The Golem and the Jinni (59 page)

He spent the night tending the fire, watching his daughter, and listening to the desert. Occasionally he caught the edge of some noise in the cave behind him: a high ringing echo of metal on metal, and once a faraway voice that spoke in gibberish. As morning grew closer he slept a few minutes at a time, drifting between dreams. Dawn arrived, and finally Abu Yusuf allowed himself to fall truly asleep.

He startled awake a little while later, disoriented and groggy, his body aching. No sound came from the cave behind him. Fadwa was still trapped beneath the pile of blankets but had freed her arms, and was reaching out into the sky, groping with her fingers. She was, he realized, trying to grab the sun. Quickly he wrapped a cloth around her eyes, hoping she hadn’t blinded herself. He fed her as much yogurt as she would eat—it would spoil soon, no use in holding any back—and chewed on a few strips of dried meat. He thought of Fatim, waiting for him at home.

Footsteps sounded behind him. He got to his feet just as ibn Malik emerged from the cave.

At the sight of him Abu Yusuf took an involuntary step back, nearly into the fire’s ashes. Ibn Malik’s eyes were glittering like jewels in their sockets. The air around him seemed to vibrate with heat. In his hands he carried two objects: a copper flask, and an iron cuff.

“It is finished,” the wizard said. “And now, we find him.”

23.

I
t was not yet eight in the morning, and already the sidewalk in front of the Faddouls’ establishment was crowded with customers. The pleasant weather had turned humid. The men at the coffeehouse tables mopped their brows with their handkerchiefs, and unstuck their shirt collars from their necks.

Mahmoud Saleh mixed eggs and sugar and milk in his churn, then added ice and salt. He affixed the lid and turned the crank until it felt right. Already an impatient line of school-bound children stood before him, trading taunts and pulling pigtails. Saleh scooped ice cream into tin dishes, kept his eyes on the churn until a whisper of skirts caught his ear.

“Good morning, Mahmoud,” Maryam said.

He grunted his hello.

“It’s going to be hot today,” she said. “And it might rain. Come inside if you need anything.”

Her words were familiar; what was new and surprising was her tone. She sounded exhausted, even defeated. He made no comment, only scooped more ice cream, trading it for coins warmed by small fingers.

More footsteps: another child joined the line. And now the giggling and teasing turned to silence. A girl whispered to her neighbor; someone else whispered back. Saleh heard the word
mother
and the word
dead
. The one who’d caused the silence came to the front of the line, and Saleh saw a boy’s short pants and pale knees. Saleh gave him his ice cream, received the barest whisper of a
thank you
in return.

Maryam said, “One moment, Matthew.” And then in a lower voice: “Are you certain you want to go to school? I could come with you and speak to your teacher . . .” A quiet answer, and then Maryam’s sigh. “Well then, don’t stay out too long afterward. Supper will be at five. We’ll talk more then.” A movement—perhaps a tentative attempt at a hug?—but the boy was already gone, soft footsteps lost in the noise of the street.

Curious despite himself, Saleh went on with his labors. There were only a few more stragglers; those who’d played truant would approach him when Maryam had gone. The line dwindled, ended—but Maryam was still at his side. Likely this meant that she wanted to talk.

At length she said, “That boy worries me so.”

As he’d thought. “Who is he?”

“Matthew Mounsef. Nadia Mounsef’s son. She died, last night. Sayeed and I are caring for him until we can contact his mother’s family.”

He nodded. Were she anyone else, the idea of a Maronite woman taking in an Eastern Orthodox child would have made for scandal, even outrage. But not Maryam. One day, he would work out how she managed it.

“He was asleep when Nadia died. I had to be the one to tell him.” A pause, and then, hesitant: “Do you think he hates me now?”

Saleh thought back to the mothers he’d seen die, and the children who’d blamed him for not saving them. “No,” Saleh said. “Not you.”

“I’m no replacement for Nadia, I know. I thought he should stay home from school, but there’s only so much I can presume. And I have little experience at caring for children.” This last, with a self-conscious offhandedness. After a minute Maryam said, “Have I ever told about how I nearly died, when I was a baby?”

Saleh shook his head.

“I caught a terrible fever, and the doctor told my mother I had little chance. He told her to take me to the Shrine of Saint George, in Jounieh.”

Saleh frowned at the thought of a doctor offering this advice. “I know,” Maryam said, “but she was desperate. Do you know this shrine?” He shook his head. “It’s a pool, in a cave above Jounieh Bay. Where Saint George washed his spear, after slaying the dragon. She took me to the cave, and she lit a candle and dipped me in the water. It was spring then, and the water was freezing cold. The moment I touched the water, I started to howl. And she cried, because it was the first real noise I’d made in days. She knew then that I’d be all right. She told me this story over and over—that Saint George had answered her prayers, and saved my life.”

Saleh could think of any number of explanations for the miraculous recovery. The doctor had made a poor diagnosis; or else the cold water had broken the fever. But he said nothing.

“Childless women go to the shrine too,” Maryam said. “Sometimes I think . . . But I don’t want to ask for his help twice. I feel it would be greedy of me.”

“No it wouldn’t,” Saleh said.

“No? Why not?”

“It’s his duty. A good healer can’t pick and choose. If he can help, then he must.”

A pause. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she said, musing. “A good healer. How I wish Nadia’s doctor had been a healer. She might have stood a chance.”

“What did she die of?”

“I can’t remember the name. It was long, and in Latin. But she had pains that came and went, and fevers, and a rash on her face. Dr. Joubran saw it, and he knew right away.”

“Lupus erythmatosus.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. The words had appeared in his mind, and then their echo was hanging in the thick morning air. He’d give all the coins in his pocket, and the churn as well, to take them back again.

