( visiting Hadassah )

[errours]

There's a long moment, entering Hadassah's apartment, when everything looks disarmingly normal. Richly furnished, yes—dark walls accented in gold and painted with murals that depict flowers and fruit (pomegranates, split figs, branches of olives) entwined with serpents; chaise lounges and deep-cushioned chairs upholstered in wine red velvet; a mantle over a vast fireplace, hung with actual branches of olives; the fireplace itself, in which sticks of incense are slowly burning, filling the room with the gentle haze of spiced smoke—but all of it is within the bounds of the real. From somewhere in another room comes the slightly staticky sound of an Édith Piaf record playing.

Step inside further, though, and there's a feeling of vertigo. The walls and ceiling seem to stretch away impossibly far—as though sinking down to a cavern at the center of the earth, gazing up at the too-too distant stars, vast and claustrophobic all at once—

Then the feeling ends, and the apartment is its original incense-and-velvet self once again.