The Last Temptation of Christ (23 page)

Splitting with laughter, he shut the door with a thunderous bang.

The son of Mary did not move. Darkness. ... At first he distinguished nothing, but little by little half-transparent whitewashed walls began ever so imperceptibly to appear; a jug glittered in a niche along the wall; and in the corner, riveted upon him, were two sparking eyes.

He groped his way slowly forward, his arms stretched before him. His foot stumbled on the unfolded mat, and he stopped. The two eyes shifted, following him.

“Good evening, friend,” the son of Mary greeted his companion, but no one replied.

Hunched up into a ball, his chin against his knees, his heavy, gasping breaths reverberating throughout the cell, Judas leaned against the wall and watched him. Come ... come ... come ... he murmured within himself, the knife squeezed in his fist against his breast. Come ... come ... come ... he murmured, watching the son of Mary approach. Come ... come ... come ... he murmured, luring him.

His mind went back to the village where he was born, Kerioth, in faraway Idumea. He remembered that this was exactly how his uncle the exorcist had lured the jackals, rabbits and partridge he wanted to kill. He used to lie down on the ground, pin his burning eyes on the game and produce a hiss full of longing, entreaty and command: come ... come ... come ... The animal would immediately grow dizzy and start to creep, head bowed and out of breath, toward the hissing mouth.

Suddenly Judas began to hiss—softly at first and with much tenderness, but all at once the sound grew stronger, became fierce and menacing, and the son of Mary, who had lain down to sleep, jumped up in terror. Who was this next to him? Who was hissing? He felt the odor of an incensed beast in the air, and understood.

“Judas, my brother, is that you?” he asked quietly.

“Crucifier!” growled the other, angrily stamping his heel on the ground.

“Judas, my brother,” the youth repeated, “the crucifier suffers more than the crucified.”

The redbeard lashed out and twirled his whole body around so that it faced the son of Mary.

“I swore to my brothers the Zealots and to the mother of the crucified that I would kill you. Welcome, cross-maker. I hissed, and you came.”

He jumped to his feet, bolted the door and then returned to the corner and rolled himself up again into a ball, with his face turned toward Jesus.

“Did you hear what I said? Don’t start your blubbering. Get ready!”

“I am ready.”

“No shouting now! Quick! I want to get away while it’s still dark.”

“I’m delighted to see you, Judas, my brother. I’m ready. It wasn’t you who hissed; it was God—and I came. His abounding grace arranged everything perfectly. You came just at the right moment, Judas, my brother. Tonight my heart was unburdened, purified: I can present myself now before God. I have grown tired of wrestling with him, grown tired of living. I offer you my neck, Judas—I am ready.”

The blacksmith groaned and knit his brows. He did not like, did not like at all—indeed, it disgusted him to touch a neck which was offered undefended, like a lamb’s. What he wanted was resistance, body-to-body grappling, and the kill to come at the very end as was appropriate for real men, after the blood had become heated: a just reward for the struggle.

The son of Mary waited, his neck stretched forward. But the blacksmith thrust out his huge hand and pushed him away.

“Why don’t you resist?” he growled. “What kind of a man are you? Get up and fight!”

“But I don’t want to, Judas, my brother. Why should I resist? What you want, I want; and surely God wants the same—that is why he put all the pieces together so perfectly. Don’t you see: I departed for this monastery, you departed at the same moment; I arrived and right away my heart was cleansed: I prepared myself to be killed; you took your knife, huddled in this corner and prepared yourself to kill; the door opened, I entered. ... What further signs could you possibly want, Judas, my brother?”

But the blacksmith did not speak. He chewed his mustache in a frenzy; his boiling blood circulated by fits and starts, rose to his head and fired his brain a bright red, rushed down again leaving it pale, then remounted.

“Why do you build crosses?” he thundered finally.

The young man lowered his head. That was his secret—how could he reveal it? How could the blacksmith give credence to the dreams which God sent him, or to the voices he heard when he was all alone, or the talons which nailed themselves into the top of his head and wanted to lift him to heaven? And he resisted and did not want to go—how could Judas understand that? He clutched sin, desperately, as a means of keeping himself on earth.

