The Golem and the Jinni (52 page)

Dressed in a white wedding gown, her gloved hands folded in her lap, the Golem sat on her bed and listened for the step on the stair that meant someone was coming to bring her to her groom.

She’d made the gown herself. The high-necked bodice was adorned with lace and embroidery, the waistline shaped by dozens of tiny pin-tucks. In the mirror it seemed almost too delicate for her sturdy frame. Michael, she knew, considered such dresses an impractical extravagance. But she’d sewn it for herself, not him; and she’d worked on it diligently, investing each stitch with her determination to make this arrangement work, to adhere to the path she’d laid for herself. She refused to wear a veil, though. She would go to her wedding with her eyes uncovered.

Noises sounded from the parlor below: men’s voices, laughing together. It was nearly time.

She pressed one hand to her chest, feeling the solid shape of the locket beneath her bodice. Inside it, in place of the lost scrap of paper, there was a folded piece of newsprint.
DANCE HALL ATTACK MYSTERY
, the headline said. She carried it as a reminder of the mistakes she had made, and the path she was leaving behind.

She’d scoured the papers, but there were no further reports of Irving’s condition. She had no idea if he was still alive, or if they were still looking for his attacker. Even now, nearly a month later, whenever she went out on the street she half-expected to be arrested.

Anna hadn’t come back to work again, after that night. The Radzins sent little Abie around to her tenement, where the landlady reported that the girl had packed up and left, without a word. Mrs. Radzin declared herself worried sick, but Mr. Radzin said he had a business to run, and soon a girl named Ruby was standing behind Anna’s table. Ruby was bland and cow-eyed, and would guffaw nervously if anyone so much as looked at her; but she was obedient and spoke little, and for that Mr. Radzin tolerated her.

They were downstairs in the parlor now, the Radzins and Ruby, with her landlady and Michael and his small group of friends. “There’s no one else you’d like to invite?” Michael had asked. She’d smiled at his concern and shaken her head. For who else was there? No one at all, except for the one man who knew her best.

She frowned and smoothed her skirt, as though brushing something away. She had to be vigilant now; she could not ruin her chance at a fresh start. She would lock all thoughts of the Jinni away, and would not, would
not
, speculate on what he would say about this marriage, if only he knew.

The door opened, startling her. A thin, elderly man in a dark suit stood in the doorway.

“You must be Mr. Schall,” she said. “Michael has told me so much about you.”

The old man smiled kindly. “Please,” he said, “call me Joseph.”

She stood and placed a hand on his offered arm. She was taller than him by almost a foot, but even so she felt small and unsure. Would her nerves fail her, after all? No: she held herself straighter, firmed her grip, and willed herself to go forward.

Together they stepped from her bedroom.

Yehudah Schaalman led the Golem down to the parlor, careful to maintain his composure. It was difficult; he kept wanting to burst into giggles. When Michael Levy had asked him to stand in for the father of the bride, it had taken all of his considerable will to keep a straight face. “If she agrees, then yes, I think that would be appropriate,” he’d managed to say. A week earlier, he’d have felt himself the butt of another cosmic joke, but now it was his turn to laugh. The blushing bride, and he’d built her himself!

He deposited her next to her betrothed, who stood before the black-robed justice of the peace. The temperature in the parlor was rising, and the younger men, no slaves to decorum, had taken off their jackets. Schaalman would’ve liked to do the same, but he couldn’t risk it. His left arm was hampered by a thick bandage below his elbow, and without the jacket it would be far more noticeable, especially if the bandage had started seeping blood again. But his discomfort was a small price to pay. For look at her! Deaf as a post to his thoughts and desires, with no inkling of who he was or what he wanted. His preparations had worked, as thoroughly as he’d hoped.

Once again he’d found the answer in his treasured sheaf of papers. After three nights of intense study, he’d arrived at the solution: a particular diagram, the sort of thing meant to be inscribed on an amulet and hung about one’s neck. But with no amulet at hand and no way of making one, he’d resorted to carving the diagram on the inside of his arm. He hadn’t expected it to be a pleasant experience, but still the pain had been shocking in its intensity, as though the knife was reaching beyond his body to slice into his soul. He’d spent the next day sick in bed, arm throbbing, racked with waves of nausea. But it had been so very worth it! Now he could follow her without detection, and he need not worry if Levy should bring his new wife around to the Sheltering House unexpectedly.

I will destroy you someday
, he thought at the Golem, as loudly as he could—but she merely stood there, listening to the sweating justice as he droned on in English. Occasionally Levy gave his bride a nervous smile; she, on the other hand, looked solemn as an undertaker. Schaalman tried to imagine what people said of her.
A sober woman
, he supposed.
Quiet. Not one for jokes or frivolousness.
As though these were traits of her character, like anyone else’s, and not the outward signs of her nature, her limitations. It was remarkable that she’d made it this far without being discovered. More fool Levy, for falling in love with her.

The justice raised his voice in a pronouncement—Schaalman recognized the words
man and wife
—and there was a burst of applause and laughter as Levy took the white-clad creature in his arms and kissed her. The justice gave a tight smile and turned away, his job done.

Schaalman laughed along with everyone else, happy in his secret knowledge. It would take another day or so to regain his strength. And then, the next phase of his search would begin. Whatever it was that linked the Golem and the Bowery, whatever Levy’s uncle had conspired to hide from him, he would uncover it. He could feel the secret out there in the city, waiting patiently to be found.

21.

