The Last Temptation of Christ

  The son of Mary was hungry and thirsty. For a split second he envied those laborers who finished their day’s work, returned dead tired and famished to their hovels, and saw from afar the lighted fire, the smoke rising and their wives preparing the dinner.

  He suddenly felt more completely alone than even the foxes and owls, for they at least had a nest or lair and warm, beloved creatures awaiting them. He had no one, not even his mother. He squatted at the foot of the cedar and huddled up into a ball. He was shivering.

  “Lord,” he murmured, “I thank you for everything; for the loneliness, the hunger, the cold. I lack nothing.”

  As he said this, however, he seemed to sense the injustice which was being done him. He swept his eyes around him like a trapped beast, and his temples drummed with anger and fear. Getting up onto his knees, he riveted his eyes upon the dark path. The naked feet could still be heard. They were dislodging the stones and mounting. They reached the summit finally and then, involuntarily—he himself was startled to hear his own voice—the son of Mary cried out: “Come closer, my lady. Do not hide. It’s night now; no one sees you. Reveal yourself!”

  He held his breath and waited.

  Not a soul replied. Nothing but the eternal sounds of the night rising sweetly, peacefully, into the air: crickets and grasshoppers, goatsuckers sighing; and far in the distance, dogs that discovered in the darkness things invisible to men, and barked. ... He stretched his head forward. He was positive that someone stood under the cedar, directly before him.

  “My lady ... my lady,” he whispered now in a hushed, beseeching tone, trying to entice the invisible. He waited. He had stopped shivering. Sweat poured from his armpits and brow.

  He stared, listening intently. At one moment he imagined he heard the laugh again, coming softly out of the darkness, at another that he saw the air whirl, congeal and become a body which was no sooner formed than unformed and lost.

  Melting away with the effort, the son of Mary fought to tether the dark air. He did not cry out now, did not beseech; he simply knelt with outstretched head under the cedar and waited, melting away. ...

  The rocks bruised his knees. He changed his position, leaning against the trunk of the cedar and closing his eyes. And then, without losing his tranquility or uttering a cry, he saw her—inside his eyes. But she had not come in the way he expected. He expected to see his bereaved mother with both her hands on his head, calling down her curse upon him. But now what was this! Trembling, he gradually opened his eyes. Flashing before him was the savage body of a woman covered head to foot with interlocking scales of thick bronze armor. But the head was not a human head; it was an eagle’s, with yellow eyes and a crooked beak which grasped a mouthful of flesh. She looked tranquilly, mercilessly, at the son of Mary.

  “You did not come as I expected you,” he murmured. “You are not the Mother. ... Have pity and speak to me. Who are you?” He asked, waited, asked again. Nothing. Nothing but the yellow glitter of the round eyes in the darkness.

  But suddenly the son of Mary understood.

  “The Curse!” he cried, and he fell face downward onto the ground.

  THE HEAVENS SPARKLED above him, while below, the earth wounded him with its stones and thorns. He had stretched out his arms; he struggled convulsively and moaned as though the whole earth was a cross on which he was being crucified.

  The darkness passed over him with its large and small attendants—the stars and the birds of the night. On every side the dogs, submissive to man, barked on the thrashing floors and guarded the wealth of their masters. It was cold; Jesus shivered. Sleep overcame him for a moment and led him on an airy promenade to warm, faraway lands but straightway threw him back down again to earth, onto the stones.

  Toward midnight he heard merry hells passing at the foot of the hill and, behind the bells, the melancholy song of a camel driver. There was the sound of conversation, someone sighed, the clear fresh voice of a woman spouted nut of the night, but the road quickly grew silent once more. ... Mounted on a golden-saddled camel, her face grooved from weeping, the make-up on her cheeks turned to mud, Magdalene was passing by—in the middle of the night. Wealthy merchants from the four corners of the earth had arrived. Finding her neither at the well nor in her house, they chose the camel with the richest, the most golden harness, and sent their driver to bring her to them posthaste. Their route had been extremely long and dangerous, but they kept constantly in mind a body they would find at Magdala, and this gave them strength. They had not found it, however, so they dispatched the driver and lined up in Magdalene’s yard, where they now sat with closed eyes, waiting.

  Little by little the bells in the night grew dimmer, sweeter. They now seemed to the son of Mary like tender laughter, like purring jets of water which gushed into a deep orchard and called him caressingly by name; and in this way, gently, following the seductive ring of the camel’s bells, he slid back again into sleep.

