The Mammoth Book of Steampunk

by Sean Wallace

  So now Ixtli held up the punch cards he had taken the ones he’d replaced were now with the dissidents, who were none the wiser.

  He leaned over the window, and dropped the cards out to flutter in the wind.

  Where they would land, he had no idea. It was not his place to know, or ask. He was just another agent in the vast machine that was his government.

  The Hands That Feed

  Matthew Kressel

  “If only it were as easy to fix my eyes as it is yours,” I said to Miriam as I peered through the glasses hanging off my nose. My attic workshop was dark, the cuckoo clock on my wall had just announced midnight, but moonbeams lit my cigarette smoke like heavenly girders. Miriam was, after all, my little angel. Her bronze frame glinted in the moonlight as I twisted a wrench inside her enclosure. As her lens came into focus she clicked happily. She wouldn’t bang into furniture or wake up the sleeping any longer. (Or such was my hope; her bent frame was evidence of a recent encounter with a club.) I placed her on the floor and she crawled onto the table by the window. Beside her stood Beth, Eve, Leah, Talia and Shoshanna, her sisters in trade. Together, they looked like a litter of shiny, eight-legged, hairless cats. Their eyes peered up at me, awaiting my command.

  “Are you ready, meine kinder?” I said.

  Miriam tapped her head against the window pane. Her sisters chittered.

  “Make mame proud,” I said as I opened the window. And my little girls, eager to please, crawled out my fourth-story window. They spidered down the steep wall and vanished into the night. The rooftops of Manhattan’s Lower East Side stretched into the distance like a tumultuous gray sea frozen in time. I leaned out into the cool air and exhaled smoke toward the stars. A kitten – a flesh and blood one, sleek and brown and beautiful – sat on the roof across the way and watched me with two glowing eyes. Down below, I heard a thump; I hoped it wasn’t Miriam’s lens acting up again. When I glanced at the roof once more, the kitten had gone.

  At 6 a.m. the next morning, after three cups of strong coffee, I descended to the ground floor of my home to my pawn shop, ‘Tchotchkes’, to the sound of clocks chiming wildly. Outside my windows, which were painted with fading Yiddish letters, the morning sun was bright and clean and cut hard slices through the cobbled streets. A flock of airships meshed the sky, their engines droning like worker bees as they moved to and from South Street Airport. Like gray pike swimming upstream, pious Jews raced past the windows to the nearest shul, talis bags in tow, so they could pray before heading to work. But Divya stood motionless among them, a stone in the river. She was punctual, sleepy-eyed and lovely, as usual. I opened the door, kissed the mezzuzah, and held the door open for her. She wore a modest brown dress, a fresh crimson bindi on her forehead, and a gem-encrusted silver necklace. The last lit up her face like flashes from a fire. As she passed me I reached for her neck and she flinched, then tried to disguise her reaction with a nervous laugh.

  “Relax, dear!” I said. “I’m just curious.”

  Sheepishly she held the necklace up to my eyes: a silver band encrusted with glistering gems. I didn’t need a loupe to know they were real diamonds.

  “Beautiful,” I said. “A gift from Robert?”

  She nodded, and when I offered no more she slipped quietly inside my store.

  An auto-giraffe whirred past. The officer on its saddle, shaded under a tassled canopy, like a chupa, leaned over the side and shouted to me, “Mornin’, Jessica.” He tipped his cap.

  “And to you, Elijah.”

  Officer Elijah had lost his left eye in a tussle four years back, and the replacement, a metallic contraption of lenses and gears, made him look half machine. Sometimes I thought the injury had affected his brain, too. “Jessica,” he said as he stopped his auto-giraffe. He revealed an envelope and handed it to a small crawler, which ran down the tall mechanoid’s leg and offered it to me. The brutish police crawler lacked the grace of my bronze children, now slinking through the city’s streets, though they shared the same military provenance.

  “What’s this?” I said, taking the envelope.

  “A list of missing items.”

  “Missing?”

  “Er …” He coughed. “Stolen.”

  “Zayt moykhl?” I said – ‘excuse me’ in Yiddish. Elijah was a goy, but he had worked this neighborhood for years. I eyed him hard and thrust my hands onto my hips. His false eye stared back at me, cold and lifeless, and I suppressed a shiver.

