The Golem and the Jinni (19 page)

But on this night, in full view of the city’s finest, Sophia Winston appeared transformed. She entered late, descending the grand staircase before hundreds of guests. There was a high color in her cheek, a marvelous complement to her close-fitting burgundy gown. And although her air of disinterest hadn’t entirely disappeared, it was changed to a much more becoming distraction, as though she were waiting for someone who might appear at any moment. A number of the young men in attendance noticed her truly for the first time, and began to think that it might not be so terrible to marry for money. Sophia’s mother saw the new consideration in their eyes and could not have been more pleased.

As for Sophia herself, she spent the evening in a daze of excitement, guilt, and rising disbelief at what she’d allowed to happen. It might all have been a dream, except for the insistent memory of her body. Thinking about it made her feel dizzy and panicked, so she pushed it to the furthest corner of her mind; but in the middle of a conversation it would come rushing back, making her blush and stammer and then ask the nearest young man if he might fetch her an ice.

By the end of the evening she was exhausted. She stood dutifully with her parents as the last guests drifted away into the night, and then retreated upstairs. She didn’t expect him to still be there, but she was gripped anew by nervousness as she entered her bedroom.

The balcony was dark and empty. The rain that had threatened all day was falling at last, in a steady patter upon the garden.

Something glinted from the railing. Atop the polished granite sat a miniature golden pigeon, asleep in its filigree cage.

The rain transformed the city. It washed the filth from the sidewalks and reflected the gas lamps in puddles of clear water. It drummed on the taut awnings, and cascaded from gutters and overhangs into the near-empty streets. Midnight had long since come and gone, and even those with nowhere to go had taken shelter, in basement dives and the dark corners of tenement hallways.

The Jinni ran alone through the streets of New York.

He didn’t need to be in danger. At any moment he could simply duck into a doorway and wait for the storm to end. But he wanted, more than anything, to keep running. He resolved that he would run until he reached Washington Street, or until his strength gave out, whichever came first.

After Sophia had left him, he’d spent some time standing on her balcony, contemplating the garden below, feeling a peace tenuous enough that he did not care to examine it too closely. Noises from the party drifted upward from the ballroom. On another night he might be tempted to investigate the opulent mansion while its inhabitants were busy in other rooms; but he sensed he’d tested his luck enough for one evening. On a whim he withdrew the golden birdcage from his pocket, and placed it on the balustrade where Sophia would surely find it. Why not? He had no special attachment to it, and it was a worthy gift, even for the daughter of such a wealthy home. Then, descending the way he’d come, he made his way to the street and turned south. Reaching the Elevated, he discovered that it had ceased operation for the night. He would have to walk the entire way back.

No matter. He was in a fine mood, and he would not tire from mere walking.

Then the rain began. At first it felt slightly invigorating, altogether different from the frightening prospect of total immersion. But then it started to rain harder, each drop striking him like a tiny blow, and he realized he’d underestimated the distance to Washington Street. He began to walk more quickly, and then to jog; and soon he was running into the rain, a grimace on his face that might have signified pleasure or pain. The rain struck his bare skin with a faint sizzle. If those few unlucky paupers and policemen still outdoors had taken the time to look, they would have seen a man running swiftly, silently, with wisps of steam streaming behind him.

Faster and faster he ran, cutting west and then south again. He began to feel a slow creeping enervation, a delicious laziness that whispered to him, telling him to simply lie down and let the rain painlessly take him. But he fought down the impulse and ran on, thinking of Arbeely’s shop, and the ever-warm forge.

At last he found Washington Street, and raced past the deserted market at Fulton. The rain did not let up. His smooth gait became a stagger, and once he almost fell to his knees, but still he kept on. With the last of his strength, he ran the final blocks to Arbeely’s shop.

Sam and Lulu’s banquet had long since ended. With the plates cleared and the Faddouls’ coffeehouse restored to its usual cheerful order, Arbeely had gone back to the forge to work, and to distract himself from his concern over the Jinni’s disappearance. He felt faintly ridiculous, fretting like a mother hen. As afternoon stretched to evening, his concern became irritation, and then anger, and finally, when the rain began, outright fear. He convinced himself that wherever the Jinni was, he was not so foolish as to be outside in a storm.

The door to the shop crashed open. The Jinni tumbled across the threshold and down the short flight of stairs, landing facedown on the floor.

“My God!” Arbeely ran to his side. The Jinni was unmoving. Curls of steam rose from his clothing. In a panic, Arbeely grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped him over.

The Jinni’s eyes opened, and he grinned weakly up at his employer. “Hello, Arbeely,” he croaked. “I’ve had the most wonderful evening.”

8.

W
ith the arrival of October, the summer weather departed for good. The leaves in Central Park barely had a chance to turn before they fell, to be raked by the gardeners into sodden heaps and carted away. A gray sky filled the gutters with cold, unending drizzle.

The busy corner of Allen and Delancey Streets, where Radzin’s Bakery stood, was a moving patchwork of grays and browns. Pedestrians in shawls and overcoats trampled piles of garbage, their backs rounded against the wind. Greasy smoke rose from barrels on the edge of the street, where ragpickers and errand boys warmed their hands before moving on. But inside Radzin’s the atmosphere was altogether different. The cold wind ended at the door, held back by a constant heat from the two enormous ovens at the rear of the shop. While their customers arrived stamping their feet and shivering, Moe Radzin worked the ovens in shirtsleeves and an apron, perspiration darkening his broad back. In the middle of the shop stood two large wooden tables perpetually coated with flour, where Thea Radzin and her assistants rolled and braided and kneaded and mixed. The display counter at the front of the bakery stretched nearly the width of the shop and was packed with ryes and wheat loaves and dinner rolls, sweet pastries and macaroons, and honey-sweet strudels stuffed with raisins. General opinion held that Radzin’s bread was good enough for the price, but that their pastries were the best in the neighborhood.

