The Golem of Hollywood (42 page)

F
ourteen ninety-one Ocean Avenue sat on prime commercial real estate. The bottom three floors belonged to a laser dental clinic, a talent agency, and a private equity fund. Pernath had the penthouse.

The office had an open plan, poured concrete floors and high windows that took advantage of unobstructed water views. Jacob approached the reception desk, counting three women and four men, all trim and chic, sketching in the icy glow of outsized computer monitors. He picked through their faces one by one, wondering who was Pernath's current protégé.

The receptionist said that Richard was out with a client.

“I work for the city,” Jacob said. “We're doing a zoning survey. I was hoping to talk to Mr. Pernath personally.”

The receptionist smiled, returned Jacob's lie with one of his own. “I'll be sure to tell him.”

Or you, pal. How bout it.

“Do you expect him in anytime soon?” Jacob asked.

“Gosh, it's so hard to tell. I'll make sure he gets the message, though, mister . . .”

“Loew,” Jacob said. “Judd Loew.”

The receptionist pretended to type. “Have an awesome day, Judd.”

—

J
ACOB
HAD
MISSED
SOMETHING
while loading his backpack. He searched for the nearest camping supply store, found it close on Fourth Street, and bought a seven-hundred-dollar pair of Steiner binoculars, charging it to the white card.

He texted Mallick a photo of the receipt, adding
thanks
.

The Commander didn't take the bait: no reply.

Returning to Ocean Avenue by 11:15, Jacob parked adjacent to a strip of cliffside park offering an oblique but clear view of Pernath's building.

He switched on the radio, twiddled between sports talk and scratchy jazz, ate M&M's and a protein bar that claimed to taste like cookies 'n' cream.

It might have if he'd had some bourbon to chase it with. In a nod to responsibility, he hadn't had a drink since last night.

The problem with staying sober was that it felt to him like being drunk.

He raised the binocs at whoever entered or exited the building, killing time by guessing destinations.

Surgically enhanced bimboid briskly sashaying: talent agency, or a patient in search of perfect teeth?

Nerd in khakis and out-of-pants white shirt: the IT guy for the private equity firm.

Conspicuously well-dressed couple in their fifties: clients, either private equity, or checking on a remodel in Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Bel Air.

At 11:49, he propped the phone on the steering wheel, checking his e-mail to see if Divya had replied. She hadn't.

He sent Mallick a text.

outside pernaths office

The response shot back.

eyeball?

not yet
he wrote.
will let u know

do that
Mallick replied.

How long was he supposed to keep up this bullshit? It was distracting, and pointless, and he put the phone away. He'd write when he had something to say.

At 1:16, he chanced a quick trip to a nearby public bathroom.

At 3:09, his phone beeped with a text from Mallick.

?

nothing
Jacob typed.

then tell me that

At 3:40, a meter maid parked her motorized trike behind him and took out her ticket pad. He showed her his badge. Tacked on a smile for good measure. She made a face and putt-putted off in search of other victims.

Thinking about parking made him groan. The building was sure to have an entrance in the back. Jet lag didn't excuse being a dumb jerk-off.

His imaginary tweet to Mallick:
duh.

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he jogged around the corner to Colorado, finding the alley that ran parallel to Ocean. There it was, a gated subterranean lot, accessed via numerical keypad. He pressed his face up to the steel latticework, squinting in at a maze of cars, any one of which could have belonged to Pernath.

He jogged back to the Honda. The meter maid had left him a ticket.

Crumpling it and tossing it in the gutter, he drove to a loading zone on Colorado with a sidelong view of the alley.

Circa five p.m., cars begin to trickle out, windshields muddled by a plunging sun. A headache that had begun an hour ago, a twinge born of squinting and alcohol deprivation, had blossomed into a throbbing monster. He popped Advil. His upper back hurt from twisting. His lower back hurt from sitting too long. His stomach rumbled. A cop on a bike rapped his window and told him to get moving. He opened his badge on his lap. The cop pedaled off.

