The Collected Novels of José Saramago (116 page)

Day finally dawned, and the morning light streamed through the chink in the door. On opening her eyes, Mary saw that Jesus was no longer lying on his mat, Where can he have gone, she asked herself. She got up and went to look outside. He was sitting on a bed of straw in the shed, his head buried in his arms. Chilled by the cool morning air and the sight of her son’s solitude, she went up to him, Are you ill, she asked. The boy raised his eyes, No, I’m not ill. Then what’s ailing you. It’s these dreams I keep having. Dreams, you say. No, the same dream for the last two nights. Did you dream of your father on the cross. No, I already told you, I dream about my father but don’t see him. You told me you weren’t dreaming about him. That’s because I don’t see him, but he is in my dreams. And what is this dream that never stops tormenting you. Jesus did not reply immediately, he looked at his mother helplessly, and Mary felt as if a finger had touched her heart, here was her son looking like a little boy, with the wan expression of one who had not slept, but the first signs of a beard, which invited affectionate teasing, this was her firstborn, on whom she would rely for the rest of her life. Tell me everything, she pleaded, and Jesus finally spoke, I dream that I’m in a village that isn’t Nazareth and that you are with me, but it’s not you, because the woman who’s my mother in the dream looks very different, and there
are other boys my age, difficult to say how many, with women who could be their mothers, someone has assembled us in a square and we’re waiting for soldiers who are coming to kill us, we can hear them on the road, they’re nearer, but we can’t see them, and I’m still not frightened, I know it’s only a dream, then suddenly I feel sure Father is coming with the soldiers, I turn to you for protection, though you may not really be my mother, but you’re no longer there, all the mothers have gone, leaving only us children, no longer boys but tiny babies, I’m lying on the ground and start to cry, and all the others are crying too, but I’m the only one whose father is accompanying the soldiers, we look at the opening into the square where we know they will enter, but there’s no sign of them, we wait but nothing happens, though their footsteps are getting closer, they’re here, no, not yet, then I see myself as I am now, trapped inside the infant, I struggle to get out, it’s as if my hands and feet are tied, I call to you, but you’re not there, I call to my father, who’s coming to kill me, and that’s when I woke up, both last night and the night before. As he spoke, Mary shuddered with horror, lowered her eyes in anguish, her greatest fear had been confirmed, somehow, inexplicably, Jesus had dreamed his father’s dream, although it was slightly different. She heard her son ask, What was the dream father used to have every night. It was just a nightmare like any other. But what was it about. I don’t know, your father never told me. Come now, Mother, don’t hide the truth from your own son. It’s best forgotten, not good for you to know. How do you know what’s good or bad for me. Show some respect for your mother. Of course I respect you, but why hide things that concern me. Don’t make me say any more. One day I asked Father why he was haunted by that dream, and he told me that I had no right to ask and that he had nothing to tell me. Well, then, why not accept your father’s words. I did accept them while he was alive, but now I am a man, I’ve inherited his tunic, a pair of sandals, and a dream, and with these I can go out into the world, but I must know more about the dream. Perhaps it won’t come back. Staring into his mother’s eyes, Jesus told her, I will not insist on knowing so long as the dream does not come back, but if it does, swear to me you’ll tell me everything. I swear it, replied Mary, yielding to her son’s insistence and authority. From her full heart a silent plea went up to God, a prayer without words, which might have sounded as follows, O Lord, send this dream to haunt my nights until the day I die, but I beseech You, spare my son, spare my son. Jesus warned her, Don’t forget your promise. I won’t forget, Mary assured him, repeating to herself, Spare my son, O Lord, spare my son.

