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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.
