The Last Temptation of Christ (5 page)

“God is angry,” he murmured, “angry ... The blood has begun to flow.”

He raised his eyes and looked: no one. But he smelled the bitter stench of a wild beast in the air. He has come again, he thought with terror; he is all around me and beneath my feet and above my head. ...

Bowing his head, he waited. The air was mute, immobile; the light—apparently naïve and harmless—played on the wall opposite him, and on the cane-lathed ceiling. I won’t open my mouth, he decided within himself. I won’t breathe a word. Perhaps he will take pity on me and leave.

But as he made this decision, his lips parted and he spoke. His voice was full of grievance. “Why do you draw my blood? Why are you angry? How long are you going to pursue me?”

He stopped. Bent over, his mouth open, the hairs of his head standing on end and his eyes full of fear, he listened. ...

At first there was nothing; the air was motionless, silent. But then, suddenly, someone above was speaking to him. He cocked his ear and heard—heard, and shook his head violently, continually, as though saying, No! No! No!

Finally he too opened his mouth. His voice no longer trembled. “I can’t! I’m illiterate, an idler, afraid of everything. I love good food, wine, laughter. I want to marry, to have children. ... Leave me alone!”

He remained still again and listened.

“What do you say? I can’t hear?”

Suddenly he had to put his hands over his ears to soften the savage voice above him. With his whole face squeezed together, holding his breath, he heard now, and answered: “Yes, yes, I’m afraid. ... You want me to stand up and speak, do you? What can I say, how can I say it? I can’t, I tell you! I’m illiterate! ... What did you say? ... The kingdom of heaven? ... I don’t care about the kingdom of heaven. I like the earth. I want to marry, I tell you; I want Magdalene, even if she’s a prostitute. It’s my fault she became one, my fault, and I shall save her. Her! Not the earth, not the kingdom of this world—it’s Magdalene I want to save. That’s enough for me! ... Speak lower, I can’t understand you.

He shaded his eyes with his palm: the soft light which entered through the skylight was dazzling him. He had riveted his eyes upon the ceiling above him, and was waiting. He listened, holding his breath, and the more he heard, the more his face glowed mischievously, contentedly. His thick fresh lips tingled with numbness, and suddenly he burst out laughing.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured, “you understand perfectly. Yes, on purpose; I do it on purpose. I want you to detest me, to go and find someone else; I want to be rid of you!

“Yes, yes, on purpose,” he continued, finding the courage to speak out, “and I shall make crosses all my life, so that the Messiahs you choose can be crucified!”

This said, he unhooked the nail-studded strap from its place on the wall and belted it around him. He looked at the skylight. The sun had at last risen high. The sky above was hard and blue, like steel. He had to hurry. The crucifixion was to take place at noon, under the full fury of the sun.

Kneeling, he placed his shoulder under the cross and clasped it in his arms. He raised one knee, braced himself—it seemed incredibly heavy to him, impossible to lift—and staggered slowly toward the door. Gasping, he took two steps, then a third and reached the door at last, but suddenly his knees gave way, his head swam and he fell face down over the threshold, crushed under the cross.

The small house vibrated. A shrill female cry was heard from within; a door opened, his mother appeared. She was tall, with large eyes and dark, wheat-colored skin. She had already passed the first stage of youth and entered the uneasy honeyed bitterness of autumn. Blue rings encircled her eyes, her mouth was firm like her son’s, but her chin stronger than his and more willful. She wore a violet linen kerchief, and two elongated silver rings, her only jewelry, tinkled on her ears.

As soon as she opened the door the old father became visible behind her. He was seated on his mattress, his upper body unclothed, his flabby skin pale yellow, his eyes glassy and motionless. She had just fed him and he was still laboriously chewing his meal of bread, olives and onions. The curly white hairs of his chest were full of drivel and crumbs. Next to his bed was the celebrated staff which had been predestined to blossom on the day of his engagement. It was dry now and withered.

