About the Book
Chava

is a golem, a creature made of clay, brought to life by a disgraced rabbi who dabbles in dark Kabbalistic magic. When her master, the husband who commissioned her, dies at sea on the voyage from Poland, she is unmoored and adrift as the ship arrives in New York in 1899.

Ahmad

is a djinni, a being of fire, born in the ancient Syrian desert. Trapped in an old copper flask by a Bedouin wizard centuries ago, he is released accidentally by a tinsmith in a Lower Manhattan shop. Though he is no longer imprisoned, Ahmad is not entirely free – an unbreakable band of iron binds him to the physical world.

The Golem & The Djinni

is their magical, unforgettable story; unlikely friends whose tenuous attachment challenges their opposing natures – until the night a terrifying incident drives them back into their separate worlds. But a powerful threat will soon bring Chava and Ahmad together again, challenging their existence and forcing them to make a fateful choice …

About the Author

Helene Wecker grew up near Chicago, and received her MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University in New York. Her work has been published in the online magazine Joyland, and she has read from her stories at the KGB Bar in New York and the Barbershop Reading Series in San Francisco. After a dozen years of moving around between both coasts and the Midwest, she now lives near San Francisco with her husband and daughter. The Golem and the Djinni is her first novel.

Praise for The Golem and The Djinni

‘Set against the vivid backdrop of New York City’s immigrant neighbourhoods in the late 19th century, Helene Wecker’s tale of two fabled creatures has the intimate feel of a story handed down from generation to generation. With a delightful blend of the prosaic and the fanciful, The Golem and The Djinni explores what it means to be human as Chava and Ahmad struggle to live and find love while overcoming the powerful adversary who threatens to destroy them’

Deborah Harkness, author of A Discovery of Witches

‘An astonishing debut novel that sweeps us into a gaslit alternate reality rich enough to get lost in – a vision of fin de siècle 19th century New York as a city that had all the world’s immigrants descending on it, including supernatural ones … It is Helene Wecker's triumph that these supernatural beings – one made of fire, the other of clay – seem as real and as poignant in their struggles for love and belonging as any of their fellow human immigrants, until together they face a villain of truly monstrous proportions’

Tom Reiss, author of The Orientalist and The Black Count

HELENE WECKER

For Kareem

Table of Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Praise for The Golem and The Djinni

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Copyright

About the Publisher

1.

The Golem’s life began in the hold of a steamship. The year was 1899; the ship was the Baltika, crossing from Danzig to New York. The Golem’s master, a man named Otto Rotfeld, had smuggled her aboard in a crate and hidden her among the luggage.

Rotfeld was a Prussian Jew from Konin, a bustling town to the south of Danzig. The only son of a well-to-do furniture maker, Rotfeld had inherited the family business sooner than expected, on his parents’ untimely death from scarlet fever. But Rotfeld was an arrogant, feckless sort of man, with no good sense to speak of; and before five years had elapsed, the business lay before him in tatters.

Rotfeld stood in the ruins and took stock. He was thirty-three years old. He wanted a wife, and he wanted to go to America.

The wife was the larger problem. On top of his arrogant disposition, Rotfeld was gangly and unattractive, and had a tendency to leer. Women were disinclined to be alone with him. A few matchmakers had approached him when he’d inherited, but their clients had been from inferior families, and he’d turned them away. When it became clear to all what kind of businessman he really was, the offers had disappeared completely.

Rotfeld was arrogant, but he was also lonely. He’d had no real love affairs. He passed worthy ladies on the street, and saw the distaste in their eyes.

It wasn’t very long before he thought to visit old Yehudah Schaalman.

Stories abounded about Schaalman, all slightly different: that he was a disgraced rabbi who’d been driven out of his congregation; that he’d been possessed by a dybbuk and given supernatural powers; and even that he was over a hundred years old and slept with demon-women. But all the stories agreed on this: Schaalman liked to dabble in the more dangerous of the Kabbalistic arts, and he was willing to offer his services for a price. Barren women had visited him in the dead of night and conceived soon after. Peasant girls in search of men’s affections bought Schaalman’s bags of powders, and then stirred them into their beloveds’ beer.

But Rotfeld wanted no spells or love-potions. He had something else in mind.

He went to the old man’s dilapidated shack, deep in the forest that bordered Konin. The path to the front door was a half-trampled trail. Greasy, yellowish smoke drifted from a chimney-pipe, the only sign of habitation. The walls of the shack slouched toward a nearby ravine, in which a stream trickled.

Rotfeld knocked on the door, and waited. After some minutes, he heard a shuffling step. The door opened a hand’s width, revealing a man of perhaps seventy. He was bald, save for a fringe. His cheeks were deeply furrowed above a tangled beard. He stared hard at Rotfeld, as though daring him to speak.

“Are you Schaalman?” Rotfeld asked.

No answer, only the stare.

Rotfeld cleared his throat, nervous. “I want you to make me a golem that can pass for human,” he said. “And I want it to be female.”

That broke the old man’s silence. He laughed, a hard bark. “Boy,” he said, “do you know what a golem is?”

“A person made of clay,” Rotfeld said, uncertain.

“Wrong. It’s a beast of burden. A lumbering, unthinking slave. Golems are built for protection and brute force, not for the pleasures of a bed.”

Rotfeld reddened. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

“I’m telling you the idea is ridiculous. To make a golem that can pass for human would be near impossible. For one thing, it would need some amount of self-awareness, if only enough to converse. Not to mention the body itself, with realistic joints, and musculature .”

The old man trailed off, staring past his visitor. He seemed to be considering something. Abruptly he turned his back on Rotfeld and disappeared into the gloom of the shack. Through the open door Rotfeld could see him shuffling carefully through a stack of papers. Then he picked up an old leather-bound book and thumbed through it. His finger ran down a page, and he peered at something written there. He looked up at Rotfeld.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

Accordingly, Rotfeld knocked again the next day, and this time Schaalman opened the door without pause. “How much can you pay?” he demanded.

“Then it can be done?”

“Answer my question. The one will determine the other.”

Rotfeld named a figure. The old man snorted. “Half again, at the very least.”

“But I’ll have barely anything left!”

“Consider it a bargain,” said Schaalman. “For isn’t it written that a virtuous woman is more precious than rubies? And her virtue”—he grinned—“will be guaranteed!”

Rotfeld brought the money three days later, in a large valet case. The edge of the nearby ravine was newly disfigured, a piece the length of a man scooped away. An earth-stained spade leaned against a wall.

Schaalman opened the door with a distracted look, as though interrupted at a crucial moment. Streaks of mud crusted his clothing and daubed his beard. He saw the valet case and grabbed it from Rotfeld’s hand.

“Good,” he said. “Come back in a week.”

The door slammed shut again, but not before Rotfeld had caught a glimpse inside the shack, of a dark figure laid out in pieces on a table—a slender trunk, rough limbs, and one curled hand.

“What do you prefer in a woman?” Schaalman asked.

It was the following week, and this time Rotfeld had been allowed inside. The shack was dominated by the table that Rotfeld had glimpsed before, and the young man couldn’t help sneaking glances at its burden: a human-shaped form, draped with a sheet. He said, “What do you mean, what do I prefer?”

“I’m creating a woman for you. I assumed you’d want some say in the matter.”

Rotfeld frowned. “I like an attractive figure, I suppose—”

“Not her physical aspects, not yet. Her temperament. Her personality.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes, I believe that I can,” the old man said with pride. “At least, I can steer her toward certain proclivities.”

Rotfeld thought hard. “I want her to be obedient.”

“She’ll already be obedient,” Schaalman said, impatient. “That’s what a golem is—a slave to your will. Whatever you command her, she’ll do. She won’t even wish otherwise.”

“Good,” Rotfeld said. But he was perplexed. Having put aside appearance and obedience, he had little idea what else he wanted. He was about to tell Rotfeld to do whatever he thought best—but then, in a burst of memory, he recalled his younger sister, the only girl he’d ever truly known. She’d been full of curiosity, and a burden to their mother, who could not stand her always underfoot and asking questions. In one of the few generous acts of his life, young Otto had taken her under his wing. Together they’d spent whole afternoons wandering through the woods, and he’d answered her questions about anything and everything. When she’d died at age twelve, drowned in a river on a summer afternoon, he’d lost the only person in his life who’d ever really mattered.

“Give her curiosity,” he told Schaalman. “And intelligence. I can’t stand a silly woman. Oh,” he said, inspiration warming him to his task, “and make her proper. Not … lascivious. A gentleman’s wife.”

The old man’s eyebrows shot up. He’d expected his client to request motherly kindness, or an eager sexual appetite, or else both; years of manufacturing love spells had taught him what men like Rotfeld thought they wanted in a woman. But curiosity? Intelligence? He wondered if the man knew what he was asking for.

But he only smiled and spread his hands. “I’ll try,” he said. “The results may not be as precise as you might wish. One can only do so much with clay.” Then his face darkened. “But remember this. A creature can only be altered so far from its basic nature. She’ll still be a golem. She’ll have the strength of a dozen men. She’ll protect you without thinking, and she’ll harm others to do it. No golem has ever existed that did not eventually run amok. You must be prepared to destroy her.”

The task was finished the night before Rotfeld left for the docks at Danzig. He made his final trip to Schaalman’s leading a dray-cart loaded with a large wooden crate, a modest brown dress, and a pair of women’s shoes.

Schaalman appeared not to have slept for some time. His eyes were dark smudges, and he was pale, as though drained of some essential energy. He lit a lamp that hung above the worktable, and Rotfeld caught his first true glimpse of his intended.

She was tall, almost as tall as Rotfeld himself, and well proportioned: a long torso, breasts that were small but firm, a sturdy waist. Her hips were perhaps a bit square, but on her it seemed correct, even appealing. In the dim light he spied the dark shadow between her legs; he glanced away from it as though disinterested, aware of Schaalman’s mocking eyes, and the pounding of his own blood.

Her face was wide and heart shaped, her eyes set far apart. They were closed; he could not tell their color. The nose was small and curved under at the tip, above full lips. Her hair was brown and had a slight wave, and was cut to brush her shoulders.

Tentative, half-believing, he placed a hand on her cool shoulder. “It looks like skin. It feels like skin.”

“It’s clay,” said the old man.

“How did you do this?”

The old man only smiled, and said nothing.

“And the hair, and eyes? The fingernails? Are they clay too?”

“No, those are real enough,” Schaalman said, blandly innocent. Rotfeld remembered handing over the case of money, and wondering what sort of supplies the old man needed to buy. He shivered and decided not to think about it again.

They dressed the clay woman and carefully lifted her heavy body into the crate. Her hair tangled about her face as they arranged her, and Rotfeld waited until the old man’s back was turned before gently smoothing it into place again.

Schaalman found a small piece of paper and wrote on it the two necessary commands—one to bring her to life, and one to destroy her. He folded the paper twice, and placed it in an oilskin envelope. On the envelope he wrote COMMANDS FOR THE GOLEM, and then handed it to Rotfeld. His client was eager to wake her, but the old man was against it. “She might be disoriented for a time,” he said. “And the ship will be too crowded. If someone realized what she was, they’d throw you both overboard.” Reluctantly, Rotfeld agreed to wait until they reached America; and they nailed the lid on the crate, sealing her away.

The old man poured them each a finger of schnapps from a dusty bottle. “To your golem,” he said, raising his glass.

“To my golem,” Rotfeld echoed, and downed the schnapps. It was a triumphant moment, marred only by his persistent stomachache. He’d always had a delicate constitution, and the stress of the last few weeks had ruined his digestion. Ignoring his stomach, he helped the old man lift the crate into the dray-cart, and then led the horse away. The old man waved after the departing Rotfeld, as though seeing off a pair of newlyweds. “I wish you joy of her!” he called, and his cackle echoed through the trees.

The ship set sail from Danzig, and made its stop in Hamburg without incident. Two nights later Rotfeld lay in his narrow bunk, the oilskin envelope labeled COMMANDS FOR THE GOLEM tucked away in a pocket. He felt like a child who’d been given a present and then instructed not to open it. It would have been easier if he could’ve slept, but the pain in his stomach had grown into a lump of misery on the right side of his abdomen. He felt slightly feverish. The cacophony of steerage surrounded him: a hundred diverse snores, the hiccupping sobs of babies, an occasional retch as the ship rode from swell to trough.

He turned over, squirming against the pain, and reflected: surely the old man’s advice was overcautious. If she was as obedient as promised, there’d be no harm in waking her, just to see. Then he could command her to lie in the crate until they reached America.

But what if she didn’t work properly? What if she didn’t wake at all, but only lay there, a lump of clay in the shape of a woman? It struck him for the first time that he’d seen no proof that Schaalman could do what he’d promised. Panicked, he fished the envelope from his pocket, withdrew from it the scrap of paper. Gibberish, meaningless words, a jumble of Hebrew letters! What a fool he’d been!

He swung his legs over the side of his bunk, and fetched a kerosene lamp off its nail. Pressing a hand to his side, he hurried through the maze of bunks to the stairwell and down to the hold.

It took him nearly two hours to find the crate, two hours of picking his way through stacks of suitcases and boxes bound with twine. His stomach burned, and cold sweat dripped into his eyes. Finally he moved aside a rolled-up carpet, and there it was: his crate, and in it his bride.

He found a crowbar, pried the nails from the crate, and yanked off the lid. Heart pounding, he pulled the paper from his pocket, and carefully sounded out the command labeled To Wake the Golem.

He held his breath, and waited.

Slowly the Golem came to life.

First to wake were her senses. She felt the roughness of wood under her fingertips, the cold, damp air on her skin. She sensed the movement of the boat. She smelled mildew, and the tang of seawater.

She woke a little more, and knew she had a body. The fingertips that felt the wood were her own. The skin that the air chilled was her skin. She moved a finger, to see if she could.

She heard a man nearby, breathing. She knew his name and who he was. He was her master, her entire purpose; she was his golem, bound to his will. And right now he wanted her to open her eyes.

The Golem opened her eyes.

Her master was kneeling above her in the dim light. His face and hair were drenched with sweat. With one hand he braced himself on the edge of the crate; the other was pressed at his stomach.

“Hello,” Rotfeld whispered. An absurd shyness had tightened his voice. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re my master. Your name is Otto Rotfeld.” Her voice was clear and natural, if a bit deep.

“That’s right,” he said, as though to a child. “And do you know who you are?”

“A golem.” She paused, considering. “I don’t have a name.”

“Not yet,” Rotfeld said, smiling. “I’ll have to think of one for you.”

Suddenly he winced. The Golem didn’t need to ask why, for she could feel it as well, a dull ache that echoed his. “You’re in pain,” she said, concerned.

“It’s nothing,” Rotfeld said. “Sit up.”

She sat up in the crate, and looked about. The kerosene lamp cast a feeble light that roamed with the ship’s rocking. Long shadows loomed and retreated across stacks of luggage and boxes. “Where are we?” she asked.

“On a ship, crossing the ocean,” Rotfeld said. “We’re on our way to America. But you must be very careful. There are many people on this ship, and they’d be frightened if they knew what you were. They might even try to harm you. You’ll need to lie here very still until we reach land.”

The ship leaned sharply, and the Golem clutched at the edges of the crate.

“It’s all right,” Rotfeld whispered. He lifted a shaking hand to stroke her hair. “You’re safe here, with me,” he said. “My golem.”

Suddenly he gasped, bent his head to the deck, and began to retch. The Golem watched with chagrin. “Your pain is growing worse,” she said.

Rotfeld coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I told you,” he said, “it’s nothing.” He tried to stand, but staggered, and fell to his knees. A wave of panic hit him as he began to realize that something was truly wrong.

“Help me,” he whispered.

The command struck the Golem like an arrow. Swiftly she rose from her crate, bent over Rotfeld, and lifted him as though he weighed no more than a boy. With her master in her arms, she wove her way around the boxes, up the narrow staircase, and out of the hold.

A commotion broke out at the aft end of steerage. It spread down the deck, waking the sleepers, who grumbled and turned over in their bunks. A crowd began to grow around a cot near the hatch, where a man had collapsed, his face gray in the lantern-light. A call threaded its way from row to row: was there a doctor nearby?

One soon appeared, in pajamas and an overcoat. The crowd parted for him as he made his way to the cot. Hovering next to the sick man was a tall woman in a brown dress who watched, wide eyed, as the doctor undid the young man’s shirt and pulled it back. Carefully the doctor prodded Rotfeld’s abdomen, and was rewarded with a short scream.

The Golem lunged forward and snatched the man’s hand away. The doctor pulled back, shocked.

“It’s all right,” the man on the cot whispered. “He’s a doctor. He’s here to help.” He reached up, and clasped her hand.

Warily the doctor felt Rotfeld’s abdomen again, one eye on the woman. “It’s his appendix,” he announced. “We must get him to the ship’s surgeon, quickly.”

The doctor grabbed one of Rotfeld’s arms and pulled him to standing. Others rushed to help, and together the knot of men moved through the hatch, Rotfeld hanging half-delirious at its center. The woman followed close behind.

The ship’s surgeon was the sort of man who did not appreciate being roused in the middle of the night, especially to cut open some nameless peasant from steerage. One look at the man writhing weakly on his operating table, and he wondered if it was worth the trouble. Judging by the advanced state of the appendicitis and the high fever, the appendix had likely already burst, flooding the man’s belly with poisons. The surgery alone might finish him off. After delivering their burden, the foreigners who’d brought the man had hovered by the hatchway, unsure of themselves, and then left without a word of English.

Well, there was nothing for it. He’d have to operate. He called down for his assistant to be roused and began laying out his instruments. He was searching for the ether jar when suddenly the hatch was wrenched open behind him. It was a woman, tall and dark-haired, wearing only a thin brown shift against the cold Atlantic air. She rushed to the side of the man on the table, looking near panicked. His wife or sweetheart, he supposed.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that you speak English,” he said; and of course she only stared, uncomprehending. “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here. No women permitted in the surgery. You’ll have to leave.” He pointed at the door.

That, at least, got through: she shook her head vehemently and began to expostulate in Yiddish. “Look here,” the surgeon began, and took her elbow to steer her out. But it was as though he’d grabbed hold of a lamppost. The woman would not move, only loomed over him, solid and suddenly gigantic, a Valkyrie come to life.

He dropped her arm as though it had scalded him. “Have it your way,” he muttered, disconcerted. He busied himself with the ether jar, and tried to ignore the bizarre presence behind his shoulder.

The hatch opened again, and a young man fell in, looking roughly wakened. “Doctor, I’m—good lord!”

“Never mind her,” the surgeon said. “She refuses to leave. If she faints, so much the better. Quick now, or he’ll die before we can open him up.” And with that, they etherized their patient and set to work.

If the two men had known the powerful struggle taking place inside the woman behind them, they would’ve deserted the surgery and run for their lives. Any lesser creation would have throttled them both the moment their knives touched Rotfeld’s skin. But the Golem recalled the doctor in the hold, and her master’s assurance that he was there to help; and it had been that doctor who’d brought him here. Still, as they peeled back Rotfeld’s skin and hunted through his innards, her hands twisted and clenched uncontrollably at her sides. She reached for her master in her mind, and found no awareness, no needs or desires. She was losing him, bit by bit.

The surgeon removed something from Rotfeld’s body and dropped it in a tray. “Well, the damned thing’s out,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder. “Still on your feet? Good girl.”

“Maybe she’s simple,” muttered the assistant.

“Not necessarily. These peasants have iron stomachs. Simon, keep that clamped!”

“Sorry, sir.”

But the figure on the table was struggling for life. He inhaled once, and again; and then, with a long, rattling sigh, Otto Rotfeld’s final breath left his body.

The Golem staggered as the last remnants of their connection snapped and faded away.

The surgeon bent his head to Rotfeld’s chest. He took up the man’s wrist for a moment, then gently placed it back. “Time of death, please,” he said.

The assistant swallowed, and glanced at the chronometer. “Oh two hundred hours, forty-eight minutes.”

The surgeon made a note, true regret on his face. “Couldn’t be helped,” he said, his voice bitter. “He waited too long. He must have been in agony for days.”

The Golem could not look away from the unmoving shape on the table. A moment ago he’d been her master, her reason for being; now he seemed nothing at all. She felt dizzy, unmoored. She stepped forward and touched a hand to his face, his slack jaw, his drooping eyelids. Already the heat was fading from his skin.

Please stop that.

The Golem withdrew her hand and looked at the two men, who were watching in horrified distaste. Neither of them had spoken.

“I’m sorry,” said the surgeon finally, hoping she would understand his tone. “We tried our best.”

“I know,” said the Golem—and only then did she realize that she’d understood the man’s words, and replied in the same language.

The surgeon frowned, and shared a glance with his assistant. “Mrs. … I’m sorry, what was his name?”

“Rotfeld,” said the Golem. “Otto Rotfeld.”

“Mrs. Rotfeld, our condolences. Perhaps—”

“You want me to leave,” she said. It wasn’t a guess, nor was it a sudden understanding of the indelicacy of her presence. She simply knew it, as surely as she could see her master’s body on the table, and smell the ether’s sickly fumes. The surgeon’s desire, his wish for her to be elsewhere, had spoken inside her mind.

“Well, yes, perhaps it would be better,” he said. “Simon, please escort Mrs. Rotfeld back to steerage.”

She let the young man put his arm about her and guide her out of the surgery. She was shaking. Some part of her was still casting about, searching for Rotfeld. And meanwhile the young assistant’s embarrassed discomfort, his desire to be rid of his charge, was clouding her thoughts. What was happening to her?

At the door to the steerage deck, the young man squeezed her hand guiltily, and then was gone. What should she do? Go in there, and face all those people? She put her hand on the door latch, hesitated, opened it.

The wishes and fears of five hundred passengers hit her like a maelstrom.

I wish I could fall asleep. If only she would stop throwing up. Will that man ever quit snoring? I need a glass of water. How long until we reach New York? What if the ship goes down? If we were alone, we could make love. Oh God, I want to go back home.

The Golem let go of the latch, turned, and ran.

Up on the deserted main deck, she found a bench and sat there until morning. A chill rain began to fall, soaking her dress, but she ignored it, unable to focus on anything except the clamor in her head. It was as though, without Rotfeld’s commands to guide her, her mind was reaching out for a substitute and encountering the ship’s worth of passengers that lay below. Without the benefit of the bond between master and golem, their wishes and fears did not have the driving force of commands—but nonetheless she heard them, and felt their varying urgencies, and her limbs twitched with the compulsion to respond. Each one was like a small hand plucking at her sleeve: please, do something.

The next morning, she stood at the railing as Rotfeld’s body was lowered into the sea. It was a blustery day, the waves white-tipped and choppy. Rotfeld’s body hit the water with barely a splash; in an instant the ship had left it behind. Perhaps, the Golem thought, it might be best to hurl herself overboard and follow Rotfeld into the water. She leaned forward and peered over the edge, trying to gauge the water’s depth; but two men hurriedly stepped forward, and she allowed herself to be drawn back.

The small crowd of onlookers began to disperse. A man in ship’s livery handed her a small leather pouch, explaining that it held everything that had been on Rotfeld’s person when he died. At some point a compassionate deckhand had placed a wool coat about her shoulders, and she tucked the pouch into a pocket.

A small knot of passengers from steerage hovered nearby, wondering what to do about her. Should they escort her below decks, or simply leave her be? Rumors had circled the bunks all night. One man insisted that she’d carried the dead man into steerage in her own two arms. Then there was the woman who muttered that she’d seen Rotfeld at Danzig—he’d made himself conspicuous by berating the deckhands for not taking care with a heavy crate—and that he’d boarded the ship alone. They remembered how she’d grabbed at the doctor’s hands, like a wild animal. And she was simply odd, in a way they couldn’t explain even to themselves. She stood far too still, as if rooted to the deck, while those around her shivered in the cold and leaned with the ship. She hardly blinked, even when the ocean mist struck her face. And as far as they could tell, she hadn’t yet shed a single tear.

