The Golem and the Jinni (16 page)

She was beginning to fidget. How much longer would the Rabbi be? Against her will she glanced up at the ceiling. Up there was hunger, loneliness, fear of failure, and loud wishes for success, of home, of a gigantic platter of roast beef—and one man who stood in line for the W.C., wanting only a newspaper to read while he waited . . .

She glanced at the parlor table. An issue of
Forverts
lay there, waiting to be claimed.

“
No
,” she said to herself, louder than she had meant. She left the parlor and began to pace the long, dim corridor. Her hands gripped her elbows. She would knock on Michael’s door, tell the Rabbi they needed to leave, that she didn’t feel well—

To her relief, the office door opened, and the Rabbi and Michael stepped out, saying a few last words to each other. The Rabbi saw the Golem’s strained expression, and his good-bye grew more hurried. At last they were walking down the dark wooden hall to the rectangle of sunlight at its end.

“Are you all right?” asked the Rabbi when they were on the street.

“The men,” she began, and found she couldn’t go on: her thoughts were too quick, too choppy. She struggled to relax. “They all want so much,” she got out at last.

“Was it too much for you?”

“No. Nearly. If we’d stayed.”

The silent clamor of the Sheltering House faded behind her, was swallowed into the diffuse buzz of the city. Her mind began to slow. She shook out her fingers, feeling the tension ebb. “There was a man, upstairs,” she said. “He wanted a newspaper. I saw one in the parlor, and nearly brought it to him.”

“That would have been quite a surprise for him.” He tried to speak lightly. “You were able to hold back, though.”

“Yes. But it was difficult.”

“You are improving, I think. Though you nearly gave yourself away, with the macaroons.”

“I know.” She cringed at the memory, and the Rabbi smiled. “Chava,” he said, “it’s a cruel irony that you have the most difficulty precisely when those around you are on their best behavior. I suspect you would find it much easier if we all cast politeness aside, and took whatever we pleased.”

She considered. “It would be easier, at first. But then you might hurt each other to gain your wishes, and grow afraid of each other, and still go on wanting.”

Approval raised his eyebrows. “You’re becoming quite the student of human nature. Do you think you have improved enough to go out regularly on your own—say, to hold down a job?”

Apprehension clutched at her, mingled with excitement. “I don’t know. I’m not sure
how
I would know, except through trying.”

“Michael tells me that Radzin’s Bakery is looking for new workers. I know Moe Radzin from years ago, and I thought I might try to get you a position there. I should be able to secure an interview with him, at least.”

“A bakery?”

“It would be hard work, and long hours surrounded by strangers. You’d have to take constant care.”

She tried to imagine it: working all day with her hands, in an apron and a starched cap. Stacking the neat rows of loaves, their brown undersides still dusty with flour, and knowing that she had made them.

“I’d like to try,” she said.

7.

O
n a warm Saturday in September, the Jinni stood at the back of a crowded rental hall and watched as a man and woman were united in the Maronite Catholic sacrament of marriage. Despite the palpable joy of the other onlookers, he was not in the best of moods.

“Why should I go, when I don’t even know them?” he’d asked Arbeely that morning.

“You’re part of the community now. You’ll be expected at these things.”

“I thought you said I should maintain some distance, while I’m still learning.”

“Distance is one thing. Rudeness is another.”

“Why is it rudeness if I don’t know them? And I still don’t understand the purpose of a wedding. What could possibly induce two free beings to partner only with each other for the rest of their existence?”

Here, the conversation had deteriorated. Arbeely, flustered and aghast, tried to defend the institution, bringing forth every argument he could think of: paternity and legitimacy, marriage’s civilizing influence, the need for chastity in women and fidelity in men. The Jinni scoffed at each of these, insisting that the jinn had no such preoccupations, and he saw no need why men and women should either. To which Arbeely said that it was just the way it was, regardless of what the Jinni thought, and he must attend the wedding and try to keep his opinions to himself. And the Jinni replied that of all the creatures he’d ever encountered, be they made of flesh or fire, none was quite as exasperating as a human.