When the mother entered and saw her son fallen and palpitating under the cross she dug her nails into her cheeks and stared at him without running to lift him up. She had grown weary of having him brought to her unconscious every two minutes in someone’s arms, of seeing him depart to wander through the fields or in deserted places, to remain day and night without food, refuse to work, do nothing but sit for hours with his eyes pinned on the air, a daydreamer and night-walker whose life was bare of accomplishment. It was only when a cross was ordered for a crucifixion that he threw himself body and soul into his work and labored day and night like a madman. He went no longer to the synagogue; he did not want to set foot in Cana again, or to go to any of the festivals. And when the moon was full his mind reeled, and the unfortunate mother heard him rave and shout in a delirium as though he were quarreling with some devil.

How many times had she prostrated herself before her brother-in-law the old rabbi, who was versed in exorcizing devils. The afflicted came to him from the ends of the earth and he cured them. Just the other day she had fallen at his feet and complained: “You heal strangers but you do not want to heal my son.”

The rabbi shook his head. “Mary, your boy isn’t being tormented by a devil; it’s not a devil, it’s God—so what can I do?”

“Is there no cure?” the wretched mother asked.

“It’s God, I tell you. No, there is no cure.”

“Why does he torment him?”

The old exorcist sighed but did not answer.

“Why does he torment him?” the mother asked again.

“Because he loves him,” the old rabbi finally replied.

Mary looked at him, startled. She opened her mouth to question him further, but the rabbi closed her lips.

“Do not ask,” he said to her. “Such is the law of God.” Knitting his brows, he nodded for her to leave.

The malady had lasted for years. Mary, even though she was a mother, had grown weary at last, and now that she saw her son fallen face down over the threshold with the blood oozing from his forehead, she did not budge. She only sighed from the bottom of her heart—sighed, however, not for her son but for her own fate. She had been so unfortunate in her life, unfortunate in her husband, unfortunate in her son. She had been widowed before she married, was a mother without possessing a child; and now she was growing older—the white hairs multiplied every day—and yet she had never known what it was to be young, had never felt the warmth of her husband, the sweetness and pride of being a wife and mother. Her eyes had finally been drained dry. Whatever tears God apportioned her she had already spilled, and she looked at her son and her husband dry-eyed. If she still sometimes wept, it was in the spring when she sat all by herself and gazed out at the green fields and smelled the perfumes which came from the blossoming trees. At these times she cried not for her husband or her son but for her own wasted life.

The young man had risen and was sponging up the blood with the edge of his garment. He turned, saw his mother regarding him severely, and became angry. He knew that look which forgave him nothing, knew those compressed, embittered lips. He could stand it no longer. He too had become weary in this house with the decrepit paralytic, the inconsolable mother and the daily servile admonitions: Eat! Work! Get married! Eat! Work! Get married!

His mother parted her compressed lips. “Jesus,” she said reprovingly, “who were you quarreling with again early this morning?”

The son bit his lips so that an unkind word would not escape them. He opened the door. The sun entered, and also a scorching, dust-laden wind from the desert. Without speaking, he brushed the sweat and blood from his forehead, put his shoulder in place once more, and lifted the cross.

His mother’s hair had poured out down to her shoulder blades. She ran her hands over it, gathered it together under her kerchief, and took a step toward her son. But as soon as she saw him clearly in the light, she quivered with astonishment. How incessantly his face changed! How it flowed—like water! Each day she saw him for the first time, found an unknown light on his forehead, in his eyes and mouth; a smile, sometimes happy, sometimes full of affliction, a gluttonous luster which licked his forehead, chin, neck—and devoured him.

Today, large black flames were blazing in his eyes. Frightened, she wanted for a moment to ask him, Who are you? but she restrained herself. “My boy!” she said with trembling lips. She remained quiet, waiting to see if this grown man was truly her son. Would he turn to look at her, to speak to her? He did not turn. Giving a heave, he adjusted the cross on his back and, walking steadily now, strode out of the house.

His mother leaned against the doorpost and watched him step lightly from cobble to cobble as he mounted the slope. The Lord only knew where he found such strength! It was not a cross on his back but two wings, and they propelled him!

“Lord, my God,” the confused mother whispered, “who is he? Whose son is he? He doesn’t resemble his father; he doesn’t resemble anyone. Every day he changes. He isn’t one person, he’s many. ... Oh, my mind is upside down.”

