The Golem and the Jinni (34 page)

Over the next week Schaalman solidified his position. He took to straightening up the parlor, folding the newspapers, and refilling the teapot. At mealtimes he monitored the queue and told the cook how many mouths were left to feed. He seemed to be everywhere at once, helping with one thing or another, even adjudicating the men’s paltry quibbles.

When he wasn’t insinuating himself into the fabric of the Sheltering House, he was out learning the neighborhood. At first the streets had been overwhelming, a churning porridge of people and wagons and animals; but after a week he could step off the curb and melt seamlessly into the crowd, just another old Jew in a dark overcoat. He’d walk for hours, taking note of the streets and shops, marking in his mind the edges of the neighborhood where the Yiddish faded from the shop windows. As he went he’d make a mental list of the largest Orthodox synagogues, the ones most likely to have decent libraries. And then he’d reverse his steps and go back to the Sheltering House, in time to help settle the newest group of men.

The cook began to set aside a stash of the best food for him, fat pickles and chunks of pastrami. The housekeeper called him an angel sent from heaven, and piled him with extra blankets. And meanwhile, in his battered suitcase beneath his cot, his piecemeal book lay sleeping. If one of his housemates had happened to come across it, the man would have seen nothing special—only a worn and unremarkable prayer book.

The Jinni appeared beneath the Golem’s window a few minutes past midnight. She’d been pacing for nearly an hour—she knew the neighbors would hear, but she couldn’t help it, her entire body ached with cold and apprehension. With each turn she stopped to peer out the window. Would he come as he’d said? Would it be better if he didn’t? And what had possessed her to agree to this in the first place?

When finally she saw him she felt both a burst of relief and a fresh wave of misgiving. She was in such a state that she made it halfway down the stairs before realizing she’d forgotten her cloak and gloves, and had to go back for them.

“You came,” she said to him when she reached the street.

He raised an eyebrow. “You doubted it?”

“You might have thought better of it.”

“And you might not have come down. But since we’re both here, I thought we might go to Madison Square Park. Is that agreeable?”

The name meant nothing to her, and in a sense all possible destinations were the same: unknown places, unknown risks. She had two choices. She could say yes, or turn back.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go.”

And with no more discussion, they set off along Broome Street. Suddenly she wanted to burst out laughing. She was outside, she was walking! Her legs were so stiff the joints almost creaked, but the movement felt delicious, like the scratching of a long-denied itch. He went quickly, but she easily matched his pace, keeping to his side. He didn’t offer to take her arm, as she’d seen other men do, and she was glad: it would have meant walking slowly, and too close together.

At Chrystie he turned north, and she followed. They were at the edge of her neighborhood now, the border of her knowledge. The cacophony of the Bowery echoed from the next block. A few men crossed their path, and she pulled the hood of her cloak lower.

“Don’t do that,” the Jinni said.

“Why not?”

“You look like you have something to hide.”

But didn’t she? The euphoria of movement was subsiding; she was growing scared all over again, frightened of the liberties she’d allowed herself to take. They reached Houston Street, and she glanced sidelong at her companion. Was it strange that they weren’t talking? The people she saw walking at night usually talked to each other. But then, he usually traveled on his own. And the silence was not uncomfortable.

They came to Great Jones, and then the electric-lit expanse of Broadway. The buildings here stretched higher, wider, and she pushed her hood back, the better to see it all. Brick and limestone gave way to marble and glass. Shop-front windows beckoned with dresses and fabrics, feathered hats, jewels and necklaces and earrings. Mesmerized, she left the Jinni’s side to peer at a dress-form bedecked with a sweeping, intricate gown in sapphire silk. How long it must have taken to sew something so beautiful, so complicated! She traced the seams with her eyes, trying to learn its construction; and the Jinni, growing impatient on the sidewalk, came to retrieve her.

At Fourteenth Street they came upon a large park, with an enormous statue of a man sitting on a horse, and the Golem wondered if this was their destination. But the Jinni continued on, skirting the west side of the park until it rejoined Broadway. The streets were now eerily quiet and stretched empty in all directions save for the occasional slow-trotting brougham. They passed a thin triangle of empty land at Twenty-third Street, strewn with snow-rimed newspapers that rattled in the wind. The triangle lay at a wide confluence of avenues; in one street stood a magnificent white arch and colonnade. The arch shone with electric lights that turned the colonnade into tall bars of light and shadow, and cast a faint glow along the lowering sky.

Madison Square Park sat before them, a dark grove of leafless trees. They crossed into it, and meandered along the empty paths. Even the homeless had left to search out warm doorways and stairwells. Only the Golem and the Jinni were there to take in the quiet. The Golem left the Jinni’s side to study whatever caught her eye: dark metal monuments of solemn-faced men, the iron curl of a park bench. She stepped across the snow to lay a hand on a tree trunk’s rough bark, then looked up to see the naked branches spreading themselves across the sky.

“This is better than sitting in your room all night, is it not?” asked the Jinni as they walked.

“It is,” she admitted. “Are all the parks this large?”

He laughed. “They come much larger than this.” He glanced at her sidelong. “How is it that you’ve
never
been to a park?”

“I suppose it’s because I haven’t been alive for very long,” she said.

He frowned, confused. “How old are you?”

She thought. “Six months. And a few days.”

The Jinni stopped short. “Six
months
?”

“Yes.”

“But—” He gestured at her, the sweep of his hand taking in her adult form and appearance.

“I was created as you see me,” she said, feeling uneasy; she wasn’t used to talking about herself. “Golems don’t age, we simply continue as we are, unless we’re destroyed.”

