They’d forgotten their guest; they relented at once. The women began to pack the dishes away, while Sophia felt as though she’d inadvertently spoiled the party.
“Miss Williams,” said Rafik, the younger of Abu Alim’s sons, who seemed the more mischievous of the two, “has my father told you the true reason he doesn’t want to be out here late at night?”
“Rafik,” his father said, with a warning tone.
“Of course he hasn’t,” said Alim, the older son, with a grin. “He’s far too proper to tell such a story to a lady like Miss Williams.”
“I suppose the task falls to us,” said Rafik, clearly delighted at the opportunity to puncture his father’s dignity. “Years ago,” he said, “when my brother and I were only babies, Father was alone at our uncle’s farm one afternoon, threshing the winter wheat, and—”
“I wasn’t threshing it,” Abu Alim interjected in annoyance. “It was too early in the season. I was only measuring its growth.”
“Yes, measuring it,” said Rafik, waving a placating hand. “He had his scythe, that’s the important part. He put it down by the wheat, and went to the end of the row, for a drink of water—and when he came back—”
Sophia shivered.
“—there was a beautiful woman standing between the rows, with Father’s scythe in her hand. And what was she wearing, but—”
“Rafik,” Abu Alim said, brows lowering.
“Well,” Rafik said, “I shall leave out that part of the tale. But suffice to say that Father was shocked indeed—and the woman must’ve been as well, for she dropped the scythe and vanished into the air.”
Sophia raised her eyebrows. “A jinniyeh,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
“Exactly,” said Rafik proudly.
Abu Alim wouldn’t look at her. “It was a silly story,” he grumbled, “for a pair of silly boys.”
“Ah, but Miss Williams believes,” said Rafik. “I see it in her eyes.”
A pause as the men turned to look at her—and Sophia realized she’d pulled the blanket close about herself, and was shivering visibly in the firelight.
“Did I frighten you?” Rafik said, chagrined.
Sophia tried to laugh. “No, of course not—I’m only a bit cold—”
Abu Alim said, “Rafik, go and help the women. I’ll see Miss Williams to the cart.” It was a rebuke, and the young man took it meekly; he bowed and departed.
Abu Alim gave Sophia another blanket, which she placed over the first, and then led her back through the yard. “I apologize for my son, he has never learned proper manners,” Abu Alim muttered as they approached the wagon.
But the story was true, wasn’t it? Sophia wanted to ask. But instead she allowed him to help her into the wagon, and concentrated on staying as still and upright as possible, while the donkey plodded back to town.
* * *
At the Amherst, the spring went by in an unseen blur.
Doctors and experts were called to Arbeely’s bedside from every corner of the city. The conclusion they reached was unanimous. A fibrous carcinosis of the lungs, hopefully in its early stages. Their tones were serious, but not somber: there were new treatments, they told him, encouraging advances. He was lucky to live in modern times, and to have the means to afford their cures.
Arbeely took the news with his usual grumbling optimism. He wrote letters to each of the Amherst’s lease-holders, informing them of the situation and asking for their patience while he was indisposed. Soon his sick-room had been outfitted with paneled lace curtains and an endless torrent of biscuits. The cigars were confiscated by his doctors, to be smoked elsewhere.
With the Jinni, Arbeely was confident, even cheerful. Just keep working, Arbeely told him. Don’t worry about new customers, we’ve got plenty of orders to keep you busy. You could even close the showroom, if you prefer. Oh—but please, don’t forget the children on the roof. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.
Then the treatments began.
All that spring and into the summer the doctors assaulted Arbeely with tinctures and syrups, injections, radium vapor baths. Before long the man was bedridden. Maryam Faddoul came each day to his apartment, coaxing him into eating bits of milk-soaked bread. The Jinni came, too, after Maryam left, to stand uncomfortably at the foot of Arbeely’s bed and tell him the mundane details of the day. I had to remake that fireplace screen, they weren’t satisfied with the design, even though it was exactly what they’d asked for. Arbeely, propped upon his pillows, would nod, and perhaps croak out an encouraging comment—and then he’d begin to cough, a horrible gagging sound, and the hired nurse would shoo the Jinni away.
Every afternoon, as promised, the Jinni stuffed his pockets with biscuits and climbed the Amherst stairwell to the roof. The children still congregated there in anticipation; but they, too, knew that Mr. Arbeely was ill, and they accepted the biscuits with a solemnity of duty that dimmed their pleasure somewhat. Then the Jinni would go back down the stairs, avoiding the sympathetic eyes along the way, and give himself over to the oblivion of his work, until it was time to leave for the Golem’s boardinghouse.
This, too, had a new and unwelcome sense of duty about it. They’d never resolved their fight, merely let it fall to the side in the face of this new crisis—yet it was rarely far from his thoughts. The phrase That’s more selfish than I would expect from you seemed to have taken up residence in his mind, and he heard its echo in her gently patronizing questions about Arbeely’s treatments and his diet, his doctors, their pedigrees. I don’t know, he’d reply. I didn’t ask. And she’d gaze at him, mournful and disappointed, until he was forced to turn away, lest he shout at her that he wasn’t her student, to be taught how to behave. He began to arrive later and leave earlier: a perfunctory walk to Central Park and back, his eyes barely seeing the summer blossoms. They still went to his apartment occasionally, according