They decided to approach her. But the Golem had felt their fears and suspicions and she turned from the rail and walked past them, her stiff back a clear request for solitude. They felt her passing as a slap of cold, grave-smelling air. Their resolve faltered; they left her alone.

The Golem made her way to the aft staircase. She passed steerage and continued down to the depths of the hold: the one place in her short existence where she hadn’t felt herself in peril. She found the open crate and climbed into it, then drew the lid into place above her. Muffled in darkness, she lay there, reviewing the few facts of which she was certain. She was a golem, and her master was dead. She was on a ship in the middle of the ocean. If the others knew what she was, they would be afraid of her. And she had to stay hidden.

As she lay there, the strongest of the desires drifted down to her from the decks above. A little girl in steerage had misplaced her toy horse, and now wailed for it, inconsolable. A man traveling second class had been three days without a drink, trying to make a fresh start; he paced his tiny cabin, shaking, fingers knotted in his hair, unable to think about anything except a glass of brandy. Each of these, and many others, pulled at her in turn, rising and falling. They urged her to climb out of the hold, to help in some way. But she remembered the suspicions of the passengers on the foredeck, and stayed in the crate.

She lay there the rest of the day and into the night, listening to the boxes around her shift and groan. She felt useless, purposeless. She had no idea what to do. And her only clue to where they were going was a word that Rotfeld had spoken. America. It might mean anything.

The next morning, the ship awoke to warmer weather and a welcome sight: a thin line of gray between ocean and sky. Passengers drifted to the deck, watching westward as the line thickened and stretched. It meant all their wishes granted, their fears forgotten, if only for the moment; and down in the hold the Golem felt an unexpected and blissful relief.

The constant thrum of the ship’s propellers quieted to a purr. The ship slowed. And then came the distant sound of voices, yelling and cheering. Curiosity made the Golem rise at last from her crate, and she emerged onto the foredeck, into the noonday sun.

The deck was crowded with people, and at first the Golem didn’t see what they were waving at. But then, there she was: a gray-green woman standing in the middle of the water, holding a tablet and bearing aloft a torch. Her gaze was unblinking, and she stood so still: was it another golem? Then the distance became clear, and she realized how far away the woman was, and how gigantic. Not alive, then; but the blank, smooth eyes nevertheless held a hint of understanding. And those on deck were waving and shouting at her with jubilation, crying even as they smiled. This, too, the Golem thought, was a constructed woman. Whatever she meant to the others, she was loved and respected for it. For the first time since Rotfeld’s death, the Golem felt something like hope.

The ship’s horn sounded, making the air vibrate. The Golem turned to go back down to the hold, and only then did she glimpse the city. It rose, enormous, at the edge of an island. The tall, square buildings seemed to move between each other, dancing in rows as the ship drew closer. She glimpsed trees, piers, a harbor alive with smaller craft, tugs and sailboats that skimmed the water like insects. There was a long gray bridge that hung in a net of lines, stretching east to another shore. She wondered if they would go under it; but instead the great ship turned westward and pulled in closer to the docks. The sea became a narrow river.

Men in uniform walked up and down the foredeck, shouting. Go collect your belongings, they said. We’ll dock soon at New York, and you’ll be taken to Ellis Island by ferry. Your luggage in the hold will be delivered to you there. Not until she’d heard these messages repeated half a dozen times did the Golem realize that the men were speaking in different languages, and that she understood every single one of them.

Within minutes the deck had been cleared of passengers. She moved into the shadow of the wheelhouse, and tried to think. She had no possessions save the coat she’d been given; its dark wool was growing warm in the sunlight. She felt inside the pocket and found the little leather satchel. There was that, at least.

A trickle of passengers reemerged from the stairway, and then a general flood, all dressed for travel and carrying their bags and suitcases. The uniformed men began to shout again: Form an orderly line. Be ready to give us your name and nationality. No pushing. No crowding. Mind your children. The Golem stood apart, unsure. Should she join them? Find somewhere to hide? Their minds clamored at her, all wanting only a speedy trip through Ellis Island and a clean bill of health from the inspectors.

One of the uniformed men saw the Golem standing alone and hesitant, and walked toward her. A passenger intercepted him, put a hand to his shoulder, and began to talk in his ear. It was the doctor from steerage. The ship’s man was carrying a sheaf of papers, and he flipped through them, searching. He frowned and stepped away from the doctor, who melted back into line.

“Ma’am,” the officer called, looking straight at the Golem. “Come here, please.” All around them went quiet as the Golem approached. “You’re the one whose husband died, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“My condolences, ma’am. It’s probably just an oversight, but you don’t seem to be on the manifest. May I see your ticket?”

Her ticket? She had none, of course. She could lie, and say she’d lost it, but she’d never lied before and didn’t trust herself to do it well. She realized that her only options were to remain silent, or to tell the truth.

“I don’t have a ticket,” she said, and smiled, hoping that would help.

The officer sighed wearily and placed a hand around the Golem’s arm, as though to prevent her from running away. “You’ll have to come with me, ma’am.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’re going to sit in the brig until we get the passengers sorted, and then we’ll ask you a few questions.”

What should she do? There was no way to answer their questions without exposing herself. Already everyone was staring. Alarmed, she turned in the man’s insistent grip, looking for some sort of escape. They were still under way, fording the middle of the river, smaller ships gliding to either side. Beyond the busy piers, the city gleamed invitingly.

The officer gripped her arm harder. “Ma’am. Don’t make me force you.”

But he didn’t want to force her, she saw. He didn’t want to deal with her at all. More than anything, the officer wished she would just disappear.

The edge of a smile lifted the Golem’s mouth. Here, finally, was a desire she could gratify.

With a flick of her elbow, she broke from the startled officer and ran to the railing. Before anyone could even shout out, she vaulted the edge, arced out into the shimmering Hudson, and sank like a stone.

A few hours later, a stevedore smoking a cigarette on the corner of West and Gansevoort saw a woman walk past from the direction of the river. She was soaking wet. She wore a man’s woolen jacket and a brown dress that clung immodestly to her body. Her hair was plastered to her neck. Most astonishing was the thick, brackish mud that covered her skirt and shoes.

“Hey, miss,” he called out to her, “you go for a swim?”

The woman gave him a strange smile as she went by. “No,” she said. “I walked.”

2.

In the neighborhood of Lower Manhattan called Little Syria, not far from where the Golem came ashore, there lived a tinsmith by the name of Boutros Arbeely. Arbeely was a Maronite Catholic who’d grown up in the bustling village of Zahleh, which lay in the valley below Mount Lebanon. He had come to adulthood at a time when it seemed every man under the age of thirty was leaving Greater Syria to seek his fortune in America. Some were spurred on by missionaries’ tales, or by relatives who’d made the journey and whose letters home now arrived thick with banknotes. Others saw a chance to elude the army conscription and punishing taxes demanded by their Turkish rulers. In all, so many left that in some villages the markets fell silent, and the grapes on the hillsides were left to burst on the vines.

Arbeely’s late father had come from a family of five brothers, and over the generations their land had been divided and redivided until each brother’s parcel was so small it was hardly worth the effort of planting. Arbeely himself made barely a pittance as a tinsmith’s apprentice. His mother and sisters kept silkworms to bring in extra money, but still it wasn’t enough. In the general rush to America, Arbeely saw his chance. He bid his family farewell and boarded a steamship bound for New York, and soon had rented a small smithing shop on Washington Street, at the heart of the growing Syrian neighborhood.

Arbeely was a good and conscientious worker, and even in New York’s crowded marketplace his goods stood out as quality for the price. He made cups and plates, pots and pans, household tools, thimbles, candlesticks. Occasionally a neighbor would bring him something to repair, a damaged pot or a twisted door hinge, and he would return it in better shape than when it was new.

That summer Arbeely received an interesting request. A woman named Maryam Faddoul came to the shop with an old, battered, yet rather lovely copper flask. The flask had been in Maryam’s family as long as she could remember; her mother, who’d used it for olive oil, had given it to Maryam when she’d sailed to America. “So you’ll always have a piece of home with you,” her mother had said.

With her husband Sayeed, Maryam had opened a coffeehouse on Washington Street, which quickly became a thriving hub of the neighborhood. One afternoon, while surveying her bustling kitchen, Maryam decided that the flask, while still beloved, had grown a bit too pockmarked and worn. Would it be possible, she asked Arbeely, to repair a few of the dents? And perhaps restore the polish?

Alone in his shop, Arbeely examined the flask. It was about nine inches high, with a round, bulbous body that tapered to a thin neck. Its maker had decorated it with a very precise and detailed band of scrollwork. Instead of the usual repeating pattern, the loops and whorls threaded through their neighbors seemingly at random, before joining up with themselves again.

Arbeely turned the flask around in his hands, fascinated. Clearly it was old, older perhaps than Maryam or her mother knew. Copper was rarely used on its own anymore, owing to its softness; brass and tin were much more durable and easier to work. In fact, given its likely age, the flask didn’t seem as battered as perhaps it should have been. There was no way to determine its provenance, for it had no forger’s stamp on its bottom, no identifying mark of any kind.

He examined the deep dents in the scrollwork, and realized that correcting them would lead to visible seams between the new work and the old. Better, he decided, to smooth out the copper, repair the flask, and then rework the entire design.

He wrapped a sheet of thin vellum around the base, found a stick of charcoal, and took a rubbing of the scrollwork, careful to catch every mark of the maker’s awl. Then he secured the flask in a vise, and fetched his smallest soldering iron from the fire.

As he stood there, his iron poised above the flask, a strange feeling of foreboding stole over him. His arms and back turned to gooseflesh. Shivering, he put down the iron, and took a deep breath. What could possibly be bothering him? It was a warm day, and he’d eaten a hearty breakfast. He was healthy, and business was good. He shook his head, took up the iron again, and touched it to the scrollwork, erasing one of the loops.

A powerful jolt blasted him off his feet, as though he’d been struck by lightning. He flew through the air and landed in a heap beside a worktable. Stunned, ears ringing, he turned over and looked around.

There was a naked man lying on the floor of his shop.

As Arbeely stared in amazement, the man drew himself to sitting and pressed his hands to his face. Then he dropped his hands and gazed around, eyes wide and burning. He looked as though he’d been chained for years in the world’s deepest, darkest dungeon, and then hauled roughly into the light.

The man staggered to his feet. He was tall and well built, with handsome features. Too handsome, in fact—his face had an eerie flawlessness, like a painting come to life. His dark hair was cropped short. He seemed unconscious of his nakedness.

On the man’s right wrist was a wide metal cuff. The man appeared to notice it at the same time as Arbeely. He held up his arm and stared at it, horrified. “Iron,” he said. And then, “But that’s impossible.”

Finally the man’s glance caught Arbeely, who still crouched next to the table, not even daring to breathe.

With a sudden terrible grace, the man swooped down upon Arbeely, grabbed him around the neck, and lifted him clean off the floor. A dark red haze filled Arbeely’s sight. He felt his head brush the ceiling.

“Where is he?” the man shouted.

“Who?” wheezed Arbeely.

“The wizard!”

Arbeely tried to speak but could only gargle. Snarling, the naked man threw him back to the ground. Arbeely gasped for air. He looked around for a weapon, anything, and saw the soldering iron lying in a pile of rags, gently smoldering. He grabbed its handle, and lunged.

A blur of movement—and then Arbeely was stretched out on the floor again, this time with the iron’s curved handle pressed at the hollow of his throat. The man knelt over him, holding the iron by its red-hot tip. There was no smell of burning flesh. The man didn’t so much as flinch. And as Arbeely stared aghast into that too-perfect face, he could feel the cool handle at his throat turn warm, and then hot, and then hotter still—as though the man were heating it somehow.

This, Arbeely thought, is very, very impossible.

“Tell me where the wizard is,” the man said, “so I can kill him.”

Arbeely gaped at him.

“He trapped me in human form! Tell me where he is!”

The tinsmith’s mind began to race. He looked down at the soldering iron, and remembered that strange foreboding he’d felt before he touched it to the flask. He recalled his grandmother’s stories of flasks and oil lamps, all with creatures trapped inside.

No. It was ludicrous. Such things were only stories. But then, the only alternative was to conclude that he’d gone mad.

“Sir,” he whispered, “are you a djinni?”

The man’s mouth tightened, and his gaze turned wary. But he didn’t laugh at Arbeely, or call him insane.

“You are,” Arbeely said. “Dear God, you are.” He swallowed, wincing against the touch of the soldering iron. “Please. I don’t know this wizard, whoever he is. In fact, I’m not sure there are any wizards left at all.” He paused. “You may have been inside that flask for a very long time.”

The man seemed to take this in. Slowly the metal moved away from the tinsmith’s neck. The man stood and turned about, as though seeing the workshop for the first time. Through the high window came the noises of the street: of horse-drawn carts, and the shouts of the paperboys. On the Hudson, a steamship horn sounded long and low.

“Where am I?” the man asked.

“You’re in my shop,” Arbeely said. “In New York City.” He was trying to speak calmly. “In a place called America.”

The man walked over to Arbeely’s workbench and picked up one of the tinsmith’s long, thin irons. He gripped it with a look of horrified fascination.

“It’s real,” the man said. “This is all real.”

“Yes,” Arbeely said. “I’m afraid it is.”

The man put down the iron. Muscles in his jaw spasmed. He seemed to be readying himself for the worst.

“Show me,” he said finally.

Barefoot, clad only in an old work shirt of Arbeely’s and a pair of dungarees, the Djinni stood at the railing at Castle Gardens, at the southern tip of Manhattan, and stared out across the bay. Arbeely stood nearby, perhaps afraid to draw too close. The shirt and dungarees had come from a pile of old rags in the corner of Arbeely’s workshop. The dungarees were solder-stained, and there were holes burned into the shirtsleeves. Arbeely had had to show him how to do up the buttons.

The Djinni leaned against the railing, transfixed by the view. He was a creature of the desert, and never in his life had he come so close to this much water. It lapped at the stone below his feet, reaching now higher, now lower. Muted colors floated on its surface, the afternoon sunlight reflecting in the ever-changing dips of the waves. Still it was hard to believe that this was not some expert illusion, intended to befuddle him. At any moment he expected the city and water to dissolve, to be replaced by the familiar steppes and plateaus of the Syrian Desert, his home for close to two hundred years. And yet the moments ticked away, and New York Harbor remained stubbornly intact.

How, he wondered, had he come to this place?

The Syrian Desert is neither the harshest nor the most barren of the Arabian deserts, but it is nevertheless a forbidding place for those who do not know its secrets. It was here that the Djinni was born, in what men would later call the seventh century.

Of the many types of djinn—they are a highly diverse race, with many different forms and abilities—he was one of the most powerful and intelligent. His true form was insubstantial as a wisp of air, and invisible to the human eye. When in this form, he could summon winds, and ride them across the desert. But he could also take on the shape of any animal, and become as solid as if he were made of muscle and bone. He would see with that animal’s eyes, feel with that animal’s skin—but his true nature was always that of the djinn, who were creatures of fire, in the same manner that humans are said to be creatures of earth. And like all his brethren djinn, from the loathsome, flesh-eating ghuls to the tricksterish ifrits, he never stayed in any one shape for very long.

The djinn tend to be solitary creatures, and this one was more so than most. In his younger years, he’d participated in the haphazard rituals and airborne skirmishes of what could loosely be called djinn society. Some minor slight or squabble would be seized upon, and hundreds of djinn would summon the winds and ride them into battle, clan against clan. The gigantic whirlwinds they caused would fill the air with sand, and the other denizens of the desert would take shelter in caves and the shadows of boulders, waiting for the storm to pass.

But as he matured, the Djinni grew dissatisfied with these diversions, and took to wandering the desert alone. He was inquisitive by nature—though no one thing could hold his attention for long—and rode the winds as far west as the Libyan Desert, and east to the plains of Isfahan. In doing so, he took more of a risk than was sensible. Even in the driest desert a rainstorm could strike with little warning, and a Djinni caught in the rain was in mortal danger. For no matter what shape a Djinni might assume, be it human or animal or its own true shape of no shape at all, it was still a living spark of fire, and could easily be extinguished.

But whether luck or skill guided his path, the Djinni was never caught out and roamed wherever he would. He used these trips as opportunities to search for veins of silver and gold, for the djinn are natural metalsmiths, and this one was unusually adept. He could work the metals into strands no thicker than a hair, or into sheets, or twisted ropes. The only metal he could not touch was iron: for like all his kind, he held a powerful dread of iron, and shied away from rocks veined with ore in the way a man might recoil from a poisonous snake.

One can wander far and wide in the desert without spying another creature of intelligence. But the djinn were far from alone, for they had dwelt as neighbors with humans for many thousands of years. There were the Bedouin, the roving tribes of herdsmen who scratched out their perilous existence on what the desert had to offer. And there were also the human cities far to the east and west, which grew larger every year, and sent their caravans through the desert between them. But neighbors though they were, both humans and djinn harbored a deep distrust of each other. Humankind’s fear was perhaps more acute, for the djinn had the advantage of invisibility or disguise. Certain wells and caves and rock-strewn passes were considered habitations of the djinn, and to trespass was to invite calamity. Bedouin women pinned amulets of iron beads to their babies’ clothing, to repel any djinn that might try to possess them, or carry them away and turn them to changelings. It was said among the human storytellers that there had once been wizards, men of great and dangerous knowledge, who’d learned to command and control the djinn, and trap them in lamps or flasks. These wizards, the storytellers said, had long since passed from existence, and only the faintest shadows of their powers remained.

But the lives of the djinn were very long—a djinni’s lifespan might last eight or nine times the length of a human’s—and their memories of the wizards had not yet faded to legend. The elder djinn warned against encounters with humans, and called them conniving and perfidious. The wizards’ lost knowledge, they said, might be found again. It was best to be cautious. And so interactions between the two races mostly were kept to the occasional encounter, usually provoked by the lesser djinn, the ghuls and ifrits who could not keep themselves from mischief.

When young, the Djinni had listened to the elders’ warnings and taken heed. In his travels he’d avoided the Bedouin, and steered clear of the caravans that moved slowly across the landscape, bound for the markets of Syria and Jazira, Iraq and Isfahan. But it was perhaps inevitable that one day he should spy upon the horizon a column of some twenty or thirty men, their camels loaded with precious goods, and think, why should he not investigate? The djinn of old had been incautious and foolhardy in allowing themselves to be captured, but he was neither. No harm would come from merely observing.

He approached the caravan slowly and fell in behind at a safe distance, matching their pace. The men wore long, loose robes of many layers, all dusty with travel, and covered their heads with checked cloth against the sun. Snatches of their conversations carried to the Djinni on the wind: the time to their next destination, or the likelihood of bandits. He heard the weariness in their voices, saw the fatigue that hunched their backs. These were no wizards! If they’d had any powers they would magic themselves across the desert, and save themselves this endless plodding.

After a few hours the sun began to lower, and the caravan passed into an unfamiliar part of the desert. The Djinni remembered his caution, and turned back toward safer ground. But this glimpse of humankind had only inflamed his curiosity. He began to watch for the caravans, and followed them more and more often, though always at a distance; for if he drew too close, the animals would grow nervous and skittish, and even the men would feel him as a wind at their backs. At night, when they came to rest at an oasis or caravanserai, the Djinni would listen to them talk. Sometimes they spoke of the distances they had to travel, their pains and worries and woes. Other times they spoke of their childhoods, and the fireside tales their mothers and aunts and grandmothers had told them. They exchanged well-worn stories, boasts of their own or of the warriors of ages past, kings and caliphs and wazirs. They all knew the stories by heart, though they never told them the same way twice and quibbled happily over the details. The Djinni was especially fascinated at any mention of the djinn, as when the men told tales of Sulayman, the human ruler who seven hundred years before had yoked the djinn to his rule, the first and last of the human kings to do so.

The Djinni watched, and listened, and decided they were a fascinating paradox. What drove these short-lived creatures to be so oddly self-destructive, with their punishing journeys and brutal battles? And how, at barely eighteen or twenty years of age, could they grow to be so intelligent and cunning? They spoke of amazing accomplishments, in cities such as ash-Sham and al-Quds: sprawling markets and new mosques, wondrous buildings such as the world had never seen. Djinn-kind, who did not like to be enclosed, had never attempted anything to compare; at most the homes of the djinn were bare shelters against the rain. But the Djinni grew intrigued by the idea. And so he selected a spot in a valley and, when he was not chasing caravans, began to build himself a palace. He heated and shaped the desert sands into curving sheets of opaque blue-green glass, forming walls and staircases, floors and balconies. Around the walls he wove a filigree of silver and gold, so that the palace appeared to be netted inside a shining web. He spent months making and unmaking it according to his whim, and twice razed it to the ground in frustration. Even when whole and habitable, the palace was never truly finished. Some rooms sat open to the stars, their ceilings confiscated to serve as floors elsewhere. The web of filigree grew as he found veins of metal in the desert rocks, and then all but vanished when he ransacked it to gild an entire hall. Like himself, the palace was usually invisible to other beings; but the men of the desert would sometimes glimpse it from a distance, as the last rays of the evening sun struck it and set it ablaze. Then they would turn, and spur their horses faster—and not until many miles had passed, and they were safe within sight of their own cooking fires, would they dare to look back again.

The shadows were growing longer at Castle Gardens, yet still the Djinni could not tear his eyes from the harbor. Once, when quite young, he’d come across a small pool in an oasis. In the manner of youth everywhere determined to test their limits, he took on the shape of a jackal, waded into the pool up to his haunches, and stood there as long as he dared, the chill seeping up through his paws and into his limbs. Only when he thought his legs might collapse did he leap back out again. It was the closest he’d ever come to death. And that had only been a very small pool.

It would take almost no effort to vault the railing, to fall or leap in. Only a minute or two of immersion, and he would be extinguished.

Nauseated, he dragged his eyes away. Steamers and tugboats chugged by, leaving their spreading wakes behind. At the horizon, the fading light picked out an undulating line of land. On an island in the middle distance there stood an enormous statue in the shape of a woman, made of what looked to be some greenish metal. The scale of the statue was boggling. How many rocks must have been melted, how much raw metal collected, to create her? And how did she not break through the thin disk of land, and fall into the sea?

According to Arbeely, this bay was only the smallest part of an ocean whose vastness defied comprehension. Even in his native form he could never have hoped to cross it—and now that native form was lost to him. He’d examined the iron cuff thoroughly, hoping to find some overlooked weakness, but there was none. Wide but thin, it fit close to his wrist, and was hinged on one side. The setting sunlight gave a dull sheen to the clasp with its pin. He couldn’t budge the pin, no matter how hard he pulled. And he knew, without even trying, that Arbeely’s tools would be no match for it.

He closed his eyes and attempted for the hundredth time to change form, straining against the cuff’s enchantment. But it was as though the ability had never existed. And even more astonishing, he had no recollection of how it had come to be on his wrist.

Along with their longevity, the djinn were blessed with prodigious, near-eidetic memories, and the Djinni was no exception. To him, a human’s powers of recollection would seem only a dubious patchwork of images. But the days—weeks? longer?—that preceded capture, and the event itself, were concealed from his mind by a thick haze.

His last clear memory was of returning to his palace after tracking an especially large caravan, with close to a hundred men and three hundred camels. He’d followed them eastward for two days, listening to their conversations, slowly getting to know them as individuals. One camel driver, a thin, older man, liked to sing quietly to himself. The songs told of brave Bedouin men on swift horses, and the virtuous women who loved them; but the man’s voice carried a sadness even when the words did not. Two guards had discussed a new mosque in the city of ash-Sham, called the Grand Mosque, apparently an immense building of stunning beauty. Another young guard was soon to marry, and the others all took turns joking at his expense, telling him not to worry, they would hide outside his tent on his wedding night, and whisper what to do. The young guard retorted by asking why he should trust their advice on women; and his tormentors responded with fantastic tales of their own sexual prowess that had the entire company howling with laughter.

