The High Mountains of Portugal (16 page)

He and she are devoted to Agatha Christie. They have read all her books, starting with the very first,
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
. Thanks to the good works of the Círculo Português de Mistério, they receive her every new murder mystery the moment it is translated, and translation is prompt because Portuguese readers are eager. Husband and wife know better than to bother the other when one of them is absorbed in the latest arrival. Once they've both finished it, they go over the case together, discussing the clues they should have caught, and the avenues to the solution they ran down only to find they were dead ends. Agatha Christie's star detective is Hercule Poirot, a vain, odd-looking little Belgian man. But Poirot, inside his egg-shaped head, has the quickest, most observant mind. His “grey cells”—as he calls his brain—work with order and method, and these cells perceive what no one else does.

“
Death on the Nile
was such a marvel of ingenuity! Her next book must be due soon,” he says.

“It must.”

“And what solution did you find in Agatha Christie?”

“Let me first explain the path I have taken,” she replies. “This path twists and turns, so you must listen carefully. Let us start with the miracles of Jesus.”

The miracles of Jesus. One of her favourite topics. He glances at the clock next to his microscope. The night is going to be long.

“Is something the matter with your microscope?” his wife asks.

“Not at all.”

“Peering through it won't help you understand the miracles of Jesus.”

“That is true.”

“And staring at the clock won't save you from your future.”

“True again. Are you thirsty? Can I offer you water before we start?”

“Water from
that
glass?” She peers critically at the filthy glass on his desk.

“I propose to clean it.”

“That would be a good idea. I'm fine for the moment, though. But how appropriate that you should mention water—we shall come back to water. Now, pay attention. The miracles of Jesus—so many of them, are there not? And yet, if we look closely, we can see that they fall into two categories. Into one category fall those miracles that
benefit the human body
. There are many of these. Jesus makes the blind see, the deaf hear, the dumb speak, the lame walk. He cures fevers, treats epilepsy, exorcizes psychological maladies. He rids lepers of their disease. A woman suffering from haemorrhages for twelve years touches his cloak and her bleeding stops. And of course he raises the dead—Jairus's daughter and the widow of Nain's only son, both freshly dead, but also Lazarus, who has been dead for four days and whose body stinks of death. We might call these the
medical
miracles of Jesus, and they represent the overwhelming majority of his miraculous work.”

Eusebio remembers the autopsy he performed earlier today, speaking of bodies that stink of death. The mushy, puffy body of a floater is an abhorrence to the eyes and to the nose, even when these are trained.

“But there are other miracles that benefit the human body besides the medical miracles,” his wife continues. “Jesus makes the nets of fishermen bulge with catch. He multiplies fish and loaves of bread to feed thousands. At Cana he turns water into wine. In alleviating hunger and quenching thirst, Jesus again benefits the human body. So too when he stills a storm that is swamping the boat his disciples are travelling in and rescues them from drowning. And the same when he gets Peter to pay the temple tax with the coin from the fish's mouth; in doing that, he saves Peter from the beating he would have endured had he been arrested.”

Maria has benefitted his body, Eusebio muses, as he has hers. To love and then to have a fun time of it—is there any greater joy? They were like birds in springtime. Their carnal relations settled over the years, but the satisfaction has remained—the comfort of a sturdy, warm nest. Renewed love for Maria flames within him. When they met, she never told him that her name was Legion, that teeming within her were all the prophets and apostles of the Bible, besides a good number of the Church Fathers. When she was giving birth to their children—with each one the ordeal began with something like a plate breaking inside her, she said—even then, as he sat in the waiting room listening to her panting and groaning and shrieking, she discoursed on religion. The doctor and the nurses came out with thoughtful expressions. He had to remind them to tell him about the new baby. Even as she suffered and they worked, she caused them to think. How did he end up with a wife who was both beautiful and profound? Did he deserve such luck? He smiles and winks at his wife.

“Eusebio, stop it. Time is short,” she whispers. “Now, why does Jesus benefit the human body? Of course he does his miracle work to impress those around him—and they
are
impressed. They're amazed. But to show that he is the Messiah, why does Jesus cure infirmities and feed hungry stomachs? After all, he could also soar like a bird, as the devil asked him to do, or, as he himself mentioned, he could go about casting mountains into seas. These too would be miracles worthy of a Messiah. Why
body
miracles?”

