She relaxes. Surely, it is a beit medrash of sorts. Perhaps they learn here the Zohar, the esoteric subjects, a soul’s journey in this world
Yishai walks quickly down the narrow alleyway and, from a distance, Leonora follows. Where, exactly, is he going? Any moment, he may pause, turn, and see her. She has draped a dark shawl around her, she looks like any other woman in Tzfat, and her face is in shadow. She has even loosened her usual posture, rounding her shoulders and letting her back round. But still. Still.
He turns into a courtyard; there’s a swing and creak of the iron gate. She tarries, waiting until he has entered and disappeared. Only when the woman on the other side of the alleyway has finished unpegging her day’s laundry — blankets and sheets and a long caftan — does she allow herself to slowly push open the metal gate and step inside.
There is a lemon tree in the courtyard, with tiny bulbs of green. There’s no one around, only the drone of buzzing bees and in the distance, a child singing. She looks around for some sign of Yishai, of life. What is this place? What has he been doing here?
Along the perimeter is a small stone stairway. She pauses at the top, leaning in, listening. Sure enough, there’s the sound of voices, the low hum of men’s conversation.
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