He’d followed them until at last on the horizon he spied a low band of green. It was the Ghouta, the oasis fed by the river that bordered ash-Sham. Reluctantly he’d slowed his pace and watched until the caravan became a thin wedge on the horizon, a spear-point piercing the Ghouta. The green belt might appear benign, but even the Djinni was not so rash as to travel into it. He was a djinn of the desert, and in the Ghouta’s lush fields he would be out of his element. There were stories of creatures there that didn’t take kindly to wayward djinn, and would trick them into the river, holding them under until they were extinguished. He decided to exercise caution for once and return home.

The journey back had been long, and by the time he reached his palace a strange loneliness had settled over him. Perhaps it had to do with the caravan. He’d grown used to their conversation, their songs and stories; but he had no part in them, he merely overheard. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d sought out his own kind. He decided he would leave off chasing caravans, and go to the habitations of his clan, and dwell among them for a time. Perhaps he’d even seek out female companionship, a djinniyeh who might desire his attentions. He’d arrived at his palace at sunset, making plans to leave again in the morning—and there his memories ended.

After that, only two images penetrated the haze. In the first, a man’s brown, gnarled hands clamped the iron cuff across his wrist, and with this image came the impression of searing cold and bottomless fear, a djinn’s natural reaction to iron—but how, he wondered, did he not feel it now? And then, the second image: a man’s leathered face, lips cracked and grinning, the bulging yellow eyes glowing in triumph. Wizard, the memory told him. But that was all; and in the next instant he was sprawled, naked and bound, on the floor of Arbeely’s shop.

Except that it had not been only an instant. Apparently he’d been trapped in the flask for over a thousand years.

It was Arbeely who’d managed to calculate that figure, while searching for clothes for his naked guest. He’d pressed the Djinni for anything he could remember from the world of men, something that might narrow down the year of his capture. After a few false starts, the Djinni had recalled the caravan guards talking of the Grand Mosque, the new building in ash-Sham. “They’d said that inside the mosque was the head of a man, but not his body,” he said. “It made no sense to me. I might have misunderstood.”

But Arbeely assured the Djinni that he’d heard correctly. The head belonged to a man called John the Baptist, and the mosque was now known as the Umayyad Mosque—and it had stood in the city of ash-Sham for over a thousand years.

It didn’t seem possible. How could he have been trapped for that long? Rare was the djinn that lived more than eight hundred years, and he himself had been nearing two hundred when he began to chase the caravans. But not only was he still alive, he felt no older than before. It was as though the flask had not only contained his body, but also paused him in time. He supposed that this way, a wizard could extend the usefulness of his captive for as long as possible.

The flask now sat on a shelf in Arbeely’s shop. Like the iron cuff, it revealed nothing of its maker. Arbeely had shown him the partially erased pattern of scrollwork around its base—apparently a sort of magical stopper that had kept him sealed inside. But how did you fit in there with the olive oil? Arbeely had asked, a puzzle not nearly as interesting to the Djinni as how he’d allowed himself to be captured and bound to human form in the first place. Perhaps the wizard had followed him to the djinn habitations, or laid some sort of trap. He wondered if the wizard had treated him like one of Sulayman’s slaves, forcing him to build pleasure palaces and slaughter enemies at his command. Or had the wizard simply cast him aside, like an enticing trinket that, once acquired, loses its appeal?

Of course, the man would be dead by now. The wizards of legend had been powerful indeed, but still mortal. The yellow-eyed man had long since gone to dust. And whatever enchantment he’d placed upon the Djinni, his death had not lifted it. The thought came, crawling, hideous: he might be trapped like this forever.

No. He pushed the thought away. He would not accept defeat so easily.

He looked down at the iron railing, then gripped it with both hands, concentrating. He was near exhaustion; the confinement in the flask had apparently destroyed his strength—but even so, within a few moments the metal was glowing a dull red. He tightened his grip and then let go, leaving behind an outline of his fingers pressed into the railing. No, he wasn’t helpless. He was still a djinn, one of the most powerful of his kind. And there were always ways.

He was beginning to shiver, but he ignored it. Instead he turned and gazed up at the city that rose from the water’s edge, the enormous square buildings that reached far into the heavens, their windows set with perfect panes of glass. As fantastical as cities like ash-Sham and al-Quds had seemed from the caravan men’s tales, the Djinni doubted that they’d been half so wondrous or terrifying as this New York. If he must be marooned in an unknown land, surrounded by a deadly ocean, and constrained to one weak and imperfect form, at least he’d ended up somewhere worth exploring.

Arbeely stood a few feet away, watching the glow of the iron railing fade beneath the Djinni’s hands. It still seemed impossible that this could be happening while the rest of the city went about its business, unchanged and unknowing. He wanted to grab the nearest passerby and shout: Look at this man! He isn’t a man at all! See what he’s done to the railing! He supposed that if he wanted to be hauled off to the lunatic asylum, there were worse ways to go about it.

He looked out across the bay, trying to see it through the Djinni’s eyes. He wondered how he himself would feel, to wake up and discover that over a thousand years had passed. It would be enough to drive anyone mad. But the Djinni only stood straight-backed and grim, staring at the water. He didn’t look like a man about to run amok. The dirty, too-small clothes he wore clashed ludicrously with his figure and features, hanging from him as though in apology. He turned his back to the water and gazed at the buildings massed at the park’s edge. It was only then that Arbeely noticed that the Djinni was shaking from head to toe.

The Djinni took a step from the railing. His knees buckled, and he fell.

Arbeely lunged and caught him before he hit the ground, and hoisted him to his feet. “Are you ill?”

“No,” the Djinni muttered. “Cold.”

They made their way back to the shop, Arbeely half-supporting, half-carrying his new acquaintance. Once inside, the Djinni stumbled to the banked forge and collapsed, leaning against its scorching side. The borrowed work shirt smoldered where it touched the metal, but he didn’t seem to notice. He closed his eyes. After a while his shaking stopped, and Arbeely decided he’d fallen asleep.

The man sighed and looked about. There was the copper flask, sitting on the shelf, but he didn’t want to think about it for the moment. He needed an easy task, something quiet and calming. He found a teakettle with a hole in the bottom, brought to him by a local restaurant owner. Perfect: he could patch a teakettle in his sleep. He cut a patch from a sheet of tin plate, heated both kettle and patch, and set to work.

Occasionally he glanced at his guest, and wondered what would happen when he woke. Even silent and unmoving, the Djinni carried a strange air about him—as though he were not quite real, or else the only real thing in the room. Arbeely supposed that others would sense it as well, but he doubted they’d ever guess at its meaning. The young mothers of Little Syria still tied iron beads around their babies’ wrists and made gestures to ward off the Evil Eye, but out of tradition and fond superstition more than true fear. This new world was far removed from the tales of their grandmothers—or at least so they’d thought.

Not for the first time he wished he had a confidant, someone with whom he could share even the most outrageous secret. But in the tightly knit community, Boutros Arbeely was something of an outsider, even a recluse, happiest at his forge. He was terrible at idle chitchat, and at wedding banquets could be found sitting alone at a table, examining the stamp-marks on the cutlery. His neighbors greeted him warmly on the street, but never lingered long to talk. He had many acquaintances, but few close friends.

It had been no different in Zahleh. In a family of women he’d been the silent, dreaming boy-child. He’d discovered smithing by lucky accident. Sent to run an errand, he’d stopped in front of the local forge and watched, fascinated, as a sweating man hammered a sheet of metal until it became a bucket. It was the transformation that enthralled him: useless to useful, nothing to something. He returned over and over to watch until the smith, exasperated with being spied upon, offered to take on the boy as an apprentice. And so smithing came to fill Arbeely’s life, to the near exclusion of all else; and though he supposed in a vague way that someday he’d find a wife and start a family, he was content with things as they were.

But now, glancing at his guest’s prone form, he felt a premonition of lasting change. It was the same as when he’d been seven years old and heard his mother’s rising wail through the open window as she learned of her husband’s death, killed by bandits on the road from Beirut. Now as then, he sensed the threads of his life scattering and rearranging before this new and overwhelming thing that had landed among them.

“What is that you’re doing?”

Arbeely jumped. The Djinni hadn’t moved, but his eyes were open; Arbeely wondered how long he’d been watching. “I’m patching a teakettle,” he said. “Its owner left it on the stove too long.”

The Djinni inclined his head toward the kettle. “And what metal is that?”

“It’s two metals,” said Arbeely. “Steel, dipped in tin.” He found a scrap on the table and held it out to the Djinni, pointing out the layers with his fingernail. “Tin, steel, tin. You see? The tin is too soft to use on its own, and with steel there’s the problem of rust. But together like this, they’re very strong, and versatile.”

“I see. Ingenious.” He sat up straighter, and held out his hand to the teakettle. “May I?” Arbeely handed him the kettle, and the Djinni peered at it, turning it over in his now-steady hands. “I assume the difficulty lies in thinning the edges of the patch without exposing the steel.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Arbeely, surprised.

The Djinni laid his hand over the patch. After a few moments, he began to carefully rub the patch around its edges. Arbeely watched, dumbfounded, as the outline of the patch disappeared.

The Djinni handed the teakettle back to Arbeely. It was as though the hole had never been.

“I have a proposition for you,” said the Djinni.

Spring rains can come on suddenly in the desert. On the morning after the Djinni returned from following the caravan to the Ghouta, the skies clouded over, releasing first a thin patter of raindrops, and then a respectable downpour. The dry riverbeds and gullies began to run with water. The Djinni watched the rain sluice down the walls and crenellations of his palace, irritated at the inconvenience. He had planned to depart for the djinn habitations at first light, but now he would have to wait.

And so he roamed his glass halls, examining the metalwork and making idle changes here and there to pass the time. His thoughts returned to the men of the caravan, their conversations and jests. He remembered the old man’s songs about the Bedouin, and wondered if the men in them had truly been so brave, the women so beautiful. Or were they only invented legends, the details altered and exaggerated over time?

For three days the rains came and went, three days of infuriating confinement. If the Djinni had been able to go outside, and chase himself to the ends of the earth, then his growing obsession with the world of men might have dissipated, and he might have gone to visit the djinn habitations of his youth, as planned. But when the clouds exhausted themselves and the Djinni at last emerged to a newly washed landscape, he found that all thoughts of returning to his own people had vanished with the rains.

3.

The Golem was not even a few hours in New York before she began to long for the relative calm of the ship. The din of the streets was incredible; the noise in her head was worse. At first it nearly paralyzed her, and she hid under an awning as the desperate thoughts of the pushcart vendors and paperboys rode ahead of their shouting voices: the rent is due, my father will beat me, please somebody buy the cabbages before they spoil. It made her want to slap her hands over her ears. If she’d had any money, she would’ve given it all away, just to quiet the noise.

Passersby glanced her up and down, taking in her staring eyes, the dirty and disheveled dress, the ludicrous men’s coat. The women frowned; some of the men smirked. One man, weaving drunk, grinned at her and approached, his thoughts bleary with lust. To her surprise she realized this was one desire she had no wish to fulfill. Repulsed, she dashed to the other side of the street. A streetcar came rattling around the corner and missed her by a hair. The conductor’s curses trailed her as she hurried away.

She wandered for hours, through streets and alleys, turning corners at random. It was a humid July day, and the city began to stink, a pungent mix of rotting garbage and manure. Her dress had dried, though the river silt still clung to it in flaking sheets. The woolen coat made her even more conspicuous as the rest of the city sweltered. She too was hot, but not uncomfortable—rather, it made her feel loose-limbed and slow, as though she were wading through the river again.

Everything she saw was new and unknown, and there seemed to be no end to it. She was frightened and overwhelmed, but an intense curiosity lay beneath the fear, leading her on. She peered inside a butcher’s shop, trying to make sense of the plucked birds and strings of sausages, the red oblong carcasses that hung from hooks. The butcher saw her and started to come around the counter; she gave him a quick, placating smile, and walked on. The thoughts of passersby flew through her mind, but they led to no answers, only more questions. For one thing, why did everyone need money? And what exactly was money? She’d thought it merely the coins she saw exchanging hands; but it was so ubiquitous in both fear and desire that she decided there was a larger mystery to it, one she had yet to decipher.

She skirted the edge of a fashionable district, and the shop windows began to fill with dresses and shoes, hats and jewelry. In front of a milliner’s she stopped to gaze at an enormous, fantastical hat on a pedestal, its wide band bedecked with netting and fabric rosettes and a gigantic, sweeping ostrich plume. Fascinated, the Golem leaned forward and put one hand on the glass—and the thin pane shattered beneath her touch.

She jumped back as a rain of shards tumbled from the window and scattered onto the sidewalk. In the shop, two well-dressed women stared out at her, hands over their mouths.

“I’m sorry,” the Golem whispered, and ran away.

Afraid now, she hurried through alleys and across busy thoroughfares, trying not to blunder into pedestrians. The neighborhoods shifted around her, changing block to block. Grubby-looking men and indignant shopkeepers shouted at one another, airing grievances in a dozen languages. Children dashed home from shoeshine stands and games of stickball, thinking eagerly of supper.

A sort of mental exhaustion began to set in, dulling her thoughts. She headed eastward, following the tips of the shadows, and found herself in a neighborhood that bustled with less chaos and more purpose. Shopkeepers were rolling up their awnings and locking their doors. Bearded men walked slowly next to each other, talking with intensity. Women stood chatting on corners, string-tied packages in their arms, children pulling at their skirts. The language they spoke was the same one she’d used with Rotfeld, the language she’d known upon waking. After the day’s riot of words, hearing it again was a small, familiar comfort.

She slowed now, and looked around. Next to her a tenement stoop beckoned; she’d seen men and women, young and old, sitting on such stoops all day. She tucked her skirts beneath herself and sat down. The stone was warm through her dress. She watched people’s faces as they came and went. Most were tired and distracted, occupied with their own thoughts. Men began to arrive home from their shifts, exhaustion on their faces and hunger in their bellies. She saw in their minds the meals they were about to tuck into, the thick dark bread spread with schmaltz, the herring and pickles, the mugs of thin beer. She saw their hopes for a cooling breeze, a good night’s sleep.

A loneliness like fatigue pulled at her. She couldn’t sit on the stoop forever, she must move on; but for the moment, it felt easier to stay where she was. She rested her head against the brick of the balustrade. A pair of small brown birds was pecking in the dust at the bottom of the stoop, unconcerned by the tramping feet of passersby. One of the birds fluttered up the steps and landed next to the Golem. It prodded at the stone with its sharp beak, then turned sideways and hopped onto the Golem’s thigh.

She was surprised but managed to hold perfectly still as the bird perched in her lap, bobbing and pecking at the remains of the riverbed silt that still dusted her skirt. Thin, hard feet scratched at her through the fabric. Slowly, very slowly, she extended a hand. The bird hopped onto her palm and stood there, balanced. With her other hand she stroked its back. It sat patiently as she felt its soft sleek feathers, the tiny fluttering heartbeat. She smiled, fascinated. It tilted its head and looked at her with a round unblinking eye, then pecked once at her fingers, as though she were simply another patch of earth. For a moment they regarded each other; and then it gathered itself and flew away.

Startled, she turned to track its path—and saw an elderly man watching her from the shadow of a grocer’s cart. Like her, the man was dressed in a black wool coat despite the heat. A white fringe peeked out from underneath the hem. He wore a white beard, neatly trimmed, and his face beneath his hat was a net of deep lines. He watched her calmly, but the thought she heard was tinged with fear: could she be what I think she is?

Hurriedly the Golem stood and walked away, not looking back. Ahead of her was a crowd of men and women, passengers from the Second Avenue Elevated. She tried to lose herself among them, following the main part of the crowd as small groups splintered away at corners and doorways. At last she ducked into an alleyway, then dared to look out. The man in the black coat was nowhere to be seen.

Relieved, she emerged from the alley and continued east. Now the air smelled of the sea again, of salt and coal smoke and engine grease. The shops were mostly closed, and the pushcart vendors were packing up their suspenders and cheap trousers, their pots and pans. What would she do once night fell? Find a place to hide, she supposed, and wait for morning.

A stab of reflected hunger struck her. A scrawny, dirt-stained boy was loitering on the sidewalk ahead, eyeing a nearby vendor who stood sweating over his cart. As she watched, a man in shirtsleeves approached the vendor and gave him a coin. The vendor plucked up a sheet of waxed paper, dipped into his cart, and emerged with a doughy disk the size of his fist. The man bit into it as he walked toward the Golem, fanning the steam from his mouth. The boy’s hunger rose, desperate and all-consuming.

If the boy were not starving, if the man had not passed so near—if, most of all, her experiences that day had not drained her so—she might have controlled herself, and walked away. But she was not so lucky. The boy’s visceral plight had transfixed her. Didn’t he need the meal more than the man did?

No sooner had she formed this thought than her hand reached out, plucked the man’s meal from his grasp, and handed it to the boy. In the next moment he was running away down the street, as fast as his legs could carry him.

The man grabbed her arm. “What did you mean by that?” he snarled.

“I’m sorry,” she began, about to explain; but the man was red-faced and furious. “You thief!” he shouted. “You’ll pay for that!”

Others were beginning to notice. An older woman stepped to the man’s side. “I saw the whole thing,” she said, glaring at the Golem. “She stole your knish and gave it to the boy. Well, girl? What do you have to say for yourself?”

She looked around, bewildered. Men and women were forming a crowd around her, eager to see what would happen. “Pay up,” someone called.

“I don’t have any money,” she said.

A hard laugh ran through the crowd. They wanted her to be punished; they wanted her to pay. They were flinging their angry desires at her like stones.

Panic filled her—and then, strangely, it ebbed away. She felt as though time was slowing, stretching. Colors grew sharper, more focused. The low sun seemed bright as noon. Fetch a policeman, someone called, and the words were slurred, elongated. She closed her eyes, feeling as though she were on the edge of an abyss, teetering, about to fall.

“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice.

Instantly the crowd’s attention shifted—and the Golem felt the abyss recede. Relieved, she opened her eyes.

It was the old man in the black coat, the one who’d been watching her. He was coming quickly through the onlookers, concern on his face. “Will this pay for your knish?” he asked, and handed the man a coin. Then, slowly, as though not to startle her, he placed a hand on the Golem’s arm. “Come with me, my dear,” he said. His voice was quiet, but firm.

Did she have a choice? It was either he, or the crowd. Slowly she stepped toward the old man, away from her accuser, who stood frowning at the coin.

“But this is too much,” her accuser said.

“Then do something good with the rest,” replied the old man.

The crowd began to disperse, some clearly feeling they’d been robbed of entertainment. Soon it was just the two of them, together on the sidewalk.

He regarded her again as he had in the cart’s shadow. Then he leaned forward, and seemed to sniff the air around her. “As I thought,” he said, a touch regretful. “You’re a golem.”

Shocked, she took a step back, ready to run. “No, please,” he said. “You must come with me, you can’t be wandering the streets like this. You’ll be discovered.”

Should she try to lose him again? But then, he had just saved her; and he seemed neither angry nor accusatory, only concerned. “Where will you take me?” she asked.

“My home. It’s not far from here.”

She didn’t know if she could trust him—but he was right, she couldn’t keep wandering forever. She decided she must trust him. She must trust someone.

“All right,” she said.

They began to walk back the way she had come. “Now tell me,” the old man said, “where is your master?”

“He died at sea, two days ago. We were crossing from Danzig.”

The man shook his head. “How unfortunate,” he said. Whether he referred to Rotfeld’s death, or the larger situation, she wasn’t certain. “Is that where you lived, before this?”

“No, I wasn’t alive,” she said. “My master didn’t wake me until the crossing, just before he died.”

That surprised him. “You mean to say you’re only two days old? Extraordinary.” He rounded a corner, and the Golem followed. “And how did you make it through Ellis Island, on your own?”

“I was never there. An officer on the ship tried to question me, because I had no ticket. So I jumped into the river instead.”

“That showed quick thinking on your part.”

“I didn’t want to be discovered,” she said.

“Just so.”

They walked on, back the way the Golem had come. The sun had long since ducked behind the buildings, but the sky still shone, brassy and thick with the day’s heat. Children began to emerge from the tenements again, looking for one last adventure before bedtime.

The man was quiet as they walked. She realized she didn’t even know his name, but she hesitated to ask—he was lost in his thoughts. She could feel the questions circling in his mind, all with herself at their heart: what should I do with her? And in one brief flash, she saw an image of herself struck down, turned to a formless heap of dirt and clay in the middle of the street.

She halted, stock-still. But instead of panic, she only felt a deep weariness. Perhaps it would be for the best. She had no place here, no purpose.

He’d noticed she was no longer at his side and doubled back, concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“You know how to destroy me,” she said.

A pause. “Yes,” he said, guarded. “I have that knowledge. Few do, these days. How did you know this?”

“I saw it in your mind,” she said. “You considered it. For a moment, you wanted it.”

Confusion furrowed his brow—and then he laughed, without mirth. “Who made you?” he asked. “Was it your master?”

“No,” she replied. “I don’t know my maker.”

“Whoever it was,” he said, “was brilliant, and reckless, and quite amoral.” He sighed. “You can feel others’ desires?”

“And fears,” she said. “Since my master died.”

“Is that why you stole that knish, for the boy?”

“I didn’t mean to steal,” she said. “He was just … so very hungry.”

“It overwhelmed you,” he said, and she nodded. “We’ll have to address that. Perhaps with training … Well, that can wait, for now. We must deal with more practical matters first, such as finding you clothing.”

“Then—you won’t destroy me?”

He shook his head. “A man might desire something for a moment, while a larger part of him rejects it. You’ll need to learn to judge people by their actions, not their thoughts.”

A moment’s hesitation; and then she said, “You’re the only one to speak kindly to me since my master died. If you think it best to destroy me, I’ll abide by that decision.”

Now he looked shocked. “Have your few days been so difficult? Yes, I see they must have been.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder; his eyes were dark but kind. “I’m Rabbi Avram Meyer,” he said. “If you’ll allow it, I will take you under my protection, and be your guardian. I’ll give you a home, and whatever guidance I can, and together we’ll decide what course is best. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” she said, relieved.

“Good.” He smiled. “Now, come with me. We’re almost there.”

Rabbi Meyer’s building was a tenement like all the others, its hard facade stained with dirt and smoke. The lobby was dark and close, but well kept; the stairs creaked with protest beneath their feet. The Golem noticed that her companion’s breathing grew labored as they ascended.

The Rabbi’s rooms were on the fourth floor. A narrow entryway led to a cramped kitchen with a deep sink, a stove, and an icebox. Socks and underclothes hung above the sink, drying. More laundry sat in piles on the floor. Dirty dishes lay jumbled together on top of the stove.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” said the Rabbi, embarrassed.

The bedroom was large enough only for its bed and a wardrobe. Beyond the kitchen was a small parlor, with a deep, worn sofa of green velvet set beneath a large window. Next to it was a small wooden table, with two chairs. A large collection of books lined one side of the room, their spines cracked and faded. More books were stacked in haphazard piles about the room.

The Rabbi said, “I don’t have much, but it’s enough. Consider this your home, for the time being.”

The Golem stood in the middle of the parlor, not wishing to dirty his sofa with her dress. “Thank you,” she said.

And then, she caught sight of the window. The sky was darkening, and the gas lamps in the parlor were bright enough to create a reflection. She saw the image of a woman, superimposed against the neighboring building. One hand fluttered up slightly from her side, then lowered; the woman in the window did the same. She stepped closer, fascinated.

