The Last Temptation of Christ (14 page)

Magdalene thrust her sharp nails toward the unexpected guest, maniacally, as though she wanted to tear open his cheeks.

“What calamity?” she shrieked. “I’m getting along fine, just fine; I don’t need your holiness’s compassion! I fight my own fight, all alone, and I ask no help from men, or from gods or devils either. I’m fighting to save myself, and save myself I will.”

“Save yourself from what, from whom?”

“Not, as you think, from the mud, God bless it! That’s where all my hopes are—in the mud. It’s my road of salvation.”

“The mud?”

“Yes, the mud: shame, filth, this bed, this body of mine, covered as it is with bites and smeared with the whole world’s drivel, sweat and slime! Don’t cast your covetous sheep’s eye upon me like that. Keep your distance, coward! I don’t want you here. You disgust me; don’t touch me! In order to forget one man, in order to save myself, I’ve surrendered my body to all men!”

The son of Mary lowered his head. “It’s my fault,” he repeated in a strangulated voice, and he clutched the strap which was tied around him, still splashed with blood. “Forgive me, my sister. It’s my fault, but I shall pay off my debt.”

Savage laughter again tore the woman’s throat. “You bleat away piteously: ‘It’s my fault ... it’s my fault, my sister ... I shall save you ...’ but oh no, you don’t lift your head like a man to confess the truth. You crave my body, and instead of saying so, which you wouldn’t dare, you start blaming my soul and saying you want to save it. What soul, daydreamer? A woman’s soul is her flesh. You know it, you know it; but you don’t have the courage to take this soul in your arms like a man and kiss it—kiss it and save it! I pity you and detest you!”

“You’re possessed with seven devils, whore!” cried the youth now, who had turned fiery red with shame. “Seven devils. Yes, your unlucky father is right.”

Magdalene shuddered. She angrily gathered her hair into a coil and tied it up with a ribbon of red silk. For a considerable time she did not speak, but finally her lips moved. “Not seven devils, son of Mary, not seven devils—seven wounds. You must learn that a woman is a wounded doe. She has no other joy, poor thing, except to lick her wounds.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with one sweep of her palm, then exploded in a frenzy. “Why did you come here? What do you want from me, standing over my bed like that? Go away!”

The young man came one step closer. “Mary, try to remember back to when we were still small children ...”

“I don’t remember! What kind of a man are you? Still driveling? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You never had the courage to stand up by yourself like a man and not rely on anyone. If you’re not hanging on to your mother’s apron strings, you’re hanging on to mine, or God’s. You can’t stand by yourself, because you’re scared. You don’t dare look deep into your own soul—or into your body for that matter—because you’re scared. And now you’re off to the desert to hide, to stick your snout into the sand—because you’re scared! Scared, scared! Poor fellow, I detest you, I pity you, and whenever I bring you to mind, my heart cracks in two.”

Unable to continue, she began to weep. Although she wiped her eyes rapidly, the tears, together with her make-up, ran more and more furiously and bemired the sheets.

The young man felt a spasm in his heart. Oh, if he could only lose his fear of God, could only clasp her in his arms, wipe away her tears, caress her hair and gladden her heart; then take her with him and leave!

If he was a man, truly, that was what he had to do to save her. What did she care about fasting, prayer and monasteries? No, these were not the way—how could they possibly save a woman? To take her from this bed, to leave, to open a workshop in a distant village, for the two of them to live like man and wife, have children, suffer and rejoice like human beings: that was the woman’s way of salvation and the way in which the man could be saved with her—the only way!

Night was falling now. Far in the distance thunder rumbled; a flash of lightning entered through a crack in the door and ignited Mary’s now-livid face, only to snuff it out again. New thunderclaps were heard, closer than before. The choking sky had come down and nearly touched the earth.

A great weariness suddenly overcame the youth. His knees sagged; he sat down cross-legged on the ground. The nauseating stench of musk, sweat and he-goats hit his nostrils. He stroked his throat with his palm so that he would not throw up.

He heard Mary’s voice in the darkness. “Turn your head the other way. I want to get up to light the lamp, and I’m naked.”

“I’m going to leave,” said the youth softly. Summoning up all his strength, he rose.

But Mary pretended that she had not heard. “Take a look in the yard, and if anyone’s still there, tell him to go away.”