“I cannot explain it to you, Judas, my brother. Forgive me,” he said contritely, “but I cannot.”

The blacksmith shifted his position so that he could better distinguish the youth’s face in the darkness. He looked at it avidly, then slowly drew back and leaned once again against the wall. What kind of a person is this? he asked himself. I can’t understand. I wonder if it’s the devil who’s guiding him—or God? In either case, damn him! he leads him with a sure hand. He doesn’t resist, and that is the greatest resistance. I can’t slaughter lambs; men, yes, but not lambs.

“You’re a coward, you miserable wretch!” he burst out. “Ooo—why don’t you go to hell! You’re slapped on one cheek and you, what do you do, you right away turn the other. You see a knife, and right away you stick out your neck. A man can’t touch you without feeling disgusted.”

“God can,” the son of Mary murmured tranquilly.

The blacksmith twisted the knife in his fist, unable to make up his mind. For an instant he imagined he saw a halo of light trembling in the darkness over the youth’s bowed head. Terror came over him, and the joints of his hands went slack.

“I may be thickheaded,” he said to the son of Mary, “but speak—I’ll understand. Who are you? What do you want? Where do you come from? What are these tales that surround you on every side: a flowering staff, a lightning flash, the fainting spells which seize you while you walk, the voices which you’re said to hear in the darkness? Tell me, what is your secret?”

“Pity, Judas, my brother.”

“For whom? Whom do you pity? Is it yourself, your own wretchedness and poverty? Or perhaps you feel sorry for Israel? Well, speak! Is it for Israel? That’s what I want you to say, do you hear? That and nothing else. Are you being devoured by Israel’s suffering?”

“By man’s, Judas, my brother.”

“Forget about ‘man.’ The Greeks who slaughtered us for so many years, curse them!—they’re men. The Romans are men, and they’re still slaughtering us and soiling the Temple and our God. Why care about them? It’s Israel you should keep your sights on, and if you feel pity, it should be pity for Israel. All the others can go to the devil!”

“But I feel pity for the jackals, Judas, my brother, and for the sparrows, and the grass.”

“Ha! Ha!” jeered the redbeard. “And for the ants?”

“Yes, for the ants too. Everything is God’s. When I bend over the ant, inside his black, shiny eye I see the face of God.”

“And if you bend over my face, son of the Carpenter?”

“There too, very deep down, I see the face of God.”

“And you don’t fear death?”

“Why should I, Judas, my brother? Death is not a door which closes; it is a door which opens. It opens, and you enter.”

“Enter where?”

“The bosom of God.”

Judas sighed with vexation. This fellow just can’t be caught, he reflected; he can’t be caught, because he has no fear of death. ... Propping his chin on his palm, he looked at Jesus and strained to come to a decision.

“If I don’t kill you,” he said finally, “what do you plan to do?”

“I don’t know. Whatever God decides. ... I should like to get up and speak to men.”

“To tell them what?”

“How do you expect me to know, Judas, my brother? I’ll open my mouth, and God will do the talking.”

The halo of light around the youth’s head grew brighter; his sad, wasted face flashed like lightning and his large, jet-black eyes seduced Judas with their unutterable sweetness. The redbeard felt troubled and lowered his eyes. I wouldn’t kill him, he thought, if I were sure he would go out to speak and rouse the hearts of the Israelites, rouse them to attack the Romans.

“What are you waiting for, Judas, my brother?” asked the youth. “Or perhaps God did not send you to kill me; perhaps he wills something else, something unknown even to you, and you look at me and struggle to divine what it is. I am ready to be killed, and I am also ready to live. Decide.”

“Don’t be in a rush,” the other answered dejectedly. “The night is long; we have plenty of time.”

But after a pause, he shouted frantically, “A fellow can’t even talk to you without getting himself in hot water. I ask you one thing and you answer another: I can’t pin you down. My heart and mind were more certain before I saw you and listened to you than they are now. Leave me alone. Turn your head the other way and go to sleep. I want to be alone so that I can digest all this and see what I’m going to do.”

This said, he turned toward the wall, grumbling.

The son of Mary lay down on his mat and tranquilly crossed his hands.

Whatever God wants, that is what will happen, he reflected, and he closed his eyes with confidence.