  He had a dream. The world seemed to be a green meadow, all in bloom, and God an olive-skinned shepherd boy with two twisted horns, newly grown and still tender, who sat next to a cistern of water and played his pipe. Never in his life had the son of Mary heard such a sweet, bewitching sound. While God the shepherd boy played on, the soil, fistful by fistful, quivered and stirred, grew spherical, came to life, and graceful deer with wreathlike antlers suddenly filled the meadow. God leaned over and looked at the water: the cistern filled with fish; he lifted his eyes to the trees: their leaves changed color, became twittering birds. He had gathered momentum; the piper’s music grew furious, and two insects as large as men emerged from the ground and at once began to embrace on the springtime grass. They rolled from one end of the meadow to the other, coupled, separated, coupled again, laughed indecently, scoffed at the shepherd boy, and hissed. The boy lowered his pipe and regarded the audacious and obscene pair. Suddenly his patience gave out. With one blow he crushed his pipe under his heel, and all at once deer, birds, trees, water and the glued man-woman vanished.

  The son of Mary uttered a cry and awoke, but not before his eye was caught, just at the moment of awakening, by the pasted bodies of a man and a woman hurling down into the dark trapdoor of his bowels. Terrified, he jumped to his feet.

  “So, such is the mud within me, such the filth!”

  He unbelted the nail-studded leather strap, trampled the clothes he was wearing underfoot and, without speaking, began pitilessly to scourge his thighs, back and face. The blood spurted out and splashed him. He felt it and was relieved.

  Dawn ... The stars grew dim; the frosty wind pricked his bones. The cedar above him filled with wings and song. He turned around. The air was empty; in the light of the day the bronze eagle-headed Curse had become invisible again.

  I must go away, must escape, he thought, must not set foot in Magdala—curse the place! I won’t stop till I reach the desert and bury myself in the monastery. There I shall kill the flesh and turn it into spirit.

  He placed his palm on the ancient trunk of the cypress and stroked it. He felt the tree’s soul rise from the roots and branch out to the highest, tenderest twig.

  “Farewell, my sister,” he murmured. “Last night under your shelter I brought shame upon myself. Forgive me.

  He spoke and then, exhausted and with dismal forebodings, started down the hill.

  He reached the main road. The plain was awakening; the first rays of the sun fell and filled the loaded threshing floors. with gold. “I must not go through Magdala,” he murmured again. “I’m afraid.” He stopped to decide which way to turn in order to reach the lake. He took the first narrow road he found on his right. He knew that Magdala sat to the left, the lake to the right, and he proceeded with confidence.

  He marched and marched, and his mind wandered. He was running from Magdalene, the whore, to God; from the cross to Paradise, from his mother and father to distant lands and seas, to myriad-faced men, white, yellow and black. Although he had never crossed the boundaries of Israel, ever since his early
childhood he had shut his eyes within his father’s humble cottage and his mind, like a trained hawk with golden hawk bells, had darted from land to land, ocean to ocean, screeching with joy. It was not hunting anything, this hawk-mind of his; he had become oblivious of the body, he was escaping the flesh, ascending to heaven—and this was all he could possibly desire.

  He marched and marched. The twisting path wound in and out through the vineyards, rose once more, reached the olive groves. The son of Mary followed it as one follows running water or the sad, monotonous chant of a camel driver. This whole journey seemed a dream to him. He scarcely touched the earth; his feet trod his human seal, the heel and five toes, lightly into the soil. The olive trees waved their laden branches and welcomed him. The grapes had begun to shine; the heavy clusters hung down until they reached the ground. The girls who went by with their white kerchiefs and firm, sunburned calves greeted him sweetly: Shalom! Peace!

  Sometimes, when not a soul was visible on the path, he heard the heavy footsteps behind him again; a bronze splendor flared up in the air and was then snuffed out, and the evil laughter exploded once more over his head. But the son of Mary forced himself to be patient. He was approaching deliverance; soon he would see the lake opposite him, and behind the blue waters, hanging like a falcon’s nest between the red rocks, the monastery.

  He followed the path, and his mind ran on, but suddenly he stopped, startled. There before him in a sheltered hollow, spread out beneath the date palms, was Magdala. His mind turned back, turned back, but his feet, against his will, began to lead him with sure steps to the perfumed hermitage of his cousin Magdalene, to the house which was condemned to the fires of hell.

  “No, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go!” he murmured in terror. He tried to reverse his course, but his body refused. It stood its ground like a greyhound and smelled the air.

  I’ll go away! he decided once more within himself, but he did not budge. He could see the clean, whitewashed houses and the ancient well with its marble brim. Dogs were barking, hens cackling. women laughing. Loaded camels knelt about the well, ruminating. . . . I must see her, must see her, he heard a sweet voice within him say. It’s necessary. God has guided my feet—God, not my own mind—because I must see her, fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. It’s my fault, mine! Before I enter the monastery and put on the white gown I must beg her forgiveness. Otherwise it will not be possible for me to be saved. Thank you, Lord, for bringing me where I did not want to come!

  He felt happy. Tightening his belt, he began the descent to Magdala.

  A herd of camels lay on their bellies around the well. They had finished eating and now, still laden, were slowly, patiently, chewing their cud. They must have come from fragrant faraway lands, for the whole area smelled of spices.

  Jesus halted at the well. An old woman who was drawing water tipped her jug for him, and he drank. He wanted to ask if Mary was at home, but he was too ashamed. God has pushed me to her house, he reflected. I have faith: she will most certainly be there.

