The Golem and the Jinni (39 page)

Now the hurt on the Jinni’s face turned to indignant anger. He looked at the tin creation at his feet, and then back at Arbeely. Too furious for words, he grabbed his coat, stepped past Arbeely—who made no move to stop him—and strode from the shop, slamming the door behind him.

In the quiet that followed, Arbeely contemplated his options. He had some money saved; he could borrow more. He could restrict new business to repairs, but he’d have to cancel most of his current orders. His reputation might never recover.

He walked past the tin carpet—something about its waves and folds tugged at him, but he was beyond the reach of distraction—and went to the back room, where he made a quick inventory. It was true: the plate was all gone. Nothing stood on the shelves but scraps and unfinished orders.

He returned to the front room, to look again at the wasted tinplate—perhaps there were sections that were still usable, enough for a few days at least. As he did, the light from the high window filtered through the dusty air and struck the tin carpet, highlighting the peaks and crags, casting the narrow depressions into shadow. All at once it came into focus, and with a dizzy shock Arbeely saw exactly what the Jinni had created: the portrait of a vast desert landscape, as seen from above.

It was not a good day to be selling ice cream.

The wind and sleet had ceased for the moment, but the slush lay frozen on the sidewalks, refracting the feeble daylight into Mahmoud Saleh’s dazzled eyes. Carefully he dragged his little cart from restaurant to café, knocking on door after door, scooping his ice cream into whatever container they gave him and pocketing the coins he got in return. He had no doubt his ice cream was headed straight for their garbage pails, for who would want it on a day like this? He could hear the proprietors’ ill-concealed sighs and loud silences, the muttered God-be-with-yous that seemed more superstition than courtesy, as though Saleh were an ill-behaved spirit who needed appeasing.

He wrapped his ragged coat about himself more tightly and was almost to Maryam’s coffeehouse when the street was lit with a second dawn. Stunned, he shielded his eyes.

It was the man, the glowing man! He was striding from a basement shop, his face a mask of anger. His coat was bunched in one fist. Only a thin shirt and a pair of dungarees separated him from the icy air, but he didn’t seem to notice. Those on the sidewalk scurried out of his way. He was headed north, toward the vegetable market.

Saleh had never seen him in daylight before. And if he waited too long, he’d lose him.

He dragged his cart to Maryam’s as quickly as he could. She must have seen him coming, as she was outside before he even reached the door.

“Mahmoud! What’s the matter?”

“Maryam,” he panted, “I must ask you—please watch my cart for me. Will you do that?”

“Of course!”

“Thank you.” And with that he headed north, following the glowing man’s retreating form.

The Jinni had never been so furious in his life.

He had no destination in mind, no purpose but to get away from his small-minded employer. After everything the Jinni had done for him, spending day after day mending pots until he thought he might expire from boredom—and all the man could do was complain about how much tin he’d used? The business he’d brought in, the money he’d made for the man, and now this flat-out dismissal?

The traffic thickened as he neared the market, forcing him to slow down and consider his direction. His anger was now demanding a purpose, a destination. It had been weeks since he’d even thought of Sophia Winston, but now her face rose before him, her proud and beautiful features. And why not? Perhaps she’d be angry with him for presuming; but then again, maybe her door would be open and waiting as it had been before.

He considered taking the Elevated but couldn’t stand the thought of sitting packed among a crowd of strangers, batting their newspapers away from his face. A voice inside whispered that running to Sophia’s was no good, that he’d still have to consider what to do with himself afterward—but he ignored it, and picked up his pace.

Half a block behind, Mahmoud Saleh struggled to keep the glowing man in his sights. It was difficult: the man was long-legged, and propelled by anger. To keep pace, Saleh half-ran, bumping into people and pushcarts and walls, muttering apologies to everyone and everything. He waded through mazes of horses and carts and pedestrians, into puddles of half-frozen mud. At each intersection he waited to feel the fatal blow of a cart, the trampling of horses’ hooves, but somehow it never happened. At one corner he took a misstep and fell, landing on his shoulder. A spasm of pain ripped through his arm, but he righted himself and went on, holding the arm close to his side.

Slowly he began to realize that he’d never find his way home without help. He couldn’t even read the signs. The only words in English he knew besides
sorry
were
hello
,
thank you
, and
ice cream
.

With something like relief he resigned himself to his fate. Either the glowing man would lead him home or he’d spend his last mortal day on an unknown street, surrounded by strangers. In the morning he’d be merely a frozen beggar, nameless and unmourned. He felt no sadness at this, only wondered what Maryam would do with his churn.

In the end, tracking down Thomas Maloof was a relatively simple task. Arbeely merely went to the landlord’s tenement—noting in passing that the ceiling in question was, indeed, rather awful—and began knocking on doors. He begged the pardon of the women who answered, but did they know where Thomas Maloof lived? They replied that they didn’t know, as he rarely came to the building, and sent a boy around to collect the rent. After a while Arbeely thought to ask after the boy.

It transpired that the boy was one Matthew Mounsef, who lived on the fourth floor. His mother, a tired-looking woman whose sunken eyes and pale skin hinted at some illness, said that Matthew was at school but would be home at three o’clock. Arbeely passed the intervening time at his shop in a state of nervous frustration. Now that he knew what the tin ceiling was, he couldn’t stop looking at it. As the day wore on, the winter sunlight cast it in different moods—now draped in shadows, now illuminated with brilliant white pinpoints as the sun struck a miniature peak.

