The Last Temptation of Christ (67 page)

One of the women leaned her bosom against his knees; the other took his hand and would not let it go. In front of the fire the small Negro had propped his cheek on his knees and was pretending to sleep. But from between his long eyelashes his black eyes watched Jesus and the two women, and a sly, contented smile spread across his face.

Mary, her bosom leaning against Jesus’ knees, was speaking. “I was sitting at the loom, Rabbi, working your Passion—a cross, with thousands and thousands of swallows all around—into a white blanket. I was shuttling the black and red threads and singing a dirge; and you heard me, pitied me and came.”

Martha waited quietly for her sister to finish. Then she commenced. “I know nothing except how to knead bread, wash clothes and say yes. Those are my only graces, Rabbi. I have a premonition that you’ll choose my sister as your wife, but allow me to breathe in the air of married life along with you: allow me to make and air your beds and take charge of all the household needs.”

She stopped, sighed, and then: “The girls of our village sing a song, a very bitter song. They sing it in the springtime, the days when the birds sit on their eggs. Instead of reciting it, let me sing it to you so that you’ll understand, because its bitterness lies in the tune:

Ho, you! beardless stalwarts—

I’m weary of selling, of selling myself

And finding no buyer.

I offer all at a bargain, including myself:

First come, first served!

Whoever gives me a swallow’s egg,

I shall grant him my lips;

Whoever gives me an eagle’s egg,

I shall grant him my breasts;

And whoever gives me a stab,

I shall grant him my heart!

Her eyes filled with tears. Mary entwined her arms around the man’s waist as though she feared he was going to be taken from her.

Martha felt a knife pierce her heart, but she gathered up courage and spoke again. “Rabbi, I want to say just one thing more to you, and then I’ll get up and leave you with Mary. Once there was a robust landowner named Boaz who lived near here, in Bethlehem. It was summer and his slaves had reaped, threshed, winnowed and made stacks on the threshing floor, the wheat on the right, the chaff on the left. He lay down between the two stacks and went to sleep. In the middle of the night a poor woman named Ruth came quietly, in order not to waken him, and sat at his feet. She was a childless widow and had suffered much. The man felt the warmth of her body at his feet. He lowered his hand, searched, found her and raised her to his breast. ... Do you understand, Rabbi?”

“Yes. Speak no more.”

“I’m leaving,” said Martha, and she rose.

The two remained alone. Taking a mat and the blanket which was decorated with the cross and the swallows, they went up to the roof of the house. A merciful cloud covered the sun. They hid under the embroidered blanket so that God would not see them, and began to caress each other. Once, the cover slipped off for a moment and Jesus opened his eyes. He saw the Negro boy sitting on the edge of the roof. He was holding a shepherd’s pipe and piping, his eyes staring far off in the direction of Jerusalem.

The next day the whole village stopped by to admire the new Lazarus. The small Negro ran errands, drew water from the well, milked the ewes, helped Martha to start the fire and then curled up on the doorstep and played his pipe. Loaded with gifts of ears of corn, milk, dates or honey, the villagers came to greet the strange visitor who looked so much like Lazarus. They saw the Negro on the doorstep, teased him and laughed. He laughed too.

The blind village chief entered, put out his hand and examined Jesus’ knees, thighs and shoulders. Then he shook his head and burst out laughing.

“Humph! Are you all blind?” he yelled at the villagers who had filled the yard. “This isn’t Lazarus. His breath doesn’t smell the same, his flesh is kneaded differently, and his bones are held firmly together by plenty of meat. A cleaver couldn’t separate them.”

Jesus sat in the yard, braided together truths and lies, and laughed. “Don’t be afraid, lads, I’m not Lazarus. It’s all over with him. It’s just that my name is Lazarus, Master Lazarus—I’m a carpenter. An angel with green wings led me to this house and I entered.” He looked at the Negro, who had doubled up with laughter.

Time ran on like immortal water, and irrigated the world. The grain matured, the grapes began to glisten, the olives filled with oil, the blossoming pomegranate trees bore fruit. Autumn overtook them, winter arrived, and their son was born. Lying-in after the birth, Mary the weaver admired the newborn with no end of admiration. “My God, how did this miracle issue from my womb? I drank of the immortal water,” she would say with a smile, “I drank of the immortal water: I shall not die!”

