Arbeely admired it, nodding, but his thoughts clearly were elsewhere. Watching him in the glow of the lamps, the Jinni couldn’t help noticing the silver that had begun to pepper the man’s backswept hair, the fine new lines that had appeared on his face. It was disconcerting to watch humans age.
“This is excellent,” the man said, and handed back the finial. “Well, good night.”
“Good night.” And then, on impulse, “Arbeely . . .” But he’d waited too long, and the man was gone, the curtain rippling behind him. The Jinni sighed to himself, and went back to work.
It was perhaps ten o’clock when he finished the last finial. The building was silent, the street less so: it was a warm night, and the tenement yard was still half full of families, the women chatting and scolding their children while the men played backgammon by lantern-light, all waiting for their rooms to cool so they might sleep. He banked the forge and hung away his apron, then paused by the door. Arbeely’s desk was bathed in streetlight; the wastebasket sat beside it, unemptied. He regarded it for a moment, then withdrew the ball of crumpled paper nearest the top, smoothed it out, and read:
Rafkah,
I must apologize. I ought not to have raised both our hopes. Please believe me when I say that the failing is entirely mine. I must be honest with you now, as I was not in Zahleh, and tell you that I have decided I will never marry. There is a secret that I cannot divulge, not even to you, for it concerns another man’s life and I haven’t the right to tell it. You might insist that you would enter into this confidence as well, for the sake of a marriage—but it has been a difficult burden at times, one I hesitate to share with someone I
Here the sentence, and the letter, had been abandoned.
The Jinni crumpled the paper again and replaced it in the wastebasket, wishing fervently that his curiosity hadn’t gotten the better of him. What was he supposed to do with the knowledge that he’d spoiled Arbeely’s chances at love? No, he hadn’t failed to notice the man’s perpetual bachelorhood, or the way that he seemed to pile work upon himself, leaving room for little else. He’d merely decided that it was Arbeely’s life to live, and left it at that. Now he wanted to shout at the man: I didn’t ask you to free me from the flask! Tell the world if you like! Unfair, he knew, and uncharitable. He’d stop at his apartment, he decided, and change into a fresh shirt, and go for a long and solitary walk before he reached the Golem’s boardinghouse. It would give him time to calm himself, and consider what he might say to the man in the morning.
He reached his building, and was nearly at his door when he heard a flutter of eager footsteps from the apartment opposite. He cringed as the door opened—and yes, there was his neighbor Alma Hazboun, wearing a satin dressing-gown and what looked to be little else beneath it. Her hair was loose and mussed, her pupils enormous in the dim light.
“Oh,” she said, making a poor show of surprise. “It’s you.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Hazboun,” he replied warily. He’d complained about Alma to Arbeely, and learned that she was notorious in the neighborhood. Your bad luck to live across the hall from her, the man had said.
She stepped into the hall, blocking his path. “I’ve told you, call me Alma.” Her words were slurred. “Won’t you come in?”
“No, thank you.”
“My husband is away.” Her mouth curled into a smile. “I’ll cook you a hot meal.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“You always say no.” She attempted a coy pout. “But you like that other girl well enough, the one in your apartment.”
The Jinni frowned. “Beg pardon?”
“She’s in your apartment,” Alma said, more loudly. “Your Jewess, the tall girl who dresses like a schoolteacher. I saw her go by earlier.”
She’d come alone, at night? What crisis had driven her to such lengths? He shouldered past Alma—she made a noise of protest—and put a hand on his doorknob. It was unlocked. The Golem was mere feet away. She had, of course, heard everything.
He braced himself and opened the door.
She was at the far window, staring down into the street as though she’d been standing there for hours. It was her skirts that betrayed her: they still swayed at her ankles, as though she’d rushed to the spot only a moment before.
He closed the door, took a few careful steps toward her. “Chava?”
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “Something happened at the bakery, and I wanted to see you. I didn’t mean to . . . I oughtn’t have come.” She still hadn’t turned around.
“She’s an opium fiend, Chava,” he said. “And she has a considerable reputation.”
“I know.” There was a touch of impatience in her voice. Of course she’d sensed the opium, along with the woman’s lust. Likely she’d also realized that this was only the latest installment in their frequent encounters. He stood braced for accusations.
She turned at last to face him. “Do you also know that her husband refuses to divorce her?”
He blinked, confused.
“She’s desperate to get away from him. She hopes that if she can lower herself enough, he won’t want anything to do with her. And you’re an unmarried man, without a family to tear apart.”
He recalled, now, the hints of old bruises he’d seen on Alma’s arms. He’d assumed it had to do with her habit. Puzzled, he said, “Are you defending the woman who just tried to bed me?”
“Of course not, she shouldn’t have done that. But she’s trapped, and she’s in pain.”
He felt blindsided, off balance. “Then what exactly are you accusing me of?”
“You refuse to see the people around you,” she said, anger in her eyes. “This woman is your neighbor, yet you