“Ah,” said the Rabbi quietly. “You haven’t seen yourself yet.”

She studied her own face, then ran a hand through her hair, felt the thin strands stiff with river water. She gave it an experimental tug. Would it grow, or remain forever the same length? She ran her tongue over her teeth, then held out her hands. Her nails were short and square. The nail on the left index finger had been set a bit off center. She wondered if anyone beside herself would ever notice.

The Rabbi watched her examine herself. “Your creator was quite gifted,” he said. But he couldn’t keep a hint of disapproval from his tone. She looked back down to her fingertips. Nails, teeth, hair: none of these features were made of clay.

“I hope,” she said, watching her own mouth move, “that no one was harmed in my making.”

The Rabbi smiled sadly. “So do I. But what’s done is done, and you are not to be blamed for your own creation, whatever the circumstances. Now, I must go find you some clean clothes. Stay here, please—I’ll be back shortly.”

Alone, she watched her reflection for a little while longer, thinking. What if the Rabbi had not come when he had? What would have happened? She’d been standing inside the angry crowd’s circle, feeling the world fall away, as though she were about to cross a threshold into—what? She didn’t know. But in that moment, she’d felt calm. Peaceful. As though all worries and decisions were about to be lifted from her shoulders. Remembering, she shivered with a fear she didn’t understand.

It was growing late, and most of the shops were closed; but the Rabbi knew that a few would still be open near the Bowery, willing to sell him a woman’s dressing gown and a few pairs of underclothes. He could barely afford the expense: besides his small pension from his former congregation, his only income came from teaching Hebrew to young boys studying to become bar mitzvot. But it must be done. Warily he crossed the raucous thoroughfare, avoiding the paths of drunken men, and the eyes of the women who stood beneath the Elevated, waiting for custom. On Mulberry he found a clothing store still open, and bought a woman’s shirtwaist and skirt, a dressing gown, slips and drawers, and stockings with garters. After a moment’s hesitation, he added a nightgown to the pile. She wouldn’t need it for sleeping, of course, but the selection of women’s things had overwhelmed him; and besides, she couldn’t simply wear a dressing gown with nothing on beneath it. The clerk frowned at his coat and fringe, but took his money quickly enough.

He carried the string-wrapped package back across the Bowery, thinking. It would be difficult, living with someone who sensed one’s desires. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall to chasing his own mind, trapped in the maddening game of don’t think about that. He’d have to be completely honest and unabashed, and hide nothing. It wouldn’t come easy. But any misplaced courtesy would do her a disservice. The larger world would not be so accommodating.

There would be consequences to his actions, to his sheltering of her: he had known this from the moment he’d recognized her nature and decided not to destroy her. Childless, retired, a widower for close to ten years, Rabbi Avram Meyer had planned for himself a quiet old age and an uneventful death. But the Almighty, it seemed, had planned otherwise.

In a nondescript tenement hallway, Boutros Arbeely opened a door and stepped back to allow his guest admittance. “Here it is. My palace. I know it’s not much, but you’re welcome to stay here until you find a place of your own.”

The Djinni gazed inside with alarm. Arbeely’s “palace” was a tiny, dim room barely large enough for a bed, a miniature armoire, and a half-moon table pushed up against a dingy sink. The wallpaper was pulling away from the wall in thick ripples. The floor, at least, was clean, though this was something of a novelty. In honor of his guest, Arbeely had kicked all his laundry into the armoire and leaned against the door until it shut.

Eyeing the room, the Djinni felt a claustrophobia so strong he could barely bring himself to enter. “Arbeely, this room isn’t fit for two inhabitants. It’s barely fit for one.”

They’d been acquainted for little more than a week, but already Arbeely had realized that if their arrangement was to work, he’d have to curb his irritation at the Djinni’s offhand slights. “What more do I need?” he said. “I spend all my time at the forge. When I’m here, I’m asleep.” Gesturing to the walls, he said, “We could string a sheet across, and bring in a cot. So you don’t have to sleep in the shop anymore.”

The Djinni looked at Arbeely as though he’d suggested something insulting. “But I don’t sleep in the shop.”

“Then where have you been sleeping?”

“Arbeely. I don’t sleep.”

Arbeely gaped; for he hadn’t realized. Every evening when he left the shop, the Djinni would still be there, learning to work the delicate tinplate. And each morning, on returning, he’d find the Djinni hard at work again. Arbeely kept a pallet in the back room, for the nights when he was too tired to drag himself to his bed; he’d simply assumed that the Djinni was using it. He said, “You don’t sleep? You mean, not at all?”

“No, and I’m glad of it. Sleep seems like an enormous waste of time.”

“I like sleeping,” Arbeely protested.

“Only because you tire.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not in the way you do.”

“If I didn’t sleep,” Arbeely mused, “I think I’d miss the dreams.” He frowned. “You do know what dreams are, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know what dreams are,” the Djinni said. “I can enter them.”

Arbeely paled. “You can?”

“It’s a rare ability. Only a few clans of the highest djinn possess it.” Again Arbeely noted that casual, matter-of-fact arrogance. “But I can only do so in my true form. So there’s no need to worry, your dreams are safe from me.”

“Well, even so, you’re more than welcome—”

Irritated, the Djinni cut him off. “Arbeely, I don’t want to live here, awake or asleep. For now, I’ll stay in the shop.”

“But you said—” Arbeely paused, not wanting to go on. I’ll go mad if you keep me caged here for much longer, the Djinni had said, and it had stung. Their plan required that the Djinni be kept out of sight until Arbeely had taught him enough to pass as a new apprentice; but this meant that the Djinni was forced to stay hidden in the back of the shop during the day—a space nearly as small as Arbeely’s bedroom. Arbeely understood that the Djinni chafed at the restriction, but he’d been hurt by the implication that he was the Djinni’s jailor.

“I suppose I would feel odd if I had to stay in a room all night and watch a man sleep,” Arbeely conceded.

“Exactly.” The Djinni sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked around once more. “And really, Arbeely, this place is terrible!”

His tone was so plaintive that Arbeely started laughing. “I don’t mind it, really,” he said. “But it isn’t what you’re used to.”

The Djinni shook his head. “None of this is.” Absentmindedly he rubbed the cuff on his wrist. “Imagine,” he said to Arbeely, “that you are asleep, dreaming your human dreams. And then, when you wake, you find yourself in an unknown place. Your hands are bound, and your feet hobbled, and you’re leashed to a stake in the ground. You have no idea who has done this to you, or how. You don’t know if you’ll ever escape. You are an unimaginable distance from home. And then, a strange creature finds you and says, ‘An Arbeely! But I thought Arbeelys were only tales told to children! Quick, you must hide, and pretend to be one of us, for the people here would be frightened of you if they knew.’”

Arbeely frowned. “You think I’m a strange creature?”

“You miss my point entirely.” He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “But yes. I find humans strange creatures.”

“You pity us. In your eyes, we’re bound and hobbled.”

The Djinni thought for a moment. “You move so slowly,” he said.

Silence hung between them; and then the Djinni sighed. “Arbeely, I promised I wouldn’t leave the shop until you felt the time was right, and I’ve kept that promise. But I meant what I said before. If I don’t find some way to regain my freedom, even a degree of it, I believe I’ll go mad.”

“Please,” Arbeely said. “Just a few more days. If this is going to work—”

“Yes,” the Djinni said, “yes, I know.” He stood and walked to the window. “But in all of this, my one consolation is that I’ve landed in a city the likes of which I never could have imagined. And I intend to make the most of it.”

Warnings flooded Arbeely’s mind: the inadvisability of wandering strange streets at night, the gangs and cutthroats, the bawdy houses and stews and opium dens. But the Djinni was looking out the window with an air of hungry longing, across the rooftops to the north. He thought again of the Djinni’s image of himself, bound and hobbled.

“Please,” he only said. “Be careful.”

After the stifling confines of Arbeely’s bedroom, the tinsmith’s shop seemed almost cavernous in comparison. Alone, the Djinni sat at the workbench, measuring out solder and flux. He had to be careful with the solder; his hands were warm enough that it tended to melt if he held it too long. Arbeely had patiently demonstrated how to spread the solder along a joint, but when it came time for the Djinni to try, the solder had run from the plate in a river of droplets. After a few more tries he’d begun to improve, but it strained every ounce of his patience. He longed to simply meld the seams with his fingers, but that would ruin the point of the exercise.

It galled him, though, to curtail the one ability he had left. Never before had he truly appreciated how many of his powers were lost to him outside his native form. If he’d known, he might’ve spent more time exploring them, instead of simply chasing after caravans. The ability to enter dreams, for example, was something he’d barely ever used.

Like all their other attributes, this ability varied wildly among different types of djinn. In the lesser ghuls and the ifrits, it manifested as a crude possession, performed mostly for amusement, trickery, or petty revenge. The possessed human would become little more than a poorly handled puppet until the Djinni grew tired and abandoned the game. Many of the possessed were permanently damaged; some even perished from the shock. In the worst cases, the Djinni would become trapped in the human’s mind. When this happened, it was almost a certainty that both human and Djinni would go insane. If the human was very lucky, a shaman or minor magician might be on hand to drive the possessor from its prey. Once, the Djinni had encountered one of his lesser brethren soon after it had been forced from a human in this way. The burning, twisted thing had been perched on a stunted tree, babbling and howling as the branches smoldered around it. The Djinni had observed it with a mixture of pity and distaste, and avoided the tree by a wide distance.

The Djinni’s own abilities were nothing so blunt as wholesale possession. In his native form he could insinuate himself into a mind painlessly, and observe it without being noticed. But he could only do so when the subject lay in the realm of sleep, its mind open and unguarded. He’d tested this ability only a few times, and only on lesser animals. Snakes, he learned, dreamed in smells and vibrations, their tongues darting to sample the air, their long bodies pressed close to the dirt. Jackals dreamed in yellows and ochers and fragrant reds, reliving their kills as they slept, their limbs and paws churning at the air. After a few such experiments, he’d mostly left off the practice: it was mildly amusing, but it tended to leave him confused and disoriented as he readjusted to his own formless form and regained his sense of self.

He’d never tried to enter a human’s mind. The dreams of men were said to be slippery and dangerous, full of shifting landscapes that could trap a djinni and hold him fast. A wizard, the elders warned, could snare a djinni in his mind, trick it into a dream-labyrinth and force it into servitude. They’d made it seem like a reckless folly even to consider it. Likely they’d overstated the danger, but still he’d refrained, even when the caravan men had collapsed in sleep at the end of a day’s journey.

Would he have risked it, if he’d known the ability would be taken from him? Perhaps; but he doubted he would’ve gained much from the experience. And in a sense, he reflected as he measured out yet more solder, the loss mattered little. He was now spending more than enough time with humans to account for the difference.

In the Syrian Desert, the last of the spring rains soaked into the hillsides. Delicate blossoms unfurled among the rocks and thistles, dotting the valleys with yellow and white.

The Djinni floated above the valley, enjoying the view. The rain had rinsed the dust from his palace, and now every inch sparkled. Had he thought to leave this behind, to go back to the djinn habitations? Whatever for? This was where he belonged: with his palace and his valley, the warm spring sun and the fleeting wildflowers.

But already his mind was racing ahead to his next encounter with humans. There was, he knew, a small encampment of Bedouin nearby. He’d spied their sheep-flocks and their fires from a distance, their men traveling on horseback, but until now he’d avoided them. He wondered, how did their lives differ from those of the caravan-men? Perhaps, instead of finding another caravan to follow, he would turn his wanderings toward their encampment. But should he remain content with observing them from a distance, when a much more intimate option lay available to him?

Movement below him caught his eye. As though drawn by his musings, a young Bedouin girl had appeared on the ridge at the valley’s edge. Alone save for her small flock of goats, she walked the ridge with a sprightly energy to match the freshness of the day.

An impulse struck him. Descending to the parapets of his palace, he reached out and touched the blue-white glass.

The girl on the ridge froze in amazement as, for a moment, the Djinni’s palace appeared sparkling before her eyes.

The Djinni watched the girl sprint excitedly back the way she’d come, driving her goats before her. He smiled, and wondered what a girl such as she might dream about.

4.

Slowly, over days and weeks, the Golem and Rabbi Meyer learned how to live with each other.

It wasn’t easy. The Rabbi’s rooms were small and cramped, and the Rabbi had grown used to his solitude. Not that living cheek by jowl with a stranger was a new experience—when he’d first come to America he’d boarded with a family of five. But he’d been younger then, more adaptable. In recent years, solitude had become his one indulgence.

As he’d predicted, the Golem quickly sensed his discomfort. Soon she developed the habit of positioning herself as far from him as possible, as though trying to leave without leaving. Finally he sat her down and explained that she shouldn’t go elsewhere simply because he was in the room.

“But you want me to,” she said.

“Yes, but against my own will. My better self knows that you may sit or stand wherever you wish. You must learn how to act according to what people say and do, not what they wish or fear. You have an extraordinary window into people’s souls, and you’ll see many ugly and uncomfortable things, much worse than my wishing you to stand somewhere else. You must be prepared for them, and learn when to discount them.”

She listened, and nodded, but it was more difficult for her than he realized. To be in the same room with him, knowing he wanted her elsewhere, was a small torture. Her instinct to be of use tugged at her to leave, to get out of his way. To ignore it was akin to standing in the path of an oncoming streetcar, trying not to move. She would start to fidget, or would break things by accident—the handle of a drawer ripping away as she grasped it, the hem of her skirt tearing as she pulled at the fabric. She’d apologize profusely, and he would tell her it meant little; but his dismay was hard to suppress, and it only made matters worse.

“It would be better if I had something to do,” she said finally.

At once the Rabbi saw his mistake. Without thinking, he’d given the Golem the worst life possible: that of idleness. And so he relented and allowed her to take over the cleaning of the rooms, which until then he’d insisted on doing himself.

The change—both in the Golem, and in the Rabbi’s abode—was instantaneous. With a task to perform, the Golem could lose herself inside it and begin to ignore the distractions. Each morning she would scrub the dishes from breakfast and tea, and then take up the rag and attack the stove, removing a few more layers of the persistent grime that had built up in the years since the Rabbi’s wife had died. Then she’d make the Rabbi’s bed, folding the corners of the sheet tight against the sagging frame. Any dirty clothes in the hamper—save for his undergarments, which he steadfastly refused to let her clean—were carried to the kitchen sink and washed, then hung to dry. The clothes from the day before were taken down and ironed, folded, and put away.

“I can’t help but feel I’m taking advantage of you,” said the chagrined Rabbi, watching her stack his dishes in the cupboard. “And my students will think I’ve hired a maid.”

“But I like doing the work. It makes me feel better. And this way I can repay you for your generosity.”

“I wasn’t looking for payment when I offered to take you in.”

“But I want to give it,” she said, and went on stacking dishes. Eventually the Rabbi decided to reconcile himself to the situation, defeated by necessity and the lure of freshly ironed trousers.

When they spoke to each other, they spoke quietly. The tenement was noisy, even at night, but the walls were thin, and the Rabbi’s neighbors would be all too intrigued by the sound of a young woman’s voice. Fortunately, she had no need to visit the shared water closet in the hall. Once a day she washed herself in the kitchen while the Rabbi sat in his bedroom or at the table in the front room, occupying his mind with study and prayer.

It was hardest when one of the Rabbi’s students would come over for his lesson. A few minutes beforehand, the Golem would go to the bedroom and crawl underneath the Rabbi’s bed. Soon would come the knock at the door, the scrape of the parlor chairs against the floorboards, and the Rabbi’s voice: so, have you studied your portion?

There was barely enough room under the bed for the Golem. It was narrow and hung so low that the brass springs almost brushed her nose. To lie still and silent in such an enclosed space was no easy task. Her fingers and legs would begin to twitch, regardless of how much she tried to relax. Meanwhile, a small army of wants and needs would make their way to her mind: from the boy and the Rabbi, both of whom would give anything for the clock to go faster; from the woman in the room below, who lived in a constant torment of pain from her hip; from the three young children next door, who were forced to share their few toys, and always coveted whatever they didn’t have—and, at a more distant remove, from the rest of the tenement, a small city of strivings and lusts and heartaches. And at its center lay the Golem, listening to it all.

The Rabbi had advised her to concentrate on her other senses to drown out the noise; and so the Golem would press her ear to the floor and listen to water gurgling through the pipes, mothers scolding their children in blistering Yiddish, the banging of pots and pans, arguments, prayers, the whirr of sewing machines. Above it all, she heard the Rabbi teaching the boy to chant his portion, his hoarse voice alternating with the boy’s young, piping one. Sometimes she would chant silently along, mouthing the words, until the boy left and she could come out again.

The nights were almost as difficult. The Rabbi went to bed at ten and did not wake until six, and so for eight hours the Golem was alone with the vague, dreaming thoughts of others. The Rabbi suggested reading to pass the time; and so, one night, she pulled a volume from the Rabbi’s shelves, opened it at random, and read:

… Cooked victuals may be put on a stove that was heated with straw or stubble. If the stove was heated with the pulp of poppyseed or with wood, cooked victuals may not be put upon it, unless the coals were taken out or covered with ashes. The students of Shammai say: victuals may be taken off the stove, but not put back upon it. The students of Hillel permit it.

The schoolmen propounded a question: “As for the expression ‘shall not be put,’ does it mean ‘one shall not put it back,’ but if it has not been taken off, it may be left there?”

There are two parts to our answer.

She closed the book and stared at the leather cover. Were all books like this? Daunted and a bit irritated, she spent the rest of the night looking out the window, watching the men and women walk by.

In the morning she told the Rabbi of her attempt at reading. Later that day he went out to run errands, and brought her back a flat, thin package. Inside was a slender book, with a gaily illustrated cover. A large ship, populated with animals, floated at the crest of a gigantic wave. Behind the ship, a band of colors curved a half circle, its apex brushing the clouds above.

“This is a better start for you, I think,” the Rabbi said.

That night, the Golem was introduced to Adam and Eve, and Cain and Abel. She learned about Noah and his Ark, and the rainbow that was the sign of God’s covenant. She read of Abraham and Isaac on the mountain, the near sacrifice and its aftermath. She thought it all very strange. The stories themselves were easy to follow; but she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to think of these people. Had they actually existed, or had they been invented? The tales of Adam and Noah said they lived to be many hundreds of years old—but wasn’t this impossible? The Rabbi was the oldest person she’d met in her brief life, and he was far short of a century. Did this mean that the book told lies? But the Rabbi was always so careful to say only the truth! If these were lies, then why had the Rabbi asked her to read them?

She read the book three times through, trying to understand these long-ago people. Their motives, needs, and fears were always at the surface, as easy for her to grasp as those of a man passing by. And Adam and Eve were ashamed, and hid to cover their nakedness. And Cain grew jealous of his brother, and rose up and slew him. How different from the lives of the people around her, who hid their desires away. She recalled what the Rabbi had said: to judge a man by his actions, not his thoughts. And judging by the actions of the people in this book, to act on one’s wishes and desires led, more often than not, to misdeed and misfortune.

But were all desires wrong? What about the hungry boy for whom she’d stolen the knish? Could a desire for food be wrong if one were starving? A woman down the hall had a son who was a peddler, in a place called Wyoming. She lived in wait of a letter from him, some sign to let her know that he was alive and safe. This too seemed right and natural. But then, how was she to know?

In the morning, when the Rabbi asked her what she’d thought of the book, she hesitated, searching for the right words. “Were these real people?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would my answer change your understanding of them?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just that they seem too simple to be real. As soon as a desire arose, they acted on it. And not small things, like ‘I need a new hat’ or ‘I want to buy a loaf of bread.’ Large things, like Adam and Eve and the apple. Or Cain killing Abel.” She frowned. “I know I haven’t lived very long, but this seems unusual.”

“You’ve watched children playing in the street, haven’t you? Do they often ignore their desires?”

“I see what you mean,” she said, “but these aren’t stories about children.”

“I believe they are, in a way,” said the Rabbi. “These were the world’s first people. Everything they did, every action and decision, was entirely new, without precedent. They had no larger society to turn to, no examples of how to behave. They only had the Almighty to tell them right from wrong. And like all children, if His commands ran counter to their desires, sometimes they chose not to listen. And then they learned that there are consequences to one’s actions. But tell me, now—I don’t think you found reading an enjoyable way to pass the time.”

“I tried to enjoy it!” she protested. “But it’s hard to sit still for so long!”

The Rabbi sighed inwardly. He’d hoped that reading would be a good solution, even a permanent one. But he saw now it was too much to ask of her. Her nature wouldn’t allow it.

“If only I could walk outside at night.” Her voice was a quiet plea.

He shook his head. “That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. Women out alone at night are assumed to be of poor moral character. You’d find yourself prey to unwanted advances, even violent behavior. I wish it were otherwise. But perhaps it is time,” he said, “for us to venture outside during the day. We could take a walk together, after I’ve seen my students. Would that help?”

The Golem’s face lit with anticipation, and she spent the morning cleaning the already spotless kitchen with renewed focus and zeal.

After the last student had come and gone, the Rabbi outlined his plan for their walk. He would leave the tenement alone, and she would follow five minutes later. They’d meet a few blocks away, on a particular corner. He gave her an old shawl of his wife’s, and a straw hat, and a parcel to carry, a few books he’d wrapped in paper and tied with string. “Walk as though you have an errand and a purpose,” he said. “But not too quickly. Look to the women around you for example, if need be. I’ll be waiting.” He smiled encouragingly, and left.

The Golem waited, watching the clock on the mantel. Three minutes passed. Four. Five. Books in hand, she stepped into the hall, closed the door, and walked out onto the noon-bright street. It was the first she’d left the Rabbi’s rooms since coming to live with him.

This time she was more prepared for the assault of wants and wishes, but their intensity still took her aback. For a wild moment she wanted to flee back into the building. But no—the Rabbi was waiting for her. She eyed the incessant traffic, the streams of pedestrians and hawkers and horses all moving past one another. Gripping the parcel as if it were a talisman, she took a last quick glance up and down the street, and set off.

Meanwhile the Rabbi stood on his corner, waiting nervously. He too was having difficulty mastering his thoughts. He’d considered tailing the Golem, to make certain she didn’t fall into trouble—but it would be far too easy for her to discover his mind, focused on her as it was, and he couldn’t risk, or bear, to lose her trust. And so he’d done what he’d said he would, and went to the corner and waited. It was a test for himself as well, he decided—to see if he could let her go, and live with the knowledge that she was out there in the world, beyond his control.

Fervently he hoped they both would pass the test, for their current arrangement was growing hard to bear. His guest was undemanding, but nevertheless she was a constant and uncanny presence. He longed for the unabashed luxury of sitting alone at his table in his undershirt and shorts, drinking tea and reading the newspaper.

And there were other, more urgent considerations. In the bottom drawer of his dresser, hidden beneath his winter clothing, lay a drawstring bag that he’d found in the pocket of her coat. Inside the bag was a man’s billfold with a few notes, an elegant silver pocket watch—its works now hopelessly corroded—and a small oilskin envelope. The words COMMANDS FOR THE GOLEM were written on the envelope in spindly and uneven Hebrew. It held a roughly folded square of paper that, happily or not, had survived the journey to shore. He’d read the paper; he knew what it contained.

In the tumult of her arrival in New York, the bag’s existence had evidently fallen from her mind. But it was her property, and all that was left of her erstwhile master; he felt obscurely wrong in keeping it hidden. But then, if a child had landed at Ellis Island carrying a pistol in his pocket, would it not be right to confiscate it? For now, at least, he was resolved to keep the envelope safely out of her sight.

In the meantime, though, it had set his mind working. He’d assumed that there were only two solutions to the predicament of the Golem: either destroy her, or do his best to educate her and protect her. But what if there was a third way? What if he could, in essence, discover how to bind a living golem to a new master?

