The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker
“Thank you for waiting, dearest,” said the old woman. “There was a terrible line. You must have thought I’d deserted you.”
“Not at all. I’ve been enjoying the fountain.”
The old woman looked darkly over the girl’s head at the Jinni, and then whispered something to her companion.
“Of course not,” the young woman replied, barely audible. “Auntie, you know I would never. He only tried to ask me a question, but I couldn’t understand. I don’t think he speaks English.”
She darted a quick, pleading glance at him: please don’t betray me. Amused, he dipped his head a fraction, the ghost of a nod.
“The impertinence,” the older lady muttered, narrowing her eyes at the Jinni. She spoke more loudly now, assuming he wouldn’t understand, though of course her tone was plain. “I’m sorry, Sophia, I never should have left you alone.”
“Really, Auntie, it’s of no concern,” the young woman said, embarrassment in her voice.
“Promise not to speak a word of this to your parents, or I won’t hear the end of it.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now let’s take you home. Your mother will be beside herself if you aren’t ready in time.”
“I can’t stand these parties, they’re so wearisome.”
“Don’t say that, my dear, the season’s just starting.”
The older woman took her companion’s arm—Sophia, she had called her. Sophia glanced up at the Jinni. It was clear she wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Instead she allowed the older woman to escort her from the fountain, across the expanse of red brick. They ascended the staircase to the carriage drive, and then they were gone from sight.
Quickly he dashed across the terrace, startling those in his path. He took the stairs two and three at a time. Near the top he paused. Keeping out of sight, he watched from below as the two women approached a gleaming, open-topped carriage that waited on the drive. A man in livery opened the passenger door for them. “M’lady. Miss Winston.”
“Thank you, Lucas,” said the young woman as he helped her into the carriage.
The man climbed onto his high perch and flicked the reins, and the carriage rolled smoothly away down the drive. The Jinni watched the carriage until it curved past a grove of trees and disappeared.
He considered. It was late in the day, and growing cold. The sky was still overcast, and edging on threatening. Now would be the time to turn south and retrace his steps. No doubt Arbeely was wondering where he was.
But the young lady had intrigued him. Moreover, the dark, aimless longings that had surfaced at the wedding party had returned, and he was not in the habit of denying his own impulses. Arbeely, he decided, could wait for him a few minutes longer.
He had little to go on, only her name, but in the end it was almost absurdly easy to discover where Sophia Winston lived. He accomplished it by traveling eastward to the edge of the park, alongside the path her carriage had taken; and then, once he was through the gate and again on the city streets, asking the first man who passed by.
“Winston? You mean Francis Winston? You must be joking.” The man he’d stopped was large and jowly, and dressed like a laborer. “He’s in that new mansion at Sixty-second. Big heap of white bricks, as big as Astor’s. Can’t miss it.” He pointed north with a meaty finger.
“Thank you.” The Jinni strode off.
“Hey!” the man yelled after him. “What you want with the Winstons, anyhow?”
“I’m going to seduce their daughter,” the Jinni called back, and the man’s roar of laughter followed him up Fifth Avenue.
He found the Winston residence easily, just as the man had said. It was an enormous three-story limestone palace, topped by dark gables that rose to high peaks. The house was set back from the street, behind a swath of neatly trimmed grass and a spike-topped iron fence that ran the length of the sidewalk. It hadn’t yet acquired the thick patina of grime that clung to its neighbors, and it wore this newness with a quiet self-satisfaction.
At the front of the house was an enormous lamp-lit portico. The Jinni walked past it, and turned the corner, following the iron fence. Lights blazed in the tall windows beyond. He could see figures moving about inside, silhouetted behind drapery. At the back corner of the house, a thick hedge stretched out to meet the sidewalk, and the iron fence became an imposing brick wall, shielding the grounds behind the mansion from passing eyes.
The Jinni eyed the fence. The bars were strong, but not especially thick. He eyed the distance between them. Two, he decided, would be enough. He wrapped a hand around each of the bars, and concentrated.
Sophia Winston sat disconsolate in her bedroom, still in her dressing gown, hair damp from the bath. The guests would be arriving in less than an hour. As her aunt had predicted, Sophia’s mother was in one of her states, careening about the house like a loose parakeet, issuing orders to every servant within earshot. Her father had retreated to the library, his usual foxhole. Sophia wished she could join him, or else help put her brother George to bed. But George’s governess disliked Sophia’s “interference,” saying it undermined her authority. And if Sophia’s mother found her mooning over travel journals in the library, there would be a row.
Sophia was eighteen years old, and she was lonely. As the daughter of one of the richest and most prominent families in New York—indeed, in the country—it had been made clear to her, in ways both subtle and overt, that she was expected to do little more than simply exist, biding her time and minding her manners until she made a suitable match and continued the family line. Her future unrolled before her like a dreadful tapestry, its pattern set and immutable. There would be a wedding, and then a house somewhere nearby on the avenue, with a nursery for the children that were, of course, mandatory. She’d spend interminable summers in the country, traveling from estate to estate, playing endless games of tennis, chafing under the strain of being constantly a guest in someone else’s home. Then would come middle age, and the expected taking-up of a cause, Temperance or Poverty or Education—it did not matter so long as it was virtuous and uncontroversial, and furnished opportunities for luncheons with dowdy speakers in severe dress. Then old age and decrepitude, the slow transformation into a heap of black taffeta in a bath chair, to be displayed briefly at parties and then put out of sight; to spend her last days sitting bewildered by the fire, wondering where her life had gone.