Eusebio remains hushed. He's tired. Worse, he's hungry. He remembers the bag at his wife's feet. Perhaps he should wash the glass in the small sink in his office and, when returning to his desk, try to glimpse inside the bag. She usually brings him something to eat when she visits.

His wife answers her question. “Jesus performs these miracles because they bring relief where we want it most. We all suffer in our bodies and die. It is our fate—as you well know, my dear, spending your days cutting up human carrion. In curing and feeding us, Jesus meets us at our weakest. He eases us of our heavy burden of mortality. And that impresses us more deeply than any other display of mighty power, be it flying in the air or throwing mountains into seas.

“Now to the
second
category of the miracles of Jesus, the category of the
miracle of interpretation.
This category contains only a single miracle. Do you know what that miracle is?”

“Tell me,” Eusebio says softly.

“It is when Jesus walks on the water. There is no other miracle like it. Jesus tells his disciples to get into the boat and travel on ahead. They set out, while Jesus goes onto the mountain to pray. The day ends. The disciples strain at their oars against a strong wind—but there is no storm; their bodies are not in any danger. After a long night of toil, as the new day is starting, they see Jesus coming towards their boat, walking on the sea. They are terrified. Jesus reassures them: ‘It is I; do not be afraid.' Matthew, in his version of the story, has Peter ask the Lord if he can join him. ‘Come,' says Jesus. Peter gets out of the boat and walks on the water towards Jesus, but then the wind frightens him and he begins to sink. Jesus reaches out with his hand and brings Peter back to the boat. The adverse wind ceases.

“Why would Jesus walk on water? Did he do it to save a drowning soul, to benefit a human body? No—Peter got into trouble in the water
after
Jesus began walking on it. Was there some other impetus? Jesus started his miraculous walk very early in the morning from remote shores, alone, and at sea he was seen by no one but his disciples, who were out of sight of land. In other words, there was no
social
necessity to the miracle. Walking on water did no one any particular good, raised no specific hopes. It was neither asked for, nor expected, nor even
needed.
Why such an anomalous miracle in documents as spare and winnowed as the Gospels? And this unique miracle can't be hidden away. It appears in two of the synoptic Gospels—Matthew and Mark—
and
in John, one of the very few crossover miracles. What does it mean, Eusebio,
what does it mean?
In a moment of clarity, I saw.”

He perks up. It always goes like this. She talks and talks and talks, and then suddenly he is hooked, like a fish in a biblical story. What did she see?

“I saw that the miracle of Jesus walking on the water means little when taken at face value. However, when it is taken as saying one thing but implying another—in other words, as
allegory
—then the miracle opens up. Swimming is a modern invention—people at the time of Jesus could not swim. If they fell into deep water, they sank and they drowned—that is the literal truth. But if we think of water as the experience of life, it is also the religious truth. Men and women are weak, and in their weakness they sink. Jesus does not sink. A man drowning in water naturally looks up. What does he see? While he is being engulfed by choking darkness, he sees above him the clear light and pure air of salvation. He sees Jesus, who stands above those struggling in weakness, offering them redemption. This explains Peter's hapless performance on the water: He is only human, and therefore he begins to sink. Read so, as an allegory about our weakness and Jesus' purity and the salvation that he offers, the miracle takes on a whole new meaning.

“Now, I asked myself, why would this miracle demand an allegorical reading but not the others? Would the miracles that benefit the human body gain from a similar reading? I had never thought of that. Poor stupid woman that I am, I had always taken the body miracles of Jesus as factual truth. In my mind Jesus really did cure leprosy, blindness, and other ailments and infirmities, and he really did feed the thousands. But is the Lord to be reduced to an itinerant doctor and a peddler of buns? I don't think so. The miracles that benefit the human body must also mean something greater.”

“What?” Eusebio asks pliantly.