The bakery lived by its daily rhythm. At five o’clock each morning, Moe Radzin unlocked the front door and swept the ashes from the ovens, laid new coals, and coaxed them to life. Thea arrived at five-thirty, along with their children, Selma and little Abie, who stumbled about, half-asleep. They uncovered the dough that had been rising overnight, punched it down, and set about shaping the day’s first loaves. At six the assistants arrived: young Anna Blumberg, and Chava, the new girl.

Anna Blumberg was a source of some consternation to her employers. A tailor’s daughter, she had left Cincinnati at sixteen and traveled alone to New York. She’d had vague plans of joining the Yiddish theater and becoming the next Sara Adler, but the city itself had been the real draw; and after two unsuccessful auditions she’d shrugged, given up, and looked about for a job. The Radzins had taken her on, and she’d become fast friends with the other two assistants. It was a major blow for Anna when the young women had left, one so soon after the other.

As far as Moe Radzin was concerned, the departures were a mixed blessing: it left him shorthanded, but he no longer had to endure the girls’ constant gossip and flirtations. So when Radzin’s old rabbi had come to see him soon after, along with a tall, solemn-looking greenhorn girl carrying a plate of homemade pastries, he wasn’t sure whether to count this new development as blessing or curse.

Radzin was a man not given to the benefit of the doubt. He looked from the girl to the Rabbi, and decided that Meyer’s story was at least partly a lie. The girl did seem to be in financial straits—her clothing was cheap and ill fitting, and she wore no jewelry at all—but the dead husband, he decided, was a fiction, or else beside the point. Most likely this was the Rabbi’s impoverished mistress. But then, what did it matter? Men had their needs, even holy men. More to the point, if he hired her, the Rabbi would owe him a favor. And besides, her pastries were excellent.

Soon it became clear that the girl was quite a find. She was a dedicated worker and seemed never to tire. At first they had to remind her to take the occasional break. “We aren’t slave drivers, dear,” Thea Radzin told her on the first day, after the girl had worked for six hours without pause. The girl had smiled, embarrassed, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s only that I enjoy the work so much, I don’t want to stop.”

Mrs. Radzin, usually so quick to find fault with her husband’s hires, adored her from the start. Thea was a tough-skinned woman with a sentimental core, and the young widow’s story played strongly to her sensibilities. One night Moe Radzin made the mistake of voicing his suspicions regarding the girl’s relationship with the Rabbi, and in response his wife had blistered his ears with her opinion of his cynicism, his distrust, and, from there, his character in general. After that, Radzin kept his theories to himself. But even he had to admire the girl’s unflagging energy. At times her hands seemed to move impossibly quickly, shaping rolls and twisting pretzels with uncanny precision, so that each was a mirror image of its neighbors. He’d had plans to fill the other empty position, but within days of the new girl’s appearance the bakery was turning out its usual complement of goods. One less worker meant there was more space to move around, and they were saving nearly eleven dollars a week in salary. Radzin decided that his former assistants had been wasting even more time than he’d thought.

Only Anna refused to be won over. She’d been thrown into depression when her confidantes had left, and now this new girl seemed to think she was good enough to replace both of them. Of course the girl’s story was wonderfully tragic, but even that dimmed in the face of her awkward silence and ostentatious diligence. Anna watched her work and knew that she herself was now the one who didn’t measure up.

Anna would’ve been pleased to know that the Golem wasn’t nearly so certain of herself as she appeared. Passing as human was a constant strain. After only a few weeks she looked back on that first day, when she’d worked six hours without stopping, and wondered how she could have been so careless, so naive. It was all too easy for her to be caught up in the rhythm of the bakery, the thumps of fists on dough and the ringing of the bell over the door. Too easy to match it, and let it run away with her. She learned to make a deliberate mistake once in a while, and space the pastries a bit more haphazardly.

And then there were the customers, who kept their own rhythms and added their own complications. Each morning at six-thirty a small crowd would already be waiting for the bakery to open. Their thoughts pulled at the Golem as she worked: longings for the beds they had just vacated, and the warm arms of sleeping lovers; dread of the day before them, the bosses’ orders and the back-breaking labor. And running below it all, the simple anticipation of a nice warm bun or a bagel, and maybe a sugar cookie for later. At lunchtime came the patrons in search of onion-studded bialys or thick slices of bread. Kerchiefed women with babies in tow would pause at the window outside, wondering what to buy for supper. Errand boys came in clutching hard-earned pennies, and left with macaroons and slices of honey cake. Young men and women courted each other slyly in line, casually mentioning a dance that a union group or
landsmanschaft
was putting on:
if you aren’t doing anything maybe you can stop by; well, I’m awfully busy tonight, Frankie, but then maybe I will
.

The Golem heard all of it, their words and needs and desires and fears, simple and complex, helpless and easily solved. The impatient customers were the worst, the harried mothers who wanted only a loaf of bread and a quick escape before the children began howling for cookies. A few times the Golem even stepped away from her table toward these women, drawn to fetch whatever they wanted so they would leave. But then she’d catch herself, and stretch her fingers out and draw them in again—in the way that another woman might take a deep breath—and remind herself to be more careful.

Anna and Mrs. Radzin took turns seeing to the customers. Mrs. Radzin in particular was a model of efficiency at the counter, chatting quickly with them—
hello Mrs. Leib, is it challah for you today, and your mother, is she better, oh the poor dear, do you want with poppy seeds or without?
She filled orders almost without looking, monitoring the glass case as its contents dwindled, and anticipating what would need resupplying in the afternoon. After ten years at the bakery, the woman had a near-perfect sense of what would be popular on a given day and what wouldn’t.