Dusk arrived, salty and electric. Sodium vapor lamps dyed every driver orange. Squawking tweens flocked the Santa Monica Pier. The Ferris wheel came alive, a smoldering neon saw. Jacob sent a series of identical texts to Mallick—
waiting, waiting, waiting
. It took considerable restraint not to embellish.

Waiting . . . for Godot.

Waiting . . . for a girl like you.

He'd just about made up his mind to head home when, at 8:11 p.m., a metallic-green BMW coupe rose up from the sub-lot, left turn signal stuttering.

Richard Pernath in the driver's seat.

The architect swiveled his head, checking for other cars. For a moment his gaze lingered in the Honda's direction, and Jacob was sure he'd been made.

But Pernath's long face gave nothing away, and he raised a friendly hand to the driver of an SUV that had stopped to let him in.

Jacob jotted down the BMW's tag. He waited for a Volvo station wagon to set a screen, then pulled out.

Pernath went east on Colorado, south on Twentieth, east again on Olympic, passing beneath the 405, at this hour frozen with red brake lights. As predicted, he proved himself a conscientious driver, deferential to jaywalkers and shy of yellow lights—qualities that made him a rare bird among the froth-mouthed street gang known as the L.A. Commuters.

Good behavior also made him a major pain to follow. Jacob, fighting back predatory excitement, had trouble maintaining the distance. Several times he lost his screen car and had to pull over and wait for another to overtake him. He might've lost Pernath, too, if not for a pretty solid theory about the architect's destination.

His phone chirped: Mallick, wanting an update. The law demanded that Jacob ignore it, so he did.

—

T
HEY
KEPT
ON
O
LYMPIC
as far as Century City, where Pernath signaled right and got onto the half cloverleaf that ramped up to Avenue of the Stars north.

The street was wide and divided into six lanes that terminated at Santa Monica Boulevard. The BMW's detour into the pickup lane for a glass office building caught Jacob off guard. He had enough presence of mind to keep the Honda moving, roaring through a right at Constellation and flipping a U-turn to await a green arrow.

When the light changed, he reversed direction onto Avenue of the Stars south. Cruising opposite the office building, he spotted the BMW among the scrum of cars vying for position.

Driving another half block, he U'd again, returned for a third pass. He'd completed the same circuit twice more when he saw the green car nosing from the end of the pickup lane, preparing to turn right.

Jacob slowed, waiting for Pernath to pull out ahead of him. The architect stayed put, ever so politely, so as not to cut Jacob off.

No, please, I insist: you first.

No, you.

You.

Alphonse, Gaston . . .

Damn your manners, mon ami!

Jacob rolled past, allowing himself a peripheral glance at the BMW.

There was a second person in the car.

Speed and glare and darkness reduced the figure to a vaguely human shape. He couldn't tell if it was male or female. Nor did he have time to work through the implications of either, because the avenue was about to end and he had to make a turn.

He guessed a right on Big Santa Monica.

Pernath came along behind him.

It was stop and go for several blocks through Beverly Hills. Crossing Rexford, Jacob looked back and saw the BMW shifting into the left turn lane.

Jacob jerked left onto the next side street, Alpine Drive, disregarding boulevard stops and eliciting the finger from a woman walking a Yorkie in a sweater.

He waited at Sunset Boulevard, praying his intuition would come through.

Fifteen seconds later, the BMW zipped past, a luminous green vapor trail.

Pernath wasn't driving so casually anymore.

Now he was in a god-awful hurry.

Jacob turned onto Sunset.

—

H
IS
PHONE
CONTINUED
TO
NAG
HIM
as he worked his way eastward behind Pernath. More traffic as they entered West Hollywood, the Strip shimmying and glittering like a whore, pedestrians seizing the right-of-way whether or not it was theirs.

Jacob did not dare get close enough to see the passenger. Could be that it was Pernath's wife, and he was tailing a dutiful couple headed home to watch DVR'd
Jeopardy!
Web searches had produced nothing about the architect's family, but that didn't mean he didn't have one. Jacob, eager beaver, hadn't looked very long or hard. A more cautious cop might've taken a couple more days to gather intel, get to know his subject, identify weak points.

A more cautious cop would've missed this chance.