At the front of the hall, the bride and groom knelt as the priest swung a censer back and forth above them. The bride, eighteen years old, was named Leila but called Lulu, a name that suggested a sauciness not at all evident in the small and shyly smiling girl. Her bridegroom, Sam Hosseini, was a round and friendly man, well known in the community. He had been one of the first Syrian merchants to settle on Washington Street, and his imported-goods store was a neighborhood mainstay, attracting clients from far beyond its borders. Over the years he’d become quite prosperous, and was generous in helping his neighbors, so few begrudged him his success. As the priest intoned the service, Sam beamed with happiness and cast occasional glances down at Lulu, as if to confirm his great luck.

The ceremony ended, and everyone walked to the Faddouls’ coffeehouse for the wedding banquet. The café tables were covered with platters of kebabs and rice and spinach-and-meat pies, and ribbon-tied bags of sugared almonds. Women crowded one side of the coffeehouse, eating and chatting. On the other side, men poured
araq
into each other’s glasses and traded news. Sam and Lulu sat at their own small table in the middle, receiving congratulations, looking dazed and happy. A gift table near the door held a growing collection of boxes and envelopes.

But the Jinni was not among the crowd. He was in the alley behind the coffeehouse, sitting cross-legged on an abandoned wooden crate. The atmosphere in the wedding hall had been oppressive, humid with sweat and incense and perfume, and he was still irritated by what he saw as a pointless ceremony. He had no wish to be cooped up in the coffeehouse with dozens of strangers. Besides, the day had turned beautiful; the sky between the buildings was a pure blue, and a meandering breeze cleared the smell of refuse from the alley.

From his pocket he pulled a handful of gold necklaces, purchased from a shabby storefront on the Bowery. Arbeely had taken him there, saying it was the only place he knew of to purchase gold inexpensively; but he had seemed uncomfortable and frowned at the low prices, later remarking that he was certain they’d been stolen. They were of middling workmanship—the links were not entirely uniform, and the chains hung in an uneven sort of way—but the gold was of good quality. The Jinni gathered them into one palm and cupped his hands around them to melt them, and then began idly to shape the metal. When his hands stilled, he was holding a miniature golden pigeon. With a thin, pointed wire he added a few details—the suggestion of feathers, pinprick eyes—and then surrounded the bird with a filigree cage. It felt good to work with his hands, instead of the crude tools that Arbeely insisted he use when someone might be watching.

The alleyway door of the coffeehouse opened. It was Arbeely. “There you are,” the man said. A small plate and a fork were in his hands.

Irritated, the Jinni said, “Yes, here I am, enjoying a moment of solitude.”

A flash of hurt passed over the man’s face. “I brought you a piece of the
kinafeh
,” he said. “It’s about to run out. I was worried you wouldn’t get any.”

Guilt pricked vaguely at the Jinni. He knew Arbeely was doing much to help him, but it made him feel oppressed and beholden, and it was hard to keep from lashing out. He slipped the caged bird into his pocket and accepted the proffered plate, which held a square of something heavy-looking, with brown and cream-colored layers. He frowned. “What exactly is this?”

Arbeely grinned. “The closest thing to heaven on earth.”

The Jinni took a cautious bite. The act of eating was still difficult. Not the mechanism itself—chewing and swallowing were simple enough actions, and the food burned to nothingness inside him. But he’d never tasted anything before, and had been taken completely by surprise at his first experiences of flavor. The sensations of sweet and savory, salt and spice, were arresting, even overwhelming. He’d learned to take the food in small bites and chew slowly. Even so, the
kinafeh
was a shock. Sweetness burst across his tongue, and thin strands of dough crunched between his teeth, the sound echoing deep in his ears. A creamy tartness made his jaw tighten.

“Do you like it?” asked Arbeely.

“I don’t know. It’s . . . startling.” He took another tentative bite. “I think I like it.”

Arbeely looked around the alley. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“I needed a moment of quiet.”

“Ahmad,” Arbeely said—and the Jinni cringed at the name, his but not his—“I understand, really. God knows, I’m the same way at these things. But we don’t want people to think you’re a recluse. Please, come in and say hello. Smile once or twice. For me, if not yourself.”

