The Golem and the Jinni (71 page)

An odd irony, to ask that the Golem part freely with her own free will. No doubt Meyer had envisioned a heartfelt conversation with his charge, a solemn and reasoned decision. Schaalman folded the formula and placed it in his pocket, and reflected that in this instance, his own methods would trump Meyer’s. After all, a choice made under coercion was still a choice.

28.

T
he Golem was struggling to comprehend.

For long minutes now, the Jinni had been talking in a low, tired voice, telling her a story of long ago: of a grasping desert wizard and a young girl named Fadwa al-Hadid. He’d described the pain of the binding and the feel of Fadwa’s throat beneath his hands, and how ibn Malik had died only to be reborn again and again.

“It seems you know the rest,” the Jinni said as she sat, stunned, at the side of Sophia’s bed. He was half sitting up now, buried beneath expensive linens, his shoulders against the carved headboard. “Ibn Malik became Yehudah Schaalman.”

“Joseph Schall,” she murmured. “And you saw his memories.” His hand was resting above the coverlet, and the Golem took it in her own, noting that it was beginning to feel weighty again. “So this is why you tried to kill yourself,” she said. “To end ibn Malik’s life, through your own death.”

He was watching her now, sorrow in every line of his face. He expected her to regret saving him, she realized, now that she knew the whole truth. “Listen to me,” she said. “This is ibn Malik’s doing. Not yours.”

“And Fadwa?” he said. “If I hadn’t injured her, then none of this would have happened.”

“You place too much of a burden on yourself. Yes, Fadwa’s injury can be laid at your feet. But ibn Malik was not acting on your orders. And Schaalman has a free will of his own.”

“I’m not so certain of that last one,” the Jinni said. “I saw his lives, and they all followed the same pattern. As though he could not break free of his own disposition.”

The Golem’s mouth twisted. “You believe he couldn’t choose not to do evil?”

“We all have our natures,” said the Jinni quietly.

She wanted to argue, but where would it lead her, except to point a finger back at herself? Frustrated, she rose, paced a few steps. “Yes, you were selfish and careless with Fadwa,” she said. “But you cannot accept the blame for the rest, disposition or no. If Schaalman had not existed, then neither would I. Are you responsible for all my actions, the good as well as the bad? You cannot pick and choose, and leave the rest behind.”

He gave her a shadow of his usual smile. “I suppose not,” he said. Then he sobered. “But do you see now, why I can’t keep living?”

“No,” she said shortly.

“Chava.”

“Didn’t you stop me from destroying myself, once? We’ll find another way.”

He winced but didn’t reply, only looked down at her hand still gripping his on the coverlet.

A knock came at the door. It was Sophia, carrying a pile of folded clothing. Servants were hovering in the hall behind her, trying to see in; she shut the door on them.

“Hello, Sophia,” the Jinni said quietly.

She smiled. “You’re looking better.” She placed the folded clothing on the bed. “My father’s not as tall as you, but hopefully something will fit.”

“Sophia,” he said, his voice heavy, and it was clear he was about to apologize—for drawing her into this misadventure, or for something earlier in their acquaintance, the Golem could only guess at the content—but Sophia crisply interrupted. “Dr. Saleh is freshening himself in the guest quarters,” she said. “We should join him there soon, if you’re feeling able.”

The Jinni nodded, abashed.

“I’m afraid we’ve caused you a good deal of trouble,” the Golem said.

“Perhaps,” Sophia said, though she seemed oddly unconcerned, even happy. “Even so, I’m glad you thought to come here.” She turned to the Jinni, sobering. “You should have told me.”

He sighed. “Would you have believed it?”

“No, probably not. Still, you might have tried.”

The Jinni hesitated, then said, “Are you well, Sophia?”

It was only then that the Golem noticed the young woman’s pale skin and too-warm clothing, the tremor in her hands. Sophia considered her reply, and the Golem sensed a knotted tangle of longings and regrets and, above all, a deep desire not to be pitied.

“I’ve been ill,” Sophia said. “But I believe I’m improving.” She smiled. “Now please, put on some clothes. I’ll be back to fetch you in a few minutes.”

She left, and the Jinni began to sort through the items she’d brought. The Golem sat on a corner of the bed, not sure where to look—watching him dress was somehow more intimate than seeing him naked. She went to the young woman’s dressing table, idly examining the objects scattered there: a gilded hairbrush, a beautiful necklace of silver and glass, an apothecary’s assortment of bottles and jars. Atop a jeweler’s box sat a golden bird in a cage, its provenance unmistakable. “You made her one too,” she said.

The Jinni buttoned his shirt collar. “Is that jealousy? At least she didn’t return hers.”

“I couldn’t keep it, I was about to marry,” the Golem muttered.

Silence hung between them.

“Michael,” the Jinni said at last. “He’s been caught up in this as well, hasn’t he?”

She sighed. “There’s something else I haven’t told you.” And he listened, shocked and grave by turns, as she described finding Michael at the Sheltering House with Schaalman’s spells, and her struggle with their contents.

“Where are they now?” he asked.

“Anna has them,” she said, and then, at the face he made, “I couldn’t leave them at the bakery! She’s hiding them somewhere. But I don’t know what to do with them.”

“Burn them,” he said shortly.

“Destroy all that knowledge?”

“Schaalman’s knowledge. Ibn Malik’s.”

“I thought,” she said quietly, “that I might use them to free you.”

