Report to Grego

  Raising his eyebrows so that he could see me, he turned and glanced in my direction.

  “Why am I telling you all this?” he asked, as though scolding me. “Who are you? Where do you come from? What is your business here on the Holy Mountain? Why should I trust you and want to tell you this secret you are about to hear, a secret I still have not divulged even to my confessor, and which is weighing me down and plunging me into hell? Why? Why?”

  He looked at me perplexedly, waiting for an answer.

  “It might be God’s will,” I replied. “Perhaps God sent me to the Holy Mountain in order to listen to you, Father Ignatius. How do you expect the human mind to know what ways the Lord chooses in order to unburden you of the weight you were talking about.”

  The monk bowed his head and lost himself for a moment in thought.

  “Perhaps . . .” he said finally. Encouraged, he continued now without stumbling.

  “So you see, I tortured myself year after year and felt that my life was going to waste. Prayer, fasting, solitude—none of them helped me in the least. I began to have the terrifying suspicion that this was not the road, not the road which would lead me to God. There must be another road, another road, but which? Whereupon, one day the holy abbot ordered me to go and act as supervisor on a dependency the monastery owned near Salonika. It was summer, harvest time, and I had to be there to keep the sharecroppers from cheating us.

  “For twenty-one years I had not set foot outside the monastery, had not seen people with children, heard laughter, set eyes on a woman. The plain outside was broiling hot. I was somewhere around forty years old; twenty-one years in prison, and now the gates had opened and I was inhaling clear air. I had forgotten the sight of children rolling on the ground and playing, of a woman going to the fountain with a jar on her shoulder, of young men drinking in the taverns, a sprig of basil behind their ears. At the dependency’s door was a woman holding her baby in her arms and nursing it. For an instant—God forgive me—I thought she was the Virgin Mary and I started to bow down to worship her. I hadn’t seen a woman for twenty years, I tell you, and my mind was in a daze.

  “As for her, she buttoned up her blouse and concealed her breast as soon as she saw me. Then she leaned over to kiss my hand. ‘Welcome, Father,’ she said. ‘Give us your blessing.’

  “But I became angry without knowing why. Drawing back my hand, I shouted, ‘Don’t nurse where men can see you. Go inside!’

  “She blushed. Pulling closed the wimple which was wrapped around her head, she hid her mouth. Then, frightened, without breathing a word, she went inside.”

  The monk closed his eyes, doubtlessly in order to see the doorway, the woman and the unbuttoned blouse.

  “Go on,” I said, seeing him remain silent for some time.

  “This is where the ascent begins,” replied the monk, “the up grade—I mean the downgrade. We agreed that you are going to listen to me without speaking or getting up to leave. It’s not my fault, it’s Satan’s—no, not even his; everything is God’s work. Scripture says that if even a single leaf falls, God has cast it down. How much more, then, if a soul . . . I say this to comfort my conscience, but it cannot be comforted. During the day it says nothing, but at night it rises and shouts at me, The fault is yours!

  “I told you about the woman who was standing on the doorstep nursing. From the moment I saw her breast, I could find peace no longer. A great ascetic, Saint Antonius, says, ‘If you are at peace and hear the call of a sparrow, your heart no longer has its former peace.’ Well then, if the call of a sparrow can throw our hearts into a ferment, what is the naked breast of a woman capable of doing! Don’t forget, I was still young when I entered the monastery, and I had never known a woman. Why do I say known? Had never touched a woman. What was I to do? How could I exorcise Satan? I threw myself into fasting and prayer; I took the whip used for lashing the oxen at threshing time and lashed my body rabidly, until the whole of me became one great wound. Once more in vain, in vain! If the light of the lamp was lowered just a little, I saw a white breast gleaming in the dimness. And one night I had a dream so terrifying that I still shudder when I think of it.”

  Suddenly he became tongue-tied; his mouth had grown parched.

  But I mercilessly demanded, “What was this dream?”

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and caught his breath.

  “I dreamed of a white breast—not of a body or a woman. Deep darkness, and in the middle of this darkness a white breast, and I, with my robe, my hat, my beard, was pressed to it and . . . nursing!”

  He sighed like a calf, then fell silent.

  “Go on, go on,” I said mercilessly. My longing to hear had triumphed over the kindness within me. It was not curiosity; it was deep commiseration for this unfortunate man who wanted so much to speak but could not.

