Their wide eyes assured her that it would be memorable indeed.
“An unfair example, perhaps, but you see my point. Any individual dish may not make a great difference in itself—but well-prepared food, in variety and abundance, matters greatly in the aggregate.”
The girls nodded with her, their certainty restored. Kreindel stood sullen and alone, arms still folded against them.
The bell sounded then, and in a rush the girls peeled off their white coats and caps and began to file toward the door. “Thank you, ladies,” Miss Levy called. And then, “Miss Altschul?”
The young woman paused, longing to leave. Her teacher waited until the others were out of hearing, and then said, “I’m told that you joined my class under protest. I can understand your frustration—but please do give it an honest try.”
“Yes, Miss Levy,” Kreindel said; but her voice was dull with resentment.
16.
Sophia stood naked in a crowded ballroom.
She tried to cover herself, mortified. She’d been wearing a dress, a wine-colored silk, but it had disappeared somehow, and now the guests were all staring. She ought to leave the party, but she couldn’t; she was waiting for someone, only she couldn’t remember his name . . . Oh, her mother would be furious. She tried to pretend it didn’t matter to her in the least. Her nakedness was a choice and she preferred it that way, they were the ones in the wrong—but she was too cold, far too cold—
Next stop, Pennsylvania Station, someone called.
She woke with a shivering jolt. She was on a train from Baltimore to New York. And, to her relief, she was fully clothed.
She rubbed her eyes. Her head ached; her entire soul was weary from travel. She glanced up at her trunk in the luggage rack, already dreading the mood that the jinniyeh would be in when they arrived. They’d argued about it on the Kansan, the jinniyeh declaring she’d rather fly into the ocean than get in the trunk again. But Sophia had insisted that she couldn’t go about with some animal perched on her shoulder like a witch’s familiar, and that if Dima went on refusing to wear clothing, there was nothing else they could do. So at last, with much grumbling, the jinniyeh had consented to the trunk. Secretly, Sophia was relieved. It was easier to keep track of her this way, and it saved her the cost of a second ticket.
She peered out the window at New Jersey, the flashing greenery slowly acquiring streets, buildings, railyards—and then the Hudson tunnels swallowed them in darkness. The train slowed, emerged at a platform, and stopped.
I’ve come back, Sophia thought.
The carriage began to empty. One of the porters fetched down her trunk, and offered to carry it up to the taxi stand. She thanked him, wondering if he’d noticed her trembling, or if the porters simply carried everyone’s luggage for them. She followed the man’s broad back onto the platform, up the staircase to the top—
To a room of steel and marble and shining glass, and vast overhead arches that seemed to hold back the clouds.
She stopped in surprise. Her eyes widened; her jaw dropped. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured.
The porter noticed, and smiled. “First time here, miss?”
She nodded, still gazing about. “I’ve been away. It’s beautiful.”
“There was a man who used to sit there”—he pointed to a bench—“and look around for hours. Never took a train that I saw. Just wanted to be here, in the station.”
“I can see why,” Sophia said.
He led her through the Concourse to the Waiting Room, where she stopped to buy a map of the city, and then to the taxi stand. She tipped and thanked him as the taxi-driver tied the trunk onto the rack—she made certain it looked secure—and they were off.
It was a quick jaunt to Washington Square. The driver dodged all over the road and honked his horn at every corner—Sophia feared for the trunk, but it stayed stubbornly upon the rack—and then they were at the Hotel Earle, where Sophia paid the driver and then stared at the trees and the pathways and the Arch above, feeling as though she’d arrived inside her own memories. Fifteen years; and yet it seemed only days ago, no time at all.
They passed into a lobby—dark wood paneling, velvet couches—and Sophia signed the register at the desk. She wished her hand were steadier; the second half of Williams was nearly illegible. “Are there any messages waiting for me?”
The clerk checked the cubbies behind him. “Afraid not, miss.”
Well, it meant little. Perhaps he’d moved the business. Or, he simply hadn’t answered yet. They’d go to Little Syria tomorrow and look for him. She’d fulfill her half of the bargain. And then . . .
Perhaps it’ll happen, perhaps it won’t, she told herself. Promise or not, she was still at the jinniyeh’s mercy. But it was difficult not to think, Soon, I won’t shake anymore. Soon, I’ll be warm.
The room they’d given her was on the top floor. It was small but well-appointed, with a radiator and—Sophia rejoiced to see—a bathtub. She tipped the bellboy, reassured him she had everything she needed, then closed the door and opened the trunk.
The jinniyeh materialized, looking ill, and sat down on the floor at once. “By the six directions,” she said through gritted teeth, “I shall never do that again.” She glared around at the tiny room. “And this is little better.”
Sophia sighed. “At least there’s a bath.”
Dima shuddered. “That hardly helps me.”
Sophia ignored this. She was exhausted, and hungry as well. First, though, the bath. She’d grown used to disrobing before
