Bouquets fill the rooms. Lilies, white roses, an explosion of chrysanthemums. From the hotel’s greenhouse, or so the attached note says. A woven basket in the shape of a whale holds fruits and chocolates, wheels of cheese, and a bottle of plum brandy in its mouth, all tied with ribbons and fancy strings. There are two shot glasses, next to the brandy, and I wonder if I will be sharing the suite with someone else. Perhaps Reb Elimelech. If so, there is much, I’m afraid, that needs saying between us. In the spirit of experimentation, what will it hurt if I take a taste, I remove a red pear from the wicker whale and shine it on my sleeve. Reciting the blessings for the first fruits, I take a bite, not too large, in case I have to spit it out. Since my death, food has been like wood pulp in my mouth. Hard, tasteless, dry. Impossible to swallow, it blocks your throat, until you must painfully cough it up. And so the bite of pear I take is small and of a manageable size. I allow my teeth to caress the outer skin, ripping the barest hemisphere of meat.
What do You think about A Blessing On The Moon (1997)?