But he was not spared. Night came, a black cock crowed at dawn, the dream returned, the head of the first horse appeared around the corner. Mary heard her son moan but did not go to comfort him. Shaking with fear and covered with sweat, Jesus knew that his mother was lying there awake and listening. What will she tell me, he wondered, while Mary for her part thought, What will I say to him, and she tried desperately to think how not to tell him everything. In the morning she was readying her sons for the synagogue when Jesus said, I’ll come with you, then we can talk in the desert. Mary was so nervous, she kept dropping things as she tried to prepare some food, but the wine of affliction has been poured and now must be drunk. Once the younger children were taken to school, Mary and Jesus left the village, and in the desert they sat beneath an olive tree where no one except God, should He chance to be around, could possibly overhear their conversation. For stones, as we know, cannot speak, even if we strike them one against the other, and as for the earth below, that is where all words turn to silence. Jesus said, Now you must keep your promise, and Mary told him outright, Your father dreamt he was a soldier marching with other soldiers
on their way to kill you. To kill me. Yes, to kill you. But that’s my dream. I know, she told him, with a sigh of relief, It is easier than I imagined, she thought before saying aloud, Now that you know, let’s go home, dreams are like clouds, they come and go, you only inherited this dream because you were so fond of your father, he didn’t want to kill you, nor could he ever have done such a thing, even if the Lord Himself ordered him to do so, an angel would have stayed his hand, as happened to Abraham when he was about to sacrifice his son Isaac. Don’t speak of things you know nothing of, said Jesus bluntly, and Mary realized that the bitter wine would have to be drunk to the dregs. What I do know, my son, is that the Lord’s will must be done, whatever that will may be, and if He ordains one thing now and something quite different later, there’s nothing we can do. As she finished speaking, Mary folded her hands in her lap and sat waiting. Jesus asked her, Will you answer all my questions. Of course, she said. When did Father start having this dream. Many years ago. How many years. From the day you were born. Did he have the dream every night. Yes, I believe he did, after a while he didn’t bother calling me, people get used to nightmares. Tell me, Mother, was I born in Bethlehem of Judaea. That’s right. What happened when I was born that my father should dream he was going to kill me. It didn’t happen when you were born. But you just said so. The dream started some weeks later. Later than what. Herod ordered that all infants under the age of three should be slaughtered, why, I wish I knew. Did Father know. If he did, he never told me. So how did Herod’s soldiers miss me. We were living in a cave on the outskirts of the village. You mean the soldiers didn’t kill me because they couldn’t find me. Yes. Was Father a soldier. Never. What did he do, then. He worked on the site of the Temple. I don’t understand. I’m trying to answer your questions. But if the soldiers didn’t find me because we lived outside the village, and if Father wasn’t a soldier and therefore not guilty, and if he had no idea why Herod wanted the infants killed. That’s right, your father couldn’t understand why Herod ordered the deaths of those children. Then. There’s nothing more to tell, and unless you have more questions to ask, I’ve told you all I know. You’re hiding something from me. Perhaps it’s that you are blind.

Jesus said nothing more, felt his authority evaporate like moisture in the soil, and sensed the presence of an unworthy thought in his mind, still wavering but monstrous from the moment of its birth. He saw a flock of sheep crossing the slopes of the opposite hill, and both the shepherd and the sheep were the color of earth, like earth moving over earth. Surprise crept into Mary’s tense face, that tall shepherd, that manner of walking, so many years later and just at this moment, was it an omen, but then she stared hard and felt less certain, for now the shepherd looked like any other shepherd from Nazareth as he led his tiny flock to pasture, the animals as halting as their owner. The thought that came to Jesus, that struggled to be spoken, until finally he blurted it, was, Father knew those children were going to be slaughtered. It was not a question, so there was no need for Mary to answer. How did he know, and this time it was a question. Your father was working on the Temple site in Jerusalem when he overheard some soldiers discussing what they’d been ordered to do. And then. He ran to save you. And then. He decided there was no need for us to flee so long as we didn’t leave the cave. And then. That was all, the soldiers carried out their orders and left. And then. Then we returned to Nazareth. And when did the dream start. The first time was in the cave. Beside himself with grief, Jesus covered his face and cried out, Father murdered the children of Bethlehem. What are you saying, my son, they were murdered by Herod’s soldiers. No, Father was to blame, Joseph son of Eli was to blame, because he knew those children were to be killed and
did nothing to warn their parents. Once these words were spoken, all hope of consolation was lost forever. Jesus threw himself to the ground and wept. Those children were innocent, innocent, he said bitterly, incredible that a simple boy of thirteen should react so strongly when one thinks how selfish children can be at that age and how indifferent most people are to the misfortunes of others. But people are not all alike, there are exceptions for better and for worse, and this is clearly one of the best, a young boy weeping his heart out because his father did wrong so many years ago, but he could also be weeping on his own account if, as it would appear, he loved this father who was guilty. Mary put out her hand to comfort him, but Jesus drew away, Don’t touch me, I am wounded. Jesus, my son. Don’t call me your son, you are also guilty. Such are the hasty judgments of adolescence, because Mary was as innocent as the slaughtered infants, it is the men, as every woman knows, who make the decisions, my husband came and said, We’re leaving, then changed his mind and without going into details told me, We’re not leaving after all, and I even had to ask him, What is that screaming I hear outside. Mary made no attempt to defend herself. It would have been easy to prove her innocence, but she thought of her crucified husband, he too had been killed though innocent, and she realized to her shame and sorrow that she loved him even more now than when he was alive, so she said nothing, for one person’s guilt can be assumed by another. She simply said, Let’s go home, we have nothing more to discuss here, and her son replied, You go, leave me by myself. There were no tracks of shepherd or sheep to be seen, the desert was truly deserted, and even the few scattered houses on the slope below looked like slabs of stone at an abandoned building site, gradually sinking into the ground. When Mary disappeared from sight into the gray depths of the valley, Jesus fell to his knees and called out, his entire body burning as if he were sweating blood, Father, Father, why have You forsaken me, because that was how the poor boy felt, forsaken, lost in the infinite solitude of another wilderness, without father, mother, brothers, or sisters, and already following a path of death. Concealed by his sheep, the shepherd sat watching him from afar.