She knew she would not fight this fate. She didn’t have the stomach for prolonged family strife, nor the fortitude to make her own way in the world. And so, to escape, she turned to fantasies of rebellion and adventure, fueled by the volumes in her father’s library, journals that ignited her mind with tales of exotic lands and ancient civilizations. She dreamed of riding on horseback with a Mongol tribe, or floating down the Amazon to the heart of the jungle; or strolling, in linen tunic and trousers, through the colorful street-markets of Bombay. The necessary privations of such travels, such as lack of proper beds or running water, were no matter, for in these dreams they were conveniently forgotten.
Recently she’d glimpsed an article on the late Heinrich Schliemann, and his discovery of the lost city of Troy. All of Schliemann’s colleagues had insisted that the city was only a Homeric myth, that Schliemann was chasing a fantasy. But Schliemann had triumphed. The article was accompanied by a photograph of a beautiful dark-eyed woman, arrayed like a warrior-queen in ancient jewelry found at the site. She was Schliemann’s Greek-born wife, who had assisted him at the excavation; and when Sophia read that this woman’s name was also Sophia, she felt a bitter pang, as though her own best destiny had passed her over. If only it had been Sophia Winston draped in ancient jewelry, Sophia Winston standing at the dig with her intrepid husband, gazing down upon the golden face of Agamemnon!
She could lose herself in these fantasies for hours. She’d been drifting in and out of one that very afternoon, during the walk in the park, to distract herself from her aunt’s acid-tongued gossip, and her dread of
Reconciling herself to the night ahead, she sat before the mirror and began to brush out her hair. Her maid had already laid out her gown, a new wine-red silk. She had to admit that she was looking forward to wearing it; the season’s new fashions were quite flattering to her figure.
Something moved at the edge of her vision. She turned, startled. A man was standing on her balcony, just beyond the French doors, peering in through the glass.
She jumped up and nearly screamed, clutching her dressing gown to her neck. The man raised his hands and looked at her pleadingly, plainly asking her not to raise an alarm. She squinted at the glass, past her own thin reflection, and realized: it was him, the man from the park.
She goggled. How had he gotten onto the grounds? Her room was on the second floor—had he scaled the wall, and then climbed across the balconies? She hesitated a moment, then picked up the lamp and stepped toward the French door, the better to see him. He watched as she approached. Through the distortions of the glass he seemed almost impossibly still. She paused a few feet from the door, debating. She could still scream.
The man smiled, and extended an arm. An invitation—to talk?
Heart pounding, she fetched a shawl and stepped out onto the balcony. The night air was chill, and smelled of rain. She did not close the door behind her but drew the shawl tightly about herself. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to apologize,” he said.
“To apologize?”
“I fear I offended you earlier.”
“You’re trespassing on our property and invading my privacy, in order to apologize?”
“Yes.”
“I could scream. I could have you arrested.”
He acknowledged this with silence. They stared at each other, across the few feet that separated them.
Finally she relented. “All right. I suppose that if you risk so much to apologize, then it is only fair that I offer forgiveness. So, there. You are forgiven. You may go now.”
He nodded once, bowed to her, and then, in the most graceful movement that Sophia had ever seen, placed one hand on the balustrade and vaulted up onto it. He looked across to the next balcony, and she realized he was readying himself to jump.
“Wait!” she cried.
He froze, wobbling slightly, and put a hand out to steady himself; and she shuddered to think she might have killed him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s only—I just want to know—what is your name?”
There was a moment when he seemed to consider the question, and then he said, “Ahmad.”
“Ahmad,” she repeated. “Where are you from?”
“You would know it as Syria.”
“I would know it as Syria? What do you know it as?”
“Home,” he said.
He stood nonchalantly above her on the wide balustrade, not seeming to notice the two-story drop beneath him. Again she felt that creeping sense of unreality, as though he’d merely stepped from a tale. As though none of this were truly happening.
“Ahmad. Will you tell me something? And for pity’s sake, come down from there before you fall.”
He smiled and jumped back down to the balcony. “What shall I tell you?”
“Tell me what it’s like where you’re from. Where did you live?”
She’d expected him to name a city, but instead he said, “In the desert.”
“The desert! Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Only if one isn’t careful. The desert is wild, but not impassable.”
“I’ve seen pictures,” she said, “in my father’s journals. But I’m sure they don’t do it justice.”
Both started at a sudden noise. Someone was knocking at her bedroom door. The man crouched, as though about to spring to the balustrade again.
“Wait,” she whispered.