  “Please, Jess. I’m not implyin’ anything. Mayor Strong is crackin’ down for the election. Wants to be seen as tough on crime. You own a pawn shop. Things there … come and go. All I’m sayin’ is any of these things show up in your store, you bring ‘em to me. Anonymously. End of story.”

  I spun away from him and said, “Gut morgn, Elijah.”

  He harrumphed and said a perfunctory, “Ma’am,” and his mech-of-burden whirred as it trotted away, its metal hooves click-clopping on the cobbles. Meanwhile an auto-human – its rusty frame glinting in the sun – hung a bill on the wall across the street from my store.

  The bill read, “Vote Robert Davis for Mayor of New York. Cleansing the Corruption from Our City’s Streets”. Robert’s lithograph smiled superciliously down at me. I tore the bill from the wall and shredded it to pieces while the auto-human mindlessly pasted another one a hundred feet down the street. Those godless machines even worked on Shabbos. I set my teeth and went back inside.

  Divya had already swept the floor, unlocked the register, and was now vigorously scrubbing the glass cases. My store was filled with costume jewelry, dresses worn once and tossed away, broken gear movements, chipped toys, things found in closets or the backs of drawers that would never be missed if they vanished. Even I didn’t know the extent of what I had. But as the old adage goes, one man’s junk … And no matter how much one cleans, junk always reeks of mold and time.

  But Divya spread her youth about this place with her every gesture and word. I envied her slim frame, her lucid eyes, her lustrous and tawny skin. She was thirty years my junior, and I found myself perpetually charmed by her.

  “Miss Rosen,” Divya said in her soft, lilting Gujarat accent that always stirred my heart. “I thought I’d put the silver Seder plates in the window for the coming Passover.”

  Though she was Hindu, she had made it her practice to learn the Jewish customs of this neighborhood, both the sacred and the saleable. “How many times do I have to tell you, dear? Call me ‘Jessica’. I’m not your damn school teacher!”

  “I’m sorry, Miss – Jessica. My father beat such habits into me. Always respect your elders—” The moment the last word left her lips, Divya blushed and busied herself again with the countertops. So shy and awkward, this young woman. It was rare to see someone as beautiful as she and yet so lacking in presumption, pretense, or conceit. I’d wondered how long it would take before some devilish soul corrupted her. I looked outside the window as an auto-human hung a new poster of Robert Davis in the same spot where I had torn the last one down. My face was reflected back to me in the window pane, superimposed over his, like a dybbuk come to eat his soul.

  I’d hired Divya three months prior, and the time since had passed in a whirl. She and her father had stowed away on an airship, fleeing the tumult and poverty in Gujarat. Penniless, disheveled and stunning, she wandered into my store like a stray kitten. My grandparents came from Odessa with nothing, and a good Jewish family took them in, gave them a start. So how could I refuse Divya and her pleading brown eyes, and her voice that knew the song sparrows sang to heaven?

  I put her to work doing the chores my back no longer favored, and she arrived promptly each morning, did twice the work expected of her, and never complained. On sunny afternoons while taking slow drags from my cigarette by the window, I’d catch her gazing at me. In the lulls between customers, we’d often tell each other stories about ourselves.

  “How did you acquire this house?” Divya once asked me. “It’s so beautiful.”


  “Beautiful? Have you been up to the roof? It’s Gomorrah up there!” I said, chuckling. “The house was built by my grandparents. They started a printing press. Prayer books, textbooks, Talmuds, things like that. They used to sell books and Judaica out of this store.”

  “Do you still own the press?”

  “No. You know that momzer, Shmuel Cohen? His parents came in with bigger machines, faster presses. Their cheaper product put my parents out of business.”

  “And your parents, are they still in Manhattan?”

  “Oh no, dear, they passed away a long time ago.”

  “So you opened this pawn shop yourself?”

  I nodded. “After my parents died, people went to Cohen’s Bookshop to get their books, Mandel’s Emporium for their talit and mezzuzahs. The money ran out. So I started selling other things. Other people’s things.”

  “I envy you.”