An owl emerged from its hole in the rock facing them, saw that God’s whirlwind had passed, flew to and fro silently and then began to hoot tenderly, calling its mate. God has left, it called; we’ve escaped once more, dearest—come! High above, the skylight of the cell had filled with stars. The son of Mary opened his eyes and was happy to see them. They moved slowly, disappeared; others arose. The hours went by.

Judas twisted and turned, still cross-legged on his mat. Now and then he got up, gasping and murmuring, and went as far as the door, only to return again. The son of Mary watched him with half-closed eyes and waited. Whatever God wants, that is what will happen, he thought, and he waited. The hours passed by.

A camel in the stable adjacent to them neighed with fear; she must have seen a wolf or a lion in her sleep. Immense new stars mounted ferociously from the east, ordered like an army.

Suddenly a cock crowed in the still-deep darkness. Judas jumped up. With one stride he was at the door. He opened it violently, closed it behind him. His bare feet could be heard stamping heavily over the flagstones.

And then, the son of Mary turned and saw his faithful fellow voyager. She was in the corner, erect and vigilant in the darkness.

“Forgive me, my sister,” he said to her. “The hour has not yet come.”

THERE WAS a warm, damp wind today which lifted large waves on the lake of Gennesaret. Autumn had already come, and the earth smelled of vine leaves and overripe grapes. Men and women had poured out of Capernaum at dawn. The vintage was in its glory; the bunches of grapes, filled with their must, lay waiting on the ground. The young girls, sparkling like the grapes, had eaten whole clusters and smeared their faces with juice. The young men, panting in the full rage of youth, threw furtive glances at the giggling girls who were vintaging. In every vineyard there were shouts and fits of laughter. The girls grew bold and teased the boys, who became more and more heated and drew closer. The sly devil of the vintage ran to and fro pinching the women and splitting his sides with laughter.

Old Zebedee’s spacious village house was wide open and buzzing. The wine press, on the left side of the yard, was being loaded with the contents of brimful hampers which the young men transported from the vineyards. Four giants, Philip, Jacob, Peter, and Nathanael, the village cobbler, a naïve camel of a man, were washing their hairy shins and preparing to enter the press to tread the grapes. Every pauper in Capernaum was sure to have his tiny vineyard for the year’s supply of wine, and each year he transported his crop to this press, trod the grapes and took back his share of the must. And old stuff-pocket Zebedee filled his own jars and barrels for the year with the commission he took for use of the press. He sat, therefore, on a raised platform with a long stick and a penknife in his hands and by means of notches marked the number of each person’s hampers. But the owners also kept a record in their minds: they did not want to be cheated the day after next at the division of the must. Old Zebedee was predacious—nobody trusted him; everyone had to have eyes in the back of his head.

The window of the inner house which gave onto the yard was open, and stretched on the divan was old Salome, the mistress of the house. She gazed outside and listened to all that went on in the yard; in this way she forgot the pains which tortured her knees and other joints. She must have been exceedingly beautiful in her youth—slim-boned, tall, with olive skin and large eyes: of a good stock. Three villages—Capernaum, Magdala and Bethsaida—had vied for her. Three suitors had set out at the same time and found her old father, the wealthy ship-owner. Each came with a rich train of friends, camels and overflowing hampers. The shrewd old man carefully weighed in his mind the body, soul and fortune of each, and chose Zebedee, who wed her. She had pleased him, but now the exquisite girl had grown old, her beauty, eaten by time, had fallen away, and now and then, during the important festivals, her vigorous, still-juicy husband made the rounds at night and played with the widows.

Today, however, old Salome’s face was aglow. John, her favorite son, had arrived the day before from the holy monastery. He was truly pale and skinny. Prayer and fasting had broken him, but she would keep him near her now and never let him go away again. She would nourish him with food and drink, and he would grow strong; his cheeks would sparkle once more. God is good, she said to herself, and we worship his grace. Yes, he is good—but he must not want to drink the blood of our children. Fasting in moderation, prayer in moderation: that would be fine for both man and God, and they should arrange things in this way—sensibly. She looked anxiously at the door, waiting for John, her baby, to return from the vineyards where he too was helping to bring in the vintage.