It is deep night, and raining. Welcoming heaven into its bowels, the gaping earth turns it into mud. Master Lazarus, stretched out in the deep of night amid half-finished cradles and troughs on the wood shavings of his workshop, listens to the thunder and thinks about his newborn son and about God. He is pleased. It is the first time that God has entered his mind in the form of a child. In the adjoining room he hears him cry and laugh; hears him dance at his mother’s feet. Is God then so close, he thinks, stroking his black beard. Are the rosy soles of his feet so tender, is he so ticklish; does he laugh so easily, this Almighty God, when the fingers of man caress him?

The small Negro yawned. He had pretended to be asleep in the other corner, next to the door. Hearing the mother cuddle the newborn, he smiled with satisfaction. Now in the night, when no one saw him, he had become an angel again and was relaxing, his green wrings spread over the shavings.

“Jesus, are you awake?” he whispered in the darkness.

Jesus pretended not to hear. It pleased him immensely to remain silent and listen to the newborn in the quiet of the night. But he smiled. He had become much endeared to this Negro. All day long the boy ran errands for him and helped him shape the wood. Then in the evening when the day’s work was finished, he sat on the doorstep and piped for him. Listening, Jesus would forget the day’s toil; and when the first star appeared they would all sit down together at the same table to eat, and the Negro would chuckle and joke ceaselessly, teasing poor Martha and embarrassing her on account of her virginity.

“Out in my homeland Ethiopia,” he would say, laughing and eying Martha coquettishly, “we don’t hide our inner longings and fret our hearts out as do you Jews; we discuss our desires honestly, openly, and act on them. If I want to eat a banana—who cares if it’s my own or someone else’s—I eat it. If I want to go for a swim, I go for a swim. If I want to kiss a woman, I kiss her. And our God doesn’t scold us, either. He’s a black and he loves the blacks. He wears golden rings in his ears and he too does whatever he pleases. He is our big brother; we both have the same mother—Night.”

“Does your God die?” Martha asked one evening, to tease him.

“So long as a single Negro is alive, our God will not die!” the Negro answered, stooping to tickle the sole of Martha’s foot.

Each night as soon as the lamp was extinguished the guardian angel unfolded his wings in the darkness and laid himself down next to his companion. They spoke together in whispers so that no one would hear, and the angel gave advice for the following day. Then he became the Negro boy again, crept over the wood shavings to his place and went to sleep.

But tonight he could not sleep. “Jesus, are you awake?” he repeated, raising his voice. When he saw that he received no answer he jumped up, came close to Jesus and gave him a push.

“Ho, Master Lazarus, I know you’re not asleep. Why don’t you answer?”

“I don’t want to talk. I’m happy,” said Jesus, closing his eyes. “Are you satisfied with me?” asked the angel, with pride. “Have you any complaint?”

“None, my boy, none.” His heart grew warm, rose up. “What an evil road I took to find God,” he murmured. “What a forsaken incline, all cliffs and precipices! I called and called, my voice rebounded from the uninhabited mountain and I thought it was an answer!”

The angel laughed. “Alone, you cannot find God. Two persons are needed, a man and a woman. You didn’t know that—I taught it to you; and thus, after so many years of seeking God, you finally found him—when you joined Mary. And now you sit in the darkness, you listen to him laugh and cry, and you rejoice.”

“That is the meaning of God,” Jesus murmured, “that is the meaning of man. This is the road.” He again closed his eyes.

His former life flashed through his mind, and he sighed. Extending his arm, he found the angel’s hand. “My guardian angel,” he said tenderly, “if you had not come, my boy, I would have been lost. Stay near me always.”

“I shall; don’t be afraid. I won’t leave you. I like you.”

“How long will this happiness last?”

“As long as I’m with you and you’re with me, Jesus of Nazareth.”

“For all eternity?”

The angel laughed. “What is
eternity
? Haven’t you been able yet to get rid of big words, Jesus of Nazareth, of big words, big ideas, kingdoms of heaven? Does this mean that even your son hasn’t succeeded in curing you?” He banged his fist on the ground. “Here is the kingdom of heaven: earth. Here is God: your son. Here is eternity: each moment, Jesus of Nazareth, each moment that passes. Moments aren’t enough for you? If so, you must learn that eternity will not be either.”

