The treasure room

I stood at a gate and before the gate hung an ever-turning sword, and I was fearful because I knew it was the gate to Paradise.

By HAIM WATZMAN
February 7, 2017 15:43
Painting by Avi Katz

Painting by Avi Katz. (photo credit: AVI KATZ)

 
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RACHEL EBERLEIN had just languidly stirred honey into her sage tea when she spotted Rabbi Hayyim soaring down from a feathery cloud that hung over Safed and Mt. Meron. It was the only mark in an otherwise clear blue sky. While he was still far too distant for her to make out his face, she knew it was Rabbi Hayyim Vital, her tenant these last two years. Just as people have distinctive walks that make it possible to identify them from far away, so they have their own special ways of flying. Rabbi Hayyim’s path was a series of bumps; he descended a bit, his kaftan billowing and offering a glimpse of his thighs, then lurched up, then plunged, then lurched up again, all while standing erect with his arms stiff at his sides. It was as if he did not know whether he really wanted to reach earth.

It was a week before Lag Ba’omer, and the sun’s rays were still a caress rather than a hammer blow, as in the summer. The magnitude of the day – somehow that phrase from Yom Kippur came to mind, the magnitude of the day – required a woman to sit on her second floor balcony and sip tea (sage tea because her stomach had hurt this morning, even though her time of month had passed a couple days ago). God had decreed it, as evidenced by the fact that her neighbor across the courtyard, Hannah, was also sipping tea on her balcony, surveying the verdant hills that ringed the holy city. She glanced at Rachel and followed her gaze to the sky, and, Hannah was pretty sure, raised her eyebrows.

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