The hidden palace, p.42
The Hidden Palace, page 42
The pipe below him buckled. The world turned gray.
The jinniyeh hung in tatters.
She drifted upward, trying to focus. Every part of her shrieked in pain. The forge below her was a dark pool of ash—but the pipe had been twisted shut. A thin stream of water ran from its bent lip.
The iron-bound jinni lay on the floor below it.
She dropped to his side, keening in horror. Was he alive? This was all her fault, she hadn’t meant to—oh, it had all gone so terribly wrong—
She jumped at a sound nearby: a fist, knocking upon a door. “Hello?” a voice called. “Mister Ahm—Uh, Mister al-Hadid?”
She looked to her lover, then flew to the door and took form, nearly screaming with the pain of it. She turned the lock with shaking fingers, twisted the knob and pulled.
On the other side of the door was a boy—a man?—who wore a cap with a shining metal badge. He stood staring at her, his mouth open in shock.
“Help him,” she pleaded, and vanished into the air.
* * *
It wasn’t long before the entire Asylum knew the story of Kreindel Altschul and her bicycle messenger.
The tale greeted the children as they returned from their adventures, group by reluctant group. They traded it back and forth in the dormitories along with the contraband they’d gathered: chocolates and chewing gum, tobacco cards, pairs of dice, stolen oranges. With each retelling the tale grew more impressive and elaborate, until Toby had fought off a dozen Irishmen single-handed, and Kreindel had pledged her eternal love to him at the Amsterdam gate.
The girls of Dormitory 2, Room 3 talked of nothing else; all swore, with deep solemnity, that they’d marry a Western Union boy someday. They were clustered together in their room, in the midst of a dramatic reenactment, when the door opened and Rachel Winkelman strode in. She smiled into the silence, and held up a shining quarter.
“Who wants to earn this?” she said.
* * *
Charlotte Levy walked along Twelfth Avenue beneath the Riverside Drive Viaduct, listening to the thrum of tires on the pavement above. She hadn’t been able to face returning to her apartment, not after watching Toby ride away with her message in his pocket. She needed to walk, to think.
Toby Blumberg. Older, taller, stubble upon his chin, his thoughts full of everything she’d tried to leave behind. And Kreindel! Her image shining in his mind: a small, dark-haired girl, walking beside his bicycle. Would Yossele have attacked those boys, if Toby hadn’t intervened? How many lives might Toby have saved that morning, without even realizing it?
The Viaduct ended at 129th, the roadway merging into the park above her. A drift of decaying leaves lay at the base of the embankment, left over from the autumn. On impulse she took off her gloves and scooped a few damp handfuls into her coat pockets, then climbed the steps that curved around the hill, past Grant’s Tomb and the Claremont Inn and into the park itself.
The river to her right was a flow of silver, seen in glimpses. The park turned from lawn to trees: maples and elms, cherries, maidenhairs, their leaves still young and freshly green. She walked among them, staring up into their canopies, then reached out a hand to one of them, marveling at its rough bark. Charlotte Levy had never once allowed herself to do this. She’d made a new life for herself, but it had been a rootless, undernourished thing, and now she could feel it withering away again. She wondered what she’d be left with, when it was gone.
She crouched down at the base of the tree, emptied the mulch from her pockets, and worked it into the soil with her fingers. A girl on the path stopped to watch her quizzically. She smiled at the girl, then stood and brushed the dirt from her hands. She would have to go back to the basement, she realized; there was still the matter of Monday’s inspection. She couldn’t simply hope that the headmistress would fail to notice its hidden inhabitant. If she could rearrange the room, she might disguise the alcove entirely. Perhaps that would gain them all enough time to arrive at a better solution, once her message reached its destination.
Chava Levy must not know. Was her guess about the “ghost” correct? She had no right at all to the jealousy that had filled her at the thought; no right, either, to ask for his help, after everything that had happened. But she feared that she’d never be able to open the locket herself, not for Yossele. She’d hesitate, make excuses, forgive him for everything that she would abhor in herself. The locket was useless to her—she needed the man who’d made it.