She remembered one afternoon when she was in the small courtyard next to the well, holding him to her breast. It was summer, and the vine arbor above her was heavy with grapes. While the newborn nursed she fell into a deep sleep, but not before she was able to see—in the space of an instant—a limitless dream. It seemed to her that there was an angel in heaven who held a star dangling from his hand, a star like a lantern, and he advanced and illuminated the earth below. And there was a road in the darkness, with many zigzags, and glowing brightly, like a flash of lightning. It crept toward her and began to extinguish itself at her feet. And while she gazed in fascination and asked herself where this road could have begun and why it ended at the soles of her feet, she raised her eyes—and what did she see: the star had stopped above her head, three horsemen had appeared at the end of the star-illumined road, and three golden crowns sparkled on their heads. They stopped for an instant, looked at the sky, saw the star halt, then spurred their horses and galloped toward her. The mother could now make out their faces clearly. The middle one was like a white rose, a beautiful fair-haired youth with cheeks still covered with fuzz. To his right stood a yellow man with a pointed black beard and slanting eyes. A Negro was at the left. He had curly white hair, golden rings in his ears, and dazzling teeth. But before the mother could sort them out any better or cover her son’s eyes so that he would not be dazzled by the intense light, the three horsemen had arrived, dismounted and knelt before her.

The white prince was the first to advance. The infant had left the breast and was standing erect now on his mother’s knees. The prince took off his crown and laid it humbly at the baby’s feet. Next, the Negro slid forward on his knees, removed a fistful of emeralds and rubies from beneath his shirt and spread them with great tenderness over the tiny head. Lastly, the yellow man held out his hand and placed an armful of long peacock feathers at the child’s feet for him to play with. ... The baby looked at all three of the men and smiled at them, but did not put out his tiny hands to touch the presents.

Suddenly the three kings vanished and a young shepherd appeared, dressed in sheepskins and holding a tureen of warm milk between his hands. As soon as the infant saw the milk he danced upon his mother’s knees, bent his little face down into the tureen and began to drink the milk, insatiably, happily. ...

Leaning against the doorpost, the mother recalled the limitless dream, and sighed. What hopes this only son had given her, what wonders the sorcerers had prophesied for him! Had not the old rabbi himself gazed at him, opened the Scriptures, read the prophets over the tiny head and searched the infant’s chest, eyes, even the soles of his feet, to find a sign? But alas! as time went on her hopes withered and fell. Her son had chosen an evil road, a road which led him further and further from the ways of men.

She secured her kerchief tightly and bolted the door. Then she too began to mount the hill. She was going to see the crucifixion—to make the time go by.

THE MOTHER MARCHED and marched, hurrying to slide in among the crowd and disappear. She heard the screeching of the women in front; behind them were the panting, exasperated men, barefooted, with uncombed hair and unwashed bodies, their daggers thrust deep down under their shirts. The old men followed, and still farther back came the lame, the blind and the maimed. The earth crumbled under the people’s feet, the dust flew up in clouds, the air reeked. Above, the sun had already begun to burn furiously.

An old woman looked around, saw Mary, and cursed. Two neighbors turned away their faces and spit in order to exorcise the ill omen; shuddering, a newly married girl gathered together her skirts lest the mother of the cross-maker touch them as she passed. Mary sighed and enclosed herself securely in her violet kerchief, leaving visible only her reproachful almond-shaped eyes and her closed, bitter mouth. Stumbling over the rocks, she proceeded all alone, hurrying to hide, to disappear within the crowd. Whispers broke forth all around her, but she fortified her heart and proceeded. What has my son descended to, she was thinking, my son, my son, my darling! ... She proceeded, biting the edge of her kerchief to keep herself. from bursting into tears.

She reached the mass of people, left the men behind her, slid in among the women and hid herself. She had placed her palm over her mouth—only her eyes were visible now. None of my neighbors will recognize me, she said to herself, and she grew calm.

Suddenly there was a great din behind her. The men had gathered momentum; they were pushing their way through the mass of women in order to take the lead. The barracks where the Zealot was imprisoned were close by now, and they were impatient to smash down the door and free the captive. Mary stepped to one side, concealed herself in a well-hidden doorway, and looked: long greasy beards, long greasy hair, frothing mouths; and the rabbi, mounted on the shoulders of a giant with a savage expression, waving his arms toward heaven and shouting. Shouting what? Mary cocked her ear, and heard.