T
WO DAYS LATER
, J
ESUS LEFT HOME
. D
URING THIS TIME HE
said very little. Unable to sleep, he spent the nights awake. He could picture the awful massacre, the soldiers entering the houses and searching for cradles, their swords striking, stabbing the tender little bodies, mothers in despair, fathers roaring like chained bulls, and he also had a vision of himself inside a cave he had never seen before. At such moments, as if great waves were slowly engulfing him, he wished he were dead or at least no longer alive. One question that he had not asked his mother bothered him, How many children lost their lives. In his mind’s eye they were piled high on top of one another, like beheaded lambs thrown into a heap and about to be cremated in a huge bonfire, and when reduced to ashes, they would go up to heaven in smoke. But since he had not asked this when his mother made her revelation, he felt he could not go to her now and say, By the way, Mother, I forgot to ask you the other day how many of those infants in Bethlehem passed on to a better life, to which she would reply, Ah, my son, try to put it out of your mind, there could not have been more
than thirty, and if they died, it was the will of the Lord, for He could have prevented the massacre had He so desired. But Jesus could not stop wondering, How many. He would look at his brothers and ask himself, How many. How many bodies, he wanted to know, did it take to tip the scales against his own salvation. On the morning of the second day, he said to his mother, I can find no rest or peace of mind in this house, you stay here with my brothers, for I am going away. Mary raised her hands to heaven, horrified and close to tears, What are you saying, my eldest son, ready to abandon your widowed mother, whoever heard of such a thing, what is the world coming to, how can you think of leaving your home and family, what will become of us without you. James is only one year younger than me, he’ll take my place and provide for all of you, as I did after your husband died. My husband was your father. I don’t want to talk about him, I have nothing more to say, give me your blessing for the journey, but with or without it I am off. And where are you going, my son. I’m not sure, perhaps Jerusalem, perhaps Bethlehem, to see the land where I was born. But no one knows you there. Probably just as well, but tell me, Mother, what do you think would happen if anyone recognized me. Hush, your brothers might hear you. One day they too will have to know the truth. But have you thought of the risk, traveling at a time like this, with Roman soldiers on all the roads searching for the rebels of Judas the Galilean. The Romans are no worse than the soldiers who served under the late Herod, and they’re not likely to kill me with their swords or nail me to a cross, after all, I’ve done nothing wrong, I’m innocent. So was your father and look what happened to him. Your husband may have been wrongfully crucified, but his life was not innocent. Jesus, my son, the devil’s taken possession of your tongue. How do you know it isn’t God. Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain. Who can tell when the name of God is taken in vain, neither you nor I, God alone can tell, and I doubt whether we’ll ever understand His reasons. My son, where on earth did you pick up such ideas at your age. Who knows, perhaps men are born carrying the truth inside them, but do not speak it because they’re not completely sure it is the truth. You’ve decided, then, to leave us. Yes. Will you come back. I don’t know. If that dream is troubling you, by all means go to Bethlehem, and go to the Temple in Jerusalem and consult the teachers, they will advise you and put your mind at rest, then you can come back to your mother and brothers, who need you. I can’t promise to return. But how will you survive, your poor father didn’t live long enough to teach you everything he knew. Don’t worry, I’ll work in the fields or tend sheep or persuade some fishermen to take me out to sea with them. Wouldn’t you prefer to be a shepherd. Why. I don’t know, a feeling, that’s all. We’ll see what turns up, and now, Mother, I must be on my way. But you can’t go like this, let me get you some food for the journey, we haven’t much money, but take some, and take your father’s pack, which fortunately he left behind. I’ll take the food but not the pack. Your father didn’t have leprosy. I cannot. One day you’ll weep for your father and be sorry you didn’t take it. I’ve already wept for him. You’ll weep even more, and you won’t be asking then what sins he committed. Jesus made no attempt to reply to these words. The older children, unaware of the conversation between him and their mother, gathered around Jesus and asked, Are you really going away, and James said, I wish I were going with you, for the boy dreamed of adventure, travel, of doing something challenging and different. You must stay here, Jesus told him, someone has to look after our widowed mother, the word widowed slipped out involuntarily and he bit his lip to suppress it, but what he couldn’t suppress were his tears, because the vivid memory of his father suddenly caught him like a ray of dazzling light.