  “Envy?” I said. I wondered how this young woman could envy anything about me.

  “You had a helping hand,” she said. “A start. That family that took you in. Your parents. I began with nothing.”

  “That may be true,” I said. “But now you have a job. And you have me.”

  I smiled at her. And she smiled back, and her gaze held warmth and tenderness. I’d seen that gaze before, in dozens of women. It brought a stab of joy to my heart. Could this young woman see me, an ageing yenta, as they once had?

  One rainy and damp evening, Divya and I found ourselves alone in the back office among dusty papers, piles of unread books, and the soft ticking of a clock. Her face was angelic in the lamplight.

  I caressed her cheek with the back of my hand, pressed my lips to hers, and felt a tremble; I wasn’t sure which one of us shook. But as I embraced her she gently pushed me away.

  “What is it?” I said.

  She stared at me and a look of confusion blurred her face. “I’m sorry, Miss Rosen, but I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry. My father’s waiting for me.” She spun out the door, forgetting to lock it behind her.

  The next day, I waited nervously by the door, watching the throng, afraid she wouldn’t show. But she arrived promptly as usual, and rushed inside as soon as I opened the door. She did her chores in silence, and wouldn’t meet my eyes or stand in my presence for more than a few seconds. Perhaps I was her first woman, I thought, or, God forbid, her first love. Perhaps it was a caste taboo, a poor girl afraid to mix classes, or because I was older, or because I was a Jew. I worried myself sick, and struggled to put it out of my mind. Whatever the reason, I’d not push things. Time would win her over to me.

  As the days passed, we began talking about our lives as we previously had, and things became easy between us again. I didn’t approach her, even though I’d catch her watching me in the reflections from the windows, her chin resting heavily on her hands as if she carried some great burden within. And always when I turned to face her she looked away, afraid to bear my full countenance. So I settled, for a time, for reflections.

  “Why did you come to New York?” I asked her one morning.

  “My mother was ill,” she said. “In Gujarat we were very poor and had no money for doctors. She died.”

  “Oy Gevalt! You poor thing!”

  “It was long ago,” she said, in a way that made me think it wasn’t very long ago at all. “My father and I came here for a better life.”

  “And your father’s a stevedore at South Street Airport?”

  “Yes. It’s back-breaking work.”

  “And you suffice, the two of you?”

  “Suffice? We try. It’s been difficult.”

  “Difficult? Have you had problems?”

  She nodded and sighed.

  “Darling!” I said. “What do you need? Money?” I opened the register. “How much?”

  “No, no! Miss Rosen, please! I can’t take charity from you. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Charity? This is tsedoke – righteousness!” I took out a hundred dollars and offered it to her.

  “Miss Rosen, I’m very grateful for your generosity, but that won’t be necessary.” Then she whispered the following to me as if she was letting me in on a great secret: “I’m exploring other means by which to secure my financial security.”

  “Oh?” I said solemnly. “Have you found another job?” My heart sank at the thought.

  “No, no. I’m still in your employ … for the time being.”

  “‘For the time being’?” I said. “Darling, stop speaking in riddles! What is it?”

  “I’d rather not spoil it by speaking it aloud. My mother said that the surest way to break good fortune is to name it.” She turned away from me and her hair spun behind her. I longed to run my fingers through her cool, dark locks, to feel the ridges of her shoulder blades. I hoped with all my heart that she wasn’t leaving me.

  “When the time is right, I’ll tell you everything, Miss Rosen,” she said.

  “Jessica!”

  “Jessica.”

  She glanced at me and sighed, and her chest seemed to fall forever. I thought I might cry at the thought of her leaving me. And that’s when I realized that I loved her.

  It was 10 a.m. on the same day Officer Elijah had handed me the list of stolen goods, when a young Yid, covered in blood from the nearby shochet, wandered into my store. His huge eyes, ringed in red, stared in wonderment at the many shelves of oblong glass vessels, arrays of sharp and jagged tools and sparkling gearboxes full of unwound potential. He purchased a broken movement, once the spinning heart of an auto-cat, for fifty cents and ran gleefully out of the store. I wondered if he’d spent his master’s money.

