The Golem and the Jinni (55 page)

Abu Yusuf’s own cousin Aziz had once paid such a debt. Aziz was nine years older than young Jalal, and tall and strong and handsome. All the men of the clan could sit a horse as though born in the saddle, but Aziz rode like a god, and Jalal worshiped him for it. Jalal had been out tending his father’s sheep when Aziz’s horse stumbled in a hole and threw his rider, breaking the young man’s back and neck. Aziz lingered between life and death for a day before his father decided to travel west. There was no way to drag a litter up the rocky hillsides, so he made the trip alone, and returned carrying a sack of poultices. At their touch Aziz’s bones healed, and his fever disappeared. Within a week he was up and walking. But from then on, every horse he approached shied at the sight of him. The few he managed to touch would scream in terror and foam at the mouth. Aziz al-Hadid, master of horses, never rode again. He became a shadow of his former self—but still, at least he had lived.

Slowly they made their way west. Every few hours Abu Yusuf would tilt a waterskin to Fadwa’s lips or feed her a few mouthfuls of yogurt. Sometimes she spat it out; sometimes she gulped it down as though starving. Soon the flat terrain of the steppes gave way to angled hills and low, jagged peaks. It was hard going, and the ewe started to struggle. When it became clear she couldn’t go on much farther, Abu Yusuf dismounted, kneeled on the struggling animal’s side, and bashed her skull in with a rock. She’d have to be drained soon, or her blood would turn to poison; but if he did it there, he’d bring down every jackal in the hills. He lashed the carcass to his horse’s back, and they continued on.

It was almost evening when ibn Malik’s cave came into sight. Squinting against the last of the sun, Abu Yusuf spied a small, thin figure sitting cross-legged on the flat apron of rock just outside its entrance. He was alive. And he’d known they were coming. Of course he’d known.

Wahab ibn Malik had been already in his thirties when Abu Yusuf’s cousin was injured; but even so, as they drew closer, Abu Yusuf found himself shocked at the state of the man who waited for them. He seemed no more than a leathered, yellow-eyed skeleton. He stood as they approached, a spiderlike unfolding, and Abu Yusuf saw he was naked save for a torn loincloth. He glanced back at Fadwa; but of course the girl was blindfolded, and could see nothing.

He dismounted and untied the dead ewe from Fadwa’s horse. Cradling it in his arms, he approached ibn Malik and laid it at his feet. The man grinned at Abu Yusuf, revealing dark, broken teeth, and looked over at Fadwa, still tied to her pony.

“You want an exorcism,” ibn Malik said. His voice was startling: deep and full, it seemed to come from somewhere other than his body.

“Yes,” said Abu Yusuf, uneasily. “If you think there’s hope.”

Ibn Malik laughed. “There is never
hope
, Jalal ibn Karim,” he said. “There’s only what can be done, and what cannot.” He nodded at Fadwa. “Bring her down from there, and follow me. And then, we will see what can be done.” With that, he bent and lifted two of the dead ewe’s legs, and dragged her into the mouth of the cave.

What Abu Yusuf had taken to be a small cave was only the first of a series of linked, torch-lit recesses that stretched deep into the cliff. As he followed ibn Malik, Fadwa muttered and twisted in his arms, trying to get away from something only she could see. The guttering torches smelled of animal fat, and spat out a greasy black smoke that filled the passageways.

In one of the smaller caves ibn Malik gestured for him to place Fadwa on a rude pallet. Abu Yusuf did so, trying to ignore the general filth of the place, and watched helplessly as ibn Malik started his examination. Fadwa struggled against the man until he poured something in her mouth that made her relax and go still. Then he began to strip her clothing away. His demeanor was entirely dispassionate; still Abu Yusuf wanted to drag him from her side and bash in his head, as he’d done to the ewe.

“Only her mind was violated, not her body,” ibn Malik said at length. “You’ll be pleased to hear she’s still a virgin.”

A wash of red passed over Abu Yusuf’s eyes. “Get on with it,” he muttered.

