The Golem and the Jinni (56 page)

And then at dawn he’d woken, and given her a drowsy smile. “You slept,” he murmured; and she cringed with guilt at his gladness.

At last the bakery recovered from the morning’s mishap and the customers began to relax. The Golem went into the storeroom to fetch her unnecessary midday meal. From the water closet came the sound of hitching sobs and a torrent of despairing thoughts. She knocked softly on the water closet door. “Ruby?” Silence. “Ruby, please come out. It’s all right.”

The door cracked open; the girl’s face emerged, red and swollen. “No it isn’t. He’s going to sack me, I know it.”

“Of course he won’t.” It was the truth; Mr. Radzin had been deeply tempted but was too exhausted to contemplate another new hire. “He knows you’re new to this. And we all make mistakes, especially at the beginning.”

“
You
don’t.” Ruby’s voice was sullen. “You
never
do.”

Guilt twisted at her again. “Ruby, I have made more mistakes than I can count. But when something goes wrong, it does no good to hide and cry. You have to take what you’ve learned, and keep going.”

The girl gave a doubtful-sounding sniff, but then wiped away the tear tracks on her face. “All right,” she said quietly, and left to face Mr. Radzin’s scowls.

The Golem ate her bread and butter with even less enthusiasm than usual. Meanwhile young Selma ran in and out, fetching eggs from the icebox, rolls of twine. A year ago she’d been a round-bellied girl in pigtails; now, long limbed and strong, she hoisted a bag of sugar to her shoulder, then dashed away again. The Golem watched her go, wondered what it would be like to have a daughter. She knew that Mrs. Radzin felt a constant stream of worries and anxieties for Selma, and wished occasionally that she could halt time, to keep the girl innocent of the world and its disappointments. Selma, meanwhile, could not wait to grow up, to at last understand the frustrating adults around her, their whispered arguments and sudden silences.

And where, thought the Golem, did she herself fit in? Somewhere between mother and daughter, she supposed: no longer innocent, not yet understanding.

Distantly she wondered how Michael was faring at the Sheltering House. Working too hard, no doubt. One of these days she would beg an hour for herself for lunch, and take him a plate of macaroons. It would be a wifely thing to do. A gesture of affection.

“Chava?”

She looked up, startled. Selma stood in the doorway. “Papa says it’s your turn at the register.”

“Of course.” She pushed her troubled thoughts to a distant corner of her mind and stepped up to the register, relieving the harried Mrs. Radzin. The woman gave her a grateful pat on the arm, and retreated. The Golem placed a smile on her face and began filling orders.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Levy.”

A small old man was standing before the counter, his eyes twinkling. “Mr. Schall!” she said, surprised. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding! How have you been?”

“Oh, well enough, well enough. And yourself? Does married life agree with you?”

Her smile threatened to waver; she steadied it. “Yes, though I’m afraid you see my husband much more than I do.”

He chuckled. “A pity. You must wish you didn’t have to work, or sleep.” Her pause lasted only an instant, before she smiled and agreed.

The line behind him was shuffling impatiently. She asked, “What can I get for you, Mr. Schall?” and focused in on him, ready to fetch whatever he wanted.

But there was nothing there.

She saw his mouth move, heard him say, “Can you spare three dozen dinner rolls? We’re having a hard day at the Sheltering House, I’m afraid.” But beyond them lay no desire at all. There was only a void, a vast expanse of nothingness.

“Of course,” she said weakly. Then, with more conviction: “Yes, of course. We can spare more, if you’d like.”

“No, three dozen should be enough.”

Quickly she boxed the rolls, wrapped the boxes with twine. To the last one she added a handful of macaroons. “For Michael, if you would,” she said. “And one for yourself.”

He smiled and thanked her, then paused, seeming to regard her. “You’re an exemplary woman, Chava. I never doubted you would make an admirable wife.” And then, he was gone.