Reluctantly, the Jinni followed Arbeely back to the party.

Inside, the tables had been pushed to the edges of the room, and a group of men was dancing in a fast-moving ring, their arms about each other’s shoulders. The women crowded around them, cheering and clapping. The Jinni stood out of their way, in the back of the room, and observed the bride through breaks in the crowd. Of all the people at the wedding, she was the one who’d caught his interest. She was young and pretty, and clearly very nervous. She barely touched the food in front of her but smiled and spoke with the well-wishers who approached their table. Next to her, Sam Hosseini ate like a starving man, and stood to greet everyone with hugs and handshakes. She listened to her new husband talk, and looked up at him with obvious fondness; but occasionally she would glance about, as if looking for reassurance. The Jinni remembered what Arbeely had told him, that she was only a few weeks in America, that Hosseini had proposed to her on a visit home. And now, the Jinni reflected, she was in a new place, on unsure footing, surrounded by strangers. Like himself, in a way. A shame, that according to Arbeely she now belonged to this man only.

The bride was still scanning the room. The dancing men spun to one side, and she saw the Jinni regarding her. He held her in his gaze for a long moment. Then she looked away; and when she greeted the next guest there was color high in her cheeks.

“Ahmad, would you like coffee?”

He turned, startled. It was Maryam. She carried a tray of tiny cups, each full of thick, cardamom-scented coffee. She wore her customary hostess’s smile, but her eyes carried an edge of warning. Clearly she’d seen his interest. “So you can drink to their happiness,” she said.

He lifted a cup from her tray. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she replied, and moved on.

He eyed the diminutive cup of coffee. Liquid in such a small amount would not hurt him, and it smelled interesting enough. He downed it all at once, as he’d seen the others do, and nearly choked. It was incredibly bitter; drinking it felt like an assault.

He winced and set the cup on a table. He’d had enough of human revelry for one day. He searched out Arbeely in the crowd, caught the man’s eye, and pointed at the door. Arbeely held up one hand, as if to say,
wait a moment
, and indicated the newlyweds’ table.

But the Jinni did not want to congratulate the happy couple. He was in no mood to speak words he didn’t feel. As Arbeely tried to wave him over, the Jinni moved through the crowd, left the stifling coffeehouse, and went out into the city.

The Jinni walked north along Washington Street, wondering if he’d ever be truly alone again. At times the desert had felt too empty for him, but this opposite extreme was harder to bear. The street was no less crowded than the coffeehouse had been. Families thronged the sidewalks, all taking advantage of the warm weekend afternoon. And where there were not humans there were horses, a standstill parade of them, each attached to a cart, each cart carrying a man, each man yelling at the others to clear out of his way—all in a myriad of languages that the Jinni had never before heard but nonetheless comprehended, and now he was coming to resent his own seemingly inexhaustible resources of understanding.

He was not walking aimlessly; he had a destination in mind. A few days earlier, Arbeely had shown him a map of Manhattan and offhandedly pointed out a long, green hole in the island’s middle. “Central Park,” Arbeely had said. “It’s immense, nothing but trees and grass and water. You’ll have to see it someday.” Then the tinsmith had moved on to other topics, such as where to catch the Elevated, and which neighborhoods to avoid. But that long, open expanse of green had caught the Jinni’s attention. He had only to find an Elevated platform on Sixth Avenue; and the Elevated, it seemed, would take him there.

At Fourteenth he turned east, and the crowd began to change character. There were fewer children, and more men in suits and hats. In the streets, elegant carriages mixed with dray-carts and delivery wagons. The buildings were changing as well, growing taller and wider. At Sixth Avenue a narrow ribbon of metal ran high above the street. He watched as a string of metal boxes ran along the ribbon, sending sparks into the street below. Through the train’s tiny windows he caught glimpses of men and women, their faces placid as they rushed by.

He climbed a stairway to a platform, gave the ticket seller a few coins. A train soon arrived, squealing horribly as it halted. He boarded it and found a seat. More and more passengers entered the car, until the seats were all taken and the stragglers were forced to press together in the aisles. The Jinni shuddered as the car filled past what seemed possible.