  “Why are you so insistent—don’t you pity me?” asked the monk, gazing at me imploringly.

  “No,” I answered. But I immediately felt ashamed. “Yes, yes, I do pity you, and that is why I insist. You’ll see—as soon as you speak, you’ll feel relieved.”

  “You’re right. . . . Yes, as soon as I speak, I will feel relieved. Very well then, listen. Each evening this woman, the one I saw the first day on the doorstep, brought me a plate of food and a cup of wine for my dinner. I ate at first, but then left everything untouched for several days. Each morning when she came to take the things back, she hesitated a moment, as though wishing to ask me why I didn’t eat. But she never dared. One night, however . . . It was Sunday and she was rested, she hadn’t tired herself from mowing in the fields. She had washed her hair and put on her Sunday clothes, a tight-fitting bodice with red embroidery, I remember. It was warm out; she had unbuttoned her blouse a little, and an inch of her throat was showing. She must also have anointed her hair with laurel oil according to the custom of village women, for it smelled sweetly. I don’t know why, but she reminded me of the church on Easter day after we’ve decorated it with myrtles and have strewn laurel leaves over the floor. The air everywhere smelled of laurels and resurrection.

  “She put the plate and wine on the table and working up courage—who knows why: because she was bathed? because she was rested? (a bath, some perfume, an undone button—all are capable of aiding the Tempter to cast a person into hell)—in any case, working up courage this time, she did not go away but stood where she was.

  “‘Why haven’t you eaten these last few days, Father Ignatius?’ she asked, her voice full of compassion and concern. To tell you the truth, it was just as if her son had not nursed for some days, and she was worried that he might be ill.

  “I gave no answer. Still she did not leave. Do you know why? You are young still, and you don’t. It was because the devil inside a woman’s womb does not sleep; he works.

  “‘You’ll ruin your health, Father Ignatius,’ she said. The body is God’s work too, and we must feed it.’

  “‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ I murmured to myself, and I refused to raise my eyes to look at the woman.

  “Suddenly I uttered a cry as though drowning: ‘Go away!’

  “The woman became frightened and ran toward the door. But as I saw her nearing it, apparently I became frightened too. I was afraid she might leave me. Dashing forward, I seized her by the hair. I blew out the lamp to keep the Crucified from seeing. The light fled; darkness is Satan’s dwelling place. Still holding her by the hair, I threw her down on the bed. I was lowing like a calf; she was silent. I grabbed hold of her bodice, tugged at it, and with one motion undid all the buttons of her blouse.

  “How many years have gone by since then? Thirty? Forty? No, none. Time has stood still. Have you ever in your life seen time stand still? I have. For thirty years I have been unbuttoning her blouse and there is no end to it; there is always one more button!

  “I kept her with me until dawn, not letting her leave. Good God, what joy that was, what an unburdening, what a resurrection! My whole life I had been crucified; that night
I was resurrected. But there was also something else, the terrible part, the part which I believe alone constituted my sin. That is why I brought you here to my cell, to have you untangle the puzzle for me. The terrible part was this: for the very first time I felt God come near me, come near with open arms. What gratitude I felt; what prayers I offered up the whole of that night, right until daybreak; how completely my heart opened and let God enter! For the first time in my life—Oh, I’d read it in Scripture before, but those were just words—for the first time in my inhuman, cheerless life I understood to what degree God is all-good, to what degree He loves man, and how very much He must have pitied him in order to have created woman and favored her with such grace that she leads us to paradise along the surest and shortest of roads. Woman is more powerful than prayer, fasting, and—forgive me, Lord-even than virtue.”

  He stopped, terrified by the words he had just uttered. Two tears rolled from his tiny eyebrow-engulfed eyes as he cast a frightened glance at the Crucified.

  “Forgive me, Christ!” he bellowed, and he closed his eyes so that he would not see the icon.

  But presently he recovered somewhat, opened his eyes, and looked at me. I was about to part my lips to say something. I had no idea what, but I could not stand the silence, and the tears which kept rolling from the aged eyes frightened me. But before I had a chance to utter a word, he reached out his hand as though to place it over my lips.

  “Wait,” he said. “I haven’t finished.