Ibn Malik removed the blindfold and opened one of her eyes, and then another. Abu Yusuf cringed, waiting for her to cry out or vomit, but she lay silent and still. “Interesting,” ibn Malik said, almost in a purr.

“What is it?”

The skeletal man made a shushing gesture so absurdly like Fatim’s that Abu Yusuf wanted to laugh. The impulse died as ibn Malik suddenly moved to straddle Fadwa. With both hands he peeled her eyelids back; his dirty forehead came down to touch hers. For long minutes they stared deep into each other’s eyes. Neither of them blinked, nor seemed even to breathe. Abu Yusuf turned around, not wanting to see ibn Malik squatting over his daughter’s chest like a grotesque insect. The torch-smoke filled his nose and clotted his lungs, making him dizzy. He leaned against the rough wall and closed his eyes.

After some time—he didn’t know how long—he heard movement, and turned to see ibn Malik rising from his daughter’s side. The ancient man was smiling, his eyes lit like a boy’s with excitement.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” ibn Malik said. “All my life.”

“Can you heal her?” Abu Yusuf asked dully.

“Yes, yes, it’s easy,” the man said with impatience. “But”—as Abu Yusuf sagged at the knees, tears springing to his eyes—“not yet. No, not yet. There’s something larger here. I must consider carefully. We need a plan, a strategy.”

“A strategy for
what
?”

Ibn Malik flashed his broken grin. “For capturing the jinni that did this to your daughter.”

22.

T
wo hours after lights-out, the man known as Joseph Schall woke in the darkness of the Sheltering House dormitory. All day he’d been a model of industry, distributing blankets and cots and bars of soap, and washing dishes in the kitchen. At the evening roll call he’d struck names from the list and settled the inevitable disputes, before taking to his cot and sinking into a deep and grateful sleep. But now, as he dressed quietly and found his shoes, the role of Joseph Schall fell from him like a skin. It was near midnight, and Yehudah Schaalman’s day was just beginning.

Ever since the night of his opium-fueled revelations, Schaalman’s search had taken on a new energy. He realized now that he’d made the mistake of imagining his quarry as something hidden away, like a jewel at the center of a maze. But his eyes had been opened. Whatever it was, it
traveled
. It was something that could be carried, even passed on, knowingly or unknowingly.

At first he’d returned to the Bowery, hoping to pick up the trail again. For a week of nights he walked across the rooftops, one more anonymous soul among the masses. But the traces that once had felt so fresh had begun to fade. Even Conroy, the trader in stolen goods, had lost his undeniable pull; now he seemed only mildly interesting.

Schaalman refused to be deterred. He’d found the trail once before, completely by accident. Surely he could do so again.

And so he struck out once more, traveling at random, into unfamiliar neighborhoods where the Yiddish faded from the signs. These streets were much less trafficked at night, and with no crowd to hide in, Schaalman felt wary and exposed. But the risk came with reward: soon the dowsing spell was pulling him north past long blocks of columned buildings to a large and open park where stood an enormous illuminated arch, its alabaster-white surface fairly glowing with interest. His quarry had been here, and recently.

He studied the arch for nearly an hour, trying to understand its significance. Had it been part of a building, or the gate of a now-fallen city? An unreadable quotation in English was carved into one side, but somehow Schaalman doubted it would provide answers. He risked muttering a few basic formulae to reveal the unseen, but found nothing. The arch merely hung above him, an incalculable weight of marble. A carved eagle rested on a pediment at the apex of the arch, and stared down at Schaalman with one cold eye. Unsettled, Schaalman left the park and walked back to the House, falling into his cot just before dawn.

He went back to Washington Square Park a few nights later but, like the Bowery, its fascination was already ebbing. So he continued north, wandering the side streets along Fifth Avenue, catching hints of interest here and there. He had to concentrate, for the surroundings themselves were a constant distraction: the monumental granite buildings, the expanses of perfect plate glass. How could a street continue straight as a rod for miles and miles, without bending even once? It felt unnatural; it made his flesh creep.

