pallet for Fadwa and covered her with hides and blankets, hoping their weight would keep her still. The sedative ibn Malik had given her seemed to be wearing off—she stirred occasionally, and muttered to herself. He gathered enough brush and kindling to last until dawn, built a considerable blaze, and settled in, wondering if he should believe ibn Malik’s warning about the fire. More likely the wizard wanted to keep him from sneaking away before dawn. But as the sky deepened to blues and purples and the first stars emerged, Abu Yusuf listened to the wind curling along the cliffs and the soft scufflings of unseen creatures, and set more kindling on the flames.
He spent the night tending the fire, watching his daughter, and listening to the desert. Occasionally he caught the edge of some noise in the cave behind him: a high ringing echo of metal on metal, and once a faraway voice that spoke in gibberish. As morning grew closer he slept a few minutes at a time, drifting between dreams. Dawn arrived, and finally Abu Yusuf allowed himself to fall truly asleep.
He startled awake a little while later, disoriented and groggy, his body aching. No sound came from the cave behind him. Fadwa was still trapped beneath the pile of blankets but had freed her arms, and was reaching out into the sky, groping with her fingers. She was, he realized, trying to grab the sun. Quickly he wrapped a cloth around her eyes, hoping she hadn’t blinded herself. He fed her as much yogurt as she would eat—it would spoil soon, no use in holding any back—and chewed on a few strips of dried meat. He thought of Fatim, waiting for him at home.
Footsteps sounded behind him. He got to his feet just as ibn Malik emerged from the cave.
At the sight of him Abu Yusuf took an involuntary step back, nearly into the fire’s ashes. Ibn Malik’s eyes were glittering like jewels in their sockets. The air around him seemed to vibrate with heat. In his hands he carried two objects: a copper flask, and an iron cuff.
“It is finished,” the wizard said. “And now, we find him.”