“And all golems are like this?”

“I think so. I can’t be certain. I’ve never met another golem.”

“What,
none?
”

“I might be the only one,” she said.

Clearly astonished, the Jinni said nothing. They continued on together, walking the perimeter of the park.

“And how old are you?” the Golem said, to break the silence.

“A few hundred years,” he said. “Unless some mishap ends me, I’ll live another five or six hundred.”

“Then you’re also young for your kind.”

“Not as young as some.”

She frowned. “You hold my age against me?”

“No, it explains much. Your timidity, for instance.”

At that, she bristled. “I make no apologies for being cautious. I have to be. As do you.”

“But there’s caution, and then there is overcaution. Look at us. Walking at night in a park, far from home. And yet the moon doesn’t fall from the heavens, and the ground refuses to tremble.”

“Just because nothing has happened doesn’t mean that nothing
will
happen.”

He smiled. “True. Perhaps I’ll be surprised. And then you can declare that you were right all along.”

“It would be small comfort.”

“Are you always this humorless?”

“Yes. Are you always this exasperating?”

He chuckled. “You really should meet Arbeely. You two would get along wonderfully.”

She did smile at that. “You keep mentioning him. Are you very close?”

She’d expected him to launch into an enthusiastic description of his friend; but he only said, “The man means well. And he’s helped me, certainly.”

“And yet?” she prompted.

The Jinni sighed. “I’m less grateful to him than I should be. He’s a good and generous man, but I’m not accustomed to relying on someone else. It makes me feel weak.”

“How is relying on others a weakness?”

“How can it be anything else? If for some reason Arbeely died tomorrow, I’d be forced to find another occupation. The event would be outside my control, yet I’d be at its mercy. Is that not weakness?”

“I suppose. But then, going by your standard, everyone is weak. So why call it a weakness, instead of just the way things are?”

“Because I was above this once!” he said with sudden vehemence. “I depended on no one! I went where I would and followed my desires. I needed no money, no employer, no neighbors. None of this interminable
good morning
and
how are you
, whether one feels like it or not.”

“But weren’t you ever lonely?”

“Oh, sometimes. But then I’d seek out my own kind, and enjoy their company for a while. And then we’d part ways again, as we saw fit.”

She tried to imagine it: a life without occupation or neighbors, without the bakery and the Radzins and Anna. With no familiar faces, no set pattern to her days. It felt terrifying. She said, “I don’t think golems are made for such independence.”

“You only say that because you’ve lived no other way.”

She shook her head. “You misunderstand me. Each golem is built to serve a master. When I woke, I was already bound to mine. To his will. I heard his every thought, and I obeyed with no hesitation.”

“That’s terrible,” the Jinni said.

“To you, perhaps. To me it felt like the way things were meant to be. And when he died—when that connection left me—I no longer had a clear purpose. Now I’m bound to
everyone
, if only a little. I have to fight against it, I can’t be solving everyone’s wishes. But sometimes, at the bakery where I work, I’ll give someone a loaf of bread—and it answers a need. For a moment, that person is my master. And in that moment, I’m content. If I were as independent as you wish you were, I’d feel I had no purpose at all.”

He frowned. “Were you so happy, to be ruled by another?”

“Happy is not the word,” she said. “It felt
right
.”

“All right, then let me ask you this. If by some chance or magic you could have your master back again, would you wish it?”

It was an obvious question, but one that she had never quite asked herself. She’d barely known Rotfeld, even to know what sort of a man he was. But then, couldn’t she guess? What sort of man would take a golem for a wife, the way a delivery man might purchase a new cart?

But oh, to be returned to that certainty! The memory of it rose up, sharp and beguiling. And she wouldn’t feel as though she was being used. One choice, one decision—and then, nothing.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “Maybe I would. Though in a way, I think it would be like dying. But perhaps it would be for the best. I make so many mistakes, on my own.”

There was a noise from the Jinni, something not quite a laugh. His mouth was a hard line; he stared up beyond the trees, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her.

“I said something to offend you,” she said.

“Don’t do that,” he snapped. “Don’t
look
into
me.”

“I didn’t need to,” she retorted. An unaccustomed defiance was rising in her. She’d given him an honest answer, and apparently it had repelled him. Well, so be it. If he didn’t want her company, she could find her own way home. She was no child, whatever he thought.

She’d half decided to turn back toward Broadway; but then he said, “Do you remember what I told you before? That I was captured, but have no memory of it?”

“Yes, of course I remember.”

“I have no idea,” he said, “how long I was that man’s servant. His
slave
. I don’t know what he made me do. I might have done terrible things. Perhaps I killed for him. I might have killed my own kind.” There was a tight edge in his voice, painful to hear. “But even worse would be if I did it all
gladly
. If he robbed me of my will, and turned me against myself. Given a choice, I’d sooner extinguish myself in the ocean.”

“But if all those terrible things did happen, then it was the wizard’s fault, not yours,” she said.

Again, that not-quite laugh. “Do you have colleagues at this bakery where you work?”

“Of course,” she said. “Moe and Thea Radzin, and Anna Blumberg.”

He said, “Imagine that your precious master returns to you, and you give yourself to him, as you say you perhaps would. Because you make so many
mistakes
. And he says, ‘Please, my dear golem, kill those good people at the bakery, the Radzins and Anna Blumberg. Rip them limb from limb.”

“But why—”

“Oh, for whatever reason! They insult him, or make threats against him, or he simply develops a whim.
Imagine
it. And then tell me what comfort it gives to think it wasn’t your own fault.”