* * *
It was just a dream, Julia Winston thought.
Despite the headache that had dogged her since the morning, she was in her study, attempting the usual motions of a Saturday afternoon: a review of the household ledgers, as well as correspondence with those distant family members who wrote her dutifully in hopes of an eventual bequeathment. Make-work, all of it, designed to fill her superfluous hours, her superfluous life.
With each scratch of her pen the headache grew worse. She longed to lie down, but the thought of returning to her dream of the night before was too dreadful to contemplate. The dream had accompanied her through the day, with its image of the woman bending over Sophia like some vampiric spirit, ready to drain the life from her veins.
It was just a dream, she told herself again. It wasn’t real, for God’s sake.
A knock came at the door; a maid appeared, bearing an envelope. “This just arrived, ma’am. They said it was urgent, but didn’t wait for an answer.”
She took it, and read:
Dear Mrs. Winston:
My apologies for writing to you in such a fashion. The manager of the Hotel Earle on Waverly Place tells me that one of his guests is using your daughter’s name. She is locked inside her room, and has not been heard from in some time. The manager is within his rights to enter, and plans to do so by 4 o’clock this afternoon, accompanied by myself. It’s possible that this is all a misunderstanding, but the newspapers have all sent their men to the premises, and they will do whatever they can to stir up trouble. My aim is only to inform you, so that you might take any actions that you feel are warranted.
Very sincerely,
Lieutenant Oscar Galloway, 15th Precinct Station-House
Julia glanced at the clock. It was a quarter after three.
“Have the car brought around,” she told the maid. “I must leave as soon as possible—and in full mourning, not half.” Startled, the maid rushed away.
Perhaps, Julia thought, the newspaper-men would grin at the sight of the famed widow parading in her ghoulish finery. But if she was to walk into enemy territory, she wanted her best suit of armor. Let this girl, whoever she was, stare Julia Winston in the eye and explain herself.
* * *
In his alcove, Yossele struggled to watch his master as the day’s events buzzed inside him, refusing to be ignored.
His master had been attacked. She’d nearly called him to defend her, only to be interrupted by the boy on the bicycle. Even now, as Kreindel sat alone in her dormitory room, a part of him was still poised at the end of his tether, listening for that summons. Then there was the fact of Miss Levy’s nature, which thrilled him even as his master’s ignorance of it distressed him; the confusion this caused added its own, distinct ache.
The knowledge that he was a separate being from his master had become a gulf, a resentment. Why didn’t Kreindel know that Miss Levy was a golem? Why couldn’t he tell her? Why had she spent the hours since her return to the Asylum thinking about the boy on the bicycle, the one who’d stolen Yossele’s place? She was thinking about the boy even now. He didn’t want to see. He couldn’t look away.
A sound made him turn his head: a quiet knock, upon the storage room door.
Hope grew inside him as the doorknob turned. Yes; it was she. He’d begun to learn her patterns, her motions. Two steps inside, the door closing behind her. A deep breath at the threshold, even though she didn’t need to breathe. Would she come to where he sat? Would she hold his hand again?
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, from outside the maze. “I can’t come to you. I truly wish I could. I’m only here because I have to rearrange—”
But already his hope had turned to bitter frustration. Why must she come at all, if not to sit with him? He was beset by so many questions! He had no idea what to do with them all, and if this went on for much longer something would happen—he didn’t know what, but he could feel it building—
“Oh, Yossele,” she whispered; and then she was coming toward him, through the maze.
Desks, cots, hat-stand, final corner. She rushed through them as quickly as she could. He was hurting, dangerously so, and she must do what she could to help him.
He sat in the slanting afternoon light from the high window, fidgeting like a man plagued by a swarm of insects. As she approached, he reached out, took her hand, and pulled her to him.
Their connection came roaring back. She felt his mind aching beneath its burden of knowledge. It was all too large for him, it made no sense, he didn’t want any of it—
It’s all right, she told him. I’m here. We can manage it together.