As far as he knew, this had never been done before. And most of the books—and the minds—that might once have helped him were long gone. But he was loath to discount the possibility. For now, he would see to the Golem’s education as best he could until she could live on her own. And then, he would set to work.

But now he put those thoughts aside—for he’d spied a familiar figure coming toward him, tall and straight, walking carefully with the crowd. She’d seen him too, and was smiling, her eyes alight. And now he was smiling back, a bit dazed by the surge of pride he’d felt at the sight of her, like a bittersweet weight on his heart.

Far across the Atlantic, the city of Konin in the German Empire bustled on as usual, barely altered by the departure of Otto Rotfeld. The only real change came when the old furniture shop was leased by a Lithuanian and turned into a fashionable café; all agreed that it improved the neighborhood immensely. In truth, the only resident of Konin who gave much thought to Rotfeld was Yehudah Schaalman, the reviled hermit who had built the man a golem. As the weeks turned to months, and Rotfeld’s submerged body gave itself over to the currents and sea creatures, Schaalman would sit evenings at his table, drinking glasses of schnapps and wondering about the unpleasant young man. Had he found success in America? Had he woken his clay bride?

Yehudah Schaalman was ninety-three years old. This fact was not common knowledge, for he had the features and bearing of a man of seventy and, if he wished, could make himself appear younger still. He had survived to this old age through forbidden and dangerous arts, his considerable wits, and a horror of death that drove all else before it. One day, he knew, the Angel of Death would at last come for him, and take him to stand before the Books of Life and Death, there to listen to the recitation of his transgressions. Then the gate would open, and he would be cast into the fires of Gehenna, there to be punished in a length and manner to fit his misdeeds. And his misdeeds had been many, and varied.

When he was not selling love charms to foolish village girls or untraceable poisons to hollow-eyed wives, Schaalman bent every scrap of his will to his dilemma: how to indefinitely postpone the day of the Angel’s arrival. And so he was not, as a rule, a man given to idle reverie. He did not waste his time speculating about every customer who sought his services. But then why, he asked himself, had this hapless furniture maker captured his attention?

Yehudah Schaalman’s life had not always been this way.

As a boy, Yehudah had been the most promising student that the rabbis had ever seen. He had taken to study as though born for no other purpose. By his fifteenth year it had become common for Yehudah to argue his teachers to a standstill, weaving such supple nets of Talmudic argument that they found themselves advocating positions exactly opposite to the ones they’d believed. This agility of mind was matched only by a piety and devotion to God so strong that he made the other students seem like brazen heretics. Once or twice, late at night, his teachers murmured to one another that perhaps the wait for the Messiah would not be as long as they had expected.

They groomed him to become a rabbi, as quickly as they could. Yehudah’s parents were delighted: poor, barely more than peasants, they had gone without to provide for his education. The rabbinate began to debate where to send the boy. Would he do the most good at the head of a congregation? Or should they send him on to university, where he could begin to teach the next generation?

A few weeks before his ordainment, Yehudah Schaalman had a dream.

He was walking on a path of broken stones through a gray wilderness. Far ahead of him, a featureless wall stretched across the horizon and reached high into the heavens. He was exhausted and footsore; but after much walking Yehudah was able to discern a small door, little more than a man-shaped hole, where the path met the wall. Suddenly full of a strange, fearful joy, he ran the rest of the way.

At the door he paused, and peered inside. Whatever lay beyond was shrouded in mist. He touched the wall: it was painfully cold. He turned around and found that the mist had swallowed the path, even up to his own feet. In the whole of Creation, there was only himself, the wall, and the door.

Yehudah stepped through.

Mist and wall disappeared. He was standing in a meadow of grasses. The sun shone down and bathed him in warmth. The air was thick with scents of earth and vegetation. He was filled with a great peace unlike any he had ever known.

There was a grove of trees past the meadow, golden-green with sunlight. He knew there was someone standing inside the grove, just beyond his sight, waiting for him to arrive. Eagerly he took a step forward.

In an instant the sky darkened to storm-black. Yehudah felt himself seized and held. A voice spoke in his head:

You do not belong here.

Meadow and grove disappeared. He was released—he was falling—

And then he was on the path again, on his hands and knees, surrounded by broken stones. This time, there was no wall, or any other landmark to travel toward, only the stones leading through the blasted landscape to the horizon, with no hint of respite.

Yehudah Schaalman awoke to darkness and the certain knowledge that he was somehow damned.

When he told his teachers he was leaving and would not become a rabbi, they wept as though for the dead. They pleaded with him to explain why such an upright student would forsake his own purpose. But he gave no answer, and told no one of the dream, for fear that they would try to reason with him, explain it all away, tell him tales of demons who tormented the righteous with false visions. He knew the truth of what he’d dreamed; what he didn’t understand was why.

And so Yehudah Schaalman left his studies behind. He spent sleepless nights combing through his memories, trying to determine which of his sins had damned him. He hadn’t led a spotless life—he knew he could be proud and overeager, and when young he had fought bitterly with his sister and often pulled her hair—but he had followed the Commandments to the best of his ability. And were not his lapses more than compensated by his good deeds? He was a devoted son, a dutiful scholar! The wisest rabbis of the age thought him a miracle of God! If Yehudah Schaalman was not worthy of God’s love, then who on earth was?

Tormented by these thoughts, Yehudah packed a few books and provisions, said farewell to his weeping parents, and struck out on his own. He was nineteen years old.

It was a poor time to be traveling. Dimly Yehudah knew that his little shtetl lay inside the Grand Duchy of Posen, and that the duchy was a part of the Kingdom of Prussia; but to his teachers these were mundane matters, of little consequence to a spiritual prodigy such as Yehudah, and had not been dwelled upon. Now he learned a new truth: that he was a naive, penniless Jew who spoke little Polish and no German, and that all his studies were useless. Traveling the open roads, he was beset by thieves, who spied his thin back and delicate looks and took him for a merchant’s son. When they discovered that he had nothing to steal, they beat him and cursed him for their troubles. One night he made the mistake of asking for supper at a well-to-do German settlement; the burghers cuffed him and threw him to the road. He took to loitering on the outskirts of the peasant villages, where at least he had a chance of understanding what was said. He longed to speak Yiddish again, but he avoided the shtetls entirely, afraid of being drawn back into the world he had fled.

He became a laborer, tilling fields and tending sheep, but the work didn’t suit him. He made no friends among his fellows, being a thin and ragged Jew who spoke Polish as though it dirtied his mouth. Often he could be seen leaning on his spade or letting the bull walk away with the plow as he ruminated once more on his past sins. The more he reflected, the more it seemed to him that his entire life was a catalog of misdeeds. Sins of pride and laziness, of anger, arrogance, lust—he’d been guilty of them all, and no counterweight could balance the scale. His soul was like a stone shot through with brittle minerals, sound in appearance but worthless at heart. The rabbis had all been deceived; only the Almighty had known the truth of it.

One hot afternoon, while he reflected in this way, another fieldworker scolded him for laziness; and Yehudah, in the depths of his gloom and forgetting his Polish, responded with a more insulting answer than he’d intended. The man was upon Yehudah in an instant. The others gathered around, glad to finally see the arrogant boy receive his comeuppance. Flat on his back, nose gushing with blood, Yehudah saw his adversary crouched above him, one fist pulled back to strike again. Behind him rose a circle of jeering heads, like a council of demons sitting in raucous judgment. In that moment, all the heartache, resentment, and self-loathing of his exile contracted to a hard point of rage. He sprang up and barreled into his attacker, knocking him to the ground. As the others watched in horror, Yehudah proceeded to pummel him remorselessly about the head and was on the verge of gouging out one of his eyes when finally someone grabbed him in a bear hug and pulled him away. In a frenzy, Yehudah twisted and bit until the man let him go. And then Yehudah ran. The local constables stopped chasing him at the edge of town, but Yehudah kept on running. He had nothing now but the clothes on his back. It was even less than he’d started with.

He ceased pondering his roster of sins. It was clear now that the corruption of his soul was an elemental fact. That he had avoided capture and jail did not console him: for now he began to dwell on the greater judgment, the one that lay beyond.

He left off fieldwork and instead wandered from town to town, searching out odd jobs. He stocked shelves, swept floors, cut cloth. The pay was meager at best. He began to pilfer for survival, and then to steal outright. Soon he was stealing even when there was no need. In one village he worked at a mill, filling the flour sacks and taking them into town to be sold. The local baker had a daughter with bright green eyes and a shapely figure, and she liked to linger while he unloaded the sacks of flour in her father’s storeroom. One day he dared to brush his fingers across her shoulder. She said nothing, only smiled at him. The next time, emboldened and inflamed, he beckoned her into a corner and grabbed clumsily at her. She laughed at him, and he ran from the storeroom. But the time after that, she did not laugh. They copulated atop the shifting sacks, their mouths thick with flour dust. When it was over, he climbed off her, neatened himself with shaking hands, called her a whore, and walked away. At the next delivery she did not respond to his advances, and he slapped her across the face. When he returned to the mill, her father was waiting for him, along with the police.

For the crimes of rape and molestation, Yehudah Schaalman was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Two years had passed since his dream; he was now twenty-one years old.

And so the third phase of his education began. In prison, Schaalman hardened and turned clever. He learned to be always on his guard, and to size up each man in a room as a possible opponent. The last traces of his old gentleness vanished, but he couldn’t disguise his intellect. The other inmates thought him a laughingstock—a skinny book-learned Jew, locked up with murderers! They called him “Rabbi,” at first jeeringly; but soon they were asking him to settle disputes. He accepted, and handed down pronouncements that married Talmudic precision with the strict moral code of the prison yard. The inmates respected his judgments, and eventually even the wardens were deferring to him.

Still he kept to himself, holding himself apart from the hierarchy of the prison and its gangs. He had no toadies, kept no corrupt guard in his pocket. The others thought him squeamish, afraid to dirty his hands, but he could see who held the real power, and it was himself. He was the definitive arbiter of justice, fairer than the courts. The inmates hated him for it, but they left him alone. In this manner Schaalman survived for fifteen long years, unharmed and untouched, nursing his bitterness and anger while the prison seethed around him.

At thirty-five he finally emerged and discovered that he would’ve been safer if he’d stayed behind bars. The countryside was aflame. Tired of the theft of their lands and their culture, the Poles of the duchy had risen up against their Prussian occupiers, only to be drawn into a military battle they had no hope of winning. Prussian soldiers roamed from village to village, stamping out the last of the resistance, looting the synagogues and Catholic churches. It was impossible to travel unnoticed. A group of Prussian soldiers came upon Schaalman on the road and beat him for sport; and then, even before his wounds had closed, a gang of Polish conscripts did the same. He tried to find work in the villages, but he bore the invisible mark of the prison now, in his hard features and his calculating eye, and no one would have him. He stole food from storehouses and stable feed-buckets, slept in fields, and tried to stay out of sight.

And so it was that one night, in a filthy camp at the edge of a field, starving and nearly mad with fear of death, Schaalman awoke from a gray dreamless sleep to see a strange light on the horizon, a pulsing, red-orange glow that grew as he watched. Still in that realm between sleep and waking, Schaalman stood and, taking no notice of his few belongings on the ground, began to walk toward it.

A furrow had been plowed down the middle of the field, making a highway that pointed straight at the light. He stumbled over clods of earth, barely conscious and dizzy with hunger. It was a warm, windy night, and the grain rippled in the breeze, a million small voices whispering his secrets.

The glow brightened, and stretched higher into the sky. Above the whispering of the field he heard voices: men shouting to one another, women crying out in anguish. The scent of woodsmoke reached his nose.

The field fell away behind him, and the ground began to slope upward. The glow now stretched across his vision. The smoke had turned acrid, the screams louder. The slope steepened until Schaalman was on his hands and knees, dragging himself upward, at the edge of his strength and beyond the boundaries of reason. His eyes were shut against the effort, but the red-orange light still floated before him, compelling him to keep moving. After what seemed an unutterable distance, the hill began to level, until Schaalman, sobbing with exhaustion, perceived that he had reached the crest. With no strength left even to lift his head, he collapsed into a fugue deeper than sleep.

He woke to a clear sky, a gentle breeze, and a strange clarity of mind. His hunger was extreme, but he felt it at a remove, as though someone else were starving and he merely observed. He sat up and looked around. He was in the middle of a clearing. There was no sign of the hill; the ground was flat in every direction. There was nothing to tell him which direction he had come, or how to return.

Before him lay the charred ruins of a synagogue.

The grass around the structure had singed along with it, carving a black circle into the ground. The fire had burnt the walls down to the foundation, leaving the sanctuary open to the elements. Inside, fallen beams jutted from twin columns of blackened pews.

Carefully he stood and crossed into the burnt circle of grass. He paused at the place where the door would have been, then stepped across the threshold. It was the first time in seventeen years that he’d entered a house of worship.

Not a living thing stirred inside. An eerie quiet hung over all, as though even the sounds of the outside world, the rustlings of bird and grass and insect, had been muffled. In the aisle, Schaalman picked up a handful of woody ash and sifted it between his fingers—and realized that the synagogue couldn’t have burned only the night before, for these ashes were as cold as stone. Had it all been a dream? Then what had led him here?

Carefully he walked the rest of the way up the aisle. A few spars from the ceiling blocked his path. He put his hands to them, and they crumbled to splinters.

The lectern was singed but still whole. There was no sign of the ark or its scroll; presumably they had been either saved or destroyed. The remains of prayer books lay scattered near the dais. He lifted from the ground a browned half-page, and read a fragment of the Kaddish.

Behind the dais was a space that had once been a small room, likely the rabbi’s study. He stepped over the half-wall that remained. Burnt papers littered the floor in drifts. The rabbi’s desk was a seared oblong hulk of wood in the middle of the room. A drawer was set into its front. Schaalman grasped the handle, and the fitting came away in his hand, lock and all. He wormed his fingernails into the crack that lay between the drawer and the desk, and broke the face to smithereens. He reached inside the exposed drawer, and withdrew the remains of a book.

Carefully he placed it atop the desk. The book’s spine had peeled away from the body, so that it could not properly be said to be a book any longer, but rather a sheaf of singed papers. Scraps of leather clung to the cover. He lifted the cover away, and placed it aside.

The book had darkened from the edges inward, leaving only an island of undamaged writing on each page. The paper itself was as thick as rag, and the writing was of a spidery hand that held forth in an old-fashioned, declamatory Yiddish. With growing wonder he lifted each page, his fingers cold and trembling. Broken snippets of text ran together before his eyes:

… a sure charm against fever is the recitation of the formula discovered by Galen and augmented by …

… should be repeated forty-one times for highest efficacy …

… aid in good health after a fast, collect nine branches from a nut-tree, each branch bearing nine leaves …

… to make one’s voice sweet to others, direct this exhortation to the Angel of …

… increase of virility, mix these six herbs and eat at midnight, while reciting the following Name of God …

… speak this Psalm to ward away demonic influence …

… of a golem is permissible only in times of deepest danger, and care must be taken to ensure …

… repeat the demon’s name, removing one letter with each iteration, until the name has dwindled to one letter, and the demon will dwindle likewise …

… to negate the ill effect that results from a woman passing between two men …

… this sixty-lettered Name of God is especially useful, though it is not to be uttered during the month of Adar …

Page after page, the secrets of long-dead mystics laid themselves before him. Many were irredeemably lost save for a few brief words, but some were whole and undamaged, and others were tantalizingly close to complete. This was the knowledge forbidden to all but the most pious and learned. His teachers had once hinted that wonders such as these would someday be his; but they’d denied him even the briefest glimpse, saying he was still far too young. To utter a charm or an exorcism or a Name of God without purity of heart and intention, they’d said, would be to risk one’s soul to the fires of Gehenna.

But for Schaalman, the fires of Gehenna had long been a foregone conclusion. If that was to be his end, then he would make the most of the meantime. Some influence, divine or demonic, had led him to this place, and had placed unutterable mysteries in his hands. He would take that power, and he would use it to his own ends.

The papers lay crisped and quietly crackling beneath his fingers. In the distant dizziness of his hunger, he could swear he felt them vibrate like a plucked string.

5.

After a few more days of nervous coaching, Arbeely decided that the time had come to introduce the Djinni to the rest of Little Syria. The plan he’d devised to do so relied on the very woman who was, in a sense, responsible for the Djinni’s new life in Manhattan: Maryam Faddoul, the coffeehouse proprietress, who’d brought Arbeely a copper flask in need of repairing.

The Faddouls’ coffeehouse was famous for having the best gossip in the neighborhood, a distinction due entirely to the female half of its management. Maryam Faddoul’s great gifts in life were a pair of guileless brown eyes and an earnest desire for the happiness and success of all her acquaintances. Her sympathetic nature made her a popular audience for the airing of grievances; she agreed wholeheartedly with every opinion and saw the wisdom in every argument. “That poor Saleem,” she might say, “it’s so obvious how much he loves Nadia Haddad! Even a blind goat could see it. It’s such a shame that her parents don’t approve.”

And then a customer might protest, “But, Maryam, only yesterday her father was here, and you agreed with him that Saleem was still too young, and not yet ready to be a good provider. How can both be right?”

“If all our parents had waited until they were ready to marry,” she’d reply, “then how many of us would be here?”

Maryam was a master at the beneficial application of gossip. If a businessman was drinking coffee and smoking a narghile, and bemoaning the smallness of his shop—business was booming, if only he had space for larger orders!—Maryam would appear at his side, refill his cup with an easy tilt of her wrist, and say, “You should ask George Shalhoub if you can take over his lease when he moves away.”

“But George Shalhoub isn’t moving.”

“Is that so? Then it must have been some other Sarah Shalhoub I talked to yesterday. Now that her son is going to work in Albany she can’t stand the thought of being away from him, so she is trying to convince George that they must go as well. If someone hinted they were willing to take the lease off his hands, then George might find himself much more willing.” And the man would hurriedly settle the bill and head out the door in search of George Shalhoub.

All the while, Sayeed Faddoul would be watching from the small kitchen, a smile in his eyes. Another man might grow jealous of his wife’s attentions, but not him. Sayeed was a quiet man—not awkward, as Arbeely could be, but possessed of a calm and steady nature that complemented his wife’s heartfelt vivacity. He knew that it was his presence that let Maryam be so free; an unmarried woman, or one whose husband was less visible, would be forced to rein in her exuberance, or else risk the sorts of insinuations that might damage her name. But everyone could see that Sayeed was proud of his wife and was more than content to remain the unobtrusive partner, allowing her to shine.

At last Arbeely set his plan into motion. A message boy was dispatched to the Faddouls, alerting Maryam that her flask had been repaired. Accordingly she arrived that afternoon, still dressed in her apron and bringing with her the dark smell of roasted coffee. As always, Arbeely’s heart squeezed at the sight of her, a not unpleasant ache, as if to say, Ah well. Like many of the men of the neighborhood, he was a little bit in love with Maryam Faddoul. What luck to be that Sayeed, her admirers thought, to live always in the light of her bright eyes and understanding smile! But none would dream of approaching her, even those who regarded the conventions of propriety as obstacles to be overcome. It was clear that Maryam’s smile shone from her belief in the better nature of those around her. To demand more of that smile for themselves would only serve to extinguish it.

“My dear Boutros!” she said. “Why don’t I see you at the coffeehouse more often? Please tell me business has doubled and you must work night and day, because that is the only excuse I’ll accept.”

Arbeely blushed and smiled, and wished he were not so nervous. “Business has been good, actually, and I have more work than I can handle alone. In fact, I must introduce you to my new assistant. He arrived a week ago. Ahmad!” he called toward the back room. “Come meet Maryam Faddoul!”

The Djinni emerged from the storeroom, ducking his head to clear the threshold. In his hands he held the flask. He smiled. “Good day, madam,” he said, and offered the flask to her. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

The woman was plainly astounded. She stared at the Djinni. For a moment, his eyes darting between them, Arbeely’s fears were lost in a sudden flush of envy. Was it only the Djinni’s good looks that caused her to stare like that? No, there was something else, and Arbeely had felt it too, at their calamitous first encounter: an instant and compelling magnetism, almost instinctual, the human animal confronting something new, and not yet knowing whether to count it as friend or foe.

Then Maryam turned to Arbeely and swatted him across the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Boutros, you’re horrible! Hiding him from everyone, and not saying a word! No announcement, no welcome—he must think us all terribly rude! Or are you ashamed of us?”

“Please, Mrs. Faddoul, it was at my request,” the Djinni said. “I fell ill during the crossing, and was bedridden until a few days ago.”

In an instant the woman’s indignation turned to concern. “Oh, you poor man,” she said. “Did you cross from Beirut?”

“No, Cairo,” he said. “In a freighter. I paid a man to hide me on board, and it was there I became ill. We docked in New Jersey, and I was able to sneak away.” He spoke the learned story easily.

“But we could have helped you! It must have been so frightening, to be sick in a strange country, with only Boutros for a nursemaid!”

The Djinni smiled. “He was an excellent nursemaid. And I had no wish to be a burden.”

Maryam shook her head. “You mustn’t let pride get the better of you. We all turn to each other here, it’s how we make our way.”

“You are right, of course,” the Djinni said smoothly.

Her eyebrows arched. “And our secretive Mister Arbeely, how did you meet him?”

“Last year I passed through Zahleh, and met the smith who taught him. He saw that I was interested in the craft, and told me about his apprentice who had gone to America.”

“And imagine my surprise,” interjected Arbeely, “when this half-dead man knocks on my door and asks if I am the tinsmith from Zahleh!”

“This world works in strange ways,” Maryam said, shaking her head.

Arbeely studied her for signs of skepticism. Did she really believe this concocted story? Many Syrians had traveled odd and winding paths to New York—on foot through the forests of Canada, or fording box-laden barges out of New Orleans. But hearing their tale spoken aloud, Arbeely felt it was too remarkable for its own good. And the Djinni had none of the pallor or weakness of one who had been seriously ill. In fact, he looked like he could swim the East River. Too late to change it now, though. Arbeely smiled at Maryam, and hoped the smile looked natural.

“And are you from near Zahleh?” Maryam asked.

“No, I am Bedouin,” the Djinni replied. “I was in Zahleh to deliver my sheepskins to market.”

“Is that so?” She seemed to look him over again. “How astonishing you are. A Bedu stowaway in New York. You must come to my coffeehouse, everyone will want to meet you.”

“I would be honored,” the Djinni said. He bowed to Maryam and returned to the back room.

“Such a story,” Maryam murmured to Arbeely as he saw her to the door. “Obviously he has the endurance of his people, to have made it here. But still, I’m surprised at you, Boutros. You might have had better sense. What if he’d died in your care?”

Arbeely squirmed in very real embarrassment. “He was adamant,” Arbeely said. “I didn’t want to go against his wishes.”

“Then he placed you in a very difficult position. But then, the Bedouin are certainly proud.” She shot a glance at him. “Truly, he is Bedu?”

“I believe so,” Arbeely said. “He knows very little of the cities.”

“How odd,” she said, almost to herself. “He doesn’t seem …” She trailed off, her face clouding; but then she came back to herself. Smiling at Arbeely, she thanked him for the repair. Indeed, the flask was much improved; Arbeely had smoothed away the dents, restored the polish, and then reproduced the patterned band down to the tiniest awl-mark. She paid and left, saying, “By all means, you must bring Ahmad to the coffeehouse. No one will speak of anything else for weeks.”

But going by the immediate flood of visitors to Arbeely’s shop, it grew clear that Maryam had not waited for their visit; rather, in her enthusiastic manner, she had spread the story of the tinsmith’s new Bedouin apprentice far and wide. Arbeely’s own little coffeepot bubbled constantly on the brazier as the entire neighborhood filed in and out, eager to meet the newcomer.

