This may be the last story ever written. I write it to God, who would leave me alone on this Earth where all the nations have worn down to plains. The minerals that compose me come from the beginning of the world, shaped by wind and time. But the spirit that inhabits this clay form is human, shaped by other humans. I've waited the lifetimes of races to be discovered by some visitor or some god, and perhaps my hope will yet be borne out in the short time I have left. But, if the end-times sun undoes the magic that made me or bakes my limbs into useless branches, you should know that it is the same kilny sun whose light I count on to envitrify my words into the soft clay before the salt-laden tides of the last sea smother them out.
The story begins in Jewish Harlem, before the southern blacks replaced the Jews, before the Hispanic migrants replaced the blacks, before the Arab refugees replaced the migrants, and before the Israilis replaced them
* * *
The Gilgamesh Golem
by Nahtan McKnight
Paul's mother was displeased in the extreme when she found out that her money was coming from boxing. She had stopped taking the blood money, as she called it, when word got around the neighborhood that Paul "The Maul" Stein had ended a fight by clocking one of the Italian boys and blinding him in one eye. Consequently, Paul and his fiance had a modest savings.
They had planned to get married in grand fashion, possibly even in their own semi-luxurious apartment whose neo-Egyptian faade was shaded during the hottest part of the afternoon by the shadow of the new Empire State building, where Holly worked as an assistant executive secretary. It was the nature of their respective professions that they spent most of the day apart. Their only contact was at dinnertime, after Holly had spent a long day in the office without a break and Paul was readying himself for the evening's fight. Sometimes, the famished couple would go back to Harlem where Yiddish and Italian and Irish voices filled the air with the restless spirits of the old countries, voices that complimented Mother Stein's cooking like the spices of the east. Holly would impress them with anecdotes of rich foreigners who always seemed to make extraordinary demands of the secretaries or, on lucky days, to bestow upon them ludicrously large tips in exchange for everyday kindness.
It was on one such occasion that Paul first heard the name Israel ben Muhammad. Holly normally paid scant attention to changes of leadership in the company, but the buy-out by an Arabian oil baron precipitated an especially large shake-up among the employees. The stars portend opportunity, Mrs. Stein had told her son knowingly. Indeed, Holly ended up filling her own supervisor's newly vacant position as lead executive secretary, handling the appointment books of ben Muhammad himself. Paul learned of her new bosss real estate aspirations on the same day that the change in management for the East Central apartment buildings took effect. Notices were first posted to inform the residents on that very day. They were on all the walls and in all the mailboxes. They were given by hand to every occupant, sometimes more than once. The postings shrouded the fine sheeny wallpaper with a quiltwork of mottled parchment. In order to keep the "criminal element" at baysome anti-Arab graffitoism had taken place in the otherwise immaculate children's daytime care facilityall residents were asked to carry punch cards. In addition, for reasons that were poorly explained, rent would be upped for certain occupants. Paul and Holly would have to pay more than triple the normal due.
The old landlord's chair and desk were replaced with a velveteen paisley dos--dos, and a new door had been erected, making an office of the adjoining suite. Paul defiantly pounded on the door, though he knew he wasn't even supposed to be in this office-cum-foyer. Hey Mac, that area is off limits now, one of the janitors had explained to Paul, whose punch card was already scuffed and bent from being tried in all the newly locked doors that metamorphosed the building into the impregnable Egyptian tomb its lotus trumeaux had always bragged it was. The janitor had diffused Paul's evident rage when he punched his own card, as payback he said, for the five bucks he'd won off last week's fight. I wouldn't mind if you gave that new landlord a good right hook anyways, Slugger. But here he was, pounding on the door instead of the landlord.
A scratchy electric voice, like those at the larger boxing arenas warned that unappointmented queries may result in fees or even termination of the lease, and Paul argued with it momentarily about the appropriateness of his visit until he slipped the note under the door. The rent envelope came on the 28th of every month, and this one had contained instructions on how to contact the landlord for a lease review. Why the lease needed reviewing was second among Paul's concerns, which were dominated by the improbable restrictions on his options for an appointment: Anytime after 4pm on a business day before this month's rent is due.
"Mr. ben Muhammad will see you now," said the speaker.
