The women all rose at once, maneuvering toward the paper. Each of them hoped they wouldn’t get stuck with the worst of the tasks, and more than one reflected that the male teachers would never be asked to do such work—
“Miss Levy, a moment, please.” The headmistress drew her to one side. “I’ve placed a new student in your third-period class, Miss Kreindel Altschul. She was the top Hebrew student, but she objects to the new curriculum and asked to be transferred out. Given her utter lack of domestics, I thought your class was her best option.”
Startled, Miss Levy said, “But we’re already quite far into the syllabus. If she has no cooking experience, wouldn’t it be better—”
“I understand your concern, but Miss Altschul is an intelligent girl.” Too intelligent for her own good, said the woman’s thoughts. “I have no doubt that she can master it, if she applies herself.”
“But—”
“I’m not asking for miracles, Charlotte,” the headmistress cut in, her voice firm. “Just do what you can with her.”
With some irritation Miss Levy joined the end of the dwindling line, wondering why Miss Altschul had been allowed to quit Hebrew in the first place. The headmistress had seemed to consider the girl a special case of some kind, one whose idiosyncrasies were tolerated, if grudgingly. She only hoped that Miss Altschul wouldn’t spoil what was promising to be a very rewarding semester.
At last the line cleared—and she saw that a name now accompanied every item on the sheet, with the exception of Large-Item Repository (Basement, South Wing). This, she realized, must be the very task that her colleagues had been trying to avoid. She’d never seen the room herself, only heard it described as a hopeless collection of clutter. Sighing at her poor luck, she took up the pen, and wrote Charlotte Levy on the line beside it.
* * *
Toby left City Hall at ten thirty, with six new nickels in his pocket and six fewer envelopes in his satchel. He felt a little better, his gamble having paid off—but now the prospect of the docklands loomed before him, and the inevitable tongue-lashings. He stopped at a cart on Broadway to fortify himself with a frankfurter and a seltzer; and then, unable to avoid it any longer, gritted his teeth and rode West Street from pier to pier, to stare red-faced at his shoes while stevedores bellowed at him in German, Swedish, and Portuguese. He left an hour later without a single tip, and reflected grudgingly that Julius was right: any of the babies would’ve run home in tears.
There was only one message left in his bag, a cable to a Washington Street address. He read its origin and winced: the S.S. Kansan. If he’d seen it earlier, he might’ve delivered it first, City Hall tips or no. A full-rate cable from a ship at sea usually meant news that couldn’t wait.
The address led to a five-story loft in Little Syria. The building looked strangely empty. Its windows were papered over on every floor, and there were no signs, no painted advertisements—only the word Amherst carved above the door.
He leaned his bicycle against the building, and rang the bell.
Reluctantly the Jinni had returned to his glass-making.
The latest pane was giving him trouble, refusing to lift free of the trough. He levered it up a hair’s-breadth at a time, first one side and then another, feeling his way around the edge. He must slow down, be patient—
Something’s missing—
A knock, at the door.
He clenched his teeth, ignored it, lifted another fraction of an inch.
The knock came again. Go away, he thought.
Retreating footsteps. Silence. Good.
Another gentle lift—and at last the pane came free.
There was no answer at the door.
Toby stepped back to examine the building again. Something about the papered windows gave it an eerie look, like it was hollow inside. He walked down Carlisle to see if there was a back entrance, and found an alley where a group of boys were crouched on their heels, playing jacks.
“’Scuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for”—he peered down at the envelope—“Ahmad al-Hadid?”
He said it haltingly, certain that they would snicker at his butchering of the name. Instead they all came alert in an instant. “He’s in there,” one of the boys said in a tone of frightened reverence, pointing at the building.
“I knocked, but no one answered.”
“He don’t ever come out,” the boy said.
Toby sighed in annoyance. He’d delivered to plenty of elderly cranks and shut-ins; they always griped, and never tipped. “Well, someone sent him this.” He held up the envelope.
“Who’s it from?” asked a boy.
“We’re not allowed to peek.”
The boys only stared, their helpfulness run dry. “Guess I’ll try again,” Toby said, and went back around the building. The boys followed, as he’d hoped they might. If this Ahmad al-Hadid tried to beat Toby with his cane, at least there’d be witnesses.
He knocked again. “Mr. al-Hadid!” he called loudly. “It’s Western Union!” The boys watched from the spot where they’d gathered, clearly prepared to run if necessary. Toby glanced at them—and then, succumbing to a weary hilarity and the lure of an audience, crouched down, pushed open the letterbox, and shouted through it in Yiddish:
“Hey, old man, come and get this envelope, or I’ll shove it up your ancient ass!”
Silence—and then there came a cacophonous shattering, like a baseball thrown through a cathedral’s worth of windows.
Toby cringed. The alley boys clutched at one another.
Footsteps—and the door was yanked open. Toby stumbled backward as a wave of burning air rolled over him.
The man who stood in the doorway was tall and imposing, and far younger than the wizened crackpot Toby had imagined. He wore nothing but a scorched leather apron and a pair of ragged trousers. His dark eyes were thunderous with rage.
“What did you