If the passenger was an innocent, Jacob had to make sure nothing bad happened.

If the passenger was an accomplice, he could grab them both.

The boulevard stabbed rapier-straight into the soiled heart of
Hollywood. Any doubt as to where they were headed evaporated as Pernath slotted into the left turn lane at Highland.

Jacob hooked left on Cahuenga and ran parallel to the 101. South of Barham, he veered eastward into the hills, skirting the reservoir, switchbacking minor roads, scaling the night.

He kept his speed moderate. They would arrive well before him, but he had no choice: the road was isolated and unlit, and it was an unusually clear night, his headlights bleeding everywhere. He cut back to parking lights, creeping along in a weak amber bubble. Anyone coming down the hill toward him wouldn't see him until it was too late. A small risk, worth taking.

The phone spit out a text.

He shut it off.

The intervals between houses lengthened—civilization gasping for breath, and dying, and he was alone, finding his way forward without aid. Far below, the diminished city gassed off a jaundiced haze. He kept driving, stalking, counseling himself patience, until he edged around a hairpin and his faith was rewarded: half a mile ahead, a pair of cherry-red holes appeared in the landscape. They swished left and right and left and were swallowed up in gray folds.

He realized that he'd begun to speed up again and eased off on the gas. No sense slaloming through the flimsy barrier. He'd get there soon enough. He knew. He'd been this way before. They were going to Castle
Court.

T
he thought of the tall men—terrible serenity—haunts her as she and the Rebbetzin hurry to the
shul
and ascend to the garret.

She sets the box of fresh clay beside the pottery wheel. Perel unpacks her toolkit and begins rolling up her sleeves.

“Oh, oh, oh. Curse me. We need water.”

Dazed, she reaches automatically for the bucket and starts toward the ladder.

“Wait,” Perel cries.

She freezes.

“You can't go out there.” Then, soothingly: “They can't come in here. It's not allowed. Do you understand, Yankele? Here, you're safe from them. I promise you that.”

She nods. The Rebbetzin's certainty bewilders her.

“It's not them you need to worry about. Yudl doesn't know you visit me here, does he? Has he ever asked you about it?”

She shakes her head.

“Good.” Perel rolls down her sleeves and snatches up the bucket. “I'll be back soon.”

The floorboards whine as she paces.

I said he'd get attached, and I was right.

It's not them you need to worry about.

And her mind fills with images: a nodding tribunal; black fire on white fire.

One thing at a time.

The implication devastates her.

They are not the danger.

Rebbe is the danger.

He who has been a father to her; who has blessed her like a son.

What awful power do they have over him, that they can turn him against her? She tears at her hair in grief, beats her breast like a penitent, yearning to bolt and run as fast and far as she can.

The outline of the arched doorway dims from purple to inky black. To get water shouldn't take this long.

She pictures the Rebbetzin lugging the heavy bucket through the street, those slender arms straining. Thoughts shift to catastrophe. The tall ones have caught Perel. What horrible fate awaits her? Will Rebbe intercede? He must. He is a good man; he loves his wife.

But he loves her, too, or he claimed to.

At long last she hears a creak and a slam, and uneven footfalls blunder down the stone corridor and through the women's section—a person bearing a tremendous burden, knocking into chairs, coming for the garret, coming for her.

“It's me, Yankele.”

She peers down through the trap. Perel straggles into view. She sets down the brimming bucket and bends, hands to knees, breathless.

“My arms are going to fall off. Come, take this up, while I immerse.”

When the Rebbetzin returns to the garret, her wet hair lies flat.

“I'm sorry it took so long,” she says. “I was trying to buy us time.”

From her pocket, Perel produces Rebbe's
shul
key—then a second exactly like it. “I had Chana Wichs give me her husband's copy, too, just in case. I swore her to secrecy. We'll see how long that lasts. Nobody likes to lie to the Rebbe, and Chana's lips aren't exactly the tightest. But at least for now, poor Yudl's going to think he's lost his mind, looking for that key . . . All right,” Perel says, clapping her hands together, “think, think, think. We must be precise, we don't have time for error. First we must make some room. Help me, please.”

