The Golem and the Jinni (51 page)

He went through the dim hall to the back fire escape, and was about to go down to the street when he heard voices and footsteps from above. Idle curiosity made him climb the rusting stairs to the rooftop. To his surprise he found it heavily populated. A dozen young men were smoking cigarettes while girls in rags whispered to one another. Nearby, a group of children threw dice by lantern-light.

Looking over the roof, he felt for the second time the bone-deep pull of his dowsing spell. Even in his altered state, it was impossible to mistake. Every man, woman, and child, even the roof itself—all of it seemed unbearably
interesting
, a fascination that grabbed at his soul.

Joy suffused him, so strong he thought he might weep again. He drifted across the roof, looking at each of their faces, trying to guess at the meaning of it. One man, unsettled by Schaalman’s stares, raised a fist in warning, but Schaalman only smiled dreamily and moved on.

The roof’s edge abutted the next building, and that roof too was populated by men and women who seemed fascinating for no reason he could name. He climbed over the low ledge between the buildings, ignoring the creaking protest of his bones. The euphoria of the opium was fading, but a new sense of purpose was taking hold. What had he left but to follow the trail, and see where it led?

Soon he was crossing from rooftop to rooftop, judging his direction by feel. He was deep into the Bowery now, far from the Jewish neighborhoods. What business had his golem here? Or—and now, beneath his calm, he felt the first twinges of excitement—did the trail not lead to her at all? Was there something else at work here, in which she only played a part?

At last he found himself on a roof with no outlet except its darkened stairwell. He descended to the street and looked about. A nearby sign practically jumped out at him from above a storefront. C
ONROY’S
, it said. From the window it seemed to be only a small, narrow tobacconist’s shop. But on the sign, in each corner, was set a pair of symbols: a blazing sun, overlapped by a crescent moon. For centuries they had been the alchemical marks for gold and silver. He doubted they were there by accident.

A tinny bell rang over the door as he entered. The man behind the counter—Conroy, presumably—was small and narrow shouldered, and wore a thin pair of spectacles perched on his nose. He raised his eyes, examining his new customer. Schaalman saw in his hard gaze and small movements the wariness of the convict and knew that the man could see the same in him. They watched each other for a few moments, neither speaking. Conroy asked a question, and Schaalman shook his head, pointed a finger to his own lips. “No English,” he said. The man waited, uncertain and suspicious.

Schaalman thought for a moment. Then he said, “Michael Levy?”

Conroy frowned and shook his head.

“Avram Meyer? Chava?” The same response. Schaalman paused, then said, “Golem?”

Conroy turned his palms upward, clearly baffled.

Sighing, Schaalman nodded his thanks and left. He would have liked to see inside the man’s mind, but Conroy was no trusting rabbi to be charmed with a touch on the wrist. Something was at work here, a strange and tangled mystery, waiting to be solved. He walked back through the Bowery crowds, toward the House and his cot, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

Far to the north, in Fifth Avenue’s loftiest reaches, the Winston mansion was caught in a frenzy of activity. For weeks the household had been preparing for the summer move to Rhode Island, to the family’s seaside estate. The china had been wrapped and packed, the trunks filled with clothing. They only waited for the return of Mrs. Winston and Miss Sophia from their long voyage to Europe, a gift from Francis Winston to his daughter on the event of her engagement.

Then came a startling piece of news: the Winstons would not be summering in Rhode Island after all. The household, it seemed, would remain in New York.

And so the servants, exchanging dark and disappointed looks, unpacked the trunks and restocked the pantry. No reason for the change was offered, but rumors drifted down to the lower quarters, saying that Miss Sophia had become ill in Paris. Still it seemed odd: wouldn’t the breezes off the Narragansett be better for a convalescent than Manhattan’s noxious summer vapors? But the order had been given, and there was nothing they could do. So they uncovered the furniture in Sophia’s bedroom, swept away the dust, and polished the items scattered atop her dresser: the boxes and bottles and trinkets, and the little golden bird in its cage.

Meanwhile, the young woman in question lay shivering on a deck chair on the RMS
Oceanic
, wrapped deeply in blankets, a cup of hot broth clutched between her hands. It was morning, and her mother still slept in their cabin. Sophia had woken in the early hours, and stared up at the ceiling until the beginnings of seasickness drove her above-decks. Her persistent chill was worse in the open air, but at least she could see the horizon. And it was a relief to be away from her mother, who’d barely left her side for months—not since the moment she’d found Sophia lying unconscious on the floor of their rented flat on the Seine, her body racked with fever, blood staining her skirts and darkening the rug.

Her illness had started weeks earlier, even before they sailed for Europe. At first there was only an odd, uncomfortable pinprick of heat in her stomach. For a while she’d thought it merely the stress of the wedding plans. Her mother now talked of nothing else, only guest lists and trousseaus and honeymoon itineraries from sunup to sundown, until the very word
wedding
grew hateful to Sophia’s ears. But then the pinprick began to grow, and it occurred to her to wonder if something was wrong.

By the time they reached rain-sodden France it was the size of a coal, a tiny furnace burning inside her. Sophia was beset with a strange nervous energy and wandered from room to room, hemmed in by the terrible weather. She took to opening the shutters in her bedroom and letting the mist off the Seine blow in to soak her through. But not until her mother made a remark about finding a nursemaid for Sophia’s eventual lying-in—
it’s never too early to think about these things
—did Sophia realize she couldn’t remember the last time she’d menstruated.