The suite was air-conditioneda luxury even for such a fine apartment building. The secretary directed Paul around the corner to the landlord's relaxation chamber. The conversation did not go well. Paul spoke, facing away from the landlord, who lounged in a freestanding washbasin, smoking from a long meerschaum pipe whose smoke did a better job keeping away the flies than the peacock plume he switched them with. Ben Muhammad sat quietly until Paul had exhausted his lexis in a jeremiad plea that touched on the wedding, elderly parents, and the potential for injuries in his line of work.
"Please return to the foyer while I consider your case, Mr. Stein," said ben Muhammad.
Paul did as he was asked to, but he found himself scratching the extravagant gold leafwork from one of the dos--dos's arms. The repetitive motion calmed him.
"You will be billed for defacing the furniture," the secretary's voice itched over the loudspeaker. "This fiance you mentioned; she lives with you here, does she? In that case, we will have to relocate one of you to the nearest vacant apartment until after the wedding. You will, of course continue to pay the increased rates. If you are unwilling to comply with the rules of this building, you are encouraged move into any of the other East Central apartment buildings, some of which retain independent management. That will be all, Mr. Stein."
"Excuse me?"
"One moment Mr. SteinMr. ben Mohammad says that he will be claiming your fiance as well."
"Just what...?"
"Mr. Stein," it was ben Muhammad's voice this time. "Because of the problems you've caused here today, your tenancy has been terminated. The lease will be transferred to the name of Miss Landis. She will stay here with me, where you may trust that she will be in good hands."
"Just who in hell do you think you are?"
"Sir, please try to understand. She is mine. Since before you were born, I've dwelt on that face. I realize you love her, but I loved her first. You see, when my father brought me to New York as a boy, the beauty of American women astounded me. But there was one in particular. Her name was Honey. The wife of Milt Landis, her face caused my heart to weep. It was the memory of that face which I followed back to your country. Now, I've seen that face again, and it is Holly, the daughter of Milt and Honey Landis. She will be my bride. Please leave the premises now. Do not attempt to reenter your apartment."
"That will be all Mr. Stein," concluded the secretary.
On the way out, Paul regretted not provoking the guards who stood by to see that he boarded the elevator to the lobby. As he stepped out the front door, a voice sounded from above.
"Hey, you're the sparrer. Pauler the Mauler, right?" An overalled man squatted on the top rung of a ladder, holding a pile of gold foil in one hand, and a jar of glue with a paintbrush jutting from it in the other. He spoke with a British accent. "Do you live here?"
"Not anymore."
"Thats too bad. I suppose you don't like the management? Well, a lot of folks round here feel that way. I can't say as I share the opinion, though. If it weren't for Mr. Mohammed, I wouldn't have a job. My family and me flew all the way from Norwich and Mr. ben Muhammad paid for the Zeppelin tickets. He says he's going to make these apartments into Utopia. I feel like I'm working for the pharaoh himself."
Paul threw his body against the ladder and lifted the little man by his collar. Several onlookers fled, but one of themthe janitor from upstairsswung a fist at the air.
Paul bloodied the artist's nose and lips, dropped him and boxed his ears; he would have killed the man if he hadn't seen the Tommie-gun-wielding guards appear. As he left the chaotic scene, he looked over his shoulder and the janitor shouted out. "Way to go slugger," he said, only to be beaten and dragged off by a gang of security guards.
Another guard hollered, "Cut him off, he's heading across the street."
Paul and Holly were supposed to meet at the foot of the Empire State Building, but there was little chance ben Muhammad would allow that to happen, so instead Paul hopped a jittery trolley into Jewish Harlem. Ghetto faces lined with cracks stared at Paul, like ancient pottery sitting alongside a museum reproduction designed to imitate the beauty of newness. Mrs. Stein's tenement was infested with age, from the ladies with pepper pot figures to the tall-hatted Hassidic men who discussed philosophy over chess. Even the Irish boys who played stickball out front seemed oddly wise for their age. Paul had grown up here, but he felt he had pampered away his street wisdom. He no longer belonged.
"What should I do, ma?"
"Stay here with me. Holly will know where to find you."