Under the Rebbetzin's direction, she moves bookcases, clearing a wide circle.

“The wheel I won't need, you can put it over there.” Perel rolls her
sleeves up again and sweeps her skirts under her. She kneels before the box of clay and scoops a largish handful, then four more, mounding them together on the floor. “While I'm getting started with this, you”—Perel pats the remaining clay—“handle that. I'm going to need all of it. You know what to do?”

She nods uncertainly.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Throwing her faith in the Rebbetzin, she upends the box in the middle of the circle. Clay slops out.

Perel bites her lip. “I hope it's enough. But—go on, now. No time to waste.”

She does what she has seen Perel do night after night, first compacting the loose clay and squeezing out excess water; then lifting the mass and wedging it against the floor to drive out air. Riverbank beetles, kidnapped and entombed, crunch as she presses down with her full might, folding, turning, repeating. Perel—the long muscles of her forearms rippling beneath her rippling silver skin—does the same with her own smaller block of clay, reaching over periodically to check the texture.

“Remember: overworking it is as bad as underworking it.”

She goes about her job numbly, trying to drive out the memory of Rebbe's words.

It will be done.

“That's good. Now, two piles, one about so—oh. Oh, Yankele. You're trembling.”

Perel crawls over to clasp her hands. Warm mud oozes between their palms.

“You're frightened. Of course you are? Who wouldn't be? But you must be brave.”

She looks into the Rebbetzin's glistening green eyes.

“He doesn't want to do it,” Perel says. “He has no choice. Anyway, I won't let him. You must trust me, Yankele.”

She does. She must. Other than the Rebbetzin, she has no one else left.

They resume work.

“Two equal piles, please. A rectangle, like so. The second pile, make it into four logs. Two of them about this wide, two a bit fatter. Each pair, try to make it the same length, if you can. They don't have to be perfect.”

Meanwhile, Perel has rolled her own clay into a sphere.

“That's fine. Put them at the corners—yes. Just so. Don't worry. As I said, it doesn't have to be perfect yet. I'll fix it. Tell me: do you see, now?”

She nods. She is excited. And terrified.

They're making a person.

—

O
N
HANDS
AND
KNEES
, Perel moves about the figure, coaxing joints together, forming hollows, using the tip of the knife to render the tracery of veins and hair and skin. The aura flares in ecstasy, scalding the room and subsiding. The rough block slims miraculously to a torso; uneven stumps smooth to limbs, slender arms and long legs twine with muscles like a braided candle. Hillocks of breasts and open plain of stomach; soft grassy sex and valley below—the magnificent body of a woman.

The thrill of memory courses through her.

Her body.

—

T
HE
FACE
REQUIRES
PATIENCE
, love, and mercy. Perel does not find it beneath her dignity to bend over, contorting herself, balancing on one elbow as she scrapes out the seashell contours of an ear. Nostrils open, lips part, ready to draw breath. Consternation tightens the brow—bad dreams, to which a determined jaw refuses to surrender.

She sees. And remembers more.

The Rebbetzin descends the garret to the ritual bath, immersing herself a second time. She returns full of agitation, rubbing her fingertips
together as she walks circuits around the body, examining every last crevice and detail until she is satisfied.

“Are you ready?” Perel sits. “Lie down, please. Put your head in my lap.”

She obeys, careful not to disturb the beautiful clay body.

Perel smiles at her upside down. “Thank you for everything you have given me.”

Thank you.

“I'll miss you.”

I'll miss you, too.

“You'll always have a home here.” A sad laugh. “Although I'm sure it goes without saying that it might be wise to stay away for a while.”

Perel strokes her head. “It won't hurt. It will be easy, like drawing a hair out of milk.”

Soft touches smooth the distortions of her lumpy skull, her crumpled ears. Her eyes close. She had forgotten what sleepiness feels like. It's lovely, a pillowy fall from a great height, a descent that never ends. She feels heat on her face, the charge that fills the infinitesimal gap between two skins, and Perel's lips touch hers, and her mouth opens, and though she has been warned never to do this, though she knows what will happen, she trusts, and parts her lips wider, and brings forth her tongue.

