The Golem of Paris (34 page)

Bina stares, mesmerized.

Peter acts fast, snatching the lid from between her fingers and dropping it into place. There’s a moment, before it comes down, when Bina sees the beetle’s limbs fly toward her, a gesture of indignation and anguish.

•   •   •

P
ETER PUTS THE GOLEM
in the cabinet, using the coatrack arm to edge the jar far back on the shelf. They cover the cabinet with the drop cloth and tie it down.

Bina wraps the second new jar in a rag. “I’ll make copies and send them to you. I’ll need the tools.”

“Clay, too,” he says.

She regards the lump, dried rock hard. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to revive it. I’ll try.”

They pack the items in a
tallis
bag. When she wraps the old, cracked jar, it no longer feels living, but cold and stiff.

She gives the shuttered cabinet a parting glance.

As they pick their way across the garret, square throbs of dislocation press at the interior of her skull, hideous surges of terror and delight, the urge to laugh, to scream, to speak. Her blurred vision is clearing, but not to normal; instead there is an excruciating sharpness, a hellish bombardment of detail.

They arrive at the peaked door that opens above the rear terrace. Up close, it’s hardly larger than it looks from thirty-five feet below.

She anxiously fingers the iron bar that holds it shut, the hinges bloated with rust. “Have you ever gone out this way?”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s not supposed to be opened.”

“You can come back later and lock it,” she says.

He nods.

“You’ll go first. When you reach the bottom, what are you going to do?”

“Run as fast as I can.”

“Where?”

“Away from you.”

“That’s right,” she says. “It’s me he wants, not you. But you must be careful all the same. He’s supposed to leave Prague soon. Until he does, you won’t be safe. Don’t go anywhere without a grown-up.”

As if that matters.

She says, “Do you understand, Peter?”

He nods again.

Still she hesitates. She can’t abandon him.

“I just thought of something,” she says. “You could come with me. I can tell the embassy—we’ll tell them that it’s not safe for you to stay here. We’ll ask for asylum.”

“No,” he says.

“You’d like America once you got there,” she says. “Pavla, too.” She is a con woman, crazy promises rushing out of her. “I’m sure we can—”

He cuts her off with a shake of the head. “I can’t leave.”

“But why not?”

His answer is to indicate the walls around them.

No particular pride. Just resignation to fate.

He’s in charge, now.

She says, “I’ll send you the jars as I make them. And I’ll write to you. You must write back. Tell me you’re okay.”

He nods.

“And always be careful. Not just for the near future, but always.”

“I am,” he says, and he nods toward the door. “It’s time.”

She lifts the bar, grasps the handle.

Pulls.

The door doesn’t move.

She tries again, without success.

Digs her heels into the floorboards and throws her weight back.

The door refuses to budge. Peter steps in to help, putting his arms around her waist and leaning, the two of them straining until they get traction, a few inches, a few more, the hinges emitting a piercing shriek.

She whispers for him to go, go.

He flops onto his stomach and disappears over the edge.

Bina leans out to make sure she won’t accidentally kick him in the head. The moment her face touches the bare air, the garbage-strewn cobblestones begin flying up toward her, like a lover coming in for a kiss, her thoughts condensing awfully.

Jump.

She won’t fall, she’ll float.

How lovely.

She pitches forward.

Catches herself on the door frame, shoves back, heart storming.

Quickly she gets down, worming backward, feeling with her foot for the top rung, descending, the
tallis
bag pinched hard between thumb and forefinger.

Jump.

Down, down, down, her eyes fixed on the plaster, rubber-soled shoes treadless on slick rungs, frozen metal burning her bare hands.

Jump, jump.

A high-pitched scream.

She looks back over her shoulder.

Below, Peter Wichs dangles from the bottom rung, still high off the ground, his legs kicking air as he tries to reascend.

Dmitri stands off to the side of the terrace, gun in hand, watching him placidly.

“I have it,” she shouts.

Dmitri looks up at her.

She waves the
tallis
bag. “It’s in here.”

Jump jump jump jump jump jump jump jump

“Do anything to him and I will smash it against the wall.”

Peter has stopped kicking and is hanging limply. She grips the bag with one hand, the rung with the other; her own forearm is beginning to quiver. She can imagine that he will not last much longer.

“Help him,” she yells.

Dmitri pockets the gun and walks over to the ladder. He’s so tall that his outstretched hands nearly reach Peter’s hips.

Peter stares up at her, terrified.

“It’s okay,” she says, nodding. “You can do it.”

Peter shuts his eyes and lets go. The Russian catches him easily and carries him to the center of the cobblestones and sets him down, wrapping a fatherly arm across the boy’s chest.