The youth opened the door and put out his head. The air had become dark. Large scattered drops were being slung at the pomegranate leaves; the sky hung over the earth, ready to fall. The old crone had taken her lighted grate and burrowed into the yard, where she stood glued to the trunk of the male cypress. The heavy drops began to come down harder and harder.

“No one,” said the youth, quickly closing the door. The squall had now lashed out in full force.

Magdalene had jumped out of bed in the meantime and covered herself with a warm woolen shawl embroidered with lions and deer, presented to her that morning by a loving Ethiopian. Her shoulders and loins shuddered with delight at the sweet warmth of the garment. Stretching up on tiptoe, she unhooked the lamp from the wall.

“No one,” the youth repeated, with gladness in his voice.

“The old lady?”

“Under the cypress. It’s a real squall.”

Mary flew into the yard, discovered the lighted grate in the darkness, and approached.

“Grandmother Noemi,” she said, pointing toward the bolt of the street door, “take your grate and your crabs and go home. I’ll lock up. No one else tonight!”

“You’ve got your lover inside, eh?” hissed the old woman, vexed at losing her night customers.

“Yes,” Magdalene answered, “he’s inside. Go!”

Grumbling, the old lady got up and gathered together her utensils.

“He’s a real beauty, your ragamuffin,” she mumbled softly with her toothless gums, but Mary, who was in a hurry, shoved her outside and barred the door. The heavens had opened; the whole sky was pouring into her yard. She uttered a shrill cry of joy, just as she used to do as a child every time she saw the first autumn rain. When she got inside, her shawl was drenched.

The youth stood in the middle of the room, unable to make up his mind whether to stay or go. Which was God’s will? It was pleasant here, and warm; he had even become accustomed to the nauseating odor. Outside: wind, rain and cold. He knew no one in Magdala, and Capernaum was far away. Should he go or stay? His soul swung back and forth like a ringing bell.

“It’s coming down in buckets, Jesus. I bet you haven’t eaten a thing today. Help me light the fire and we’ll cook.” Her voice was tender and attentive, like a mother’s.

“I’m going to leave,” said the youth, turning toward the door.

“Sit down and we’ll eat together!” Magdalene ordered. “Does the thought disgust you? Are you afraid you’ll pollute yourself by eating with a whore?”

The youth took logs and kindling from the corner, bent down by the stone jamb of the fireplace, in front of the two andirons, and lighted the fire.

Magdalene’s heart had grown calm. Smiling now, she filled a pot with water and placed it on the fire. From a sack hanging on the wall she took two heaping handfuls of de-eyed broad beans and threw them in. Then she knelt in front of the lighted fire and listened. Outside, the floodgates of heaven had opened up.

“Jesus,” she said quietly, “you asked me if I remembered when we were children and played together. ...”

But the young man, kneeling like Magdalene in front of the hearth, simply stared at the fire, his mind far away. He felt as though he had already reached the monastery in the desert, as though he had put on the white robe and begun to promenade in the solitude; and his heart was a small, happy goldfish swimming in the deep, tranquil waters of God. Outside, the world was falling apart; within him, peace, love and security.

“Jesus,” the voice next to him repeated, “you asked me if I remembered when we were children and played together. ...”

Magdalene’s face, reflecting the light of the flames, glowed like red-hot iron. But the youth, submerged in the desert, did not hear.

“Jesus,” the woman said again, “you were three and I was one year older. There were three steps leading to the door of our house and I used to sit on the highest one and watch you struggle for hours, unable to mount the first step. You fell, you got up again, and I did not even lift my little finger to help you. I wanted you to come to me, but not before you suffered greatly. ... Do you remember?”

A devil, one of her seven devils, was goading her on to speak to the man and tempt him.

“Hours later you would finally manage to climb up the first step. Then you struggled to mount the second, then the third—where I sat, motionless, waiting for you. And then—”

The youth gave a start and held out his hand. “Be still,” he shouted; “don’t go further!”

But the woman’s face gleamed and flickered; the flames licked her eyebrows, lips, chin and uncovered throat. She took a handful of laurel leaves, threw them in the fire, and sighed.