He was silent. Light footsteps were heard in the yard. Bare feet approached.

“Who’s there?” Jesus asked, getting up.

“A woman,” answered the angel with a smile. He went and unbolted the door.

“What woman?”

The angel shook his finger as though scolding him. “I told you once before—have you forgotten? There is only one woman in the world; one, with innumerable faces. One of those faces is coming. Get up to greet it. I am leaving.”

Like a snake, he slid into the shavings and vanished.

The bare feet halted outside the door. Turning toward the wall, Jesus closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. A hand pushed open the door and a woman slid inside, holding her breath. She went forward slowly, reached the corner where Jesus lay and, without talking or making any noise, rolled herself up at his feet.

Jesus felt a warmth rise from the soles of his feet to his knees, thighs, heart and neck. He lowered his hand, found the tresses and examined the woman’s face, throat and breasts in the darkness. She stooped, all expectation and submission, and did not speak; but her flesh trembled and her entire body was covered with a frosty sweat.

The man spoke softly, tenderly, full of compassion. “Who are you?”

The woman trembled and did not speak. Jesus was sorry he asked, for once again he had forgotten the angel’s words. Of what importance was her name, where she came from, or the shape, color, beauty or ugliness of her face? It was the feminine face of the earth. Her womb was smothering her: many sons and daughters were within, suffocating and unable to emerge. She had come to the man so that he might open a way for them. Jesus’ heart overflowed with compassion.

“I am Ruth,” the woman murmured, trembling.

“Ruth? What Ruth?”

“Martha.”

DAYS WENT BY, months, years. In the house of Master Lazarus the sons and daughters multiplied, and Martha and Mary competed to see who would give birth to the most. The man wrestled, sometimes in the workshop with pine, kermes oak and cypress, throwing them down and forcing them into tools for men; sometimes in the fields with winds, moles and nettles. In the evening he would return, exhausted, to sit in his yard, and his women would come and wash his feet and calves, light a fire, lay the table for him and open wide their arms. And then, just as he worked the wood, liberating the cradles which were within it, just as he worked the land, liberating the grapes and ears of grain which were within it, so too he worked the women and liberated from within them: God.

What happiness this is, Jesus reflected, what profound correspondence between body and soul, between earth and man! ... And Martha and Mary held out their hands and touched the man they loved and the children which issued from their wombs and resembled him, touched them to see if they and all this joy and sweetness were real. So much happiness seemed much too much to them, and they trembled.

One night Mary had a horrible dream. She got up, went into the yard and saw Jesus, who had washed himself and was sitting contentedly on the ground, his palms pressed into the soil. She went near him and sat down at his side. “What are dreams, Rabbi?” she asked him softly. “What are they made of? Who sends them?”

“They are neither angels nor devils,” Jesus answered her. “When Lucifer started his revolt against God, dreams could not make up their minds which side to take. They remained between devils and angels, and God hurled them down into the inferno of sleep. ... Why do you ask? What did you dream, Mary?”

But Mary burst into tears and did not answer. Jesus stroked her hand. “As long as you keep it within you, Mary, it will eat away your insides. Bring it out into the light so that you can be rid of it.”

Mary wanted to begin but was so afraid she could hardly breathe. Jesus caressed her, gave her courage.

“The whole night the moon was so bright I could not sleep. But at dawn I must have fallen asleep, because I saw a bird ... No, it wasn’t a bird: it had six fiery wings—it must have been one of the seraphim that surround God’s Throne. He came, fluttered silently around me and then suddenly rushed down and wrapped his wings about my head. He put his beak into my ear and spoke to me. ... Rabbi, I prostrate myself, I kiss your feet. Order me to be quiet!”

“Courage, Mary. I’m with you, aren’t I? Why are you afraid? ... Well, he spoke to you. What did he say?”

“That all this, Rabbi, is ...”

Once again she could not breathe. She grasped Jesus’ knees and squeezed them forcefully between her arms.

“That all this is ... Is what, dearest Mary?”