Thankfully, Mrs. Winston mistook Sophia’s look of terror for a fear of her impending wifely duties. She took her daughter aside and, in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness, told her of her own long-ago fears, how they’d proven for the most part unfounded, and how quickly she’d come to take joy in the intimacies of marriage. It was the closest, the most vulnerable that Mrs. Winston had ever made herself to her daughter, and Sophia heard not a word. The girl excused herself and rushed to her room, where she paced, one hand over the fire inside her, counting the weeks since the last time the man named Ahmad had come to visit her. It had been over three months.

Oh God, could it be? But then, what
was
this? For she felt none of the supposed signs of pregnancy, no nausea or fatigue. Far from it: she felt like she could fly. Yet her menses still refused to arrive.

She had to do something, but what? She could say nothing to her mother. In New York there were friends who could help, but in Paris she knew no one. She barely spoke enough French to ask for cream in her tea. Blazing with heat and sick with worry, she stood in the middle of her bedroom, held a fist over her stomach, and closed her eyes.
Go away
, she thought.
You’re killing me.

Amid the dark haze of heat and desperation, she felt something shift inside her. A tendril of fire shot up her spine—and then her mind was filled with a small frightened fluttering, a noise like a candle flame whipped by a breeze. At once she knew that there was something trapped inside her, tiny and half-formed, and that it was drowning in her body, even as it burned her. There was nothing that either of them could do.

Oh,
she thought
, you poor little thing
.

Helpless, she felt it gutter and go out—

The next time Sophia opened her eyes, she was in a hospital bed, her mother asleep in a chair next to her. She felt weak and hollowed out, a dried husk shaking in an autumn wind. She began to shiver.

The doctor, his English excellent, said it had been nothing more than an unusual thickening of the womb’s lining, which her body had taken care of on its own. No lasting damage had been done, and there was no reason why Sophia’s mother shouldn’t be a
grandmère
someday. As Mrs. Winston sobbed with relief, the doctor leaned over and murmured to Sophia, “Be more careful next time,
non?
” before smiling and taking his leave.

But Sophia couldn’t stop shivering.

Only a lingering anemia, the doctors said; it would end soon enough. But days passed, and then weeks, and still she shivered, sometimes so violently she could barely stand. It was as though her body had grown accustomed to the heat and now refused to readjust.

At a loss, they sent her to Germany, to the spa at Baden, where a large hired nurse dunked her in steaming pools of water and fed her restorative tonics. And she did feel better, for a time—the hot spring water felt pleasantly lukewarm, and if left on her own she would’ve stayed in the dry-heat rooms till she was mummified. But as soon as she emerged, the chill would return. Finally the German doctors, like the French, washed their hands of her. When Mrs. Winston demanded an explanation, they implied that any remaining ill health rested not in her daughter’s body, but her mind.

Even worse, Sophia half believed them. Lying in bed, immobile under her blankets, she would wonder if indeed her wits had left her in that bedroom in Paris. And yet, deep down, she knew the truth of what she’d felt.

Mrs. Winston refused to tolerate any suggestion that her daughter’s mind was unsound. If the European doctors would not help, then they would be quit of Europe. As for Sophia’s engagement, there was no hint that it might be altered or postponed; her malady, it seemed, belonged in the category of things best left unmentioned, much like the uncle who’d died in a sanatorium and the cousin who’d married a Catholic.

In her one act of rebellion, Sophia announced that she’d only leave Europe if she could return to New York, where she might at least be warm, and not to that drafty, hateful mansion in Rhode Island. Her mother fought her, calling the idea ridiculous, but a cable from her father declared the battle in Sophia’s favor. Only then did Sophia think of her father, sitting in his study for months, waiting for secondhand news of his daughter’s illness; and her heart went out to him.

To Charles Townsend, her fiancé, Sophia wrote that she’d been ill briefly in France, and had gone to Baden to take the waters. For his amusement she described the more exasperating Teutonic habits of the spa attendants. Charles replied with all the proper sentiments, wishing her a speedy recovery, and ended with a few wry remarks about the dull summer ahead. He was a perfectly nice young man, and handsome, to be sure. But the truth was they were little more than strangers.

Sophia looked out over the ocean and tried to relax. She sighed, and sipped at the cooling broth, and wondered distantly what Charles would think when he saw her trembling. She knew she should be more concerned about these things, but found it difficult to muster the interest. Occasionally her thoughts drifted back to the moments before her collapse, and a raw, unfocused grief would rise inside her. She felt like a sad old woman, cosseted in blankets. And not yet even twenty.

She wished she could blame the man who’d come to her balcony, but she couldn’t, not in fairness. He hadn’t forced her, had never so much as pressured her. He’d only presented himself as an opportunity, and his confidence had made it seem the most natural thing in the world. Another woman might have tracked him down and told him what he’d done, but she shuddered at the thought. No, she had not lost her pride, merely her health.

From the corner of her eye she saw her mother emerge onto the deck. She closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. Only a few more days at sea, and then she would be home, where she could shut herself away in her bedroom and sit in front of the fire for as long as she wished. And this time, she would make certain the balcony door was good and locked.