That struck him a visible blow. She watched him turn away, struggling with himself. After a moment he looked down at his shirt and started tugging on the sleeves. “Sophia’s father has very short arms,” he muttered.

“Ahmad—”

“No. You mustn’t use this knowledge. Promise me this.”

“I promise,” she murmured.

“Good.” He gave a sigh. “Now tell me, am I presentable to the household?”

She looked him over, smiling slightly: Sophia’s father was wider than the Jinni, and the borrowed garments billowed like sails. “More so than before.”

He grimaced. “At least they aren’t the rags that Arbeely gave me when I came out of the flask.”

“You were naked then too? Do you make such a habit of it?”

But he was gazing past her, unseeing. “The flask,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Maryam Faddoul still has it. And it’s been repaired. Arbeely replaced the seal, he said he copied it exactly.” He paused, and then said, his voice strained, “You were right, Chava, there’s another way. But you won’t like it.”

Anna left the Radzins’ bakery with her strange package, wondering what exactly she’d been entrusted with. The flat, crackling lump at the bottom of the sack could only be a stack of papers. What was written on them? Someone’s secrets? An incriminating confession? Her promise notwithstanding, she almost opened the sack to peek inside—but then she remembered who had given it to her, and the horrors she’d already witnessed. This would be no clandestine love-diary. Best not to know. She would think of a hiding place quickly and be done.

In the end, she chose the dance hall on Broome Street. It was in her mind already, thanks to the Golem—she hadn’t been back there since that terrible night and, given its new associations, had doubted she ever would. But when she tried to think of somewhere else, her mind kept circling back. She even knew exactly where she’d hide the sack: atop the old armoire in the back room, where they kept the linens for the tables. All she had to do was to find Mendel the doorman and cajole him into giving her the key. As far as she knew, he still worked at a piecework shop on Delancey, pressing new trousers. Hopefully he’d be there.

Yehudah Schaalman sat scowling at a writing desk in the House parlor, covering a sheet of paper with scrawled and scratched-out lines. The formula to find a lost object should have been easy to remember; he’d used it hundreds of times. But his memories were no longer safe ground. To delve too deeply was to risk rousing his former selves, who might then chime in with their own solutions, deafening him in the cacophony. He had to tread lightly, sidling up to a recollection and examining it askance, capturing the formula a few syllables at a time. It was a slow and painstaking process, and he was in no mood to accommodate it.

A shriek sounded down the hall. He ignored it, ignored the pounding footsteps and the growing sounds of alarm, and tried to concentrate. At last, the formula to find his sheaf of spells was complete. He looked it over—it seemed correct—then braced himself, and spoke what he’d written.

And then he saw
—

A flash of a woman’s dark workaday skirt, the waist let out to accommodate an eight-month belly. At her side she held a flour sack. The woman—and now Schaalman recognized her, from the tenement hallway—was standing in an open doorway, flirting with a large, sweating boy. She told him something in a teasing voice. The boy’s glance darted briefly to her stomach. He said something, a demand. The girl did not look pleased, but finally she nodded. The boy took a string from around his neck; on it hung a door key. He dangled it high, making the girl reach; and as she did he grabbed her and kissed her roughly on the mouth, then reached to grope at her breast. She allowed it for a few moments, then pushed him away firmly, her expression calm. A flash of guilt on the boy’s face; then he sniggered at her and went back in. The door closed. Her face crumpled for a moment, but then she composed herself. Clutching the key and the flour sack, she went down to the street. Schaalman took note of the shops, the street corners, saw that she was only a few blocks away. On Broome, she went to an unmarked door, fitted the key in the padlock, and disappeared inside.

Schaalman came to, his head swimming. He sat as still as possible until his vision was restored and the pounding in his temples had lessened. The pregnant girl—she knew his golem, did she not? Perhaps he had found not only his missing spells, but the bait to snare his golem’s consent.

Outside the parlor, the hallway was in commotion. A crowd had formed around Michael’s office door. The housekeeper sat on the staircase, sobbing. The cook was talking to a policeman. She saw Schaalman, and her look implored him:
Joseph, see what has happened
. But he was already gone, down the hall and out the door.

The Winstons’ hansom, though elegant, was not quite roomy enough for three; but they squeezed in nonetheless, Saleh, the Jinni, and the Golem. The horse tramped smartly through the Winstons’ gate and onto Fifth Avenue, only to be stymied in the morning traffic with everyone else. Stuffed into the corner, Saleh started drifting into sleep. He fought it at first, but fatigue and his newly full stomach—the cook had given him a plate of cold meats and a brandied fruit compote, though it was clear she’d rather be shot—soon had him snoring. The Jinni was thankful; it afforded some privacy, without so obvious a tactic as switching languages.

But the Golem, it seemed, was in no mood to talk. Earlier she’d put up surprisingly little protest at his plan, only asking a few practical questions and translating into English for Sophia. Now she seemed conspicuously silent, even for her. She stared at the cabs and carts that idled around them, her face like a stone. In any case, it wasn’t as though he knew what to say to her. Everything that came to mind seemed either too trivial or too final. If all went well, if the plan worked, he would never see her again.

“Will it hurt?” she asked abruptly, startling him. “Being in the flask again. Will it hurt you?”

“No,” he said. “At least, I don’t remember any pain.”

“Perhaps it did hurt,” she said, her voice toneless. “For a thousand years. And you just don’t remember.”