The Golem and the Jinni (50 page)

“Ah, hello,” Arbeely said in his uncertain English.

“I was told to give this to a smith named Ahmad,” the boy said. “That you?”

“I’m Ahmad,” the Jinni said, rising from the workbench. “He’s Arbeely.”

The boy shrugged and handed him the parcel. The Jinni gave him a coin and closed the door.

“Were you expecting something?” asked Arbeely.

“No.” There was no return address, no marking of any kind. He undid the twine and unwrapped the paper, revealing a hinged wooden box. Inside, sitting in a nest of excelsior, was a small silver bird. Its round body tapered to a spray of feathers at the tail, and it held its head demurely turned to one side.

Ignoring Arbeely’s protestations, the Jinni cast the bird into the fire, and watched as it slumped to one side, then melted into a grayish puddle that ran among the coals. He was through with her, then. Forever. He rubbed at his cuff, and the hidden paper whispered the word back to him:
forever
.

20.

DANCE HALL ATTACK MYSTERY

Victim of Unknown Assailant Near to Death While Police Wrestle with Perplexing and Contradictory Testimonies

Authorities are puzzled over the strange case of Irving Wasserman, 21, a Jew who resides on Allen Street. Three nights ago, Wasserman was the victim of blows delivered by an unknown person or persons behind the Grand Casino on Broome Street, a dance hall popular with the Hebrew youth of the area. Witnesses who came upon the injured man called for help, but the assailant or assailants fled the scene and disappeared. Wasserman now lingers close to death at Beth Israel Hospital.

Police say that descriptions given by the witnesses, mostly youth loitering outside the dance hall, were less helpful than they wished. The assailant was described variously as a man, a woman, or, even more strangely, a man dressed in women’s clothing. Still others said that two assailants, not one, fled the scene. After performing an examination of the victim at Beth Israel, physician Philip White declared his belief that the blows were too many and too severe to have been dealt by only one man, and impossible for a woman. “If I didn’t know the circumstances,” the doctor said, “I’d think he’d been trampled by a horse.”

The case was put before Sergeant George Kilpatrick, who soon discovered that Wasserman was known in the neighborhood for his many love affairs, and that he had been seen that evening arguing with one of his sweethearts. The sergeant speculated that Wasserman had been set upon by the girl’s friends or relations—though the girl in question strongly denied this—and suggested that those who’d reported a female assailant were trying to confound the police. For now, the case remains under investigation.

Spring edged its way toward summer. In Central Park, men in straw hats pulled at the oars of their rented rowboats, their sweethearts in the prows searching the banks for friends and rivals. At Coney Island, young parents ate ten-cent frankfurters while their screaming children raced down the beach. In the new subway tunnel beneath the bay, sweating men laid down lengths of track and ignored the killing weight of water above their heads.

Everyone, it seemed, had been rejuvenated by the changing of the seasons, save for one man. It had been weeks since Yehudah Schaalman had first spied the Golem at Radzin’s bakery and felt the twinge from his dowsing spell; and in that time he’d fallen into a dark depression. He spent nights awake on his thin cot, endlessly ruminating. Had
she
been the aim of his search? Impossible! She was only a golem! An intelligent one, and apparently blessed with abilities he hadn’t intended—but still a golem, made for drudgery and protection. If he wished, he could create a dozen of her. And yet at the sight of her, the dowsing spell had finally awakened. His dream had whispered that
life eternal
could be found somewhere in New York: and could not a golem, nearly invulnerable and free of the confines of a lifespan, be said to enjoy eternal life?

He tossed and turned, the sheets twisting around his bony frame, and wondered if the Almighty was playing games with him. What could he do? He couldn’t even follow her, not without alerting her to his thoughts. And all the while the Angel of Death was edging closer.

Enough
, he thought. He would gain nothing from self-pity. So the dowsing spell had pointed to his golem; what of it? The spell was one of his own untested creations, and these were imprecise at best. Perhaps it was simply responding to her origins, the deathless knowledge of Jewish mystics from centuries past.

It was a thin hope, perhaps, but he couldn’t give up looking. Otherwise he might as well end his own life, and concede the Almighty His victory.

And so, fueled by dogged willpower and little else, Schaalman resumed his search. He retraced his steps, going back to the oldest Orthodox synagogues, the ones with the most learned rabbis, the largest libraries. At each, he begged an audience with the head rabbi, saying that he was a former yeshiva teacher, recently arrived in America. He was interested in volunteering his time, in whatever capacity they needed. What could the rabbi tell him about the congregation? Did it keep to the old ways, the traditional teachings?

Each rabbi, thrilled at this unlooked-for gift—
volunteering, did you say?
—ushered Schaalman into his office and described the virtues of the congregation, how they fought against encroaching secularism and unhealthy modern influences. Some congregations had even begun to allow the taking of snuff during the sermon, could he imagine? Schaalman would nod sadly, commiserating, and then reach over and pat the rabbi’s hand in a very particular way.

The rabbi would grow silent and still, a dreamy look on his face.

Your most precious book,
Schaalman would say.
The dangerous one, that you hide from your colleagues. Where do you keep it?

The first few rabbis said,
I have no such book
; and Schaalman released each one, watched them blink away their confusion, made his apologies, and went on his way. And then, one rabbi said:

I no longer have it.

Interesting, thought Schaalman.
What happened to it?

Avram Meyer took it. God rest his soul.

Why did he take it?

He wouldn’t say.

Where is it now?

I wish I knew.

He let the man go, not daring to question him any longer—the charm caused permanent damage in longer doses, and he had no wish to leave a trail of fuddled rabbis in his wake. He wondered who Avram Meyer was, and what had happened to him.