It took Paul a few days to realize that his mother was wrong. He had taken out his anger in the boxing ring. He told his mother of the Micks and Negroes he had beaten, no doubt winning his fans more than a few dollars. He didn't mention the Jewish boxer that would never again be able to bite into a fresh apple with his own teeth because of Paul's callused fists. One night, Paul went back to the apartment building dressed in his late father's ragged work clothes. Paul and Holly's apartment was on the seventh floor, and he could barely make out shapes moving in the golden light. He stared for nearly half an hour before he saw Holly poke her head out the window. He shouted up to her, but she didn't seem to hear.
"Paul the Maul! You don't look so good, slugger."
The janitor had a huge can of garbage that he dragged towards the alley. He said that ben Muhammad had allowed him to keep his job after he had promised not to talk to a single person while on duty. In the quiet of the alley, they talked about Holly's coming and going and the increase in modern conveniences, and the accompanying increase of security at the building. The whole place was air conditioned now, and the elevators were automated, but many of the tenants had been evicted to make room for newcomers who could afford the forbidding rent. Paul told the janitor that he was afraid ben Muhammad was holding his fiance against her will.
"There's a fellow might be able to help you, said the janitor. He's a rabbi."
Paul's mother was shocked. "Rabbi Samson's only a rabbi in title. The man is a lush. Don't you go near him." It turned out that Samson was a lascivious whoremonger who was rumored to masturbate at the talkie theaters. "Uncut Samson," they called him. He was, however, also a renowned mystic and that's what made up Paul's mind. Nobody doubted the Rabbi's powers.
After a particularly bloody match, Paul delivered himself to a doorway lit by a gas torch that stood below street level only two blocks from his mother's apartment building. The door had a bronze plate inscribed with Hebrew letters. With the streaked green corrosion and Paul's limited knowledge of Yiddish, he could only tell that it said something like "All Are Welcome."
Samson was a fat and greasy slob whose once-exquisite accommodations had been used beyond their capability, and now exuded a pungent fetor that seemed to waft out of the holes in the carpeting. The Rabbi glanced at Paul senior's clothing and said, "You can't afford my prices." Paul told him that there was plenty of money in the ring for anyone tough enough to claim it. Samson laughed at the implied threat, but waved him inside anyway.
"I know of Israel ben Muhammad. He's obsessed with himself, like most of the world's better men. Your fiance would be well off to stay with him rather than a low-born boxer from the ghetto." Samson left him alone long enough to reconsider his decision, but before Paul's mind could make sense of these awful circumstances, the Rabbi emerged from behind a curtain-wall. "It is done. The girl will be yours. Now give me whatever money you have and go away."
Paul didn't know what to expect, if anything, but he couldn't stand to waste time in actionless wondering, so he walked as fast as he could to the apartment building whose neo-Egyptian faade dripped silver rain like mercury in the bright moonlight. Holly was there, waiting in the alley. She was silent. Paul tried to talk to her, but she seemed not to know him. She didn't respond at all unless she was asked a direct question or given a command.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"What's happened to you?"
"I don't know."
He told Holly she would have to come with him, but she followed at a snail's pace, and when he carried her, he wasn't able to move much faster.
The walk back to Harlem ended as the sun was rising over Mrs. Stein's apartment. Though he collapsed with exhaustion in his mother's spare bedroom, his mind was restless with angry confusion. Holly lay open-eyed next to him, and when Paul finally gave up the fight to keep his eyes closed, she accompanied him arm-in-arm through the foggy morning street.
The Rabbi's door appeared to be stout but it only took one solid blow to unhinge it completely, allowing a cold draft to douse candles and to bear scrolls off tables. Uncut Samson was taken by surprise, nude, piggish, and shaking, when Paul grabbed him by the arm, sinking strong fingers into the flab. A sucker punch to the face was stopped when Paul felt a paralyzing blow to his own spine.
"Stay out of this. I'm going to kill him for ruining my bride," said ben Muhammad in a fearsome voice.
Paul turned on ben Muhammad and they began a dirty wrestling match. However, their battle was not yet to be. The fleshy slap of each strike quieted to nothing while the apartment filled with thick incense smoke until both men collapsed in a desperate embrace. They awoke lashed together and suspended over a smokeless fire and immediately resumed the struggle against each other, and now against the ropes, and against the flame.