“Then you took me by the hand—yes, you took me by the hand, Jesus—and we went inside and lay down on the pebbles of the yard. We glued the soles of our feet together, felt the warmth of our bodies mix, rise from our feet to our thighs, from our thighs to our loins. Then we closed our eyes and—”

“Quiet!” the youth shouted again. He lifted his hand in order to cover her mouth, but restrained himself—he was afraid to touch her lips.

The woman sighed now and continued, lowering her voice to a murmur. “Never in my whole life have I felt such sweetness.” She paused, and then: “it is that sweetness, Jesus, which I’ve been seeking ever since from man to man; but I have not found it.”

The youth buried his face between his knees. “Adonai,” he murmured, “Adonai, help!”

The warm, peaceful chamber was silent except for the bubbling of the fragrant pot of beans, and the hissing of the fire as it devoured the wood. Outside, the male waters poured out of the skies with a roar and the earth opened its thighs and giggled.

“Jesus, what are you thinking about?” asked Magdalene, not daring now to face the man.

“I’m thinking about God,” he answered in a strangulated voice, “about God, Adonai ...”

As he spoke, he repented of having pronounced the sacred name in a house such as this.

Magdalene jumped up and paced back and forth between the fire and the door. Her mind had grown furious.

God is the great enemy, she was thinking; yes, God. He never fails to intrude; he is evil, jealous; he won’t let a person be happy. She stopped behind the door and cocked her ear. The heavens were bellowing. A whirlwind had arisen and the pomegranates in the yard knocked against one another and were ready to break.

“The rain has let up a little,” she said.

“I’ll go,” replied the youth, rising.

“Eat first and put some strength into your body. Where can you go at such an hour? It’s pitch-black outside and still raining.”

She took down a round mat from the wall and spread it out on the floor. She removed the casserole from the fire, opened a small cupboard recessed in the wall and took out a toasted barley roll and two earthenware soup plates.

“This is the prostitute’s meal,” she said. “Eat, you essence of piety, eat—if it doesn’t disgust you.”

The hungry youth did not hesitate to put out his hand. The woman tittered.

“Is that the way you eat?” she hissed. “Without saying grace? Hadn’t you better give thanks to God for sending bread, broad beans and whores?”

Jesus’ mouthful stuck in his throat.

“Why do you hate me, Mary?” he said. “Why do you tease me? Look, tonight I am about to break bread with you; we have become friends again. Let bygones be bygones, and forgive me. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Eat, and stop your whining. If the forgiveness is not given, take it! You’re a man.”

She lifted her hand and divided the bread, laughing. “Blessed be the name of Him who sends bread, broad beans and whores to the world—and pious guests!”

They remained kneeling one opposite the other under the light of the lamp, and said nothing more. Both were hungry, both had suffered much anguish on this day, and they ate to replenish their forces.

The rain outside began to subside. The sky had found relief; the earth was filled. There was no sound except the cackling laughter of the rivulets which ran happily down the village’s cobbled streets.

They finished eating. The tiny cupboard also contained a sip of wine, which they drank, and several fully ripe dates for the sweet tooth. For some time, both remained silent and watched the fire, which was about to go out. Their minds rose and fell, danced with the dying flames.

It was cold. The youth got up and put more wood on the fire; Magdalene took another handful of laurel leaves and threw them on top: perfume filled the room. She went to the door and opened it. A wind had arisen; the clouds had already scattered. Two large stars, freshly bathed and immaculate, gleamed brilliantly over her yard.

“Is it still raining?” asked the youth, who stood again in the middle of the room, unable to make up his mind.

But Magdalene did not answer. She unrolled a mat, went to her trunk, took out sheets and thick woolen blankets—gifts from her lovers—and made up a bed in front of the fire.

“You’ll sleep here,” she said. “It’s cold and windy out, and almost midnight. Where can you go? You’ll catch your death of cold. Here’s where you’re going to sleep: next to the fire.”

The youth shuddered. “Here!”

“Are you afraid? Well, rest assured, my innocent dove, I won’t bother you. No, I won’t tempt you, I won’t touch your virginity, my pet—such as it’s worth!”

She put still more wood on the fire and lowered the wick of the lamp. “Pleasant dreams,” she said. “Tomorrow we both have much to do. You’ll set out along the road again, to seek your salvation; I’ll set out along another road, my own, and I too will be seeking salvation. Each his own road, and we shall never meet again. Good night.”