The next day another rabbi told him the exact same thing. And then, a third.

By the end of the week, five rabbis had reported their most secret volumes stolen by this Avram Meyer, now deceased. He began to think of Meyer as an adversary from beyond the grave, a meddling spirit who floated through the city a few steps ahead of him, sniffing out books and snatching them up.

With the last rabbi, Schaalman dared to stretch the interview to one more question. Did this Meyer have any family?

A nephew,
the charmed rabbi said.
Apostate. Michael Levy, his sister’s son.

Schaalman left the synagogue, his mind spinning. The name was laughably common; there must be over a hundred Michael Levys in the Lower East Side alone.

And yet, he knew.

At the Sheltering House, the man in question was in his office as usual, shuffling through papers. There was a new energy in his frame that Schaalman hadn’t noticed before. But then, he hadn’t been paying attention to Levy at all.

“Someone told me,” Schaalman said, “that you had an uncle named Avram Meyer.”

Michael looked up, surprised. “Yes,” he said. “He died, last year. Who was it who told you?”

“A rabbi I happened to meet,” Schaalman said. “I mentioned that I worked at the Sheltering House, and your name came up.”

Michael gave a wry smile. “With little enthusiasm, I’m sure,” he said. “My uncle and his friends wanted me to enter the rabbinate. Things turned out quite differently.”

“He said that your uncle had a wonderful private library.” It was a guess, but an intuitive one. “I only mention it because there’s a book I’m looking for.”

“I wish I could help you,” Michael said. “I gave all his books to a charity. They’ve been sent to congregations out west. Scattered to the winds, I suppose.”

“I see,” Schaalman said, keeping his voice light. “A pity.”

“What was the book?”

“Oh, just something from my school days. I’m possessed by these sentimental whims, as I get older.”

Michael smiled. “You know, it’s strange that you mention my uncle. I’ve been thinking about him lately, and it’s partly to do with you.”

That startled him. “How so?”

“You remind me of him, somehow. I keep wishing he could’ve met you before he died.”

“Yes,” said Schaalman. “I would’ve liked that.”

“And then there’s the wedding, of course. It’ll be strange, not having him there.” At Schaalman’s blank look, Michael laughed, incredulous. “Joseph, haven’t I told you? Good lord, where is my mind? I’m getting married!”

Schaalman put on a broad smile. “Congratulations! And who is the fortunate bride?”

“Her name’s Chava. She works at Radzin’s Bakery. Actually, my uncle introduced us. She came to America as a new widow, and he became her guardian, of a sort.” And then: “Joseph? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” His own voice sounded thin and far away. “Too much time on my feet, perhaps. I should rest, before dinner.”

“Of course, of course! Don’t neglect your health, Joseph. If I’m working you too hard, just say so.”

Schaalman smiled at his employer, and then walked unsteadily out the door.

He went out to the street and walked with no purpose, a piece of flotsam led by the swirling crowd. It was early evening, a Friday, and the sun was setting.
Come the Sabbath bride
, Schaalman thought, and coughed out something like a laugh. All hope that the dowsing spell had been mistaken was now fled. Creation itself was dangling his own golem before him, like a toy for a kitten to swipe at. Silly old Schaalman, the dancing fool: he once tried to outsmart the Almighty.

The evening attractions of the Lower East Side were waking for business. Patrons in their weekend best crowded outside the dance halls and theaters. Casinos and saloons spilled thin yellow light onto the street. He barely noticed any of it. Someone stumbled into him; a knife slashed at his left trouser-pocket. He watched the thief run away, made no move to follow. His billfold was safe on the other side, but even if he’d been robbed he wouldn’t have protested. This place was a reflection of Hell, of Sheol, the Pit of Abaddon. Merely a taste of what was to come.

The crowd lifted him up and deposited him in the doorway of a saloon. He went in and sat at a table. A man in a filthy apron placed a drink in front of him, a watered beer that tasted of dregs and turpentine. He downed it, and then another, and then a whiskey. A young woman in a curled yellow wig and little else sat down next to him. She asked him something teasingly in English and put a hand on his thigh. He shook his head, then buried his face in her neck and began to sob.

Eventually she led him up the back stairs to a squalid bedroom, where she laid him down on the sprung mattress and stripped him of his trousers. He watched uncaring as she found the billfold, frowned at its contents, and removed all but one of the bills. Then she climbed on top of him. A dumb show began, a grotesquerie of the act of love; but he was unresponsive, and she soon abandoned the attempt. Shrugging, she reached behind the mattress and lifted up a tray of chipped black lacquer. Resting atop it were a thin pipe, a squat oil lamp, a metal needle, and many small lumps of what looked like tar. The girl lit the lamp, speared one of the lumps with the needle, and held it over the flame. When it began to smoke, she dropped it into the pipe, put it to her lips, and inhaled deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed in what looked like pleasure, then opened to see Schaalman watching her. Grinning, she prepared a fresh pipe and offered it to him.

The smoke was harsh and acrid, and sent his head swimming. For a long moment he thought he might vomit. Then his body relaxed, and a slow, delicious lassitude crept through his limbs. Within minutes his despair had been wholly smothered by an overpowering sense of calm and well-being. His eyelids drooped; he began to smile.

The girl giggled, watching, and then her own eyes began to close. Soon she was asleep. Looking at her, he noticed she was not so young as he’d thought: the blush on her cheek was mostly paint, the skin beneath it sallow and lined. But it did not matter. He saw now that the material world was only an illusion, thin as a cobweb. He gazed about in calm wonder. Then he found his trousers, retrieved his money, and left the bedroom.