“Your turn,” he says.

She doesn’t move.

Dmitri takes out the gun and presses it to Peter’s temple.

“You won’t,” she says.

And she’s right: she still has the bag.

Dmitri smiles. “Doktor Tremsin ordered me to kill you before I left. He doesn’t know who you are, what a loss that would be for the world.”

“Let him go,” Bina says.

“I saved you. Still you chose to deceive me. Why would you do that?”

She raises the bag to smash it.

Dmitri lifts his arm.

Peter stands paralyzed. A dark stain in his trouser leg. He’s wet himself.

She yells to get his attention.

“Go,” she says.
“Now.”

Peter comes to life, scrambling up the stairs to Pařížská Street, running for the shadows.

Bina waits until she can no longer hear the echo of his footsteps, then turns to grasp the rung with both hands, to catch her breath, which feels insanely lush as it billows out and fogs the plaster, her thoughts gathering in an unstoppable mob.

Behind her, Dmitri is speaking: “You can’t stay there forever.”

She shakes her head, hard. An instant of focus, instantly decaying.

She cranes back. “Put the gun down. Your car keys, too.”

A beat. He sets the pistol and the keys on the ground.

“My passport.”

He adds it to the pile.

She orders him into the corner, away from the stairs. He obeys, retreating to the rear wall. The terrace is shallow, he could reach her in one ambitious stride.

Bina descends shakily, pausing every few rungs to ensure that he hasn’t moved.

Reaching the bottom rung, she dangles, drops.

Her ankle buckles but she hurries to stand, holding the bag above her head, as if she’s going to hurl it to the ground.

He has not come any closer.

She inches forward to collect the gun, the keys, her passport.

“I’ve done exactly as you asked,” he says. “Time for you to uphold your end.”

“I’m going to put it down there. Don’t move until I say or I will crush it.”

He nods.

She kneels where the terrace meets the alleyway. Through the fog clotting her brain she is vaguely aware of pain in her ankle, the joint beginning to swell. She opens the
tallis
bag and sets the old cracked jar on the ground.

The fact that it’s wrapped will give her time.

She buries it in trash, to give herself more.

She bolts up the stairs, timing him in her mind.

He is hurrying forth to claim his prize.

She reaches the street.

He is brushing off the garbage, carefully peeling away the cloth.

She reaches the car. So many keys on the ring; and what a moment for her hands, her most faithful servants, to disobey her.

He is lifting the lid.

Discovering nothing inside.

She has not gotten hold of a second key when he comes thundering up the steps. She points the gun and fires and keeps firing till the gun clicks, but still he is coming, and she drops the weapon and flees, skating on the icy pavement until she gains purchase and breaks toward the river, head down, legs pumping.

It is perhaps four in the morning. There is no one else on the
street. No taxis. No trams. She should be shouting all the same but her flight is a graceless ballet, her lopsided gait and her pinched breath and behind her the drum of boots on the pavement, his shadow lengthening to overtake her.

Without knowing quite what she intends to do—throw a jar at him? throw the clay?—she fumbles inside the
tallis
bag, grasps a smooth finger of wood, and as a giant hand swallows her shoulder, she swings her arm around and up, jamming the blade of the potter’s knife through his scarf and into the side of his neck.

She twists.

Then they are falling, falling together, his body crushing hers, his mouth opening in ungodly silence.

She yanks the knife out and uncorks a cold torrent of blood, blood saturating the woolen scarf and rushing through to drench her, blood in unbelievable quantity, breaking the wine-rimmed cracks between his fingers as he clutches at the gash; blood icy and viscous and numbing like seawater, his eyes smashing around crazily inside their sockets, his expression rictal and incredulous, the immense weight of his torso pinning her until she can wriggle free and crawl away, leaving him writhing on the sidewalk, drowning in a deep mute ocean of blood.

Finding the knife, the bag, she stumbles to her feet and runs.

H
is neck drawn taut, Jacob felt the edge of the potter’s knife kiss his throat, stopping just shy of incision. Overhead the skylights gaped, black pits mercilessly thumped by fists of rain, then slashed to eye-white by lightning. Molchanov released his grip on Jacob’s hair, the blade in place to prevent Jacob from moving; the giant raised the sprayer wand and began releasing gas, which mingled with the steam, engulfing them in a noxious white column.

Jacob began to sputter and choke as Molchanov took up a chant.

aa ab ag ad

The insane idea flew into Jacob’s mind that the Russian was making a blessing to render the slaughter ritually pure; but the knife remained at his neck and the noises droned on, muffled by the fabric of the scarf, ginning up a rhythm primal and sinister
.

af atz ak

He said, “She’s not coming.”