"I will pay you," ben Muhammad yelled in between curses, "Holly, go get the money in my safe." Paul stopped slamming his skull against the other man's in time to see her run out the open door. Hollys departure left both men relieved enough to stop struggling. If you think I want Miss Landiss body, youre mistaken. Soon, Ill have the body to take the women I wasnt strong enough to take in this body. Im glad you both showed up here, but its a pity that a golem fit for a wizard has to be wasted. He swung a lumpy arm towards an unrealistically muscular clay sculpture of ben Muhammad. It took a long time to find a body sturdy enough to suit my tastes. He stroked the arm of the sculpture, and snickered. You should be thankful. This magnificent creature is beyond value. It was fashioned in 1654 by Dutch Jews, fleeing the Portuguese in South America. They offered it to the Governor of New Amsterdam to protect the city from the Swedes, but instead he arrested the Jews and put the golem up for auction. It sat in a Brooklyn root cellar for nearly three hundred years until I found it. Soon, the two of you will fulfill the purpose of watching over this citymy cityat my bidding. You will inhabit a body with quite a pedigree, Id say. Personally, I would rather have the real thing. Samsons cheeks reddened and he approached the men, gazing away from their eyes. When I have your body Mr. Stein, Ill be as strong as my golem, but still human enough to enjoy it. And when I have your face, Mr. ben Muhammad, I will control your wealth. How much are you worth? Millions? Billions? As I said, it is a lucky coincidence for me that you have both decided to show up just as Im begining my ritual. Samson began chanting in a tongue neither of the men would have recognized by name. He bent himself and fanned the flames with his hands as he alternated between prayer and silence in cyclic rhythms. On one cycle, he looked up and addressed the two men. "Have you ever heard the tale of Gilgamesh, who would split a baby in half so that two fighting women could share motherhood?
Isnt that the story of Solomon? Said ben Muhammad Shut up, The corners of Samsons mouth turned slightly downward and his eyes widened. I told you each that you would have sole power over this woman, and I never rescind a promise." "Don't kill her, please," said Paul
Samson waited for the end of the chant to reply. "Idiots, you think I would kill your girl? You two can continue your fight over her as long as you like, for all it matters to me. Killing is a sin."
The rising flames drew Paul's eyes. He could see now that they were hanging above a burning bush. "Lord God," he screamed, "please help me!" Rabbi Samson laughed. "Yahweh," he addressed the bush by God's ancient name.
"What do you require of me, great Samson?"
"Give me the wealth of the oil baron and the strength of the boxer."
"Shall I cast their souls into hell?"
"No," he said even as his body was being reshaped, "I would like you to ensoul the golem doubly."
As he spoke, the fat seemed to melt from Rabbi Samson's body, and his skin seemed to darken, become more youthful. Paul had trouble focusing on the Rabbi. The scene became a jumble of images and he could see his own body from the outside, writhing in exact complement to ben Muhammad's. He could see both of their bodies starting to dissolve into a wisp of smoke over the burning bush. Soon, the Rabbi's body stopped its distortion and solidified into a chimera of the two vanished captives. Paul could tell he was still in the room, though he had watched his own body fade out of existence along with ben Muhammads. He tried to move stiff limbs, but they felt clunky and he seemed unable to decide which way to move. His emotions too were a jumble. They were still filled with hate for Samson and love for Holly, and hate for ben Muhammad. But there was self-loathing now as well. Ben Muhammad was present inside him.
"Yahweh, partition the golem." With the Rabbi's words, the chaotic admixture of souls ended in pain. A line burned down the center of the clay form, singeing both souls and demarking a boundary that kept ben Muhammad in the left and Paul in the right.
"Enjoy your prison, children. I'm off to dabble in real estate." The Rabbi tore down the curtains and cloaked his new body with them, leaving the apartment through the still-open doorway.
Paul tried to stand, but he only had control over histhe golem'sright leg. The left was still. "Damn it," he said out of the right side of his mouth. "You damned idiot. If it wasnt for your greed, I'd have my wife and you'd have your riches." He began punching the left side of his face, chipping greenware knuckles and cheek. The left arm tried to do the same to the right side, and the golem struggled with itself until both eyes wept in tearless despair.
Eventually, the left side of the golems mouth said, Stop it! Stop it, Mr. Stein.