Finally it was three o’clock, and he returned to the tenement. A boy of seven or eight opened the door. He had his mother’s features, though with a healthier cast, below a large and tangled crown of curly black hair. The boy gazed patiently up at Arbeely, his hand twisting back and forth on the knob.

“Hello,” Arbeely said hesitantly. “My name’s Boutros. Your mother told me that you run errands sometimes for Thomas Maloof.”

A nod of assent.

“Do you know where he lives?”

Another nod.

“Can you take me there?” In his palm he held out a dime.

With disconcerting speed the boy plucked the dime from Arbeely’s hand and disappeared back inside. There was a murmur of exchanged words and the soft smack of a kiss; and then the boy was slipping past Arbeely down the stairs, a cap jammed atop his curls, his thin arms lost in the sleeves of a large gray coat.

Arbeely followed behind as the boy walked purposefully toward Irish-town. He felt silly, trailing in the wake of this tiny woolen scarecrow, but when he caught up Matthew only went faster. They passed a group of older boys who sat loitering on a stoop, smoking cigarettes. One of them called out in English, his tone derisive. Matthew didn’t reply, and the others snickered as he passed.

“What did he say?” asked Arbeely, but the boy didn’t answer.

The building Matthew led him to seemed cleaner and brighter than its neighbors. The door opened to a well-appointed hall with a parlor beyond. A round, dough-faced woman stared out at them. The boy whispered a question in English, almost inaudible; the woman nodded once, cast a dark glance at Arbeely, and then closed the door. Arbeely and the boy were left together on the stoop, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Maloof emerged a few minutes later. “The tinsmith!” he exclaimed. “And little Matthew! Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing is wrong,” said Arbeely—though of course this was not quite the truth. “There’s something at the shop I need to show you.” Maloof frowned, and Arbeely added quickly, “I wouldn’t trouble you if I didn’t think it was important. My assistant conceived of an idea for your ceiling, and frankly, it’s incredible. But you must see it yourself to understand.”

Something of the tinsmith’s excitement must have impressed itself upon Maloof, for he fetched his coat and followed them back to the shop. Matthew waited patiently for Arbeely to unlock the door before filing in behind, as though he too held a stake in the proceedings.

The afternoon light was thinner but, Arbeely hoped, still strong enough. He didn’t say anything, merely stood back and let Maloof walk warily around the tin sculpture.

“It’s certainly large,” the landlord said. “But I’m confused. What am I looking at?”

A moment later he stopped walking. He blinked, and perceptibly rocked back on his heels. Arbeely smiled—he’d felt the same way at the change of perspective, as if the floor had dropped away from him. Maloof began to laugh.

“Amazing!” He crouched down and looked at it up close, then stood up and laughed again. He strolled the perimeter of the sculpture, examining it from different angles. “Amazing,” he repeated. The boy only sat on his heels, arms wrapped around his knees, and stared at the tin with wide eyes.

Maloof chuckled to himself some more, then saw Arbeely watching him. Instantly his face became a neutral mask of business. “But I have to say, this isn’t what I had in mind,” he said. “I requested repeating tiles, not one large piece, and I was expecting a more classical style. In fact I’m surprised and, yes, unhappy, that you would go so far without consulting me.”

“I must beg your pardon. It wasn’t I who made this, but my assistant. And to be honest, I’m as surprised as you. I didn’t know about this until a few hours ago.”

“The tall man? He made this, by himself? But it’s only been a little more than a day!”

“He tells me that he was . . . inspired.”

“Unbelievable,” said Maloof. “But why isn’t he here himself, to tell me this?”

“I’m afraid that’s my fault. When I saw what he’d done, I was angry. As you said, this isn’t what you asked for. He went too far without your consent, or mine. This is no way to do business. But he’s an artist, and the concerns of business sometimes pass him by. I’m afraid that we quarreled, and he left.”

Maloof looked alarmed. “Permanently?”

“No, no,” Arbeely said quickly. “I think he’s nursing his wounded pride, and will return once he decides I’ve suffered enough.”
Please, let it be so,
he thought.

“I see,” said Maloof. “Well, he sounds like a difficult man to work with. But that’s the way of the artistic temperament, is it not? And we can’t have art without artists.”

Together the men regarded the sculpture. The detail was such that Arbeely could picture tiny jackals and hyenas emerging from behind the hillsides, or a minuscule boar, stout and barrel-chested, the last of the sun glinting off tin-plated tusks.

“It isn’t what I asked for,” said Maloof.

“No,” Arbeely agreed sadly.

“And if I say no? What happens to it then?”

“Since it’s too large to keep in the shop, and there are no other prospective buyers, I’d have to salvage it for scrap and throw away the rest. A shame, but there it is.”

Maloof winced, as if pained. He ran a hand through his hair, and then turned to the child near his feet. “Well, Matthew, what do you think? Shall I buy this gigantic piece of tin, and hang it in your building?”

The boy nodded.

“Even though it isn’t what I asked for?”

“This is better,” said the boy. It was the first time Arbeely had heard him speak.

Maloof laughed once. He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned his back on the tinplate ceiling. “This is preposterous,” he said. “If I say yes, I’m buying something I didn’t ask for. And if I refuse, I’m like a man who complains that someone stole the eggs from his henhouse and replaced them with rubies.” He turned back to Arbeely. “I’ll buy it, under one condition. Your assistant must return and explain to me, in detail, the rest of what he means to do. Any more surprises, and I withdraw my offer. Agreed?”