Thankfully, the Djinni performed his part well. He entertained the visitors with tales of his supposed crossing and ensuing illness, but never spoke so long that he risked tangling himself in his story. Instead he painted in broad strokes the picture of a wanderer who one day decided, on little more than a whim, to steal away to America. The visitors left Arbeely’s shop shaking their heads over their strange new neighbor, who seemed protected by the accidental good fortune that God granted to fools and small children. Many wondered that Arbeely would take on an apprentice with such meager credentials. But then, Arbeely was considered a bit strange himself, so perhaps it was a case of like attracting like.

“Besides,” said a man at the coffeehouse, rolling a backgammon piece between his fingers, “it sounds like Arbeely saved his life, or close to it. The Bedouin have rules about repaying such debts.”

His opponent chuckled. “Let’s hope for Arbeely’s sake that the man can actually work a smith!”

Arbeely was heartily glad when the flood of visitors lowered to a trickle. Besides the pressure of maintaining their story, he’d spent so much time entertaining his neighbors that he’d fallen far behind on business. And it seemed that each visitor had brought along something that needed mending, until the shop was crammed full of dented lamps and burned pots. Many of the repairs were strictly cosmetic, and it was clear that their owners had been moved more by a sense of neighborly support than actual need. Arbeely felt grateful and a little bit guilty. To look at the rows of damaged items, one would think Little Syria had been struck by a plague of clumsiness.

The Djinni found the attention amusing. It wasn’t hard to keep his story consistent; most of the visitors were too polite to press him overmuch for details. According to Arbeely, there was a certain glamour to the Bedu that would work in his favor. “Be a bit hazy,” Arbeely had told him as they prepared their plan and rehearsed their stories. “Talk about the desert. It’ll go over well.” Then he’d been struck by a thought: “You’ll need a name.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Something common, I would think. Oh, let’s see—there is Bashir, Ibrahim, Ahmad, Haroun, Hussein—”

The Djinni frowned. “Ahmad?”

“You like it? It’s a good name.”

It was not so much that he liked it, as that he found it the least objectionable. In the repeated a’s he heard the sound of wind, the distant echo of his former life. “If you think I need a name, then I suppose it’s as good as any.”

“Well, you’ll definitely need a name, so Ahmad it shall be. Only please, remember to answer to it.”

The Djinni did indeed remember, but it was the only aspect of Arbeely’s plan that made him uncomfortable. To him the new name suggested that the changes he’d undergone were so drastic, so pervasive, that he was no longer the same being at all. He tried not to dwell on such dark thoughts, and instead concentrated on speaking politely, and maintaining his story—but every so often, as he listened to the chatter of yet more visitors, he spoke his true name to himself in the back of his mind, and took comfort in the sound.

Of all the people whom Maryam Faddoul told about the newcomer, only one man refused to take interest: Mahmoud Saleh, the ice cream maker of Washington Street. “Have you heard?” she told him. “Boutros Arbeely has taken a new apprentice.”

Saleh made a noise like “hmm” and scooped ice cream from his churn into a small dish. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of Maryam’s coffeehouse. Children waited before him, clutching coins. Saleh reached out a hand, and a child placed a coin in his palm. He pocketed the coin and held out the ice cream dish, careful to avoid looking at the child’s face, or Maryam’s, or indeed at anything other than his churn or the sidewalk. “Thank you, Mister Mahmoud,” the child said—a courtesy due, he knew, only to the presence of Maryam. There was a rattle as the child took a spoon from the cup tied to the side of his tiny cart.

“He’s a Bedouin,” Maryam said. “And rather tall.”

Saleh said nothing. He spoke little, as a rule. But Maryam, practically alone among the neighborhood, wasn’t perturbed by his silence. She seemed to understand that he was listening.

“Did you know any Bedu in Homs, Mahmoud?” she asked.

“A few,” he said, and held out his hand. Another coin; another dish. He’d tried to avoid the Bedu who lived on the outskirts of Homs, close to the desert. He’d thought them a grim people, poor and superstitious.

“I never knew any,” Maryam mused. “He’s an interesting man. He says he stowed away as if for a lark, but I sense there’s more. The Bedu are a private people, are they not?”

Saleh grunted. He liked Maryam Faddoul—in fact, it could be said that she was his only friend—but he wished she would stop talking about the Bedu. Along that path lay memories he did not wish to revisit. He checked the churn. Only three servings of ice cream were left. “How many more?” he asked aloud. “Count off, please.”

Small voices sounded: one, two, three, four, stop pushing, I was here first, five, six.

“Numbers four through six, please come back later.”

There were groans from his would-be customers, and the sound of retreating footsteps. “Remember your places in line,” Maryam called after them.

Saleh served the remaining children and listened as they returned the flimsy tin dishes to their place on the cart, atop the sack of rock salt.

“I ought to go back inside,” Maryam said. “Sayeed will be needing my help. Good day, Mahmoud.” Her hand squeezed his arm briefly—he caught a glimpse of her frilled shirtwaist, the dark weave of her skirt—and then she was gone.

He counted the coins in his pocket: enough for ingredients for another batch. But it was late in the afternoon, and a film of clouds had formed across the sun. In the time it would take him to buy milk and ice and then mix the ice cream, the children would no longer be so eager. Best to wait until tomorrow. He tied down the contents of his cart and began his slow trudge up the street, head bowed, watching his own feet as they moved, black shapes against a field of gray.

It would’ve come as a great shock to his neighbors to know that the man they called Ice Cream Saleh, or Crazy Mahmoud, or simply that strange Muslim who sells ice cream, had once been Doctor Mahmoud Saleh, one of the most respected physicians in the city of Homs. The son of a successful merchant, Saleh had grown up in comfort, free to pursue his studies and then his profession. In school, his excellent marks won him entrance to the medical university in Cairo, where it seemed the entire field was transforming as he watched. An Englishman had discovered that one could avoid postsurgical gangrene simply by dipping the surgical instruments into a solution of carbolic acid. Another Englishman soon established an irrefutable link between cholera and unsanitary drinking water. Saleh’s father, who’d heartily supported his studies, grew angry when he learned that in Cairo his own son was dissecting corpses: did Mahmoud not understand that on the Day of Judgment these desecrated men would be resurrected unwhole, their bodies opened and organs exposed? His son drily replied that if God was so literal in his resurrections, humanity would be brought back in a state of decay so advanced that the marks of dissection would seem minor in comparison. In truth he’d had his qualms as well, but pride kept him from saying so.

After completing his studies, Saleh returned to Homs and established a practice. His patients’ living conditions continually dismayed him. Even the most affluent families had little notion of modern hygiene. Sickrooms were kept closed, the air poor and stifling; he flung open the windows, ignoring the protests. Sometimes he even encountered a patient who’d been burned on the arm or chest, a thoroughly discredited practice meant to draw out ill humors. He would dress the wound and then berate the family, describing to them the dangers of infection and sepsis.

Though sometimes it seemed he waged an impossible battle, Doctor Saleh’s life was not without its joys. His mother’s half-sister approached him regarding her daughter, whom he’d watched mature into a young woman of beauty and gentle character. They were married, and soon they had their own daughter, a darling girl who would stand her little feet on Saleh’s and make him walk her about the courtyard, roaring like a lion. Even when his father died, and was lowered into the grave next to his mother, Saleh took comfort in knowing that the man had been proud of him, despite their differences.

And so it went, the years passing quickly, until one evening, a wealthy landowner came to the door. He told Saleh that the Bedouin family who tended his lands had a sick girl. Instead of a doctor, they’d brought in an old healer woman without a tooth in her head, who was using the most outlandish of folk remedies to try to cure her. The man couldn’t stand to see the child suffer and said that if Saleh agreed to examine her, he would pay the fee himself.

The Bedouin family lived in a hut at the edge of the city, where the carefully tended farmland gave over to scrub and dust. The girl’s mother met Saleh at the door. She was dressed heavily in black, her cheeks and chin tattooed in the style of her people. “It is an ifrit,” she said. “It needs to be cast out.”

Saleh replied that what the girl needed was a proper medical examination. He told her to fetch him a pot of boiled water, and went into the hut.

The girl was in convulsions. The healer woman had scattered handfuls of herbs about the room and now sat cross-legged next to the girl, muttering to herself. Ignoring her, Saleh tried to hold the girl down long enough to peel back one of her eyelids—and succeeded just as the old woman finished her incantation and spat three times upon the ground.

For a moment, he thought he saw something in the girl’s eye leaping toward him—

And then the thing was inside his head, scrabbling to get out—

Unbearable pain seared through his mind. All went dark.

When Saleh came to, there was foam on his lips and a leather strap in his mouth. He gagged and spat it out. “To keep you from biting off your tongue,” he heard the healer say, in a voice that sounded hollow and distant. He opened his eyes—and saw kneeling above him a woman whose face was thin and insubstantial as onionskin, with gaping holes where her eyes should have been. He screamed, turned his head, and vomited.

The landowner fetched one of Saleh’s colleagues. Together they loaded the half-conscious man into a cart and took him back home, where the doctor could conduct a thorough examination. The evidence was inconclusive: perhaps a bleeding in the brain, or a latent condition that had somehow been triggered. There was no way to be certain.

From then on, it was as though Saleh had stepped away from the world. An unreality permeated all his senses. His eye could no longer measure distances: he would reach for something and it would be nowhere near his grasp. His hands shook, and he couldn’t properly hold his instruments. Occasionally a fit would overtake him, and he would fall down and froth at the mouth. Worst of all, he could no longer look at a human face, be it man’s or woman’s, stranger or beloved, without succumbing to nauseated terror.

Weeks and months passed. He tried to return to medicine, listening to complaints and making simple diagnoses. But he couldn’t disguise his malady, and his remaining patients disappeared. The family adapted a more frugal lifestyle, but within months, their savings were gone. Their clothes grew shabbier and the house fell into disrepair. Saleh spent his days alone in a shaded room, trying to consult medical texts he could barely read, searching for an explanation.

His wife became ill. She tried to hide it at first but then turned feverish. Saleh sat by helplessly as his former colleagues offered their aid. Still she worsened. One night, burning and delirious, she mistook Saleh for her long-dead father and begged him for ice cream. What could he do? There was a churn sitting in a cupboard, purchased during more extravagant days. He rolled it into the kitchen and washed the dirt and dust away. His daughter’s chickens had laid that morning. Sugar they still had, as well as salt and ice, and milk from a neighbor’s goat. Laboriously he set out the supplies, moving slowly lest he fumble and spill. He smashed the ice with a hammer, then beat together the eggs and sugar and goat’s milk. He added the ice and rock salt, and packed the mixture around the inside of the churn. He wondered, when had he learned this? Certainly he’d watched his wife make ice cream, as a treat for their daughter and her friends, but he’d never paid any particular attention. Now it was as though he’d done it all his life. He fixed the lid on the churn and turned the crank around and around. It felt good to work. The mixture began to stiffen. A clean sweat broke on his forehead and in his armpits. He stopped when it felt right to do so.

He returned to the bedroom with a small dish of ice cream and found that his wife had descended into chills. He set the dish aside and held her shaking hand. She did not return to consciousness, and died as dawn was breaking. Saleh hadn’t recognized the beginnings of the death throes, and thus hadn’t been quick enough to wake their daughter to say good-bye.

The next afternoon, Saleh sat alone in the kitchen as his wife’s sisters prepared her body. Someone came in and knelt next to him. It was his daughter. She wrapped her arms around him. He closed his eyes so that he could remember how he used to see her, her dark hair and bright eyes, the sweet freckles on her cheek. Then she noticed the churn.

“Father,” she said, “who made the ice cream?”

“I did,” he said. “For your mother.”

She did not remark on the strangeness of this, only dipped two fingers inside the churn, then brought them to her mouth. Her red-rimmed eyes blinked in surprise.

“It’s very good,” she said.

After that, there was little question as to his path. He needed to support himself and his daughter. The house was sold, and his wife’s brother’s family took them in; but they were not wealthy people, and Saleh had no wish to strain their charity. And so, with a white cloth wrapped around his head to keep away the sun, Doctor Mahmoud became Ice Cream Saleh. Soon he was a common sight in the streets of Homs, lugging the churn on a small wheeled cart garlanded with a string of bells, calling out Ice cream! Ice cream! Doors would open and children would come running, clutching coins; and he would keep his head averted so as not to see the light filtering through their bodies, and the bottomless holes in their eyes.

Soon Saleh was one of the most successful ice cream sellers in the neighborhood. Partly this was due to the ice cream itself. All agreed that what made his ice cream superior to others was its smooth texture. Other sellers would use too much ice, and the cream would freeze too quickly, becoming gritty and harsh. Or they might not churn it enough, and the children would be left with a disappointing, half-melted soup. Saleh’s, though, was perfect every time. But his success also developed from his tragic story—there goes Ice Cream Saleh, did you know he was once a famous physician—and for the children it was an exercise in suspense. Would Ice Cream Saleh fall down in the street today, and foam at the mouth? They were always disappointed when he did not, though the ice cream was a consolation. When a fit did overtake him, he’d try to warn the children: “Don’t be frightened,” he would say, the words slurring in his ears. And then his vision would go dark, and he would enter another world, one of hallucinations, whispered words, and strange sensations. He could never remember these visions when he woke, his face in the dust, the children invariably having fled.

He spent years wandering the streets in this way, footsore and hoarse, his hair gone to silver. What money he could spare was put aside for his daughter’s future, as they could no longer count on a generous bride-price. How surprised they were, then, when a local shopkeeper approached Saleh with an offer that was more than he’d dared hope for. Saleh’s daughter, the man said, had impressed him as a rare example of filial piety, and such a woman was all he desired as a wife and mother of his children. No one seemed to think much of him—he was known mostly for his unsolicited opinions on the failings of his neighbors—but he made a good living and didn’t seem cruel.

“If God gave me one wish,” Saleh said to his daughter, “I would tell Him to set the princes of the world before you and say, ‘Choose, whichever one you like, for none is too wealthy or too noble.’” He kept his eyes closed as he spoke; it had now been eight years since he had looked at his own daughter.

She kissed his forehead and said, “Then I thank God you cannot have your wish, for I hear that princes make the worst of husbands.”

The marriage contract was signed that summer. Less than a year later she was dead: a hemorrhage during childbirth, and the baby strangled in the canal. The woman attending the birth had not been able to save either of them.

Her aunts prepared her body for burial, just as they’d prepared her mother, washing and perfuming her and wrapping her in the five white sheets. At the funeral, Saleh stood in the open grave and received his daughter into his arms. Pregnancy had enlarged and softened her body. Her head rested on his shoulder, and he gazed down at the covered landscape of her face, at the ridge of her nose, the hollows of her eyes. He laid her on her right side, facing the Qaba. The shroud’s perfume blended oddly with the clean, sharp smell of damp clay. He knew the others were waiting for him, but he made no move to climb out. It was cool and quiet there. He reached out and drew his fingers across the jagged wall, feeling with his distant senses the ridges left by the gravedigger’s spade, the clay slick and gritty between his fingers. He sat down beside his daughter’s body, and would have stretched out next to her except that he was then hauled out of the grave by his armpits, his son-in-law and the imam having decided to cut short the spectacle before it grew any worse.

That summer he had fewer customers, though the weather was as hot as ever. He could hear parents murmuring to their children as they passed, no, dearest, not from Mister Saleh. He understood: he was no longer merely tragic, but cursed.

He could not pinpoint how the idea first came to him, to take the last of his money and go to America, but when it did he embraced it quickly. His wife’s family thought he’d finally fallen into insanity. How would he survive in America on his own, when he barely could make his way through Homs? His son-in-law told him that there were no mosques in America, and he would not be able to pray properly. Saleh replied only that he had no need of prayer, as he and God had parted company.

None of them understood his purpose. America was not meant to be a new beginning. Saleh had no wish to survive. He would take his ice cream churn across the sea, and there he would die, from sickness or starvation or perhaps even sheer accident. He would end his life away from the pity and the charity and the stares, in the company of strangers who only knew what he was, not what he had once been.

And so he left, in a steamship out of Beirut. He spent the wretched voyage breathing the miasma of close air in the steerage deck, listening to the coughing of the passengers and wondering what he would contract. Typhoid? Cholera? But he emerged unscathed, only to suffer the humiliating interview and examination at Ellis Island. He’d given two young brothers his last bit of money to say he was their uncle, and they kept their word, promising the immigration clerk that they would support Saleh and keep him from indigence. He passed the medical exam only because the doctor could point to nothing physically wrong with him. The brothers took him to Little Syria, and before the disoriented Saleh could protest they had found him a place to live. It cost only a few pennies a week: a tiny room in a damp cellar that smelled of rotting vegetables. The only light came from a small grate, high on the wall. The young men took him around the neighborhood and showed him where he could buy milk and ice, salt and sugar. Then they purchased sacks full of peddling notions, wished him good luck, and left town for a place called Grand Rapids. That evening Saleh found in his pockets two dollars in change that had not been there before. After weeks of seasickness and exhaustion, he didn’t even have the strength to be angry.

And so once again he became Ice Cream Saleh. The streets of New York were more crowded and treacherous than Homs, but his route was smaller and simpler, a narrow loop: Washington Street south to Cedar, then Greenwich north to Park, and back to Washington Street again. The children learned just as quickly as their Homs cousins to put the coin in his outstretched hand, and never to look into his eyes.

One sweltering afternoon, he was scooping ice cream into his small tin bowls when he felt a soft hand touch his elbow. Startled, he turned and glimpsed a woman’s cheekbone. Quickly he looked away. “Sir?” a voice said. “I have water for you, if you’d like. It’s so hot today.”

For a moment he considered refusing. But it was indeed incredibly hot, a humid oppression like none he’d ever known. His throat felt thick, and his head ached. He realized he didn’t have the strength to refuse. “Thank you,” he said finally, and held out one hand toward the direction of her voice.

She must have appeared puzzled, for he heard a child’s voice say, “You’ll have to give him the glass, he never looks at anyone.”

“Oh, I see,” the woman said. Carefully she placed the glass of water in his hand. The water was cool and clean, and he drank it down. “Thank you,” he said again, holding the glass out to her.

“You’re welcome. May I ask, what is your name?”

“Mahmoud Saleh. From Homs.”

“Mahmoud, I’m Maryam Faddoul. We’re standing in front of my coffeehouse. I live upstairs with my husband. If you’re in need of anything—more water, or a place to sit out of the sun—please, come in.”

“Thank you, madam,” he said to her.

“Please call me Maryam,” she said, and there was a friendly smile in her voice. “Everyone does.”

After that day, Maryam would often come out and speak with him and the children, whenever his slow trudge took him past her shop. The children all seemed to like Maryam: she took them seriously, remembered their names and the details of their lives. When Maryam was at his side he was inundated with customers, not just children but their mothers as well, and even merchants and factory workers returning home at the end of a shift. His route was a fraction of what it had been in Homs, but he sold just as much ice cream, if not more. In a way it was exasperating: he hadn’t come to America to succeed, but it seemed that America would not let him fail.

Now, with his churn in tow, he considered Maryam’s news of the Bedouin apprentice as he passed Arbeely’s shop. He’d never gone in, only felt the wave of heat from the open door. For a moment he considered it. Then, irritated at memories, he resolved to give no more thought to Maryam’s news but only watched the dark shapes of his feet as they moved inexorably toward his cellar home.

In the Syrian Desert, the three days of rain came to an end. The waters soaked into the earth, and soon green shoots were carpeting the lowlands, spreading up the sides of the hills. For the Bedouin tribes, these brief days were of great significance: a chance to turn their animals out to pasture and let them eat their fill, before the days grew hotter and the new growth died away.

And so it happened that one morning a Bedouin girl named Fadwa al-Hadid drove her small flock of goats out to the valley near her family’s encampment. Singing softly to herself and switching the straying goats with a thin branch, she crested a small ridge—and there, glinting in the valley, was an enormous palace made entirely of glass.

She goggled at it for a moment before deciding that it was, indeed, truly there. Bursting with excitement, she gathered her goats, ran them back to the encampment, and rushed into her father’s tent shouting about a shining palace that had suddenly appeared in the valley.

“It must have been a mirage,” said her father, Jalal ibn Karim al-Hadid, who was known to his clan as Abu Yusuf. Her mother, Fatim, simply snorted and shook her head, and went back to nursing her youngest. But the girl, who was fifteen, stubborn, and headstrong, dragged her father from the tent, pleading with him to go look at the palace with her.

“Daughter, you simply can’t have seen what you thought you saw,” said Abu Yusuf.

“Do you think me a child? I know a mirage when I see one,” she insisted. “And it stood as real before me as you do now.”

Abu Yusuf sighed. He knew that look in his daughter’s eye, that blazing indignation that defied any attempt at reason. Worse, he knew it was his own fault. Their clan had been fortunate of late, and it had made him indulgent. The winter had been mild, and the rains had come on time. His brothers’ wives had both born thriving sons. At the turning of the year, as Abu Yusuf had sat warm in the glow of the fires and watched his clan as they ate and played and squabbled around him, he’d told himself that perhaps finding a husband for Fadwa could wait. Let the girl have one more year with her family, before sending her away. But now Abu Yusuf wondered if his wife was right: perhaps he had coddled his only daughter beyond reason.

“I don’t have time to argue about nonsense,” he told her sharply. “Your uncles and I are taking the sheep to pasture. If there’s a magical palace out there, we’ll see it. Now go and help your mother.”

“But—”

“Girl, do as I say!”

He rarely shouted. She drew back, stung. Then she turned and ran into the women’s tent.

Fatim, who’d heard it all, came in after her and clucked her tongue at her daughter. Fadwa sniffed and avoided her eyes. She sat herself in front of the low table where the day’s dough was rising and began to rip the dough to pieces and pound them flat, using rather more force than necessary. Her mother sighed at the noise, but said nothing. Better the girl exhaust herself than stay a simmering nuisance all morning.

The women cooked and milked and mended as the sun traced its familiar path through the sky. Fadwa bathed her little cousins, and endured their howls and recriminations. The sun set, and still the men were not yet returned. Fatim’s expression began to darken. Bandits were rare in their valley, but even so, three men and a large herd of sheep would make an easy target. “Enough of that,” she snapped at Fadwa, who was struggling to clothe a squirming boy. “I’ll do it, since you can’t. Go and sew your wedding dress.”

Fadwa obeyed, though she’d rather do just about anything else. She was no good at fine stitching, she had little patience for it; she could weave well enough, and mend a tent as quick as Fatim, but embroidery? Little stitches arranged just so? It was dull work, and it made her go cross-eyed. More than once Fatim had looked over her daughter’s progress and commanded her to rip it all out again. No girl of hers, she declared, would be married in such a sloppy dress.

If it were up to Fadwa, she would toss the dress into the cooking fire and sing loudly as it burned. Life in her clan’s encampment grew more stifling with each day, but it was nothing compared with her terror at the idea of marriage. She knew she was a spoiled child; she knew her father loved her, and wouldn’t be so harsh as to choose a husband who was cruel or stupid simply to make a good alliance. But anyone could be fooled, even her father. And to leave everyone she had ever known, and live with a strange man, and lie beneath him, and be ordered about by his family—was it not like dying, in a way? Certainly she wouldn’t be Fadwa al-Hadid anymore. She’d be someone else, another woman entirely. But there was nothing to do about it: she would marry, and soon. It was as certain as the sunrise.

She looked up at a joyful cry from her mother. The men were coming into camp, driving the sheep before them. The sheep stumbled against one another, drowsy from full bellies and a long journey. “A good day,” one of Fadwa’s uncles called. “We couldn’t ask for better grazing.”

Soon the men were sitting down to their dinner, tearing at the bread and cheese. The women served them and then retired to their tent to eat what was left. With her husband safely home, Fatim’s mood improved; she laughed with her sisters-in-law and cooed over the baby at her breast. Fadwa ate silently, and gazed across at the men’s tent, at her father’s solid back.