The left arm flung itself limply to the side while the right continued to work at destroying them both, pounding deep cracks in the hand and wrist, neck and face.
I really do love her.
You dont know what love is, said Paul bitterly. He took a breath and put the hand to his forehead, feeling dust and bits of clay slough off underneath his fingers.
The golem sat solemnly in front of the smokeless fire.
Help me. All I want is to hold my Holly again, even under these circumstances, said the right side of the Golem.
What can I do? Robbed of my body and rendered in clay, what good can I be? asked the left.
I dont know. I cant think. I cant do anythingI cant even cry, said the right.
Can this god of yours help? asked the left.
Paul considered this for a moment. God wasnt supposed to be part of his vocabulary. He was a man of the flesh; a man of the fist.
"Of course!" Paul started to lean forward with the right side of the golem's body, and ben Muhammad followed his lead with the left. The fire rose at the movement. "Yahweh, help us. Give Holly her free will back."
"I have made a covenant to give each of you command over the girl's will. I cannot breach that covenant." "Then, please give us back our bodies."
"As I said, I cannot contravene a covenant once made. Only Rabbi Samson can give you back your bodies. Perhaps I can help you in some other way."
"If you can't restore our souls, what can you do for us?" Asked Paul.
"I must do whatever you command that is within my power."
"Then give this body the strength to overcome Rabbi Samson, Yahweh," said ben Muhammad.
The flames grew, and with them the golems body. Over the fire, the golem took on a vitreous sheen. The surface became covered with glass scales and the bulk continued to expand. Soon, the ceiling bowed against the golems shoulders. Then it broke and debris fell from the upper levels of the old building into the basement. The fire consumed it all, and the golem had to step away to keep from hardening into bisque. As the golem grew greater and greater, the partition grew thinner and thinner, stretching imperceptibly thin between the two souls.
* * *
It was in that fire that my story begins. Though the Rabbi had divided me in two, I had to work as one being. Oftentimes, I wish I had continued to grow and grow until my body formed a world unto itself. Alas, that was not to be. I was compelled towards the glass and steel pinnacle where my lover would be opening a money-clotted safe on an upper floor. I stumbled and fell along the way, rending ironwork and bits of pavement under my weight. By this time, my feet were the size of trolley cars, my stride the length of a city block. I walked to where the shadow of the Empire State Building pierced the daylight on the street. People fled in terror before me, but by then I didnt care. My cares were torn between love and hate briefly, when I saw the tiny Rabbi scurry for cover into one of the East Central apartment buildings. I ignored him and grasped at the Empire State Building with an enormous hand, breaking windows and bending steel. I climbed until I could look with my left eye into the office where Holly carefully removed money from the safe without emotion or haste.
"Holly," my voice was hoarse and inhuman, large as a nation, but she responded anyway. "Come here," I said.
I wrapped one arm around the side of the building so that I could lift the other and give Holly somewhere to stand. She obeyed my every word, climbing out the window into my giant clay hand. As she did so, the building started tipping and screeching. I stepped down in time to back away and watch it fall like a tree, tiny people diving hopelessly from the windows. The collapse obliterated all of the East Central apartment buildings in one long, billowing crunch. The city was alive with sirens going every which way, and maybe no one noticed when I took a deep breath and did a backstroke into the cold Atlantic with Hollyor the mindless body that bore that namesitting comfortably on my chest.
* * *
As I write this, the waves of the Atlantic are still crashing on gently sloping shores, though the shoreline has receded and the ocean has been split into two strings of slushy salt puddles running along either side of a vast mountain range. New York city is now long gone, as are the ever changing peoples of that ghetto called Harlem. When the sun has expanded and scorched me to a frozen statue, you may find my body on the peak of a mountain that was once an island. There, I will be lying alongside a pile of ashes that were once the bones of my dear Holly. But before I retreat into my private eternity, I must complete my tale
The golem switched hands with the petrified mangrove tree he'd been using as a writing utensil, and then started a new column of inscription. "In glory to the Prophet (blessings be upon him), I write this tale in a sincere attempt to inform the readershould there be a readerof the true history of my creation, if it is Allah's will that I finish before the end-times sun undoes the magic that made me or bakes my limbs into useless branches"