Eventually the spell pulled him to another park, this one tree lined and studded with bronze figures in antique dress. Derelict men lay asleep here and there on the grass, but none drew his interest. So back to the Sheltering House he went, sunk deep in melancholy, feeling as though he were chasing Levy’s uncle all over again.

And that, of course, was the other thread in this tangled knot: the unknown connection between his quarry and the new Mrs. Levy. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the dowsing spell showed no interest in her husband. She was counterfeiting the life of an ordinary newlywed; was she counterfeiting a second life as well? It would certainly answer the question of how she spent her nights.

And so he followed her home from the bakery one afternoon, immediately noting with frustration that she too was losing the attention of the dowsing spell. Could it be that her presence in New York was pure coincidence? No, she was too intertwined with his search, with Levy and his dead uncle. There was more here, he only needed to find it.

Even as tall as she was, she was a hard woman to follow. She walked quickly through the crowd, giving peddlers and pushcart-men little chance to approach her. She only stopped once, at a general store, for flour and tea, thread and needles. She shared no womanly chatter with the shopkeeper, wasted no words other than
please
and
thank you
. Carrying her unremarkable packages, she went straight home and vanished into her building.

Well, perhaps an evening’s observation would bear more fruit. He went back later that night, tailing Levy after lights-out. The man made no detours on his way home, but that was unsurprising. So far he had proved as interesting as a brick.

Schaalman took up position in a doorway opposite, fortified himself with wakefulness charms, and settled in for a long night’s watch. But neither of the Levys appeared until after dawn the next day, when Michael emerged yawning from the front door. His wife followed a few minutes later, striding briskly toward the bakery. Schaalman hadn’t put much trust in his theory; still, he felt obscurely disappointed in his creation. What did she
do
with herself all night? Listen to her husband snore while washing his socks by candlelight? He felt like scolding her. The most remarkable golem in existence, and she was content to play house! But then, perhaps it was part of her nature: the urge to replace her lost master, to find someone to obey.

He dragged himself back to the Sheltering House. His feet ached; his head pounded with fatigue and the aftereffects of the charms he’d used. He had to remind himself that he was making progress, slow though it might be. But it was maddening. He collapsed onto his cot, not even bothering to remove his shoes. An hour later he woke again as harmless old Joseph Schall, ready for his daily duties.

And already the day was proving a challenge for the Sheltering House staff. Down in the kitchen, the cook was near apoplexy. No one had put the sign in the window for the iceman, and now she had to serve up three days’ worth of herring for breakfast, or else watch it all spoil. What’s more, the delivery from Shimmel’s Bakery had come up short; there wouldn’t be nearly enough rolls for supper.

“I can fetch the rolls, at least,” said Joseph Schall. “But perhaps I’ll buy them at Radzin’s.” He smiled. “I’d like to give my regards to Mrs. Levy.”

That morning, Radzin’s Bakery was faring even worse than the Sheltering House. Ruby, the new girl, had taken the wrong trays from the ovens, and now all the challahs were raw and the pastries burnt. The customers waited at the register, muttering to one another, while everyone rushed about repairing the damage. Feeling their impatience, the Golem rolled and sliced and braided as fast as she dared. She found herself growing more and more irritated. Why should she shoulder the burden of Ruby’s mistake? If she slowed herself to a reasonable pace, and let the customers complain, the girl might be more careful next time.

She glanced across at the girl in question, who was frantically mixing a bowl of batter, her thoughts a torment of self-recrimination. The Golem sighed, disappointed in herself. When had she turned so bitter, so uncharitable?

The previous night had been difficult as well. Worried about her insomnia, Michael had urged her to see a doctor. She’d tried to reassure him that she felt perfectly fine; but it became clear that the only way to appease him was to feign sleep. And so she’d spent the entire night lying next to him, eyes closed, diligently breathing in and out. After a few hours it was all she could do to hold still. Her limbs trembled with cramp, and her mind ran riot. She imagined shaking him awake, shouting the truth into his face. How had he not seen it yet? How could a man be so
blind
?