There were limits, though, to Kreindel’s abilities. The ears she’d made for their golem were slightly mismatched, and his hair was sculpted all of one piece, like a cap atop his head. His eyes, too, gave them some trouble, until Kreindel went up to the roof and came back with two abandoned marbles, one a deep indigo, the other a softer blue with swirls of white. Rabbi Altschul installed them in the empty eye-sockets, where they fit as though made for the purpose.
It was a good deal of effort for what was only meant to be a trial, their first attempt at bringing a golem to life. Still, Rabbi Altschul wanted to make it as safe and thorough as possible. He had no wish to subject their neighbors to the same fate as their medieval forebears in Prague, whose golem had turned upon the very population it was meant to protect. He would bring their creation to life, test its abilities, and watch it carefully for any violent tendencies. Once he was satisfied of their success, he would destroy the golem and take the books across the Atlantic to Lithuania, so that he might deliver his formula to the Vilna Rav himself.
“And I will come with you,” Kreindel told him.
He tried to protest, saying that the voyage would be long and difficult. “I’m not afraid,” she told him. “The Almighty has chosen you for this path, and placed me at your side. I will be your support, as Miriam was for Moses.”
At last her father agreed. Neither of them wished to say the obvious: that Lev had grown so weak it was doubtful he could make the journey alone. The smallest exertions tired him; he could barely stomach any food at all, and slept only fitfully, consumed by dreams. His eyesight, too, had deteriorated so that he saw everything through a curtain of golden sparks. He’d forbidden Kreindel from reading the books, or even touching them—but now he copied out the command to bring the golem to life, and told her to memorize it, in case his eyesight should fail him completely. She did so, then burned the paper in the grate, and went to sit at the golem’s bedside, next to her father.
“What shall we name him?” she asked.
Her father smiled. “You never met your grandfather Yossele, of blessed memory,” he said. “He was a large man, like this one—but gentle, not brutish. Let us name him Yossele, and hope that he adopts my father’s better qualities as well.”
6.
June 7, 1908
Star of America
AMHERST BUILDING CHANGES HANDS TO SYRIAN BUSINESSMEN.
Ironworks Opens on Ground Floor.
For evidence that the tradesmen of Little Syria are at last gaining a well-deserved foothold in this city, one may point to the “Grand Reopening” of Arbeely & Ahmad, All Metals, at its new home in the Amherst Building on Washington Street. The partners Boutros Arbeely and Ahmad al-Hadid are now the building’s joint owners, as well as the occupants of its first floor. Despite this increase in the shop’s size, the two remain its sole employees, and will continue to produce their goods through the work of their own hands.
Much of the neighborhood came out yesterday for the celebration. Visitors were invited inside the shop to view a selection of the duo’s creations, as well as the instruments of the trade. After a brief speech by Mr. Arbeely, in which he thanked his neighbors for their support, the shop’s new forge was lit by Mr. al-Hadid at noon precisely.
The Amherst sat upon the southwest corner of Washington and Carlisle, the lone loft building on a long, thin block of tenements. Five stories tall, it stood above its neighbors, square and stolid, built for utility rather than elegance. Its front door faced Washington Street between banks of plate-glass windows, the lone word AMHERST carved into the lintel.
Inside, a plaster-and-lathe partition split the ground floor roughly into halves. To the north was the showroom, where prospective clients might examine the wares and make their selection. And to the south, opposite the showroom, was the workshop: a vast, cavernous space of heat and shadows, the new forge glowing dimly at its end.
The forge was the Jinni’s pride and joy. It was roughly the size of a dinner-table, and sat snugly in a bed of asbestos-lined concrete, made to measure. In place of the cumbersome old bellows was an electric fan capable of the finest gradations of air-flow. The chimney-hood was stainless steel, and polished to a blinding sheen. When burning at full capacity, the forge made a luxuriant rumbling like distant thunder, a noise that was felt as much as heard.
Buying the Amherst had changed everything. At last, the Jinni had the space and the solitude to immerse himself properly in his work. No more misplaced tools; no Arbeely constantly griping at his elbow. Now the man sat beside the showroom entrance, half a floor’s length away, utterly absorbed in managing the business and the Amherst both. He’d even gotten over his hatred of the ’phone, and spent hours at a time shouting down the line to plumbers and glaziers and suppliers. In fact, there were days when the partners were kept so busy in their separate tasks that they barely exchanged words at all.
But on this warm August morning, Arbeely seemed encumbered only by a sheet of stationery that he sat frowning at, pen in hand. By the Jinni’s count, this was the man’s third attempt at writing the letter, the first two having been tossed in the wastebasket. As the Jinni approached Arbeely’s desk, the man crossed out a line, then put down the pen with a frustrated