  “At daybreak the woman got up hastily, dressed herself, then opened the door quietly and left. I shut my eyes and began to weep, lying in bed on my back. But those tears were not like the bitterly rancorous ones I had shed in my cell; they had an inexpressible sweetness about them, because I felt that God was in my room and bending over my pillow. I was certain that if I held out my hand I would touch Him. But I wasn’t a doubting Thomas; I had no need to extend my finger to touch Him. A woman had given me this certainty—a woman, I repeat, and not prayer or fasting. It was Woman, God bless her! who brought the Lord into my room.

  “Ever since that night thirty, forty, years ago, I have sat and thought to myself, Can sin too be in God’s service? Oh, I know what you’ll tell me (it’s what they all say): Yes, certainly, provided you repent. But I did not repent. I say this openly—let God’s thunderbolt fall on me if it will and reduce me to ashes—I did not, and will not, repent! If I had the chance to do it again, I would.”

  He removed his hat to scratch his head. His white hair spilled down, covering his face. For a short while he remained lost in thought. I sensed that he felt hesitant about carrying this any further, but finally he made his decision.

  “Or is it possible that what I did was not a sin? And if it was not, what then is the meaning of original sin, the serpent, and the apple from the forbidden tree? I do not understand; that is why I called you here. Perhaps you understand; that is why I called you. I am clinging to life with the two or three bones left to me. I want to understand before I die. . . . Why don’t you say something? It seems that you are just as confused as I am, my child.”

  What could I say? Was sin in God’s service? It was the first time this question had come to torment me. Parallel to the road of virtue was there another wider, more level road, the road of sin, which could lead us to God?

  “Father Ignatius,” I replied, “I am still too young. I have not had time yet to commit many sins or to suffer very much, and therefore I cannot answer your question. I don’t want to set my mind up as the judge; I don’t trust it. Nor my heart; I don’t trust that either. The one always condemns; the other always pardons. How can I ever decide which is right? The mind says, Father Ingatius, this road of sin which you say leads you to God is much too pleasant and convenient; I refuse to accept it. The heart, on the other hand, says, It is impossible that God should be so cruel and unjust to want man to suffer martyrdom, hunger, nakedness, and humiliation. In other words, are madmen and physical wrecks the only ones capable of entering His house? I refuse to accept this. . . . So you see, Father Ignatius, what conclusion can I draw, believing as I do that both views are right?”

  As I was speaking, I thought to myself without voicing my thought, A new decalogue is needed! A new decalogue! . . . Just how this new decalogue would classify the virtues and vices, however, I was unable to discover. What I kept saying over and over to myself was simply this: A new decalogue, a new decalogue is absolutely necessary. Who will give it to us?

  The cell’s tiny window had begun to glow with a feeble light; from the monastery courtyard came the melodious beating of the wooden semantron as it progressed from cell to cell, summoning the monks to matins.

  Father Ignatius glanced at the window.

  “Daylight already,” he murmured, astonished. “Daylight already . . .”

  He dragged himself to a corner. Bending over with groans because of the pains in the small of his back, he picked up a tiny cruet and, going to the Crucifix, poured a little oil into the watch lamp suspended before it. The tiny flame received a new lease on life, illuminating Christ’s face, those yellowish, afflicted features with the blood dripping from the crown of thorns onto the brow and cheeks.

  The monk kept his eyes pinned on this face for a long time. Then, sighing, he turned to me.

  “In short, you have no answer to give me? Nothing?”

  His tone was derisive, or so it seemed. I had risen from my stool. Standing next to the monk, I gazed with him at the Crucified. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep.

  “Nothing,” I answered.

  “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” said the monk. He took his staff from the corner, ready to go to matins. Then he placed himself once more in front of the icon to do obeisance. His withered, lifeless face gleamed beneath the lamplight. Lifting his finger, he indicated the Crucified to me.

  “He gave an answer,” he said.

  Just at that moment there was a knock on the cell door. A voice called, “Father Ignatius . . .”

  “I’m coming, holy Abbot,” replied the monk, and he drew back the bolt.