She turned to the next customer, only half-hearing the order.
Never doubted?
What an odd choice of words! Hadn’t he only met her once? Unless perhaps he’d heard Michael speak of their engagement. But—she shuddered to think of that bizarre void, that utter lack of fears or desires. It was quite different from what she’d felt from the Jinni: the Jinni’s were still there, only muted, hidden from her sight. With Joseph Schall, it felt as though they’d been deliberately excised. She thought of the surgeon on the
Baltika
cutting out Rotfeld’s appendix, lifting it free of his body.

She spent the rest of the afternoon greeting customers and fetching their orders, her habitual smile covering her unease. But all the while, she could not shake her growing conviction that there was something very wrong with Joseph Schall.

“A success!” Sam Hosseini told the Jinni. “An immense success!”

The necklaces, it seemed, had all been sold, and at a handsome profit. “Could you perhaps make another dozen?” Sam had asked. “And this time, with bracelets to match?” So once again the Jinni took up his tools. But the novelty of the necklaces had worn off; soon, he predicted, he’d be as bored with them as he’d been with the skillets.

Meanwhile, Arbeely’s hours at the forge were growing ever longer. Swamped with orders, he’d even broached the subject of bringing on another assistant, an apprentice perhaps. The Jinni was less than pleased with this idea. Other than his barely tolerable room, the shop was the one place where he could be fully himself—but no doubt Arbeely would insist he hide his more unorthodox methods from a newcomer.

Despite the silence and the tension—or perhaps because of it—their work progressed steadily; and late one afternoon the Jinni realized that he and Matthew had completed half of Sam Hosseini’s order, and were even ahead of schedule. The Jinni smiled as he watched Matthew disappear out the door. Perhaps, he thought, he would open his own shop, without Arbeely, and take Matthew as an apprentice.
AHMAD AND MOUNSEF, METALSMITHING.
Arbeely was out on one of his occasional errands, negotiating a better price from a supplier, and it felt good to be alone, without the man’s grumpy silences. He bent to his work again, feeling a sliver of something that might be contentment.

The door flew open.

It was Matthew, pale with panic. He ran to the Jinni and grabbed his arm, his entire body a plea; and the Jinni found himself pulled onto his feet, and out the door.

The boy dragged him through the street at a run. From the corner of his eye, the Jinni saw Maryam Faddoul look up startled from a conversation at a sidewalk table, watching them dart past carts and pedestrians. They went up the steps of Matthew’s building, through the lobby—the tin ceiling flashed above them—and up and up, to the fourth floor. One of the hallway doors hung open, and Matthew ran through it. The room beyond was dim and close, the curtains heavily shaded. The Jinni braced himself and followed Matthew.

A woman lay crumpled on the floor, her face to the bare wooden boards. Matthew ran to her side, shook her arm—there was no response—and looked up at the Jinni, silently begging him.

Carefully the Jinni lifted the woman from the floor and turned her over. She weighed barely more than a child. Even he could see that she was extremely ill. Her eyes were closed, her skin sallow, except for a livid raised blush that spread across her cheeks and nose. Surely that wasn’t normal? Beneath it, her face had the same delicate features as Matthew’s.

“This is your mother?” A nod, impatient:
yes, of course! Please help her!

What could he do? Why had Matthew come to
him
? At a complete loss, he laid the woman on the couch and bent an ear to her chest. There was a heartbeat, but far too faint. Sweat ran down her forehead; her skin was nearly as warm as his own. He felt her take a struggling breath, and then another. His own body tensed in response, as though trying to help—but no, that was useless, what was he supposed to
do
?

Footsteps on the stair; and then Maryam ran in, quickly taking in the tableau. Until that moment he’d felt nothing for Maryam Faddoul but wary dislike, but now he felt a wash of relief. “I think she’s dying,” he told her, the statement somehow a plea.

Maryam only hesitated a moment. “Stay here with Matthew,” she said. “I’ll fetch a doctor.” And she was gone again.