  At half past ten Divya worked a spell over a group of Hassidic women looking for deals on jewelry. Divya pinned glittering brooches to their breasts and clasped golden charms around their necks. The women melted under Divya’s charm and dropped eighteen dollars before leaving with drunken smiles on their faces.

  “You’re a kishefmakher – a magician!” I said to her. “Those women have come here dozens of times, but always to look, never to buy. What did you do?”

  “I just gave them what they wanted,” she said.

  I wandered over to the jewelry case. “You sold them the monogrammed watch?”

  “Hm?” she said. “Which watch?”

  “The gold pocket watch. Did you sell it?”

  “Sell? No.”

  “Then where is it?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Rosen!” she said. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t watching the boy who was in here before. He was staring at the jewel case. I’m sorry!”

  I patted her arm. “Don’t worry about it, child. What’s true for business is also true for life. Things come and go. We have to learn to let things pass.”

  She nodded and said, “So true.” And I thought of her mother.

  At a quarter to eleven, while Divya was helping a stocky man try on a suit – carefully hiding a lapel stain with her palm – I snuck off to my attic. The window was open, cool air blew in from the East River, and my six angels waited patiently on the floor. In front of each lay the spoils of the night.

  Beth had acquired a set of pearl earrings with a gold backing (tarnished, but lovely). Eve had brought gold, monogrammed cufflinks (monogrammed items were a hard sell). Leah had folded a taffeta scarf and placed it on the floor (how tidy of her). Talia and Shoshanna each held one side of a gilded Tanakh, the collected Jewish scriptures (from Shmuel Cohen’s press, and it was beautiful). Last was Miriam, who held a small, black, dusty wooden box, like the kind a watchmaker might use to keep his tools in.

  “What in Gehenna made you think this ugly box was valuable, little Miriam? I think your lenses need adjusting again.”

  But Miriam twittered and shook, as if begging me to open it. So I flipped up the rusty metal clasp and gasped when I saw what lay inside. Diamonds. Hundreds of them. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth. The oblique afternoon sunlight fell across the gems and sent constella
tions of color dancing about the walls.

  “Miriam!” I said. “You little malekh! You precious angel!” I nearly burst with joy. “Now, sleep, meine kinder. You’ve had a long night. Save your springs for tonight!”

  I held the box of diamonds to the sun. Lost in the rainbows, I thought of Divya. I’d make a fortune selling these to jewelers on the Bowery, and with the money I could take care of Divya and myself forever. She’d never know poverty again. But she’d have to let me help her.

  I heard the faint ring of the bell as someone entered my store, so I returned downstairs, ebullient. Divya asked me what I was so joyous about, but I kept mum. Like her, I didn’t dare spoil the good fortune by speaking it aloud, lest the evil eye take notice, keyn aynhoreh!

  I was brewing a special batch of spiced coffee when he came in to my store. Since he’d started courting Divya, he’d been making a show of visiting every day. He wore an expensive suit, a top hat (which he took off upon entering), gold-rimmed spectacles and dangled his pocket watch ostentatiously from his jacket pocket. His hair was black and slicked and his persistent smile, just like on his campaign posters, reminded me of the smile of a wolf.

  “Robert!” Divya said, rushing over to him. Her exuberance seemed forced, false.

  His two enormous and humorless bodyguards stepped aside to let Divya hug him, and I had to look away as he squeezed her. Robert held her fingers and looked her up and down for a long, silent moment. I wanted to strangle him. She was no doll for him to ogle.

  “My dear, you look ravishing today!” he said.

  She smiled demurely and lowered her eyes. I hated how coquettish she became around him. It was an act, a ruse, I imagined, designed to secure his affections. And he seemed to fall for her charms, too, which didn’t make sense to me, because this man despised anything that wasn’t pure-blooded Christian. I sensed deception in his intentions.

  He examined my store. “I don’t know how you persist in working in this filthy shop,” he said to Divya. He ran his finger along a shelf and held the dusty tip before his eyes. One of his bodyguards handed him a handkerchief that he used to wipe his finger clean. “When I’m Mayor, you’ll live with me. You won’t have to work in this … squalor. If fact, you won’t have to work ever again.”