Later that night, Abu Yusuf drew his daughter aside. “We went by the place you spoke of,” he told her. “I looked hard, but I saw nothing.”

Fadwa nodded, dejected but unsurprised. Already she herself had begun to doubt it.

Abu Yusuf smiled at her downturned face. “Have I told you about the time I saw an entire caravan that wasn’t there? I was about your age. I was out with my sheep one morning, and saw a gigantic caravan come marching down through a pass in the hills. At least a hundred men, coming closer and closer. I could see the men’s eyes, even the breath from the camels’ noses. I turned and ran back home, to make them come see. And I left my sheep behind.”

Fadwa’s eyes widened. This was a carelessness she wouldn’t have believed of him, even as a boy.

“By the time I returned with my father, the caravan was gone without a trace. And most of my sheep had vanished as well. It took all day to hunt them down, and some had gone lame from the rocks.”

“What did your father say?” She was almost afraid to ask. Karim ibn Murhaf al-Hadid had died many years before Fadwa was born, but stories of his severe character were legend in the tribe.

“Oh, at first he said nothing, only whipped me. Then, later, he told me a tale. He said that once when he was a little boy, playing in the women’s tent, he looked out and saw a strange woman dressed all in blue. She was standing just beyond the camp, smiling at him, and holding out her hands. He could hear her calling, asking him to come and play. The girl who was supposed to be watching him had fallen asleep. So he followed the woman out into the desert—alone, in the middle of a summer afternoon.”

Fadwa was astonished. “And he lived!”

“It was a near thing. They didn’t find him for hours, and by then his blood was boiling. It was a long time before he was well again. But he said he would have sworn on his father’s name that the woman was real. And now”—he smiled—“you will have a story to tell your children, when they come running to you and swear that they saw a lake of clear water in a dry valley, or a horde of djinn flying across the sky. You can tell them of the beautiful shining palace you knew to be there, and how your cruel and terrible father refused to believe you.”

She smiled. “You know I won’t say that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Now”—he kissed her forehead—“finish your chores, child.”

He watched as she turned back toward the women’s tent. His smile faltered, then faded. He had not been honest with his daughter. The tales of the caravan and his father’s misadventure were true enough—but earlier that day, driving the sheep along the ridge, he had, for the briefest of moments, been blinded by a shining vision of a palace in the valley below. A blink, and it had disappeared. He’d stared at the empty valley for a long time, telling himself that the sunlight must strike the eye in a particular way at this spot, creating the illusion. Nevertheless, he was shaken. As his daughter had said, it had been no vague, wavering mirage—he’d seen impossible details, spires and battlements and glittering courtyards. And standing a little ways from the open gate, the figure of a man, staring up at him.

6.

It was almost the end of September, but the summer heat lingered without mercy. At midday the streets thinned, and pedestrians congregated under the awnings. The brick and stone of the Lower East Side soaked up the day’s heat and released it again at sundown. The rickety staircases that ran up the backs of the tenements became vertical dormitories as residents dragged their mattresses onto the landings and made camp on the rooftops. The air was a malodorous broth, and all labored to inhale it.

The High Holy Days were near unendurable. The synagogues sat half-empty as many chose to pray at home, where they might at least open a window. Red-faced cantors sang to a few miserable devout. At Yom Kippur, the Sabbath of Sabbaths, not a few congregants fainted where they stood, the prescribed fast having worn away the last of their strength.

For the first Yom Kippur since he became a bar mitzvah, Rabbi Meyer did not fast. Though the elderly were exempted from fasting, the Rabbi had been loath to give it up. The fast was meant to be the culmination of the spiritual work of the High Holy Days, a cleansing and purifying of the soul. This year, however, he had to admit that his body had grown too frail. To fast would be a mark against him, a sin of vanity and a refusal to accept the realities of aging. Hadn’t he once counseled his congregants against this very misdeed? Nonetheless he took no pleasure from his lunch on Yom Kippur, and could not escape the feeling that he was guilty of something.

He was comforted that at least there was plenty to eat—for, to pass her time, the Golem had taken up baking.

It had been the Rabbi’s idea, and he scolded himself for not thinking of it earlier. The notion came to him when he stopped at a bakery one morning and glimpsed a young man at work in the back, rolling and braiding dough for the Sabbath challahs. Loaf after loaf took shape underneath his hands. His quick, automatic movements spoke of the years he’d spent in this very spot, at this very task; and in that moment he seemed to the Rabbi almost a golem himself. Golems did not eat, of course—but why should that keep a golem from becoming a baker?

That afternoon, he brought home a heavy, serious-looking English volume, and gave it to the Golem.

“The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book,” she read, nonplussed. She cracked the tome with trepidation—but to her surprise the book was simple, sober, and clearly written. There was nothing here to confuse her, only patient and consistent instruction. She repeated the names of the recipes to the bemused Rabbi, in English and then in Yiddish, and was astonished when he declared many of them completely alien to him. He had never eaten finnan haddie—a type of fish, apparently—or gnocchi à la romaine, or potatoes Delmonico, or any of a host of complicated-sounding egg dishes. She declared that she would cook a meal for him. Perhaps a roast turkey with sweet potatoes and succotash? Or lobster bisque followed by Porterhouse steaks, with strawberry shortcake for dessert? The Rabbi hastily explained, not without regret, that these dishes were too extravagant for their household—and besides, lobsters were treyf. Perhaps she should start small, and work upward from there. There was nothing he liked more, he said, than a fresh-baked coffee cake. Would that do for a beginning?

And so the Golem ventured alone out of the tenement, and went to the grocer’s at the corner. With money from the Rabbi she bought eggs, sugar, salt, and flour, a few different spices in twists of paper, and a small package of walnut meats. It was the first time she had been truly alone, out in the city, since her arrival. She was growing more accustomed to the neighborhood; she and the Rabbi had taken to walking together a few afternoons a week, the Rabbi having decided that the Golem’s need to experience the world far outweighed whatever gossip might result. Still, he kept a close eye on her at all times. He’d begun to have a recurring nightmare of losing her in a crowd, seeking her in a growing panic, and finally glimpsing her tall form in the middle of a mob shouting for her destruction.

The Golem would sense these nightmares, of course, not as clearly as waking thought, but clear enough to know that the Rabbi was afraid for her, and afraid of her as well. It saddened her deeply, but she tried not to think on it. To dwell on his fears, and her own loneliness, would do no one good.

She baked the coffee cake, following the directions with fervent exactitude, and was successful in her first attempt. She was pleasantly surprised at the ease of the chore, and at the almost magical way that the oven transformed the thick batter into something else entirely, something solid, warm, and fragrant. The Rabbi ate two slices with his morning tea and declared it one of the best cakes he’d ever tasted.

She went out and bought more ingredients that afternoon. The next morning, the Rabbi awoke to find a bakery’s worth of pastries on the parlor table. There were muffins and cookies, a phalanx of biscuits, and a towering stack of pancakes. A dense, strongly spiced loaf was something called gingerbread.

“I had no idea one could bake so much in an evening!” He said it lightly, but she saw his dismay.

“You wish I hadn’t,” she said.

“Well”—he smiled—“perhaps not so much. I’m only one man, with one stomach. It would be a shame to let this all turn stale. And we must not be so exorbitant, you and I. This is a week’s worth of food.”

“I’m so sorry. Of course, I didn’t think—” Shame filled her, and she turned from the table. She’d been so proud of what she’d done! And it had felt so good to work, to spend all night in the kitchen measuring and mixing, standing before the little oven that spilled its heat into the already sultry room. And now she could barely look at her handiwork. “I do so many things wrongly!” she burst out.

“My dear, don’t be so hard on yourself,” the Rabbi said. “These concerns are all new to you. I’ve been living with them for decades!” A thought came to him. “Besides, none of this need go to waste. Would you be willing to give some of it away? I have a nephew, Michael, my sister’s son. He runs a hostel for new immigrants, and has many mouths to feed.”

She wanted to protest: she’d made these for the Rabbi, not for strangers. But she saw that he was offering her a gracious way to salvage her mistake, and that he hoped she would take it.

“Of course,” she said. “I’d be happy to.”

He smiled. “Good. In fact, let’s take them together. It’s time you had a conversation with someone besides a butcher or grocer.”

“You think I’m ready?”

“Yes, I do.”

Excited, nervous, she struggled to stand still. “Your nephew. What sort of man is he? What should I say to him? What will he think of me?”

The Rabbi smiled and raised his hands, as though to hold back her tide of questions. “First, Michael is a good boy—I should say a good man, he’s nearing thirty. I respect and admire his work, though we don’t see eye to eye. I only wish—” He paused, but then remembered that the Golem would certainly see some part of it. Better to explain, than leave her with a vague, confusing picture. “We used to be closer, Michael and I. My sister died when he was young, and my wife and I brought him up. For many years, he was as close as a son. But then—well, certain things were said between us. A sadly typical argument between the old and the young. The damage was never quite repaired. We see each other less often, now.”

There was more to it, the Golem saw—not an evasion on the Rabbi’s part, but an unspoken depth of detail. Not for the first time she felt the vast chasm of experience between them: he, who had lived for seven decades, and she, with barely a month’s worth of memories.

“As for what you shall say to each other,” the Rabbi continued in a lighter tone, “it needn’t be a long conversation. You can explain what the different pastries are, at least. No doubt he will ask you where you come from, and how long you’ve been in the city. Perhaps we should rehearse a story. You can tell him you’re a young widow from near Danzig, and that I’m acting as your social worker. Close enough to the truth, in a manner of speaking.” He smiled, but with a hint of sorrow; and she knew he was telling her something he didn’t quite believe.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to lie to your nephew. Not for my sake.”

The Rabbi was silent for a moment. Then he said, “My dear, I am beginning to realize that there are many things that I will need to do—that I must do, for your sake. But they are my decisions. You must allow me to regret a small lie made in the service of a larger good. And you yourself must learn to become comfortable doing the same.” He paused, and then said, “I don’t yet know if you’ll ever be able to live a normal life, among others. But you must know that to do so, you would have to lie to everyone in your acquaintance. You must tell no one your true nature, ever. It is a burden and a responsibility that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

A heavy silence fell.

“It had occurred to me,” the Golem said finally. “Perhaps not as clearly as that. I think I didn’t want to believe it.”

The Rabbi’s eyes were wet; but when he spoke his voice was steady. “Perhaps with time, and practice, it will become easier. And I will help you, as best I can.” He turned away, whisked a hand over his eyes; when he turned back, he was smiling. “But now, let us talk of something more cheerful. If I’m to introduce you to my nephew, I must tell him your name.”

She frowned. “I don’t have one.”

“My point exactly. It’s far past time that you were named. Would you like to choose a name for yourself?”

She thought a moment. “No.”

The Rabbi was taken aback. “But you must have a name.”

“I know.” She smiled. “But I’d like you to choose it for me.”

The Rabbi wanted to object: he’d hoped that the act of choosing a name would help her toward independence. But then he admonished himself. She was still like a child in so many ways, and one did not expect a child to name itself. That honor fell to the parent. In this, she had grasped the meaning of the thing better than he.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ve always liked the name Chava for a girl. It was my grandmother’s name, and I was very fond of her.”

“Chava,” the Golem said. The ch was a soft and rolling sound in the back of the throat, the ava like a spoken sigh. She repeated it quietly to herself, testing it while the Rabbi looked on, amused.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and she did.

“Then it’s yours.” He raised his hands over her, and closed his eyes. “Blessed One who protected our forefathers and led us out of bondage, watch over your daughter Chava. May her days be marked by peace and prosperity. May she be an aid, a comfort, and a protector to her people. May she have the wisdom and courage to see her way forward on the path that you have laid before her. Be this the will of the Almighty.”

And the Golem whispered, “Amen.”

All things considered, it was not one of Michael Levy’s better days.

He stood behind his paper-strewn desk with the harried air of a man reacting to a dozen crises at once. In his hand was a letter informing him, with regret, that the ladies who volunteered to clean on Sundays would no longer be doing so; their Ladies’ Workers League had schismed and then dissolved, and with it their Charitable Action Committee. Ten minutes earlier, the head housekeeper had informed him that a number of that week’s residents had arrived with dysentery, and they were going through bed linens at an alarming rate. And, as always, there was the almost physical pressure of the nearly two hundred new immigrants who bunked in the dormitories that hung above his head. And as long as they were under his roof, Michael was responsible for their welfare.

The Hebrew Sheltering House was a way station where men fresh from the Old World could pause, and gather their wits, before jumping headfirst into the gaping maw of the New. All were allowed to stay five days at the Sheltering House, during which they were fed and clothed and given a cot to sleep on. At the end of those five days they had to depart. Some moved in with distant relatives, or took the peddler’s path; others were recruited by the factories and slept in filthy flophouse hammocks for five cents a night. When he could, Michael tried to steer the men away from the worst of the sweatshops.

Michael Levy was twenty-seven years old. He had the sort of pink, wide-cheeked face that was cursed to perpetual youth. Only his eyes showed the years: they were deeply lined and shadowed, by reading and fatigue. He was taller than his uncle Avram, and something of a scarecrow, the result of never slowing down and eating a proper meal. His friends liked to joke that with his ink-stained cuffs and tired eyes he looked more like a scholar than a social worker. He would reply that it was only fitting, as his work was more of an education than a classroom could ever offer.

There was pride, and defensiveness, in his answer. His teachers, his aunt and uncle, his friends, even his all-but-absent father: all had expected him to go to university. And they’d been shocked and dismayed when young Michael announced his plan to dedicate himself to social work, and the betterment of the lives around him.

“Of course that’s all good and noble,” a friend told him. “Which one of us isn’t committed to the same thing? But you’ve got a first-rate mind—use that to help people. Why let it go to waste?” The friend in question wrote for one of the Socialist Labor Party papers. Every week his name ran above a moving paean to the Working Man, each turning on a scene of brotherly solidarity that he’d happened to witness—usually, conveniently enough, on the day before his deadline.

Michael stood firm, if somewhat wounded. His friends wrote their articles, they went to marches and listened to speeches, they debated the future of Marxism over coffee and strudel—but Michael heard an airy emptiness in their rhetoric. He didn’t accuse his friends of taking an easy road, but neither could he follow them. He was too honest a soul; he had never learned to deceive himself.

The only one who understood was his uncle Avram. It was the other change in Michael’s life that the Rabbi couldn’t countenance.

“Where is it written that a man must turn his back on his faith to do good in the world?” the Rabbi had asked, staring in horror at his nephew’s bare head, at the neat sideburns where sidelocks had once hung. “Who taught you this? Those philosophers you read?”

“Yes, and I agree with them. Not with everything, maybe, but at least that as long as we keep to our old beliefs, we’ll never find our place in the modern world.”

His uncle laughed. “Yes, this wonderful modern world that has rid us of all ills, of poverty and corruption! What fools we are, not to cast our shackles aside!”

“Of course there’s much that still needs changing! But it does no good to chain ourselves to a backward—” He stopped. The word had slipped from his mouth.

His uncle’s expression grew even darker. Michael saw he had two options: recant and apologize, or own what he’d said.

“I’m sorry, Uncle, but it’s how I feel,” said Michael. “I look at what we call faith, and all I see is superstition and subjugation. All religions, not just Judaism. They create false divisions, and enslave us to fantasies, when we need to focus on the here and now.”

His uncle’s face was stone. “You believe me to be an instrument of subjugation.”

The instinct to protest was on his lips—of course not! Not you, Uncle!—but he held back. He didn’t want to add hypocrisy to his list of offenses.

“Yes,” he said. “I wish I felt otherwise. I know how much good you’ve done—how could I forget all those visits to the sick? And the time the Rosens’ store burned down? But good deeds should come from our natural instinct toward brotherhood, not from tribalism! What about the Italians who owned the butcher’s shop next to the Rosens? What did we do for them?”

“I can’t take care of everyone!” snapped the Rabbi. “So perhaps I’m guilty of only looking after my own kind. That too is a natural instinct, whatever your philosophers might say.”

“But we must grow beyond it! Why reinforce our differences, and keep ancient laws, and never know the joy of breaking bread with our neighbors?”

“Because we are Jews!” his uncle shouted. “And that is how we live! Our laws remind us of who we are, and we gain strength from them! You, who are so eager to throw away your past—what will you replace it with? What will you use to keep the evil in Man from outbalancing the good?”

“Laws that apply to everyone,” said Michael. “That put all men on equal footing. I’m no anarchist, Uncle, if that’s what worries you!”

“But an atheist? Is that what you are now?”

He could see no way around it. “Yes, I think I am,” he said, looking away to hide from the pain in his uncle’s eyes. For a long, miserable time after, Michael felt he might as well have struck the man across the face.

They’d been slow to reconcile. Even now, years later, they only saw each other once a month or so. They kept to cordial small talk and avoided opinions on painful subjects. The Rabbi congratulated Michael on each success and spoke consoling words at his defeats—which were many, for Michael’s job was far from easy. When the previous supervisor, who’d insisted on only taking money from Jewish Socialist groups, had quit, the Sheltering House was weeks away from shuttering for lack of funds. Michael was invited to accept the position and saw for himself the many dozens of men in their dormitories. The weave of their clothes, the cut of their beards, and their vaguely bewildered air all marked them as fresh from the boat. These were the most vulnerable of the immigrants, most likely to be duped or swindled. He reviewed the House’s ledgers, which were in chaos. He accepted the position, then swallowed his pride and went to the local congregations and Jewish councils, begging for lifeblood. In exchange, advertisements for Sabbath services were posted on the notice board in the hallway, next to the announcements of party meetings.

He still believed what he’d told his uncle. He attended no synagogue, said no prayers, and hoped that one day all men would lose their need for religion. But he knew that sweeping change only happened slowly, and he understood the value of pragmatism.

The Rabbi saw the religious advertisements when he visited, but said nothing. He too seemed to regret the rift between them. They were practically each other’s only relations—Michael’s father having long since decamped for Chicago, leaving behind a dozen frustrated creditors—and in a neighborhood of sprawling families, Michael felt it keenly. So when the Rabbi came knocking on his office door that afternoon, Michael was truly glad to see him.

“Uncle! What brings you here?” The men embraced, a bit formally. Michael had grown used to his own uncovered head, the lack of fringe beneath his vest; but he still felt naked in the man’s presence. Then he caught sight of the woman in the door’s shadow.

“I’d like you to meet a new friend,” said the Rabbi. “Michael, this is Chava. She’s newly arrived in New York.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” the woman said. She was tall, taller than him by an inch or two. For a moment she seemed a dark and looming statue; but then she moved forward into the room, and was merely a woman in a plain shirtwaist, holding a cardboard box.

Michael realized he was staring; he caught himself. “Likewise, of course! How long have you been here?”

“Only a month.” She gave a small embarrassed smile, as if apologizing for her recent arrival.

“Chava’s husband died on the voyage,” his uncle said. “She has no family in America. I’ve become her social worker, after a fashion.”

Michael’s face fell. “My God, how terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” It was a whisper.

There was a moment of silence, awkward with the weight of her revealed widowhood. Then the woman seemed to notice the box in her hands. “I made these,” she said, a bit abruptly. “They were meant for your uncle, but I made too many. He suggested I bring them to you, and you could give them to the men who live here.” She held out the box to Michael.

He opened it, unleashing a heavenly scent of butter and spices. The box was full of pastries, all different kinds: butter-horns, almond macaroons, spice cookies, sweet buns, gingersnaps. “You made all of these?” he said, incredulous. “Are you a baker?”

The woman hesitated, but then smiled. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Well, the men will certainly appreciate these. We’ll make sure everyone gets a piece.” He closed the box, fighting temptation. The almond macaroons in particular were making his mouth water; they’d been his favorite since childhood. “Thank you, Chava. This will be a great treat for them. I’ll take them straight to the kitchen.”

“You should try a macaroon,” she said.

He smiled. “I will. They’re my favorite, actually.”

“I—” She seemed to catch hold of herself, then said, “I’m glad.”

“Chava,” the Rabbi said, “perhaps you might wait for me in the parlor.”

The woman nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said to Michael.

“And you as well,” he replied. “And thank you, truly. On behalf of all the men.”

She smiled, and withdrew into the hallway. For such a tall woman, she moved quite silently.

“My God, what a tragedy for her!” Michael said when she was out of earshot. “I’m surprised she stayed in New York, instead of going back home.”

“There was little there for her,” said his uncle. “In a way, she had no choice.”

Michael frowned. “She isn’t living with you, is she?”

“No, no,” his uncle said quickly. “She’s staying with a former congregant, for now. An old widow. But I must find her a more permanent living situation, and a job as well.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult. She seems capable, if quiet.”

“Yes, she’s very capable. But at the same time she’s almost painfully innocent. It makes me afraid for her. She’ll need to learn how to protect herself, to live in this city.”

“At least she’ll have you to look out for her.”

His uncle smiled grimly. “Yes. For now.”

An idea had been forming in Michael’s mind; finally he gave it his attention. “You say you’re looking for a job for her?”

“Yes. Not a sweatshop, if I can help it.”

“Are you still in touch with Moe Radzin?”

“We’re cordial enough to say hello on the street, I suppose.” He frowned. “You think there might be a job for Chava at Radzin’s?”

“I was just there yesterday. The place was in chaos, and Moe was having fits. One of his assistants ran off to God knows where, and another is leaving to take care of her sister.” He smiled and pointed at the box. “If those taste as good as they look, then the bakery could use her. You should go talk to him.”

“Yes,” the Rabbi said slowly. “It’s a possibility. But Moe Radzin …”

“I know. He’s just as sour and unhappy as ever. But he’s fair, at least, and generous when he wants to be. The House gets all our bread from him, at discount. And his employees seem to respect him. Well, except for Thea.”

The Rabbi snorted. Thea Radzin was a formidable complainer, the sort of woman who began conversations with a list of her ailments. Among her husband’s female employees she worked as a matchmaker in reverse, listing their defects to any man who showed an interest.

Michael pressed on, feeling obscurely that if he could help his uncle, some of his guilt would be unburdened. “There are worse bosses than Moe Radzin. And perhaps he’ll feel some obligation to treat Chava well, if he knows you’re watching out for her.”

“Perhaps. I’ll speak to him. Thank you, Michael.” He squeezed his nephew’s shoulder; and Michael, with a burst of concern, saw that his uncle had never looked so worn and tired, not even when dealing with the stresses of a congregation. He had always worked himself far too hard. And now, instead of resting, he’d taken the welfare of a young widow upon himself. Michael wanted to suggest that there were any number of women’s groups that could look after her. But the Jewish women’s charities, he knew, were even more strapped than the men’s.

He said good-bye to his uncle and sat back at his desk. Even with his misgivings about his uncle’s health, the brief glimpse of the woman had intrigued him. She’d seemed quiet and shy, but the way she’d looked at him had been unnerving. She’d stared directly into his eyes, unblinking, a deep and candid gaze. He understood what his uncle meant about her needing to protect herself, but at the same time Michael felt it was he, not she, who had been laid bare.

The Sheltering House’s parlor was surprisingly spacious, running the length of the dim front hall. The Golem stood in the corner next to a dilapidated wing chair. It was now midmorning, and many of the men in the dormitories had left already, to look for work or a place to pray. But close to sixty remained, and the weight of their worrying minds pressed down on the Golem from above. It reminded her powerfully of her first night, on the Baltika, how the passengers’ fears and desires had been amplified by the strange surroundings. These were the same wild hopes, the same apprehensions. It hadn’t been as bad in Michael’s office; she’d been too focused on the challenge of speaking to a stranger, and not giving herself away.