She set to work among the seething tangle of his thoughts, gathering them one by one, holding them carefully in her arms. Some were incomplete, with pieces missing; these she patched with new knowledge and made whole. Kreindel is a young woman now. It’s natural that she should feel this way about a boy. She doesn’t love you any less because of it. I’ll tell Kreindel about myself as soon as I can. We’ll find a way forward, together. Then, once his thoughts had all been calmed, she slowly put them back again, finding neat and orderly places for each part of him, like a well-organized pantry where he could see everything at once. At last she stepped back, examining her work.
There, she said. Is that any better?
Kreindel sat alone upon her cot, knees to her chest.
Toby’s face had haunted her all through the afternoon. She recalled each moment of their walk together, as though deliberately pressing on a bruise: the way her tongue-tied awkwardness had given way to easy conversation; how he’d seemed to fill her field of vision, even though they were walking side by side. The warmth of his hand on her arm, as he’d steadied her. He didn’t know about true orphans. He’d talked to her, even touched her, as though she were an ordinary girl.
She looked up at a creak from the hallway door. It was one of the girls from Dormitory 2, Room 3. The girl darted into the room, running toward her between the cots. A folded note, dropped into Kreindel’s hand—and the girl was gone again, giggling as the door closed behind her.
Kreindel opened the note.
I liked talking to you. I’m in the marching band room. Will you meet me there?—Toby
It was a prank; it had to be. How would he even know about the Marching Band room, or how to find it? Yes, the handwriting looked like a boy’s, with its stick-straight letters. But any girl could write like that, if she wanted to.
Nevertheless, a small, stubborn hope had been kindled. She recalled what he’d said about his uniform, the key that opened every door in the city. He could get inside easily—maybe even through the gate on 136th, which would lead him straight to the basement. The Marching Band room was practically across the hall from the stairwell. It might even be the first door he’d try.
What if it actually was Toby?
She’d never snuck into the basement during daylight hours; it would be far too easy to get caught by a janitor, or even a teacher. But on Excursion Days the bell was silenced, the rules relaxed. If she went now, she’d be just another resident in a hallway, taking advantage of her temporary freedom. And if she took the time to think about it, she would lose her nerve.
Is that any better? Miss Levy asked.
It was as though Yossele had spent his entire life hunched over in a cramped room, and then Miss Levy had raised the ceiling so he could stand upright. He turned about in surprise, rejoicing at his quiet, orderly mind. He could see everything, could examine his own thoughts at his leisure. Nothing lurked just out of sight, clamoring to be noticed. And in the middle of it all was his beloved Kreindel, his connection to her stronger than ever.
Thank you, he told Miss Levy.
She was still there among his thoughts, a golden presence. He reached out to her, and she flowed around him like dust in sunlight, each mote a separate part of her. He gazed at them as they passed, saw flashes of people, places, memories. A Brooklyn cemetery; a burning building. Her own hands, braiding a challah. The tall man that Kreindel had dreamt about, lying not upon a bed but in a freezing alley, the ground broken beneath him. A silver chain, and a steel locket—and inside it—inside it was—
death, around her neck—
She’d tried to destroy him. She’d stood in this room, only feet away from him, and she had tried.
His mind darkened with anger.
Wait, she said, pulling away. Yossele, please. I only meant to be careful, to—
He surrounded her, instincts flaring to life, all thought obliterated by the urge to protect himself. But she, too, was strong; she pushed back against his anger, holding it at bay so that it wouldn’t ignite her own. Within moments they were balanced at a standstill, his connection to Kreindel shining between them. And Kreindel—
Wait. What was Kreindel doing?
The basement’s familiar scent of mildew greeted Kreindel as she descended.
The laundry room was empty, the shoe-shop dark and locked. She could hear shouts from the playground, where a few of the younger residents were spending their last minutes of freedom—but the basement seemed deserted. If Toby was truly here, then they’d be alone. She would tell him that he shouldn’t have come, that she couldn’t see him in secret like this. That it could only be just the once.