He could feel her looking at him, considering him anew. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That was it.”

He tried to ignore the feeling of her scrutiny. “The boy,” he said, staving off the questions. “No father?”

“Not to speak of. He disappeared, peddling out west.”

“His mother’s family will take him in?”

“I imagine so. They haven’t seen him since he was a baby. It seems cruel to make him leave the only home he’s known. But how can he stay here, with no family?” The sigh again. “Maybe he’ll do well in a village, a quieter place than this. At least he’ll be away from the tinsmith’s shop.”

“The tinsmith’s shop?”

“Oh, I don’t mean Boutros! He’s a wonderful man, I only wish he would come out of there and
talk
to people. No, it’s his partner. The Bedouin.” He felt her sudden tension. “Mahmoud, may I tell you something? I’ve never liked that man. Never. I feel like he’s fooling us all somehow, laughing when our backs are turned. And I could not for the life of me tell you why.” Her voice had a hardness he’d never heard before. “But Matthew adores him, he’d spend all day in that shop if Boutros let him.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t let the boy spend time in the shop. With the Bedouin.”

“Why not?” She was closer now, leaning toward him; he turned his head away, looking at the gray pavement, the dim shadow of his cart. “Mahmoud, do you know something about him? Is he dangerous?”

“I don’t know anything.” He picked up the cart’s handle. “But I don’t like him either. Good day, Maryam.”

“Good day,” she said faintly. And he trudged away, up the street, the ice cream in the churn long since melted.

Anna Blumberg stood on a baking-hot roof at the corner of Hester and Chrystie, and peered from behind a chimney at the building across the street. She’d chosen the corner carefully: it was well traveled and convenient, and she could see the stoop clearly. But now, drenched in sweat and wreathed in fumes of tar paper, she was beginning to regret her decision. She blotted her face with her sleeve and willed herself not to gag. If all went as planned—if he actually came with the money—then the misery would be worth it.

But what if he didn’t? What would she do
then
?

She swallowed against bile and panic, and felt the baby shift below her ribs. Wasn’t it past noon already? Her pocket watch was long since pawned, but she’d checked the clock at the pharmacist’s—

There
. A tall man, walking confidently against the crowd. Even at this distance, she knew him instantly. She watched, heart pounding in her throat, as he reached the bottom of the stoop. He looked around, scanning the traffic and the pushcarts, the men chatting on the sidewalk. She resisted the urge to duck behind the chimney. Even if he thought to look up, the sun would be in his eyes, making her near impossible to see. But then, hadn’t she seen him do the impossible already?

From a pocket he took an envelope, thumbed through whatever was inside. She leaned forward, straining to see; but he turned and strolled up the stoop, past the boys that loitered on its bottom steps. At the top he slid the envelope beneath the flowerpot, so graceful and quick that even someone standing next to him might not have noticed. Without another glance he returned to the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner.

Was that it? Could it possibly be that easy?

She hurried down to the sidewalk, then checked up and down the street. Had he doubled back to catch her? No, he was too tall, too noticeable, she would’ve spotted him instantly. Trying to walk calmly, she crossed the street and climbed the steps, ignoring the boys who sniggered at her swollen middle. She crouched next to the flowerpot—not nearly so quick as he, not in her condition—and retrieved the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was a stack of five-dollar bills. She counted: twenty of them. It was all there.

Her own building lay farther down the street, and she cried a bit as she walked there, from exhaustion and relief. For weeks now she’d slept on a dirty pallet in a tiny, windowless room with five other women, three Jewish and two Italian. The pallet was so thin and lumpy that she could barely sleep, and the others all hated her because she got up so often to use the water closet. For this luxury she paid the landlady fifteen cents a day. When she woke that morning, she’d had two dollars to her name.

But for now, at least, her newfound luck was holding: none of her roommates were at home. She could take her time and decide where best to hide the money. And after that, she would go to the fancy cafeteria down the street, and treat herself to a plateful of chicken and a baked potato. She lit the candle they kept in a teacup next to the door and began to search for a likely hiding spot: a gap in a floorboard, or a loose bit of plaster.

“I wouldn’t,” said a voice behind her. “Too easy to discover. Better keep it with you, since you’ve worked so hard to earn it.”

He was standing in the doorway, filling it. In two steps he was inside. He closed the door, slid the bolt home.

Terrified, she scrambled back and struck the wall with her shoulder. The candle fell from its cup and rolled, still lit, across the floor. He bent with that same grace and picked it up, regarding her in its light.

“Sit down, Anna,” he said.

She slid down the wall and sat, her arms shielding her stomach. “Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered.

He gave her a scornful look but said nothing, only glanced about the dark and tiny space. For a moment he seemed uncomfortable, even haunted. “I have no wish to stay here any longer than necessary,” he said. “So, let us talk.”

He sat down and placed the candle upright between them. Even cross-legged on the floor, he towered over her like a magistrate. She began to cry. “Stop it,” he said flatly. “If you have the nerve to blackmail and threaten me, then you can face me without whimpering.”

With an effort she calmed herself and wiped her face. She was still clutching the envelope. If she apologized and gave it back, he might forgive her, and go.

Her fingers tightened, rebelling. The money was her future. He’d have to take it from her.

But he seemed uninterested in force, at least for the moment. He said, “How did you find me?”

“Your shop,” she said in a thin voice. “I went to Little Syria and walked until I saw your name on the sign. Then I watched until you left, to make sure it was you.”

“And you told no one else? You have no accomplices?”

She gave a quavering laugh. “Who would believe me?”

He seemed to accept this, but went on. “Have you blackmailed Chava as well? You might recall
she’s
the one who injured your lover. I merely saved his life.”