atmosphere in the wedding hall had been oppressive, humid with sweat and incense and perfume, and he was still irritated by what he saw as a pointless ceremony. He had no wish to be cooped up in the coffeehouse with dozens of strangers. Besides, the day had turned beautiful; the sky between the buildings was a pure blue, and a meandering breeze cleared the smell of refuse from the alley.
From his pocket he pulled a handful of gold necklaces, purchased from a shabby storefront on the Bowery. Arbeely had taken him there, saying it was the only place he knew of to purchase gold inexpensively; but he had seemed uncomfortable and frowned at the low prices, later remarking that he was certain they’d been stolen. They were of middling workmanship—the links were not entirely uniform, and the chains hung in an uneven sort of way—but the gold was of good quality. The Djinni gathered them into one palm and cupped his hands around them to melt them, and then began idly to shape the metal. When his hands stilled, he was holding a miniature golden pigeon. With a thin, pointed wire he added a few details—the suggestion of feathers, pinprick eyes—and then surrounded the bird with a filigree cage. It felt good to work with his hands, instead of the crude tools that Arbeely insisted he use when someone might be watching.
The alleyway door of the coffeehouse opened. It was Arbeely. “There you are,” the man said. A small plate and a fork were in his hands.
Irritated, the Djinni said, “Yes, here I am, enjoying a moment of solitude.”
A flash of hurt passed over the man’s face. “I brought you a piece of the kinafeh,” he said. “It’s about to run out. I was worried you wouldn’t get any.”
Guilt pricked vaguely at the Djinni. He knew Arbeely was doing much to help him, but it made him feel oppressed and beholden, and it was hard to keep from lashing out. He slipped the caged bird into his pocket and accepted the proffered plate, which held a square of something heavy-looking, with brown and cream-colored layers. He frowned. “What exactly is this?”
Arbeely grinned. “The closest thing to heaven on earth.”
The Djinni took a cautious bite. The act of eating was still difficult. Not the mechanism itself—chewing and swallowing were simple enough actions, and the food burned to nothingness inside him. But he’d never tasted anything before, and had been taken completely by surprise at his first experiences of flavor. The sensations of sweet and savory, salt and spice, were arresting, even overwhelming. He’d learned to take the food in small bites and chew slowly. Even so, the kinafeh was a shock. Sweetness burst across his tongue, and thin strands of dough crunched between his teeth, the sound echoing deep in his ears. A creamy tartness made his jaw tighten.
“Do you like it?” asked Arbeely.
“I don’t know. It’s … startling.” He took another tentative bite. “I think I like it.”
Arbeely looked around the alley. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“I needed a moment of quiet.”
“Ahmad,” Arbeely said—and the Djinni cringed at the name, his but not his—“I understand, really. God knows, I’m the same way at these things. But we don’t want people to think you’re a recluse. Please, come in and say hello. Smile once or twice. For me, if not yourself.”
Reluctantly, the Djinni followed Arbeely back to the party.
Inside, the tables had been pushed to the edges of the room, and a group of men was dancing in a fast-moving ring, their arms about each other’s shoulders. The women crowded around them, cheering and clapping. The Djinni stood out of their way, in the back of the room, and observed the bride through breaks in the crowd. Of all the people at the wedding, she was the one who’d caught his interest. She was young and pretty, and clearly very nervous. She barely touched the food in front of her but smiled and spoke with the well-wishers who approached their table. Next to her, Sam Hosseini ate like a starving man, and stood to greet everyone with hugs and handshakes. She listened to her new husband talk, and looked up at him with obvious fondness; but occasionally she would glance about, as if looking for reassurance. The Djinni remembered what Arbeely had told him, that she was only a few weeks in America, that Hosseini had proposed to her on a visit home. And now, the Djinni reflected, she was in a new place, on unsure footing, surrounded by strangers. Like himself, in a way. A shame, that according to Arbeely she now belonged to this man only.
The bride was still scanning the room. The dancing men spun to one side, and she saw the Djinni regarding her. He held her in his gaze for a long moment. Then she looked away; and when she greeted the next guest there was color high in her cheeks.
“Ahmad, would you like coffee?”
He turned, startled. It was Maryam. She carried a tray of tiny cups, each full of thick, cardamom-scented coffee. She wore her customary hostess’s smile, but her eyes carried an edge of warning. Clearly she’d seen his interest. “So you can drink to their happiness,” she said.
He lifted a cup from her tray. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she replied, and moved on.
He eyed the diminutive cup of coffee. Liquid in such a small amount would not hurt him, and it smelled interesting enough. He downed it all at once, as he’d seen the others do, and nearly choked. It was incredibly bitter; drinking it felt like an assault.
He winced and set the cup on a table. He’d had enough of human revelry for one day. He searched out Arbeely in the crowd, caught the man’s eye, and pointed at the door. Arbeely held up one hand, as if to say, wait a moment, and indicated the newlyweds’ table.
But the Djinni did not want to congratulate the happy couple. He was in no mood to speak words he didn’t feel. As Arbeely tried to wave him over, the Djinni moved through the crowd, left the stifling coffeehouse, and went out into the city.
The Djinni walked north along Washington Street, wondering if he’d ever be truly alone again. At times the desert had felt too empty for him, but this opposite extreme was harder to bear. The street was no less crowded than the coffeehouse had been. Families thronged the sidewalks, all taking advantage of the warm weekend afternoon. And where there were not humans there were horses, a standstill parade of them, each attached to a cart, each cart carrying a man, each man yelling at the others to clear out of his way—all in a myriad of languages that the Djinni had never before heard but nonetheless comprehended, and now he was coming to resent his own seemingly inexhaustible resources of understanding.
He was not walking aimlessly; he had a destination in mind. A few days earlier, Arbeely had shown him a map of Manhattan and offhandedly pointed out a long, green hole in the island’s middle. “Central Park,” Arbeely had said. “It’s immense, nothing but trees and grass and water. You’ll have to see it someday.” Then the tinsmith had moved on to other topics, such as where to catch the Elevated, and which neighborhoods to avoid. But that long, open expanse of green had caught the Djinni’s attention. He had only to find an Elevated platform on Sixth Avenue; and the Elevated, it seemed, would take him there.
At Fourteenth he turned east, and the crowd began to change character. There were fewer children, and more men in suits and hats. In the streets, elegant carriages mixed with dray-carts and delivery wagons. The buildings were changing as well, growing taller and wider. At Sixth Avenue a narrow ribbon of metal ran high above the street. He watched as a string of metal boxes ran along the ribbon, sending sparks into the street below. Through the train’s tiny windows he caught glimpses of men and women, their faces placid as they rushed by.
He climbed a stairway to a platform, gave the ticket seller a few coins. A train soon