The knot begins to loosen.

She can feel it unraveling, dissolving, and she exhales and sleep wraps her in a cloak of clay.

—

“Y
OU
ARE
HERE
.”

Stunned and numb, stomach greasy, chest thudding, ears ringing, she lies on her back, gazing through fuzzy infant eyes at Perel's shining face, doubled and cloudy and swimming in the gloom.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired.”

The sound of her own voice stuns them: then the Rebbetzin bursts into tears, and then into laughter, and then they both do, the two of them trembling and whooping and hugging.

“Blessed are You, O Lord, Our God and King of the Universe,” Perel says, “Who has given us life and sustained us and brought us to this time.”

“Amen.”

It's no less shocking the second time around. They explode in a round of giddy peals.

Perel helps her to a sitting position. “I'm going to let you go, all right? Will you fall over?”

“I won't fall.” The cloak itches against her back. She's naked. The realization causes her to shiver violently. Perel fetches an old prayer shawl and covers her with it. “Better than nothing.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

They are roughly the same height now, a shocking equality. Together they shuffle around the garret, her watery limbs firming up, regaining their intelligence, until she moves smoothly, gracefully, exploring her body in space, examining herself, top to bottom.

Blue veins underlie the silky pale flesh of her arms. She spreads her toes in the dust, shrugs her shoulders, twists at the waist. Everything feels familiar, and comfortable. She runs her fingers over her head. She has hair. Long hair, thick and soft. She brings the ends around to see what color it is. The lantern light paints in tones of linen and earth. Her eyes—what color are they? She trips over to the bucket, landing on her knees.

Perel lunges to grab her arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine.” The water reveals eyes of indeterminate hue. Her face appears even more lovely than she had hoped for, the features finer and softer than they were in clay.

“Are you happy with how you look?”

She nods. It is a lovely face, yes; but more important, it is hers—the face she remembers.

Perel says, “I modeled it after my Leah.”

She knows not what to make of that. But she's certain of what to say.

“She must have been a beautiful girl.”

A silence.

“There is one more thing,” Perel says. “The knot that stilled your tongue.”

She sticks out her tongue, touches it, finds smooth, yielding tissue—no parchment. She looks at the Rebbetzin, who hesitates, and blushes, and then inclines her head downward.

Toward her pubis.

“I had to put it somewhere,” Perel says. “It shouldn't come out. It's deep. But you should be careful, of course.”

“I will.”

“Don't look so surprised,” the Rebbetzin says. “It's the source of life, and you are alive.”

Her heart swells with gratitude; the back of her throat aches.

“Do you have a name?”

She smiles. Of course she does.

It's . . .

What.

She says, “My name is . . .”

Silence.

Perel frowns. “Yes?”

“It's . . .”

Ridiculous. She has her body back. She has her voice back. And yet the only name she can come up with is a man's name—the name she's been living with.

Yankele.

Her mind coughs up words in a forgotten tongue.

Mi ani? Yankele.

Who am I? Yankele.

The letters of each word reassemble themselves.

A new name. She will own it.

She says, “My name is Mai.”

Perel smiles, relieved. “Nice to meet you, Mai.”

Before she can reply, a loud banging comes from the first floor—followed by a silence, and then a tremendous crash, an axe splintering wood.

They're breaking the front door down.

Perel runs to the trapdoor, kicks it shut. “Help me.”

Not so very long ago, Mai could have managed the bookcase on her own; now it takes the two of them, working together, to drag it atop the trap. Moments later men's voices ring out, and boots mount on the ladder, and fists beat at the floor.

“Perele,” Rebbe calls, his voice pinched and distraught. “Perele, are you in there?”

Perel seizes Mai by the arm. Together they tiptoe across the garret.

“Perele. Please open up.”

They come to the arched door. Perel lifts the iron bar holding it shut, hauls the door open. Frigid air streams in.

Below, the cobblestones swim.

The Rebbetzin clasps Mai's hands. “Go.”

Mai hesitates. She's still dizzy, not to mention barely clothed, and Perel's grip on her feels like the pull of ten thousand men.