The woman’s neck was bent at an awkward angle. He placed a pillow under her head, hoping that might help. Matthew ran from the room, and the Jinni wondered if the boy was too frightened to watch; but then he reappeared, carrying a small paper packet and a glass of water. The Jinni stared while Matthew measured out a spoonful of white powder from the packet and poured it into the water. This was . . . medicine? The boy stirred for a few moments, then held the glass up to the dim lamplight, squinting at it with a critical eye. The gesture spoke of endless repetition. Matthew struggled to lift his mother’s head from the sofa and the Jinni quickly maneuvered her into a sitting position. He took the glass from Matthew and tilted it to her lips. She sipped at it weakly, then began to cough and splutter. He wiped the water away, and looked to Matthew; urgently the boy gestured,
more
. He tried to coax her to drink again, but she had sunk back into unconsciousness.

More footsteps on the stair—and then a silver-haired man was in the parlor, carrying a leather satchel. “Move aside, please,” he said, and the Jinni retreated into a corner. Wordlessly the man—a doctor, the Jinni surmised—examined the rash on her face, then listened to her breathing. Grasping her wrist in one hand, he removed his pocket watch and timed her pulse. After a few long moments he put the watch away. “Is this woman in your care?” he asked the Jinni.

“No,” the Jinni said at once. “I’m—I don’t know her.”

Instantly the doctor’s attention turned to Matthew. “You’re her son?” A nod. “What were you giving her just now?” Matthew handed him the packet; the doctor examined it, dipped a finger in the powder and tasted it. Then he frowned. “Acetanilide,” he said. “Headache powder. This the only medicine she takes? Nothing else?” Another nod.

Maryam ran in carrying a bucket. “I brought ice,” she said.

“Good,” said the doctor. “We’ll need it.” To Matthew he asked, “Was she seeing a physician?” Matthew whispered a name, and the man’s mouth tightened in distaste. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, removed a bill. “Fetch him,” he said. “If he doesn’t want to come, give him this. But don’t tell him I’m here.” And then Matthew was gone again, running out the door.

The Jinni stood frozen in the corner. He didn’t know Matthew’s mother. He didn’t even know her name. He wanted desperately to leave but couldn’t bring himself to move. He watched as Maryam placed a cold cloth on the woman’s forehead and murmured quiet words. The woman’s eyes moved beneath her lids. From his satchel the doctor extracted a vial of clear liquid, and a cylinder with a needle at one end. He performed some maneuver between vial and cylinder—again that sense of an action endlessly practiced—and positioned the needle’s tip at the inside of her elbow. Maryam winced and turned away.

The Jinni watched as the needle disappeared into the woman’s arm. “What is that?”

“Quinine,” said the doctor. He pulled the needle out again, leaving only the barest drop of blood. It seemed an illusion, a conjurer’s trick.

“What about the powder?”

“If she took enough of it,” the doctor muttered, “it might relieve her headache.”

They sat in tense silence, listening to the sick woman’s shallow breaths. The Jinni looked around, seeing the place for the first time. The room was so small it sent his skin crawling. The furnishings were worn and dilapidated. Dusty paper flowers stood in a vase on the mantelpiece, beneath a faded watercolor of a hillside village. Heavy curtains were tacked to the window frames, as though to block out every last ounce of sunlight.

This was where Matthew lived. It wasn’t what the Jinni had pictured. He’d pictured—what? Nothing. He’d never thought to picture anything at all.

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Joubran,” Maryam said.

The man nodded, then looked up at the Jinni, his sharp eyes curious. “You’re Boutros Arbeely’s partner, aren’t you? The Bedouin.”

“Ahmad,” the Jinni muttered.

“You’re the one who found her?”

“Matthew found her. He brought me here. I’ve never met her before.”

At last Matthew returned, trailing a shabbily dressed man who carried his own leather satchel. The man cringed at the sight of Dr. Joubran. It looked like he might flee, but Maryam quickly rose and blocked his path.

“You’ve been treating this woman, is that correct?” said Dr. Joubran. “What, if I might ask, was your diagnosis?”

The man shuffled nervously. “She complained of headaches, aching joints, and fevers. I suspected nervous hypochondria, but prescribed acetanilide.”