The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker
“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.
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 folktal
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.