the theatre.”
“Liebermann,” said the professor. “What’s his first name?”
“Max,” said Gabriel. “Professor Freud speaks very highly of him. I’ve read a few of his case studies and was most impressed by his paper on paranoia erotica. It would be a great shame if his career was blighted because of political opportunism.”
“Oh, then I really must do something,” said Professor Priel.
Gabriel sipped his tea and returned the cup to its saucer. On landing, it produced an unusually loud chime.
“Be that as it may,” Gabriel continued, “he is not very active in our circle. He has not associated himself with our charitable organizations and causes.”
“Is he a member of the lodge?”
“No, I don’t think he is. I met him there when Professor Freud gave his last talk, but I had never seen him there before-and have not seen him there since.”
“I don’t think that should concern us,” said the professor. “He is a talented young man with prospects. He needs help, and I may be in a position to provide it. Rothenstein has some exceptional lawyers in his employ. One can’t just stand by and watch something like this happening. Asher is quite right. In the end, if something isn’t done, we’ll all be affected. Never forget what Councillor Faust was proposing in his article. Where can I find him, this Liebermann fellow?”
Gabriel was dressed in the very same jacket that he had been wearing in the Cafe Central. He reached into his pocket, found Liebermann’s card, and gave it to Professor Priel.
“He works at the General Hospital.”
“Good. I’ll see what I can do.”
Priel took a swig of magnetized water. He could feel the energy coursing through his veins, invigorating and refreshing his nerves and muscles. He looked over at the reproduction of Moses. A good man’s work was never done.
66
Nahum Nagel was sitting behind the counter of the general store, watching the scales seesaw. He was deep in thought.
Everybody was convinced.
Everybody was expecting salvation.
But was it really going to happen? When the thugs came again, what should he expect? Would the ground tremble as its massive feet stomped down the alleyway? Would the shop door be thrown open, would it duck beneath the lintel and grab the villains? Would it rip off their heads, right there, on the other side of the counter, before his very eyes?
The gossip went round and round in his head, like whispering in a cloister.
Alois Gasse… mud… Prague… golem…
Upstairs, his father was coughing. If they didn’t move very soon, the old man would die.
Nahum removed one weight and added another. The scale tipped and began, through its slow reciprocal motion, to negotiate a different resting point. As the dishes rose and fell, it struck Nahum that the process was like a dialogue between two parties: offers made, rejected, reviewed, and finally accepted. The angle at which the scale bar finally came to rest was, in effect, a compromise.
Nahum’s thoughts crystallized.
The universe that God made is imperfect. That is what Isaac Luria taught his disciples. We have no need of complex philosophical arguments to explain why God has let evil into the world. Its presence is a mistake. The vessels broke and must be repaired. Humanity can either assist in the process of healing or compound the disintegration of all things through acts of self-interest and cruelty. Luria places the fate of everything not in the hands of God but in the hands of humanity: the peddler, the kitchen maid, and the street cleaner. Everyone is responsible.
The familiar sound of hobnailed boots resonated in the alley. It grew louder, and the door swung wide open. Haas entered the shop and strolled up to the counter, kicking a tin of olive oil over as he came forward.
“Well,” he said. “I believe you owe me some money.”
“Where is your friend?” Nahum asked.
“Why? Have you missed him?” Haas laughed.
Nahum stared at the scales.
The zaddik had spoken with conviction.
You have nothing to fear. You have only to call and the golem will come to assist you.
“Give me the cash box!”
Nahum handed Haas the tin. The thug opened it up and looked inside. He turned the empty container upside down and threw it over his shoulder. It clattered across the floor.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
Nahum closed his eyes. Come to me, help me…
And, to his surprise, the prayer was answered.
The golem arrived, but not in the form that he had anticipated. It came not as a supernatural being. It came instead as blind, pitiless rage.
They are evil, and their evil is my responsibility.
Nahum opened his eyes.
“The money,” said Haas.
The shopkeeper snatched up the heaviest weight from the counter and swung it against the side of Haas’s head. It made a strange, sickening thud. Nahum then allowed his hand to drop.
Haas did not move. He remained standing, swaying slightly, his expression showing nothing more than mild irritation. Blood ran down his cheek in a straight line until it was diverted along the arc of his scar. His eyes rolled and he fell backward, crashing to the ground.
Nahum stepped out from behind the counter and began to go through the thug’s pockets. He found a wallet bulging with notes, enough to pay for dry rooms and a specialist in lung diseases.
Haas was still breathing.
“Father?” Nahum called out.
“Yes?” the old man croaked.
“Get your coat. We’re leaving.”
67
Professor Kraus entered Gabriel Kusevitsky’s room without knocking.
“There’s a policeman outside,” said the professor. “He wants to speak to you.”
“Me?” said Kusevitsky, rising unsteadily from his chair.
“Yes, you. What on earth have you done, Kusevitsky?”
“Why, nothing, sir. Well, nothing wrong, at least.”
“This is a private hospital,” said the professor. “We can’t have the police snooping around the wards. It won’t do.”
“Indeed, sir, but I can assure you-”
The professor cut in, “Just make sure he doesn’t come back, eh? You young fellows are all the same. Dueling, drinking, parties, and ridiculous pranks. You’re not a student anymore, Kusevitsky.”
“With respect, sir, I have never-”
“And incidentally,” the professor pressed on, “that necktie is far too loud. It lacks gravitas. And if there’s one