Molchanov continued to chant.

“She knows about you. She won’t come.”

Molchanov chanted, pressed the knife closer. Jacob’s flesh shrank back.

Moving in agonizing increments, he began to torque his wrists in one direction, then the other, trying to loosen the electrical cord knotted hard as iron. Fighting the urge to hurry, the rubber abrading his skin, running sticky hot from humidity and fear, he kept working until his fingertips began losing sensation.

Success: a quarter inch of give.

Chest thudding, he peeked up at Molchanov. The giant was lost in concentration.

Jacob resumed twisting.

Minutes piled up. The drone continued. Jacob heard new excitement in Molchanov’s voice, the blade wanting to have its way.

zu
zub

Jacob felt a mild bite, a liquid tickle, as the tip of the knife drew blood.

Molchanov said,
“Zug.”

The air changed.

Jacob felt her before he saw her.

Molchanov felt it, too. A tremor ran down his arms. From high above came a faint glassy tinkle, gale winds fluting across the hole in the skylight, and the winged black diamond that was Mai swooped down at a blistering speed toward Molchanov’s face.

Without ceasing to chant, the giant slashed at her with the knife.

He missed. She was a small target, moving quickly; she had pulled up and was now circling back around the room, carving a tunnel through the fog.

Molchanov was trying to do too many things at once, tracking her while maintaining his rhythm while controlling a hostage while preparing for her next sortie. Whatever he was, whatever dark truth reigned within him, he only had one brain and two hands, and in his eagerness to get at Mai he failed to bring the knife back to Jacob’s
throat quickly enough, and Jacob reacted without need for thought, pitching his head back as hard as he could, the base of his skull slamming into Molchanov’s crotch.

Whatever he was, the guy had testicles.

He doubled over, reeling, wheezing.

Jacob heaved himself to his feet and ran for the door, glancing back in search of Mai. She had banked sharply and was hurtling across the pool to join him. Halfway there, she flew through a wafting blanket of poison; her path wavered, a horrible scream tore loose, and she reverted to human form, naked and cartwheeling helplessly through the air.

She plummeted toward the edge of the pool, her head cracking loudly against the tile before she slipped underwater.

Molchanov had gotten up. His scarf had come undone and he was staring at the sloshing pool, disarmed by his own success. He glanced at Jacob, at Mai, his features savagely bunched, conflicted about whom to deal with first.

Beneath the muddled surface, her body sank.

Molchanov rounded on Jacob.

He reached for a gun he didn’t have.

The gun was in his greatcoat pocket.

The coat was draped over the chair.

The chair was knocked on its side.

Molchanov took a long step toward it.

The pool erupted in a geyser of foam.

Out of the water rose not a beetle nor a woman, but a tentacle of mud, berserk and swinging, smashing Molchanov backward, tossing him the length of the room.

Jacob crouched in terror as this new thing that was Mai rose
completely out of the pool, leaving behind a muddy, dissolving cloud. It was blocky and faceless, melting at the edges as it oozed its way toward him. A tendril developed from where its belly ought to have been, snaked behind him, and snapped the cord binding him, and although it was her, another aspect of her, he couldn’t help but cower, repulsed, as it reshaped itself, a slimy, unstable wall reeking of stagnant waters and decay.

A slit opened.

“Go.”

Across the room, Molchanov was on his feet and charging, the knife out.

The mud shifted and swept to meet him.

They collided, head-on, rocking the room on its foundations, the air splitting, a storm surge overflowing the edge of the pool and picking up branches and leaves and slabs of dirty water, furniture splintering in reverberating disarray. Jacob landed on his back, hearing a loud wet rip, followed by another scream, low and gurgling.

Go.

She was giving him a chance to save himself.

Like some mechanical embryo, Molchanov expanded, unfolding himself, angle by angle, limb by limb, one powerful arm striving toward the sky, lifting the muddy mass off the ground, clods of earth dropping away to reveal its substructure: Mai’s emaciated form.

He was impaling her, the knife hand sunk elbow-deep in her abdomen. Rooting around within her while she wriggled and moaned.

But still her focus was on Jacob.

Go go go

He scrambled toward Molchanov’s coat.

The giant saw what he was doing.

Heaved Mai aside.

Ran at him.

Jacob got there first, his fingers closing around the butt of the pistol. He lined up and pulled the trigger, again and again. The first two shots went wide. He kept pulling. The third hit Molchanov square in the chest and produced no effect. The giant kept coming, knife cocked high, the triangular blade brilliantly alit.