“Well, what else could they be but symbols of the Everlasting Kingdom? Each miraculous cure of Jesus is a glimpse of the ultimate place that is ours,
if we have faith.
Have faith, and you will be cured of your mortality, you will be fed forever. Do you understand the import of what I am saying?” Eusebio ventures a nod. Maria's voice is warm, buttery, comforting. If only he could eat it. He peeks at the clock. “The miracle of Jesus walking on the water is a guide to how we must read Scripture as a whole. The Gospels are lesser, their message weakened, if we read them as though they are reports by four journalists. But if we understand them as written in a language of metaphors and symbols, then they open up with moral depth and truth. That is the language used by Jesus himself, is it not? How did he teach the people?”

“It says in the Gospels: ‘He did not speak to them except in parables.' ”

“That's right. The parable of the lost sheep, of the mustard seed, of the fig tree, of the yeast, of the sower, of the prodigal son, and so on. So many parables.”

Mutton with mustard sauce, with stewed figs and a glass of wine—so many
edible
parables, thinks Eusebio.

“A parable is an allegory in the form of a simple story. It is a suitcase that we must open and unpack to see its contents. And the single key that unlocks these suitcases, that opens them wide, is allegory.

“Finally, only one miracle stands true and literal, the pillar of our faith: his resurrection. Once that is clear, we can start making sense of all the stories told by Jesus and told about him. That is Christianity at heart: a single miracle surrounded and sustained by stories, like an island surrounded by the sea.”

Eusebio coughs a little. “You haven't been sharing these insights with Father Cecilio, have you?”

Father Cecilio is their local priest—and the subject of much eye-rolling on Maria's part. In her presence the poor man always looks like the chicken in the coop that hasn't laid enough eggs.

“What, and have us excommunicated? That dimwit is the very hammer of literalism that insults my faith. He's as dumb as an ox.”

“But he means well,” Eusebio suggests soothingly.

“As does an ox.”

“That's all very interesting, what you've been saying.”

“I'm not finished. I was searching, if you remember? There's a problem.”

“Yes, and you found a solution.”

“Oh, how my heart beats! I'll drink now, if you sanitize that glass.”

Maria bends down and produces from the bag a bottle of red wine, which she places on the desk. Eusebio cracks a wide smile. “Maria, bless you!” He hurries to open the bottle. While it breathes, he washes the glass thoroughly.

“I don't have another glass,” he says. “You drink from it and I'll drink from the bottle.”

“That's unseemly. We'll share the glass.”

“All right.” He tips some of the elixir into the glass. It glows like a firefly. He licks his lips at the prospect of pouring it down his throat, but offers the glass to his wife. “You first, my angel.”

Maria takes a small, thoughtful sip. She closes her eyes as she considers its distilled effect on her. She purrs and opens her eyes. “It's a good one.”

She passes him the glass. He takes a larger sip, grunts with pleasure, empties the glass in one go. “Oh! Indeed. Just a little more.” He half-fills the glass, perhaps a little more than half.

Maria has another sip. “That'll be enough for me,” she says. “Happy New Year.”

“Sorry?”

“What's the point of looking at a clock if you don't notice the time? Look at the two hands. It's midnight. We're now in 1939.”

“You're right. Happy New Year to you, my angel. May this year be a good one.”

He finishes off the glass and sits down again. Now it is his turn to glow like a firefly, and his mind flits about inconsequentially as his wife starts up again.

“Why would Jesus speak in parables? Why would he both tell stories and let himself be presented through stories?
Why would Truth use the tools of fiction?
Stories full of metaphors are by writers who play the language like a mandolin for our entertainment, novelists, poets, playwrights, and other crafters of
inventions
. Meanwhile, isn't it extraordinary that there are no significant
historical
accounts of Jesus of Nazareth? A minor government official from Lisbon comes to Bragança, a tight little man with nothing to say, and it's all over the papers, which end up in archives for the rest of time. Or you, your work, Eusebio. Someone does that ordinary thing of dying—and you write a report, you immortalize that ordinary mortal. Meanwhile, the Son of God comes to town, he travels around, he meets anyone and everyone, he impresses mightily, he is murdered—
and no one writes about it?
Of this great divine comet hitting the earth, the only impact is
a swirl of oral tales
?