The Golem of Paris by Jonathan Kellerman, Jesse Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page B

name was Ka-something but who went by Kathy, looked hopefully at Barbara. Barbara felt intense heat, like she was confronting the sun in a mirror, and she turned away to partner with pretty, chatty, happy, incompetent Cindy Gorelick.
    Kathy ended up working with a boy named Leon Fine, and Barbara spent the rest of the semester avoiding eye contact with her. But sometimes their paths crossed, and in the brief moments that they regarded each other, Barbara saw no disappointment, and certainly no surprise. Kathy, too, grasped the dog-eat-dog truth of the world; given the chance, she would’ve done the same to Barbara.
    The lack of judgment made Barbara feel even guiltier.
    It didn’t change her mind, though.
    •   •   •
    T HE AD IN THE
V
OICE led her to expect something grand, an art studio with nice light, but Minetta Street turns out to be a short, twisted passage lined with private homes. The door to number eleven is painted bright red. There’s a note.
    CLASS MOVED TO THE GARDEN
    Barbara retraces her steps to Bleecker Street, where the acute intersection forms a small, overgrown park. Through cascading greenery she spots a circle of people sitting cross-legged on the ground. She walked right past them.
    “Welcome, sister.”
    The speaker is a white man in his midforties wearing a saffron robe. He has a shaved head and a dark, knife-point Vandyke. He beams at her.
    “I’m looking for the pottery class,” Barbara says.
    The man raises his palms.
Behold.
    All she sees is a bunch of hippies. There are no tools, no tables, no wheels. Nobody has any clay.
    “Please,” the man says, “join us.”
    Confused, annoyed, Barbara settles herself awkwardly on the ground between two older women who shift to give her room. A couple wearing matching peasant shirts gaze at each other through dilated pupils.
    No, her parents would not approve.
    There’s no word in Czech for
hobby
.
    The fifth student is a tall, thin girl about Barbara’s age. She’s not a hippie. In fact, she’s dressed like a Quaker, in a plain navy skirt that spreads around her generously and a long-sleeved white blouse buttoned to the neck. She ought to be burning up in the heat, but her skin is dry, and she sits up high and dignified.
    Catching Barbara’s eye, she tilts her head at the robed man, then raises a doubtful eyebrow, and Barbara smiles, knowing immediately that they’re going to be friends.
    •   •   •
    N OT A Q UAKER ; not even close.
    Her name is Frayda Gonshor, and she lives in the Grand Street Projects on the Lower East Side. Like Barbara, she was caught off guard by the announcement that payment for next week’s class was due in advance.
    The ad said free.
    I share my wisdom freely
the robed man said. He called himself Sri Sri Jivanmukta Swami.
The supplies cost three dollars.
    “Chutzpah,” Frayda says as she and Barbara wait for the light to change.
    Barbara agrees. All the same, they both coughed up the money. Three bucks isn’t too bad, and she senses that she and Frayda share a common goal: escaping their parents.
    “I wonder what his real name is,” Frayda says.
    “Probably something like Henry,” Barbara says.
    “Ralph.”
    “Mickey.”
    “Mickey,” Barbara says, giggling. “Sri Sri Mickey Lowenstein.”
    “Guru Goldblatt.”
    “Swami Schwartzbaum.”
    The two of them teeter down Bleecker Street, arm in arm, in hysterics, exchanging information in a rush. Barbara has to force her long legs to slow down, as does Frayda, who is even taller than her, maybe the tallest woman Barbara’s ever seen, high-waisted, with hands that flap excitedly, evoking nothing so much as a flightless bird.
    “Have you ever made pottery before?”
    “A little,” Barbara says.
    “I haven’t.” Frayda shrugs. “It said no experience necessary.”
    “I think that means Mickey,” Barbara says.
    Signs for the subway come into view, and Barbara feels herself slowing further, unwilling to part yet.
    “Next week?”