A Curable Romantic (98 page)

“Is there someplace we could sit and order a little something?” I said, suddenly feeling quite famished.

shook his head.

“Look at them working,”
said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “They have no idea what’s in store, do they?”

Exchanging silent greeting with the master baker, the angels led me to a storeroom in the back. Behind a pallet stacked high with flour bags was a rickety ladder leading to an opening in the ceiling, a sort of attic door. We climbed through this opening and arrived in what appeared to be an antiquarian book shop. Outside the shop’s windows, a golden light turned the façades of the marble buildings pink.
greeted an old man in a velvet yarmulke and a black vest who was sitting behind a counter, stroking his beard and reading.
whispered something in his ear, and the old fellow got up from his stool, searching through the riot of keys that dangled from his belt. Shuffling to the door, he unlocked it, and we slipped through it to the street.

Outside, doves were cooing, and the smell of citrus seemed to be everywhere. “The Old City’s not so crowded today,”
said, drawing in a breath.

“Must be a bus strike,”
said, frowning.

“But where are we?” I demanded to know.

“Why, this is the Celestial Jerusalem,”
explained.

“The
Celestial
Jerusalem?”

“Yes, it hovers above its more terrestrial twin.”

My companions seemed to know the place quite well, and we strode through its streets, past cisterns and reflecting pools, past windmills and cafés, until we came to the Celestial Temple. Its looming façades reflected the complex palette of the dying sun. Leading me through the crowds in the courtyard, we snuck in through a door below a bridge and caught a glimpse of the archangel Michael in his holy garments, or so my guides informed me, offering up the souls of the righteous on the Temple altar. They stood, like pilgrims waiting to enter a shrine, the line winding through the courtyard and out into the streets, filling every passageway and alley.

“Has death undone so many?” I said.

“Best not to think about it,”
said. “It’ll only make you gloomy.”

We entered the next level — the fifth, by my reckoning — via a rusty
elevator whose mechanical innards wheezed as it shuddered between floors. We were let out in an opulent concert hall, its walls a shimmering blond spruce. There were rows and rows of empty choir stalls. Indeed, they seemed to stretch for miles. My guides allowed me to ascend the conductor’s podium, and from this pinnacle, I couldn’t see the end of them. An exquisite Bösendorfer stood, black and gleaming, in the center of the hall, surrounded by a goodly number of harps.

“And where are the angels?” I said.

“The angels?”
said.

“The hosts of angels whose job it is, if I’m remembering my lessons correctly, to sing the praises of the Holy One from this very room.”

“No, no, Dr. Sammelsohn,”
said. “That’s only during the night.” He pushed his eyeglasses onto his forehead and peered into the sheet music that had been left on the conductor’s stand. After humming a few bars, he added, “During the day, it’s up to the Jewish people to sing those praises.”

I raised my hand to silence him, so that I might listen for these songs, but I heard nothing.

“Precisely,”
said grimly.

I blushed. I was as guilty as anyone in this regard.

“But even at night,”
said, kicking the toe of his shoe against the wooden floor, “the singing is morose.”