  As I turn over the yellowed pages of my journal, it becomes clear that nothing died. Everything was simply asleep inside me. Look how all has awakened now, how everything rises from the worn, half-indecipherable pages to become monasteries, monks, paintings, and the sea once more! And my friend, he too rises from the soil as he was at that time, handsome, in the flower of youth, with his Homeric laugh, his blue eagle-eye, his breast filled with poems! He gave men more than they were able to receive, he sought from them more than they were able to give, and he died forsaken and sorrowful, having been left with nothing but the bitter smile of a proud, wounded soul. A meteor, he conquered the darkness for an instant and then perished. Such is the way we all shall perish, such the way the earth too will perish; but this fact offers no consolation, nor is it any justification for He who begets and then destroys us.

  We had toured the Holy Mountain for forty days. When, completing our circle, we finally returned to Daphne on Christmas Eve in order to depart, the most unexpected, most decisive miracle was awaiting us. Though it was the heart of winter, there in a small, humble orchard was an almond tree in bloom!

  Seizing my friend’s arm, I pointed to the blossoming tree.

  “Angelos,” I said, “during the whole of this pilgrimage our hearts have been tormented by many intricate questions. Now, behold the answer!”

  My friend riveted his blue eyes upon the flowering almond tree and crossed himself, as though doing obeisance before a holy wonder-working icon. He remained speechless for a long moment. Then, speaking slowly, he said, “A poem is rising to my lips, a tiny little poem: a haikai.”

  He looked again at the almond tree.

  I said to the almond tree,

  “Sister, speak to me of God.”

  And the almond tree blossomed.

  20

  JERUSALEM

  WHEN I was alone again, I closed my eyes and asked myself what finally rem
ained from the Holy Mountain. Out of so many pleasures and moving experiences, so many questions tormenting my friend and myself, what had finally deposited itself within me? What was I seeking when I went to the Holy Mountain, and what did I find there?

  The old wounds inflicted during my adolescence when my teacher divulged the two great secrets to me, that the earth is not the center of the universe and that man is not a privileged creature issuing directly from the divine hand, these old wounds, which had been closed for a number of years, opened once again on the Holy Mountain—the two metaphysical torments: where do we come from and where are we going. One answer had been given by Christ. He brought a balm which healed many wounds. But was this balm able to heal my wounds? For a brief moment the semantron, matins, psalmody, and paintings—the divine rhythm of the ascetic life—had calmed my anguish. Experiencing Christ’s struggle at first hand, I felt my own struggle take on courage, sweetness, and hope. But the enchantment was quickly dispelled and once more my soul found itself deserted. Why? What did it lack, whom did it lack? What was my soul seeking when it went to the Holy Mountain, and what did it fail to find there?

  As the years passed, I began little by little to have a premonition that I had gone to the Holy Mountain in search of something I have sought throughout my life: a great friend and enemy not of my own stature but bigger, who would enter the struggle at my side. Not a woman, not an idea. Something else. Someone else. This was the thing, the person, my soul lacked; this was why it felt stifled.

  Only afterwards, not while I was there, did I realize that I had failed to find this someone on the Holy Mountain. Was precisely this, I wonder, the fruit of my entire journey over Athos?

  The only thing I found as I roamed the Holy Mountain was a veteran campaigner (so he seemed to me at first) holding out his wounded hands to the monks who passed. His naked feet were dripping with blood, his cheeks sunken from hunger, his clothes in tatters, revealing his emaciated body. Shivering, his eyes filled with tears, he knocked on every door, but no one admitted him. He was chased from monastery to monastery, and the dogs ran in back of his ragged cloak and barked. One evening I saw him seated on a stone gazing at the desolate sea. I hid behind a fir tree and spied on him. For a long time he remained silent, but then, unable to restrain himself any longer, he suddenly cried out, “The foxes have holes, but I have not where to lay my head!” A flash tore across my mind, I recognized Him and ran to kiss His hand. I had loved Him when I was a small child, had loved Him ever since. Now I searched everywhere, but He had become invisible. Feeling aggrieved, I sat down on the stone where He had been sitting. Oh, if I could only open my heart to Him so that He might enter it and not have to wander homeless and cold! I thought of the philosopher Proclus, who lived at the time when men had ceased to believe in the gods of Olympus and were rejecting them. Proclus lay asleep in a shack at the foot of the Acropolis; suddenly, in the middle of the night, he heard someone knocking on his door. Jumping up and running to see who it was, he discovered Athena standing in full panoply on his threshold. “Proclus,” she said, “I am rejected wherever I go. I have come to take refuge in your forehead!”