No light came from the Marching Band room, but someone had cracked the door open. She edged up to it, put a hand on the knob. “Toby?” she whispered.
There was a rustle of movement, deep in the room—and then an answering whisper: “Kreindel?”
The door creaked as she slowly pushed it open—
In the alcove, in their stalemate, the golems could only watch—
—as a deluge of water struck Kreindel in the face, filthy with salt and the stink of sweat.
Kreindel staggered backward into the hallway, blinded and choking, her stomach heaving. She heard shrieks of laughter, and the clang of a metal bucket dropping to the floor. Dimly she recognized Rachel Winkelman, Harriet Loeb, a few others. Her eyes burned; the world was a red haze. She fell to her knees, retched, vomited. Rage overwhelmed her.
Yossele, she thought. Get them—
—and the Golem fled Yossele’s mind as it lit up like a bonfire behind her.
The others didn’t notice at first, over their own laughter. Then, “Shhh,” Rachel hissed, and all the girls heard it: a series of cascading crashes at the far end of the hallway, shelves falling over like dominoes, their spilled contents shoved aside to make a path.
“What the hell is that?” said Rachel.
On her hands and knees below her, Kreindel smiled grimly. “That’s Yossele.”
A door burst open in the murky distance—but what emerged wasn’t Yossele. It was a woman, running toward them faster than anyone Kreindel had ever seen.
Miss Levy? she thought, dumbfounded—
And then the wall behind the woman exploded.
Pounding toward them through the dust came an enormous gray figure, its stride filling the hallway. It had a craggy, misshapen head that hung like a bull’s between mountainous shoulders, and club-like fists that swung at the ends of thickly bunched arms. Its mouth was a cavernous maw surrounded by grotesquely raised lips that now opened in a silent roar, as though it meant to swallow them whole.
The girls all stood frozen—and then Kreindel shrieked in terror.
“Go, all of you!” Miss Levy cried.
The spell broke. Screaming, Rachel and the others fled up the staircase—but Kreindel stayed where she was, staring, aghast. How could this thing be her Yossele, who’d cradled her in his arms while she cried? It couldn’t be—but of course it was. This was the creature her father had meant to build. She’d brought him to life and hidden him among children, and now he’d paint the walls with their blood—
Miss Levy placed herself in front of Kreindel, like a barrier. “Kreindel, tell him to stop,” she said, her voice straining.
The girl let out a sob. Behind her, there was a commotion on the staircase, and then a scream.
“Kreindel!” Miss Levy shouted. “You’re his master, he might still listen to you! Tell him to stop!”
My God, she knew? Everything bad was happening at once! “Yossele,” she whispered. “Stop.”
He barely slowed.
She tried again, her voice quavering. “Don’t hurt them, Yossele. Stop. Please.”
His brow furrowed; he paused, still eyeing the staircase where the girls had vanished.
“It’s not enough,” Miss Levy said. She pulled something from around her neck, and held it out: a locket, on a chain. “Yossele!” she shouted.
The enormous head swiveled toward her. The marble eyes tracked the locket.
“Come and take it from me!” Miss Levy yelled—and then she ran for the door.
It was growing late in the day, the spring warmth leaching from the asphalt. The children on the Asylum playground were contemplating an end to their games, a retreat inside—when suddenly the stairwell door slammed open and their Culinary Science instructor burst out of the basement, navy skirts flying as she ran for the gate at 136th. And behind her, rising like a mountain out of the earth—was it an animal? A prankster in a costume? Or, most unthinkably, a man? None of the spectators would later agree, but all would remember the sound of its feet striking the path, like the crack of sledgehammers.
She reached the gate, wrenched off the lock, and ran toward Broadway, Yossele’s fury a tide at her back. The intersection approached, a Saturday evening tangle of taxicabs and wagons. She dodged through them without pause, not looking back for fear that she might turn and fight him, there in the middle of the avenue. Was he gaining on her? She heard a shout, a woman’s scream, the screech of tires. She kept going.
