I tried to draw him out. “You’re not married, Jericho?”
“Have you seen a wife?”
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“A handsome, prosperous man like you?”
“I have no one I wish to marry.”
“Me neither. Never met the right girl. Then this woman in Egypt . . .”
“We’ll get word of her.”
“So it’s just you and your sister,” I persisted.
He stopped his hammering, annoyed. “I was married once. She died carrying my child. Other things happened. I went to the British ship. And Miriam . . .”
Now I saw it. “Takes care of you, the grieving brother.” His gaze held mine. “As I take care of her.”
“So if a suitor would appear?”
“She has no wish for suitors.”
“But she’s such a lovely girl. Sweet. Demure. Obedient.”
“And you have your woman in Egypt.”
“You need a wife,” I advised. “And some children to make you laugh. Maybe I can scout about for you.”
“I don’t need a foreigner’s eye. Or a wastrel’s.”
“Yet I might as well offer it, since I’m here!” And I grinned, he grumped, and we went back to pounding metal.
When work was light I explored Jerusalem. I’d vary my dress slightly depending on which quarter I was in, trying to glean useful information through my Arabic, English, and French. Jerusalem was used to pilgrims, and my accents were unremarkable. The city’s crossroads were its markets, where rich and poor mingled and janissary warriors casually shared meals with common artisans. The khaskiyya, or soup kitchens, provided welfare for the destitute, while the coffeehouses attracted men of all faiths to sip, smoke water pipes, and argue.
The air, heady with the dark beans, rich Turkish tobacco, and hash-ish, was intoxicating. Occasionally I’d coax Jericho to come along.
He needed a cup of wine or two to get going, but once started, his reluctant explanations of his homeland were invaluable.
“Everyone in Jerusalem thinks they’re three steps closer to heaven,” he summarized, “which means that together they create their own little hell.”
“It is a weaponless city of peace and piety, is it not?” 3 8
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“Until someone steps on someone else’s piety.” If anyone questioned my own presence I’d explain I was a trade representative for the United States, which had been true in Paris.
I was waiting to make deals with the winner, I said. I wanted to be friends with everyone.
The city was so filled with rumor of Napoleon’s coming that it buzzed like a hive, but there was no consensus about which side was likely to prevail. Djezzar had been in ruthless control for a quarter century. Bonaparte had yet to be beaten. The English controlled the sea, and Palestine was but an islet in a vast Ottoman lake. While the Shiite and Sunni sects of the Muslim communities were at bitter odds with each other, and both Christians and Jews were restless minorities and mutually suspicious, it was not at all clear who might take arms against who. Would-be religious despots from half a dozen faiths dreamed of carving out their own puritanical utopias. While Smith hoped I might recruit for the British cause, I’d no real intention of doing so. I still liked French republican ideals and the men I’d served with, and I didn’t necessarily disagree with Napoleon’s dreams of reforming the Near East. Why should I take the side of the arrogant British, who had so bitterly fought my own nation’s independence?
All I really wanted was to hear of Astiza and find out if there was any chance this fabled Book of Thoth might improbably have survived over three thousand years. And then flee this madhouse.
So I learned what I could in their hookah culture. It was a small town, and word inevitably spread of the infidel in Arab clothes who worked at the forge of a Christian, but there were any number of people with foggy pasts seeking any number of things. I was just one more, who did what life chiefly consists of: waiting.
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To pass the winter, I did my best to tease Miriam. I’d found a piece of amber in the market, an insect preserved inside. It was being sold as a slick and shiny good-luck charm, but I saw it as an artifact of science. I stole up behind her once when she was cleaning a chicken, rubbed the amber briskly on my robes, and then lifted my hand above the downy feathers. Some floated up to my down-turned palm.
She whirled. “How are you doing that?”
“I bring mysterious powers from France and America,” I intoned.
She crossed herself. “It’s evil to bring magic into this house.”
“It’s not magic, it’s an electrical trick I learned from my mentor Franklin.” I turned my palm so she could see the amber I held. “Even the ancient Greeks did this. If you rub amber, it will attract things.
We call the magic electricity. I am an electrician.”
“What a foolish idea,” she said uncertainly.
“Here, try it.” I took her hand, despite her hesitation, and put the amber in her fingers, enjoying the excuse to touch her. Her fingers were strong, red from work. Then I rubbed it on her sleeve and held it over the feathers. Sure enough, a few levitated to stick.
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“Now you’re an electrician, too.”
She sniffed and gave it back to me. “How do you find time for useless games?”
“But perhaps they’re not useless.”
“If you’re so clever, use your amber to pluck the next chicken!” I laughed, and ran the amber past her cheek, pulling with it strands of her lovely hair. “It can serve as a comb, perhaps.” I had created a blond veil, her eyes suspicious above it.
“You are an impudent man.”
“Simply a curious one.”
“Curious about what?” She blushed when she said it.
“Ah. Now you’re beginning to understand me.” I winked.
But she wouldn’t allow things to go any further. I’d hoped to while away spare time by finding a card game or two, but I was in the worst city in the world for that. Jerusalem had fewer amusements than a Quaker picnic. Nor did there turn out to be much sexual temptation in a town where women were wrapped as tightly as a toddler in a Maine blizzard: my celibacy in Jaffa was involuntarily extended. Oh, women would give me a fetching eye now and again—I’ve got a bit of dash—but their allure was poisoned by lurid stories one heard in the coffeehouses of genital mutilation by angry fathers or brothers. It does give one pause.
In time I was so frustrated and bored that I took inspiration from my amber play and decided to tinker with electricity as Franklin had taught me. What had seemed a clever Parisian hobby to charm salons with an electric kiss—I could make a spark pass between a couple’s lips, once I’d given a woman a charge with my machines—had taken on more seriousness after my sojourn in Egypt. Was it possible ancient people had turned such mysteries into powerful magic? Was that the secret of their civilizations? Science was also a way to give myself status during my winter of discontent in Jerusalem. Electricity was novel here.
With Jericho’s reluctant tolerance, I built a frictional hand crank, with a glass disk to make a generator. When I rotated it against pads connected to a wire, the static charge was passed to glass jugs I lined t h e
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with lead: my makeshift Leyden jars. I used strands of copper to wire these spark batteries in sequence and sent enough electricity to a chain to make customers jump if they touched it, numbing their limbs for hours. Students of human nature won’t be surprised that men lined up to be jolted, shaking their tingling extremities in awe. I gained even more of a reputation as a sorcerer when I electrified my own arms and used my fingers to attract flakes of brass. I’d become a Count Silano, I realized, a conjurer. Men began to whisper about my powers, and I admit I enjoyed the notoriety. For Christmas I evacuated the air from a glass globe, spun it with my crank, and laid my palm on it. The ensuing purple glow lit the shed and entranced neighborhood children, though two old women fainted, a rabbi stormed from the room, and a Catholic priest held up a cross in my direction.