Shot four caught Molchanov in the shoulder, spinning him just enough to expose the knob of scar tissue. Jacob aimed the fifth shot there, not because it was a large or useful target but because it was something he hated and wanted to destroy.

The bullet tore through Molchanov’s neck, blowing out a cone of flesh.

At once he stopped moving. His knees gave way and he slammed into the tiles, blood flooding out of him with unimaginable force, frigid droplets landing far and wide, making pink eddies in the pool water until the tidal force began to slow, and he began to change.

He retained his great height but his width and depth contracted, the walls of his body rushing inward to fill the vacuum left by the outrush of blood. His arms were gristly twigs, his face a prune. His skin, wherever visible, drained from pink to gray and then deepened to a weird azure, cracks webbing like the surface of old porcelain.

Jacob came forward and knelt down. Molchanov’s hands remained at his neck, clutching the potter’s knife between two desiccated fingers, as though he meant to operate on himself.

Jacob took it from him.

He placed the gun in the center of Molchanov’s forehead and shot him, point-blank. The eruption was white, all white and blue and nothing.

•   •   •

J
ACOB AWOKE WITH HIS
CHEEK
adhered to the floor, his torso throbbing as if he’d been run through with a spear, a drilling whine in his right ear. He could taste blood, not fresh but a menacing leak burbling up, the overrich taste tainted by another fluid—bile; stomach acid.

He rolled over and sat up on his elbows.

Molchanov was gone.

His clothes. His boots. His body. His ring.

A mantle of bluish dust lingered overhead. It had begun to sift peacefully down, settling over a wide area, powdering Jacob’s skin, stinging his eyes, burning his sinuses.

He got to his feet, dripping, coughing, besmirched. He staggered free of the toxic cloud, toward Mai’s inert body, calling her name.

She was a tent of skin, folded against a marble step, gnarled hands bracketing a horrific wound that stretched from hipbone to hipbone, bloodless edges ragged, curling. She appeared to have shed half her body weight.

But her lips moved as Jacob fell to his knees at her side, frantically touching her face, her chest, anything but the injury itself.

She murmured, fading. Leaving him.

The night in the greenhouse came back: mud flooding his throat, entering his veins to heal him. He bent over to put his mouth to hers but she shook her head.

She said, “You.”

So quiet. So weak. He’d never thought of her as weak.

“You,” she said again, her fingers closing around his.

She went limp.

He looked down.

She was holding his hand.

He was holding the knife.

He slashed open the front of his pant leg. He grabbed a fold of thigh and, grunting, drew an incision six inches long.

Blood sheeted out.

Jacob dipped his fingers in his blood and painted the jagged corner of her wound, watching as the flesh moistened and revived and grew pliable.

He pinched the corner of the wound together.

It sealed like soft clay.

He milked the incision, squeezing out more blood, continuing to balm her, to close her up. At some points the gap between the edges of the gash was so wide that he had to tug, gently, to encourage the two sides to meet. Where the middle of her womb would have been, a sharp tab jutted partway up from within her—an unnatural object, one that did not belong inside her. He thought to remove it, but hesitated, squinting.

Saw it clearly.

A twisted shred of paper, bearing the name of God in black ink.

It was this that Molchanov had been searching for.

Jacob tucked it back inside.

Mai gasped. Her eyes fluttered open.

He wasn’t bleeding fast enough to save her, though. He drew several more incisions in his leg, shorter but deeper, kept molding her back together, until at last she was whole again, her face still ashen as she croaked, “Thank you.”

He sank back, aching.

He said, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Mai started to laugh. It cracked, turned to retching. He slid over and put his arms around her, feeling the ridge of her spine.

“Can you fly?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she mumbled.

“Can you try?”

She said, “I don’t think I can carry both of us.”

“How about just you?”

She looked at him. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll take care of myself.”

The wounds on his leg wept, wept.

He said, “You need to get somewhere safe. That means far away from me.”

He knew what she was thinking then, because he was thinking it, too:
forever
.

“Don’t say it,” he said.

She smiled tiredly. “I wasn’t going to.”

“You were going to say something.”

“Only that I’ll see you again.”

He kissed her on the forehead. Lifted his arms from her.

He turned and crawled through warm bloody water to Pelletier’s body. By the time he’d found her phone, found Dédé Vallot’s number in the directory, Mai had already disappeared.

Jacob stared at the spot where she’d lain.

He shut his eyes and pressed the button to make the call, breathing in the quiet before the phone began to ring. It lasted a blessedly long time.