“M
aryam,” said Arbeely, “do you know Nadia Mounsef? Matthew’s mother?”

He was sitting at the Faddouls’ coffeehouse, drinking cups of scalding coffee despite the heat. Knowing that Arbeely only came when he wished to talk about something, Maryam had kept close to him, polishing the already pristine tables while Sayeed attended to the other customers. Now she paused, cloth in hand. “Nadia? We’ve spoken a few times, but not lately. Why do you ask?”

Arbeely hesitated. He didn’t want to say the truth, which was that the woman’s face had been haunting him. “I went to see her a few weeks ago, about Matthew,” he said. “She was ill. I mean, she looked ill before, but . . . this was different.” He went on to describe the woman who’d answered the door: even thinner than he remembered, her eyes dull and sunken. A strange dark blush, almost a rash, was spread across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The crucifix at her throat—three barred, the sigil of the Eastern Orthodox—had fluttered visibly in time with her too-quick heartbeat. She’d blinked at the feeble light in the hallway as Arbeely haltingly explained his concerns. It wasn’t that Matthew was a nuisance, far from it: he was a helpful boy, and they enjoyed having him at the shop. But the child was spending mornings there, when he should certainly be in a classroom. And if a truancy officer happened to come by . . . “I don’t mean to get Matthew in trouble with anyone,” he said. “Including his mother.”

She’d given him the barest hint of a polite smile. “Of course, Mr. Arbeely. I’ll speak with Matthew. Thank you, for being patient with him.” And before Arbeely could protest that patience had nothing to do with it—the boy had real talent, and would make a promising apprentice—she went back inside and closed the door, leaving Arbeely to wonder how he could’ve handled it better.

“You did what you needed to,” Maryam told him. “You can’t be responsible for her son’s welfare.” She sighed. “Poor Nadia. She’s all alone, you know.”

“I was wondering,” Arbeely admitted. “What happened?”

“Her husband was peddling in Ohio. For a while there were letters, and then, nothing.”

“He disappeared?”

“Dead, ill, or run away—no one knows.”

Arbeely shook his head. It was a common story, but still hard for him to credit. “And she has no one here?”

“No family, at least. And she refuses all attempts to help her. I’ve invited her to dinner, but she never comes.” Maryam looked troubled, and no wonder: it wasn’t often that someone succeeded in refusing her generosity. “I think most of her neighbors have given up trying. Her illness is so strange, it comes and goes—it’s terrible to say, but many decided she was making it up, to avoid them.”

“Or perhaps she just doesn’t want to be stared at, and gossiped about.”

Maryam nodded sadly. “You’re right, of course. And who can blame her? I’ll visit her soon, and try again. Perhaps there’s some way I can help.”

“Thank you, Maryam.” He sighed. “At least Matthew stopped coming in the mornings. Although, mind you, some days I’d rather he did.” At Maryam’s quizzical look he said, “It’s Ahmad. At this point I think he likes the boy more than me. He’s been . . . moody, lately. A failed love affair, I suspect. He tells me little.”

Maryam nodded with her usual sympathy, but at the Jinni’s name the warmth had faded from her eyes. How was it that Maryam, with her gift for seeing the good in everyone, had taken such a dislike to him? Arbeely would have liked to ask her; but that, of course, would mean venturing into dangerous territory. Instead he thanked her and left, feeling more morose than ever.

Back at the shop, the Jinni and Matthew were at the Jinni’s workbench, their heads bent together like conspirators. The Jinni insisted that Matthew’s discovery of his secret had been a complete accident, but still Arbeely felt the Jinni had been far too cavalier about the whole thing. It had sparked their worst argument since the tin ceiling.

How didn’t you hear him come in?

Half the time you don’t hear him either. Besides, I told you, he knew already.

And you didn’t even try to convince him otherwise?

Arbeely, he saw me soldering chain links with my bare hands. What could I have said?

You could’ve tried, at least.
Made up some lie or other.

The Jinni’s face had darkened.
I’m sick of lying.
And when Arbeely tried to press the matter, the Jinni had left the shop.

Since then, they’d spent most of their mornings in tense silence. But whenever Matthew arrived and took his silent spot on the bench, the Jinni would treat him with uncharacteristic patience. Sometimes they even laughed together, at a joke or a mistake, and Arbeely would tamp down his jealousy, feeling like a stranger in his own shop.

He tried to keep things in perspective. Business was more profitable than ever, and the necklaces they were making for Sam Hosseini were beautiful—no doubt Sam would fetch a small fortune for each one. He thought back to the morning the Jinni had come in looking like he’d been dealt a mortal blow. It had been only a month, after all. Hopefully soon his partner would be distracted by something—or, God help them all, someone—new and intriguing.

The sun dipped behind the broad backs of the tenements, and the light in the shop’s high window faded. Women’s voices drifted down from the upper stories, calling their children in for supper. Matthew slipped off the bench and was gone, the shop door barely whispering as he passed. Yet again the Jinni wondered if the spirit world had meddled in the boy’s bloodline—it seemed impossible for a human to be that uncanny without help.

Matthew’s visits had become the sole bright spot in the Jinni’s days. Whenever the boy left and the door slipped shut, something would close in himself as well, something barely acknowledged. Arbeely would turn up the lamp, and they would work in their separate silences until Arbeely, succumbing to hunger or fatigue, would heave a sigh and begin to heap sand on the fire. At that, the Jinni would put down his tools and leave, as wordlessly as Matthew.