Swiftly the Jinni bent to the water-bucket at the end of the workbench. There was a startling clap of steam—and when he appeared again he was holding a hollow globe, perhaps six inches in diameter, made of dozens of thin and swirling filaments that all ran together seamlessly at its poles.
Arbeely took it and stared. There was a lightness to the globe, and a sense of motion, like a captured water-current. “What is it?” he said.
“A finial for a banister,” the Jinni said. “Or for a bedpost, or a set of fireplace andirons. It could be a child’s top. It might perch upon a gate. I could make all these things and more.”
Arbeely laughed, suddenly giddy.
“It’s time we enlarged our vision,” the Jinni told him; and then he fetched his jacket, and left.
The street outside darkened as Arbeely sat in the shop, examining the precious globe by lamplight. Part of him expected it to vanish, like a fading enchantment—but it persisted, cool and real in his hand.
Enlarge our vision . . . They’d need more space. A factory floor, if possible. New equipment, a better forge. And privacy, a hidden room of some sort, for the Jinni to work his magic. They could call it a trade secret, but a landlord would grow suspicious, wouldn’t he? Better to own the place outright, though of course that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
From a desk drawer he fetched his private ledger, opened it to numbers that would’ve made his neighbors gasp: the result of long hours, simple habits, and a shining spark of luck that had burst into his life from an old copper flask. He’d spied his partner’s ledger, knew that the numbers there were roughly the same as his own. But no, it still wouldn’t be enough, he was letting his enthusiasm run away with himself—but imagine it . . .
At some point he put his head down atop the ledger; and when he opened his eyes again, the sun was shining. He stood, wiped at his eyes. His stomach growled. What was he still doing in the shop?
The swirling globe caught his eye, and he remembered.
He put the globe carefully in a drawer and went out to the street, where the morning was already underway, the sidewalks bustling with neighbors. Perhaps he’d go to the Faddouls’, for a cup of coffee. And a word with Maryam, if she wasn’t too busy.
He opened the coffee-house door—and Maryam caught his arm as though she’d been waiting for him. “Boutros,” she said, “you play backgammon, don’t you?” And before he could utter a word, she’d steered him to a table where one of her regular customers sat alone before a backgammon board, his usual opponent having succumbed to a toothache. Arbeely, an indifferent player at best, proceeded to lose three consecutive games while the man complained at length about his brother-in-law, a lazy oaf who smoked his narghile all day long and sent his wife out to earn in his stead. And now it seemed that her job was in jeopardy, for she worked at the lace-maker’s in the Amherst—Arbeely knew the Amherst, didn’t he? Yes, the loft building at the corner of Washington and Carlisle. Well, it seemed the owner had been ruined in the “Panic” in October, and was faced with selling a number of his properties at a loss. No doubt the Amherst would be snapped up by some faceless financier who’d see fit to raise the rents. It was a shame, the man said as he moved a checker across the bar, that so few of the buildings in Little Syria were owned by actual Syrians; it would be such a boon for the neighborhood businesses . . .
Arbeely lifted his eyes from the board. Maryam was watching him from the far corner, smiling with excitement.
* * *
In the spring of 1908, the elders of the Forsyth Street Synagogue gathered for a secret meeting to discuss the problem of Rabbi Altschul.
None of them could say exactly when their rabbi’s odd behavior had begun. He was a holy man, of course, and a touch of dreaminess or self-absorption was to be expected—but lately he seemed to be coming entirely untethered. He’d developed the habit of wandering off the dais during the Saturday service, and more than once had to be guided back by a congregant. At a recent Hebrew lesson, he’d startled the boys by closing his eyes and chanting, trancelike, in what might have been Aramaic. And what no one wished to mention, but was foremost in their minds, was that their rabbi had begun to exude a terrible odor, a graveyard stench of soil and decay. No one could tell whether it was coming from his garments, or the man himself.
A delegation was sent to his apartment, to discuss matters. They knocked on the door, but no answer came. One of them bent to peer through the keyhole—and suddenly the door opened. In the threshold stood the rabbi’s daughter, young Kreindel, her blouse and skirt entirely caked with mud. It streaked her face, and daubed the ends of her braids, and coated her arms up to the elbows.
“Please come in,” Kreindel said. “My father wishes to speak with you.”
Stunned, unsure, they crept into the apartment. The door closed behind them.
A little while later, the delegation returned to the synagogue and reassured the others that all would be well. Rabbi Altschul, they said, had indeed taken ill, but was now recovering under his daughter’s care. In the meantime, he was not to be disturbed. All sighed in relief, glad that an end was in sight. Then the men of the delegation all went home and fell deeply asleep, and woke with no recollection at all of having gone to the Altschuls’ apartment, or of what had happened inside.
Now, Rabbi Altschul and Kreindel could devote themselves entirely to their task. Kreindel, it seemed, had a gift for artistry, and had taken it upon herself to resculpt the golem’s crude features and rag-doll limbs, giving them a more lifelike appearance.
