The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker
Ibn Malik laughed. “There is never hope, Jalal ibn Karim,” he said. “There’s only what can be done, and what cannot.” He nodded at Fadwa. “Bring her down from there, and follow me. And then, we will see what can be done.” With that, he bent and lifted two of the dead ewe’s legs, and dragged her into the mouth of the cave.
What Abu Yusuf had taken to be a small cave was only the first of a series of linked, torch-lit recesses that stretched deep into the cliff. As he followed ibn Malik, Fadwa muttered and twisted in his arms, trying to get away from something only she could see. The guttering torches smelled of animal fat, and spat out a greasy black smoke that filled the passageways.
In one of the smaller caves ibn Malik gestured for him to place Fadwa on a rude pallet. Abu Yusuf did so, trying to ignore the general filth of the place, and watched helplessly as ibn Malik started his examination. Fadwa struggled against the man until he poured something in her mouth that made her relax and go still. Then he began to strip her clothing away. His demeanor was entirely dispassionate; still Abu Yusuf wanted to drag him from her side and bash in his head, as he’d done to the ewe.
“Only her mind was violated, not her body,” ibn Malik said at length. “You’ll be pleased to hear she’s still a virgin.”
A wash of red passed over Abu Yusuf’s eyes. “Get on with it,” he muttered.
Ibn Malik removed the blindfold and opened one of her eyes, and then another. Abu Yusuf cringed, waiting for her to cry out or vomit, but she lay silent and still. “Interesting,” ibn Malik said, almost in a purr.
“What is it?”
The skeletal man made a shushing gesture so absurdly like Fatim’s that Abu Yusuf wanted to laugh. The impulse died as ibn Malik suddenly moved to straddle Fadwa. With both hands he peeled her eyelids back; his dirty forehead came down to touch hers. For long minutes they stared deep into each other’s eyes. Neither of them blinked, nor seemed even to breathe. Abu Yusuf turned around, not wanting to see ibn Malik squatting over his daughter’s chest like a grotesque insect. The torch-smoke filled his nose and clotted his lungs, making him dizzy. He leaned against the rough wall and closed his eyes.
After some time—he didn’t know how long—he heard movement, and turned to see ibn Malik rising from his daughter’s side. The ancient man was smiling, his eyes lit like a boy’s with excitement.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” ibn Malik said. “All my life.”
“Can you heal her?” Abu Yusuf asked dully.
“Yes, yes, it’s easy,” the man said with impatience. “But”—as Abu Yusuf sagged at the knees, tears springing to his eyes—“not yet. No, not yet. There’s something larger here. I must consider carefully. We need a plan, a strategy.”
“A strategy for what?”
Ibn Malik flashed his broken grin. “For capturing the jinni that did this to your daughter.”
22.
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 nat
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
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.