Softly she crept back into the bedroom. She lay down on her bed, mussing the sheets so it would look as though she’d been asleep. “One moment,” she called, and then hung her head upside down and shook it vigorously, disheveling her hair and hopefully bringing a flush to her cheeks. She rose from the bed, adopted an air of listless ill health, and opened the door.
A maid stood in the doorway, with an armful of linens. She took in the sight of Sophia still in her dressing gown and shawl, and her eyes widened with alarm. “Miss Sophia, your mother says the guests will be here in a half hour.”
“Maria, I’m afraid that I’m not feeling well,” Sophia said. “I have a terrible headache. Will you please tell my mother that I must have a rest first, and then I promise I’ll come down to the party?”
“What?” cried a voice. Both women flinched as Julia Hamilton Winston, one of the most formidable doyennes of New York society, came charging down the hall in a billowing blue gown, her hair still tied in curling rags.
“Mother,” Sophia pleaded as the woman advanced on them, “I’m really not feeling well. I’m sorry.”
“This is nonsense. You were well enough at dinner.”
“It came on suddenly, my head is pounding.”
“Then take an aspirin,” her mother snapped. “I’ve certainly suffered through enough parties with headaches and morning sickness and any number of illnesses. You are far too soft, Sophia. And too eager to shirk your responsibilities.”
“Please,” she said. “Just a half hour, that’s all I’m asking. If I can sleep a bit, I’ll feel better. And I’m afraid if I stand up much longer I’ll be sick.”
“Hmm.” Her mother placed a hand on Sophia’s forehead. “Well, you do feel a bit warm.” She took her hand away and sighed, her face still registering distrust. “Half an hour only. Do you understand? And then I’ll have Maria drag you from your bed.”
“Yes, Mother. Thank you.”
She closed the door and listened as the women’s steps retreated down the hall, then went out once more to the balcony. He was where she had left him, wearing an expression of amusement.
“Very skillful,” he said. “Do you do that often?”
She blushed in the dark. “My mother and I tend to disagree,” she said. “We’re very different people. We want different things from our lives.”
“And what is it,” he asked, “that you want from your life?”
She did not move but made herself meet his eyes. She would not blush again, she told herself; she would not look away. “Why did you come here? Truly, I mean. None of this nonsense about apologies.”
“Because you intrigue me, and you are beautiful,” he said.
She did blush at that, and turned, and placed more distance between them. “You are rather more direct than most men.”
“And that displeases you?”
“No. Not as such. But I’m not accustomed to it.” She sighed. “To tell the truth, I am very sick indeed of men who are not direct. And tonight this house will be full of them.” She glanced over at him again. “Your home, in the desert. Will you tell me more?”
“One can travel the desert for days, months, years, and never meet another soul,” he said quietly. “Or, if you wish, you can seek out the company of the desert peoples, or attempt to trace the ways of those creatures who don’t wish to be seen, such as the jinn—although that,” he said with a secret smile, “is rather more difficult. If somehow you gained the power of flight, you could travel with the birds, the hawks and kestrels. Like them, you could sleep as you flew.” He paused. “Now I will ask you a question. Why will your house be full of men who aren’t direct?”
She sighed. “Because I’m coming of age to marry. And because my father is very, very wealthy. They’ll all be looking to make an advantageous match. They’ll compliment my good looks and my opinions. They’ll
“Are you so certain about that? If a man tells you that you’re beautiful, do you doubt his sincerity?”
She hesitated, then took a deep breath and said, “I suppose it depends on the man.”
They were drawing closer to each other. The cypress trees that edged the garden were tall enough to screen out much of their surroundings; if she was very still, and kept her head at a certain angle, it was as though she was not in New York at all, but in a garden on the Mediterranean coast. The faint noises of the street behind them were the wash of a distant surf. The man beside her was a complete stranger. He could be anyone.
She could feel her allotted seconds ticking away. He was waiting, patient and careful, watching her. She shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m rarely cold.” He glanced through the French door into the bedroom but didn’t ask whether she would be more comfortable indoors. Instead he only drew closer to her, and slowly—so slowly that she would have had plenty of time to protest, to draw back, if this wasn’t what she wanted—placed a hand on her waist.
At his touch, a blossom of warmth filled the pit of her stomach and spread outward. She could feel the heat of his hand through the layers of her dressing gown and shawl. Her eyes drifted shut. At last she stepped closer, and brought her face up to meet his.
Later she would reflect that he did not remark upon her forwardness, or ask her if this was what she truly wanted, or any of the other seemly protests that a man might make to absolve himself of responsibility. At one point he’d seemed about to pick her up and carry her through the door to her bed, but she’d shaken her head no, not wishing to leave the night and the shadowed garden, terrified that in the too-familiar room of her childhood she would lose her nerve. And so their tryst took place in a darkened corner of the balcony, a granite wall cold at her back. She wrapped the ends of her shawl about them both, pulling him close. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, his lips hot on her skin, raining kisses upon her neck, the hollow of her throat. As her excitement grew, so did the dread of losing this moment, of returning to her life and having to endure the consequences; and so when at last the stars burst behind her eyelids and her entire body turned to fire, it was a fierce sadness as well as joy that made her bury her head in his shoulder and stifle a cry.