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“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.