She was beginning to fidget. How much longer would the Rabbi be? Against her will she glanced up at the ceiling. Up there was hunger, loneliness, fear of failure, and loud wishes for success, of home, of a gigantic platter of roast beef—and one man who stood in line for the W.C., wanting only a newspaper to read while he waited …

She glanced at the parlor table. An issue of Forverts lay there, waiting to be claimed.

“No,” she said to herself, louder than she had meant. She left the parlor and began to pace the long, dim corridor. Her hands gripped her elbows. She would knock on Michael’s door, tell the Rabbi they needed to leave, that she didn’t feel well—

To her relief, the office door opened, and the Rabbi and Michael stepped out, saying a few last words to each other. The Rabbi saw the Golem’s strained expression, and his good-bye grew more hurried. At last they were walking down the dark wooden hall to the rectangle of sunlight at its end.

“Are you all right?” asked the Rabbi when they were on the street.

“The men,” she began, and found she couldn’t go on: her thoughts were too quick, too choppy. She struggled to relax. “They all want so much,” she got out at last.

“Was it too much for you?”

“No. Nearly. If we’d stayed.”

The silent clamor of the Sheltering House faded behind her, was swallowed into the diffuse buzz of the city. Her mind began to slow. She shook out her fingers, feeling the tension ebb. “There was a man, upstairs,” she said. “He wanted a newspaper. I saw one in the parlor, and nearly brought it to him.”

“That would have been quite a surprise for him.” He tried to speak lightly. “You were able to hold back, though.”

“Yes. But it was difficult.”

“You are improving, I think. Though you nearly gave yourself away, with the macaroons.”

“I know.” She cringed at the memory, and the Rabbi smiled. “Chava,” he said, “it’s a cruel irony that you have the most difficulty precisely when those around you are on their best behavior. I suspect you would find it much easier if we all cast politeness aside, and took whatever we pleased.”

She considered. “It would be easier, at first. But then you might hurt each other to gain your wishes, and grow afraid of each other, and still go on wanting.”

Approval raised his eyebrows. “You’re becoming quite the student of human nature. Do you think you have improved enough to go out regularly on your own—say, to hold down a job?”

Apprehension clutched at her, mingled with excitement. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how I would know, except through trying.”

“Michael tells me that Radzin’s Bakery is looking for new workers. I know Moe Radzin from years ago, and I thought I might try to get you a position there. I should be able to secure an interview with him, at least.”

“A bakery?”

“It would be hard work, and long hours surrounded by strangers. You’d have to take constant care.”

She tried to imagine it: working all day with her hands, in an apron and a starched cap. Stacking the neat rows of loaves, their brown undersides still dusty with flour, and knowing that she had made them.

“I’d like to try,” she said.

7.

On a warm Saturday in September, the Djinni stood at the back of a crowded rental hall and watched as a man and woman were united in the Maronite Catholic sacrament of marriage. Despite the palpable joy of the other onlookers, he was not in the best of moods.

“Why should I go, when I don’t even know them?” he’d asked Arbeely that morning.

“You’re part of the community now. You’ll be expected at these things.”

“I thought you said I should maintain some distance, while I’m still learning.”

“Distance is one thing. Rudeness is another.”

“Why is it rudeness if I don’t know them? And I still don’t understand the purpose of a wedding. What could possibly induce two free beings to partner only with each other for the rest of their existence?”

Here, the conversation had deteriorated. Arbeely, flustered and aghast, tried to defend the institution, bringing forth every argument he could think of: paternity and legitimacy, marriage’s civilizing influence, the need for chastity in women and fidelity in men. The Djinni scoffed at each of these, insisting that the djinn had no such preoccupations, and he saw no need why men and women should either. To which Arbeely said that it was just the way it was, regardless of what the Djinni thought, and he must attend the wedding and try to keep his opinions to himself. And the Djinni replied that of all the creatures he’d ever encountered, be they made of flesh or fire, none was quite as exasperating as a human.

At the front of the hall, the bride and groom knelt as the priest swung a censer back and forth above them. The bride, eighteen years old, was named Leila but called Lulu, a name that suggested a sauciness not at all evident in the small and shyly smiling girl. Her bridegroom, Sam Hosseini, was a round and friendly man, well known in the community. He had been one of the first Syrian merchants to settle on Washington Street, and his imported-goods store was a neighborhood mainstay, attracting clients from far beyond its borders. Over the years he’d become quite prosperous, and was generous in helping his neighbors, so few begrudged him his success. As the priest intoned the service, Sam beamed with happiness and cast occasional glances down at Lulu, as if to confirm his great luck.

The ceremony ended, and everyone walked to the Faddouls’ coffeehouse for the wedding banquet. The café tables were covered with platters of kebabs and rice and spinach-and-meat pies, and ribbon-tied bags of sugared almonds. Women crowded one side of the coffeehouse, eating and chatting. On the other side, men poured araq into each other’s glasses and traded news. Sam and Lulu sat at their own small table in the middle, receiving congratulations, looking dazed and happy. A gift table near the door held a growing collection of boxes and envelopes.

But the Djinni was not among the crowd. He was in the alley behind the coffeehouse, sitting cross-legged on an abandoned wooden crate. The atmosphere in the wedding hall had been oppressive, humid with sweat and incense and perfume, and he was still irritated by what he saw as a pointless ceremony. He had no wish to be cooped up in the coffeehouse with dozens of strangers. Besides, the day had turned beautiful; the sky between the buildings was a pure blue, and a meandering breeze cleared the smell of refuse from the alley.

From his pocket he pulled a handful of gold necklaces, purchased from a shabby storefront on the Bowery. Arbeely had taken him there, saying it was the only place he knew of to purchase gold inexpensively; but he had seemed uncomfortable and frowned at the low prices, later remarking that he was certain they’d been stolen. They were of middling workmanship—the links were not entirely uniform, and the chains hung in an uneven sort of way—but the gold was of good quality. The Djinni gathered them into one palm and cupped his hands around them to melt them, and then began idly to shape the metal. When his hands stilled, he was holding a miniature golden pigeon. With a thin, pointed wire he added a few details—the suggestion of feathers, pinprick eyes—and then surrounded the bird with a filigree cage. It felt good to work with his hands, instead of the crude tools that Arbeely insisted he use when someone might be watching.

The alleyway door of the coffeehouse opened. It was Arbeely. “There you are,” the man said. A small plate and a fork were in his hands.

Irritated, the Djinni said, “Yes, here I am, enjoying a moment of solitude.”

A flash of hurt passed over the man’s face. “I brought you a piece of the kinafeh,” he said. “It’s about to run out. I was worried you wouldn’t get any.”

Guilt pricked vaguely at the Djinni. He knew Arbeely was doing much to help him, but it made him feel oppressed and beholden, and it was hard to keep from lashing out. He slipped the caged bird into his pocket and accepted the proffered plate, which held a square of something heavy-looking, with brown and cream-colored layers. He frowned. “What exactly is this?”

Arbeely grinned. “The closest thing to heaven on earth.”

The Djinni took a cautious bite. The act of eating was still difficult. Not the mechanism itself—chewing and swallowing were simple enough actions, and the food burned to nothingness inside him. But he’d never tasted anything before, and had been taken completely by surprise at his first experiences of flavor. The sensations of sweet and savory, salt and spice, were arresting, even overwhelming. He’d learned to take the food in small bites and chew slowly. Even so, the kinafeh was a shock. Sweetness burst across his tongue, and thin strands of dough crunched between his teeth, the sound echoing deep in his ears. A creamy tartness made his jaw tighten.

“Do you like it?” asked Arbeely.

“I don’t know. It’s … startling.” He took another tentative bite. “I think I like it.”

Arbeely looked around the alley. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“I needed a moment of quiet.”

“Ahmad,” Arbeely said—and the Djinni cringed at the name, his but not his—“I understand, really. God knows, I’m the same way at these things. But we don’t want people to think you’re a recluse. Please, come in and say hello. Smile once or twice. For me, if not yourself.”

Reluctantly, the Djinni followed Arbeely back to the party.

Inside, the tables had been pushed to the edges of the room, and a group of men was dancing in a fast-moving ring, their arms about each other’s shoulders. The women crowded around them, cheering and clapping. The Djinni stood out of their way, in the back of the room, and observed the bride through breaks in the crowd. Of all the people at the wedding, she was the one who’d caught his interest. She was young and pretty, and clearly very nervous. She barely touched the food in front of her but smiled and spoke with the well-wishers who approached their table. Next to her, Sam Hosseini ate like a starving man, and stood to greet everyone with hugs and handshakes. She listened to her new husband talk, and looked up at him with obvious fondness; but occasionally she would glance about, as if looking for reassurance. The Djinni remembered what Arbeely had told him, that she was only a few weeks in America, that Hosseini had proposed to her on a visit home. And now, the Djinni reflected, she was in a new place, on unsure footing, surrounded by strangers. Like himself, in a way. A shame, that according to Arbeely she now belonged to this man only.

The bride was still scanning the room. The dancing men spun to one side, and she saw the Djinni regarding her. He held her in his gaze for a long moment. Then she looked away; and when she greeted the next guest there was color high in her cheeks.

“Ahmad, would you like coffee?”

He turned, startled. It was Maryam. She carried a tray of tiny cups, each full of thick, cardamom-scented coffee. She wore her customary hostess’s smile, but her eyes carried an edge of warning. Clearly she’d seen his interest. “So you can drink to their happiness,” she said.

He lifted a cup from her tray. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she replied, and moved on.

He eyed the diminutive cup of coffee. Liquid in such a small amount would not hurt him, and it smelled interesting enough. He downed it all at once, as he’d seen the others do, and nearly choked. It was incredibly bitter; drinking it felt like an assault.

He winced and set the cup on a table. He’d had enough of human revelry for one day. He searched out Arbeely in the crowd, caught the man’s eye, and pointed at the door. Arbeely held up one hand, as if to say, wait a moment, and indicated the newlyweds’ table.

But the Djinni did not want to congratulate the happy couple. He was in no mood to speak words he didn’t feel. As Arbeely tried to wave him over, the Djinni moved through the crowd, left the stifling coffeehouse, and went out into the city.

The Djinni walked north along Washington Street, wondering if he’d ever be truly alone again. At times the desert had felt too empty for him, but this opposite extreme was harder to bear. The street was no less crowded than the coffeehouse had been. Families thronged the sidewalks, all taking advantage of the warm weekend afternoon. And where there were not humans there were horses, a standstill parade of them, each attached to a cart, each cart carrying a man, each man yelling at the others to clear out of his way—all in a myriad of languages that the Djinni had never before heard but nonetheless comprehended, and now he was coming to resent his own seemingly inexhaustible resources of understanding.

He was not walking aimlessly; he had a destination in mind. A few days earlier, Arbeely had shown him a map of Manhattan and offhandedly pointed out a long, green hole in the island’s middle. “Central Park,” Arbeely had said. “It’s immense, nothing but trees and grass and water. You’ll have to see it someday.” Then the tinsmith had moved on to other topics, such as where to catch the Elevated, and which neighborhoods to avoid. But that long, open expanse of green had caught the Djinni’s attention. He had only to find an Elevated platform on Sixth Avenue; and the Elevated, it seemed, would take him there.

At Fourteenth he turned east, and the crowd began to change character. There were fewer children, and more men in suits and hats. In the streets, elegant carriages mixed with dray-carts and delivery wagons. The buildings were changing as well, growing taller and wider. At Sixth Avenue a narrow ribbon of metal ran high above the street. He watched as a string of metal boxes ran along the ribbon, sending sparks into the street below. Through the train’s tiny windows he caught glimpses of men and women, their faces placid as they rushed by.

He climbed a stairway to a platform, gave the ticket seller a few coins. A train soon arrived, squealing horribly as it halted. He boarded it and found a seat. More and more passengers entered the car, until the seats were all taken and the stragglers were forced to press together in the aisles. The Djinni shuddered as the car filled past what seemed possible.

The doors closed and the Elevated strained forward. He’d thought it might feel like flying, but he was soon disabused of that notion. The train vibrated as though to shake the teeth from his head. Buildings flashed past so close to the window that he recoiled. He debated getting off at the next stop and walking the rest of the way, but the other passengers seemed to chide him with their nonchalance. He clenched his jaw and watched the streets grimly as they sped past.

Fifty-ninth Street was the end of the line. He descended the staircase, feeling a bit sick. It was late in the afternoon, and the sky was clouding over, turning to a gray-white sheet.

Across from the station rose a wall of greenery. A high iron fence ran along it, as though to hold back something wild. There was a wide gap in the middle of the fence, and Sixth Avenue disappeared inside, curving around and out of sight. A steady stream of pedestrians and carriages came and went. He crossed the street and passed inside.

Almost immediately the sounds of traffic faded away, were replaced by a descending hush. A grove of trees edged the path on both sides, turning the air cool and heavy. Gravel crunched under his shoes. Open carriages ambled past, the horses’ hooves beating a pleasant rhythm. Smaller paths broke away from either side of the carriage road, some wide and paved, others little more than dirt tracks overhung with lush vegetation.

Soon the shading grove came to an end, and the land opened into a vast swath of rolling lawn. The Djinni stopped, stunned by the vivid sea of green. Trees bordered its far edges, shielding the city from view. In the middle of the lawn, a herd of plump, dusky-white sheep stood peacefully together, eating lazy mouthfuls of grass. Benches lined the road, and here and there people sat, in pairs or threes or the occasional solitary gentleman—though women were never alone in public, he had noticed this—and watched the carriages go by.

He stepped off the path and walked about in the grass for a few moments, feeling the earth give and spring back. He bounced on the balls of his feet, unaware of the smile that rose to his lips. Briefly he considered abandoning the path altogether, and walking the length of the lawn, perhaps without his shoes; but then he spied a small sign staked into the ground that read PLEASE STAY TO THE PATH. And indeed, a few passersby were frowning at him in admonishment. He thought the rule absurd but had no wish to be noticed. So he stepped back onto the path, vowing to return at night, when hopefully he could do as he liked.

The carriage road branched away east, and the Djinni followed its curve over a pretty wooden bridge. Through a copse of tall trees he spied a long, straight path of shining gray-white. He left the road to investigate, and the gray-white path revealed itself as a broad promenade of flagstone, lined with high, arching trees. There were more people here than on the carriage path, but the scale of the space was so grand that he took little notice of the crowd. Children ran past, and one boy’s hoop went rolling away from him, tilting across the Djinni’s path. Startled, he plucked it from the stones and gave it back to the boy, who ran to catch up with his fellows. The Djinni continued on, wondering about the function of the hoop.

Eventually the broad walk descended into a tunnel that cut beneath a carriage road. On the other side of the tunnel, a broad plaza of red brick curved along the shore of a pond. In the middle of the plaza he saw what he took at first for an enormous winged woman, floating above a foaming cascade of water. No, not a woman—a sculpture of a woman, perched atop a pedestal. The water flowed into a wide, shallow basin at her feet, and then into a pool that stretched almost the width of the plaza.

He walked to the pool’s edge and watched the fountain, entranced. He’d never thought to see water sculpted this way, in sheets and streams that changed constantly. It wasn’t as frightening as the giant expanse of New York Harbor, but still he felt a not quite pleasant thrill. A fine spray struck his face, a smattering of tiny needles.

Serenely the woman hung above him. In one hand she carried a slender stem of flowers; with the other she reached out, gesturing to he knew not what. Her wings stretched behind her, wide and curved. A human woman, with the inhuman power of flight—but if Arbeely was to be believed, wouldn’t they be frightened by such a woman? And yet the artist had sculpted her with reverence, not fear.

There was movement next to him: a young woman, standing nearby, watching him. He glanced at her, and she quickly turned her head, pretending to study the fountain as well. She wore a dress of dark blue that cinched tightly at the waist, and a large hat with a rolled brim, adorned with a peacock feather. Her brown hair was gathered in ringlets at the nape of her neck. By now the Djinni had seen enough of human costumes to know that everything about her spoke of wealth. Strangely, she seemed to be alone.

She glanced back at him, as if unable to help herself, and their eyes met. Hers darted away again. But then she smiled, as though conceding defeat, and turned to face him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You seemed so entranced by the fountain. But it was rude of me to stare.”

“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m indeed entranced. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Can you tell me, who is the woman with the wings?”

“She’s called the Angel of the Waters. She blesses the water, and all who drink it are healed.”

“Healed? Of what?”

She shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that made her seem even younger than he’d thought. “Of whatever ails them, I suppose.”

“And what,” the Djinni asked, “is an angel?”

This question made her pause. She glanced him over again, as if reassessing him. Likely she’d already noticed the inferior cut of his clothing, and the accent in his English—but this question must have implied a strangeness not evident in his appearance.

She said, “Well, sir, an angel is a messenger of God. A heavenly being, higher than Man, but still a servant.”

“I see.” In fact, her words made little sense to him, but he sensed that pressing her further would be a mistake. He’d have to ask Arbeely. “And this is what angels look like?”

“I suppose,” she said. “Or perhaps, this is one way of picturing them. It all depends on what you believe.”

They stood, not quite together, gazing at the fountain.

“I’ve never seen anything like her,” he said. He felt he must speak again, or risk the girl drifting from him.

“You must be from very far away, if your country has no angels,” she said.

He smiled. “Oh, but there are angels in my land. I only didn’t know what was meant by the word.”

“But your angels aren’t like her?” She nodded at the woman who hovered above them.

“No, not like her. In my land, the angels are made of an everlasting fire. They can change form to whatever suits their mood, and appear to men’s eyes in that form, as the whirlwind appears in the dust that it carries.”

She was listening, her eyes on him. He went on. “The angels in my land serve no one, neither higher than themselves nor lower. They roam where they wish, led only by their whims. When they encounter one another, they will sometimes react with violence, or else passion; and when they encounter humans”—he smiled down into her staring eyes—“the results are often the same.”

She glanced away hotly. For a few moments there was only the sound of the water and others’ conversations. “Your land,” she said finally, “sounds like a savage place.”

“It can be, at times.”

“And in your land, is it considered proper to talk this way to a woman in a public park?”

“I suppose not,” he said.

“Or perhaps the women of your land are different, that you would be so free with them.”

“No, they are not so very different,” he said, amused. “Though until now I would have said that they surpass those here in both beauty and pride. And now, I find my assumptions are shaken.”

Her eyes went wide. She drew breath to answer him—and he wanted dearly to hear whatever she would say—but suddenly she glanced to her left, and took a step away from him. An elderly woman in a stiff black dress and a veiled hat was approaching. The young woman, with effort, restored her features to neutrality.

“Thank you for waiting, dearest,” said the old woman. “There was a terrible line. You must have thought I’d deserted you.”

“Not at all. I’ve been enjoying the fountain.”

The old woman looked darkly over the girl’s head at the Djinni, and then whispered something to her companion.

“Of course not,” the young woman replied, barely audible. “Auntie, you know I would never. He only tried to ask me a question, but I couldn’t understand. I don’t think he speaks English.”

She darted a quick, pleading glance at him: please don’t betray me. Amused, he dipped his head a fraction, the ghost of a nod.

“The impertinence,” the older lady muttered, narrowing her eyes at the Djinni. She spoke more loudly now, assuming he wouldn’t understand, though of course her tone was plain. “I’m sorry, Sophia, I never should have left you alone.”

“Really, Auntie, it’s of no concern,” the young woman said, embarrassment in her voice.

“Promise not to speak a word of this to your parents, or I won’t hear the end of it.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now let’s take you home. Your mother will be beside herself if you aren’t ready in time.”

“I can’t stand these parties, they’re so wearisome.”

“Don’t say that, my dear, the season’s just starting.”

The older woman took her companion’s arm—Sophia, she had called her. Sophia glanced up at the Djinni. It was clear she wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Instead she allowed the older woman to escort her from the fountain, across the expanse of red brick. They ascended the staircase to the carriage drive, and then they were gone from sight.

Quickly he dashed across the terrace, startling those in his path. He took the stairs two and three at a time. Near the top he paused. Keeping out of sight, he watched from below as the two women approached a gleaming, open-topped carriage that waited on the drive. A man in livery opened the passenger door for them. “M’lady. Miss Winston.”

“Thank you, Lucas,” said the young woman as he helped her into the carriage.

The man climbed onto his high perch and flicked the reins, and the carriage rolled smoothly away down the drive. The Djinni watched the carriage until it curved past a grove of trees and disappeared.

He considered. It was late in the day, and growing cold. The sky was still overcast, and edging on threatening. Now would be the time to turn south and retrace his steps. No doubt Arbeely was wondering where he was.

But the young lady had intrigued him. Moreover, the dark, aimless longings that had surfaced at the wedding party had returned, and he was not in the habit of denying his own impulses. Arbeely, he decided, could wait for him a few minutes longer.

He had little to go on, only her name, but in the end it was almost absurdly easy to discover where Sophia Winston lived. He accomplished it by traveling eastward to the edge of the park, alongside the path her carriage had taken; and then, once he was through the gate and again on the city streets, asking the first man who passed by.

“Winston? You mean Francis Winston? You must be joking.” The man he’d stopped was large and jowly, and dressed like a laborer. “He’s in that new mansion at Sixty-second. Big heap of white bricks, as big as Astor’s. Can’t miss it.” He pointed north with a meaty finger.

“Thank you.” The Djinni strode off.

“Hey!” the man yelled after him. “What you want with the Winstons, anyhow?”

“I’m going to seduce their daughter,” the Djinni called back, and the man’s roar of laughter followed him up Fifth Avenue.

He found the Winston residence easily, just as the man had said. It was an enormous three-story limestone palace, topped by dark gables that rose to high peaks. The house was set back from the street, behind a swath of neatly trimmed grass and a spike-topped iron fence that ran the length of the sidewalk. It hadn’t yet acquired the thick patina of grime that clung to its neighbors, and it wore this newness with a quiet self-satisfaction.

At the front of the house was an enormous lamp-lit portico. The Djinni walked past it, and turned the corner, following the iron fence. Lights blazed in the tall windows beyond. He could see figures moving about inside, silhouetted behind drapery. At the back corner of the house, a thick hedge stretched out to meet the sidewalk, and the iron fence became an imposing brick wall, shielding the grounds behind the mansion from passing eyes.

The Djinni eyed the fence. The bars were strong, but not especially thick. He eyed the distance between them. Two, he decided, would be enough. He wrapped a hand around each of the bars, and concentrated.

Sophia Winston sat disconsolate in her bedroom, still in her dressing gown, hair damp from the bath. The guests would be arriving in less than an hour. As her aunt had predicted, Sophia’s mother was in one of her states, careening about the house like a loose parakeet, issuing orders to every servant within earshot. Her father had retreated to the library, his usual foxhole. Sophia wished she could join him, or else help put her brother George to bed. But George’s governess disliked Sophia’s “interference,” saying it undermined her authority. And if Sophia’s mother found her mooning over travel journals in the library, there would be a row.

Sophia was eighteen years old, and she was lonely. As the daughter of one of the richest and most prominent families in New York—indeed, in the country—it had been made clear to her, in ways both subtle and overt, that she was expected to do little more than simply exist, biding her time and minding her manners until she made a suitable match and continued the family line. Her future unrolled before her like a dreadful tapestry, its pattern set and immutable. There would be a wedding, and then a house somewhere nearby on the avenue, with a nursery for the children that were, of course, mandatory. She’d spend interminable summers in the country, traveling from estate to estate, playing endless games of tennis, chafing under the strain of being constantly a guest in someone else’s home. Then would come middle age, and the expected taking-up of a cause, Temperance or Poverty or Education—it did not matter so long as it was virtuous and uncontroversial, and furnished opportunities for luncheons with dowdy speakers in severe dress. Then old age and decrepitude, the slow transformation into a heap of black taffeta in a bath chair, to be displayed briefly at parties and then put out of sight; to spend her last days sitting bewildered by the fire, wondering where her life had gone.

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