  He started down a well-shaded lane. There were many strangers in town, some dressed in the long white jellab of the Bedouins, others with expensive Indian cashmere shawls. A small door opened; a fat-bottomed matron with a black mustache emerged and burst into laughter as soon as she saw him.

  “Well, well!” she shouted. “Greetings, Carpenter. So you too are going to worship at the shrine, eh?” She closed the door amid peals of laughter.

  The son of Mary blushed scarlet, but gathered up strength. I must, I must, he thought; I must fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness.

  He quickened his pace. Her house was at the other end of the village, surrounded by a small orchard of pomegranates. He remembered it well: a green single-leafed door decorated with a painting of two intertwined snakes, one black and one white, the work of one of her lovers, a Bedouin; and above the lintel, a large yellow lizard, its legs stretched out on both sides as though it were being crucified.

  He got lost, retraced his steps, returned to where he had been—ashamed to ask his way. It was almost noon. He stopped under the shade of an olive tree to catch his breath. A rich merchant passed by. He had a short black curly beard, black almond-shaped eyes, many rings, and an aristocratic air. The son of Mary followed him.

  He must be one of God’s angels, he thought as he walked behind him and admired the noble stature of his young body and the expensive cashmere shawl, embroidered with stunning birds and flowers, which covered his shoulders. He must be one of God’s angels, and he came down to show me the way.

  The foreign nobleman strode unerringly through the winding alleys. Soon the green door with the two intertwined snakes came into view. An old crone sat outside on a stool. She had a grate filled with burning coals and was broiling crabs. Next to this were roasted pumpkin seeds and, in two deep wooden plates, chick-pea meatballs which she sold smothered in pepper.

  The young nobleman bent over, gave a silver coin to the old lady, and entered. The son of Mary entered behind him.

  Four merchants, lined up one behind the other, sat cross-legged on the ground of the courtyard: two old men with painted eye lashes and nails, two young men with black beards and mustaches. They all had their eyes riveted on the tiny, squat door of Mary’s chamber. It was closed. Now and then a shout issued from inside, or laughter, or the sound of someone being tickled, or the creaking of the bed—and the worshipers immediately broke off the chattering they had begun and, gasping for breath, shifted their positions. The Bedouin who had entered such a long time ago was late in coming out, and all the others in the courtyard, young and old alike, were in a hurry. The young Indian nobleman sat down in his place in the line, and behind him sat the son of Mary.

  An immense pomegranate tree laden with fruit was in the middle of the court and two imposing cypresses stood on either side of the street door, one male with a trunk as straight as a sword, the other female with wide-open spreading branches. Suspended from the pomegranate was a wicker cage containing a richly decorated partridge which hopped up and down, nipped, kicked her rails and cackled.

  The worshipers were munching dates which they took from their girdles, or biting nutmeg seeds to sweeten their breath. They had engaged each other in conversation in order to pass the time. Turning, they greeted the young nobleman and looked with disdain at the poorly dressed son of Mary behind him. The old man who was first in line sighed.

  “There’s no martyrdom greater than mine,” he said. “Here I am in front of Paradise, and the door is closed.”

  A youth with golden bands around his ankles laughed. “I transport spices from the Euphrates to the Great Sea. Do you see this partridge with the red claws here in front of us? I’m going to buy Mary with a shipment of cinnamon and pepper, put her in a gold cage and take her away. So, my lusty friends, what you have to do, do it quickly: it’s the last kiss you’ll get.”

  “Thanks, my good-looking stalwart,” the second old man interrupted at this point. He had a snowy-white scented beard and slim-boned aristocratic hands, the palms of which were dyed with cinchona. “What you’ve just said will season today’s kiss that much more.”

  The young nobleman had lowered his heavy eyelids. His upper body swayed slowly back and forth and his lips stirred as though he were saying his prayers. Already, before entering Paradise, he had plunged into everlasting beatitude. He heard the cackling of the partridge, the tickling and the creaking inside the bolted chamber, heard the old woman at the door load her grate with live crabs, which then hopped onto the coals.

  This is Paradise, he meditated, overcome with a great lassitude; this, the deep sleep we call life, the sleep in which we dream of Paradise. There is no other Paradise. I can get up now and go, for I require no further joy.

  A huge, green-turbaned man in front of him pushed him with his knee and laughed. “Prince of India, what does your God have to say about all this?”

  The youth opened his eyes. “All what?” he asked.

&nbs
p; “Here, in front of you: men, women, crabs, love.”

  “That everything is a dream.”

  “Well, then, my brave lads—take care,” interrupted the old man with the snowy beard, who was telling his beads on a long amber chaplet. “Take care not to wake up!”

  The small door opened and the Bedouin emerged. Swollen-eyed, he came forward slowly, licking his chops. The old man whose turn was next jumped up at once, as nimble as a strapping twenty-year-old boy.

  “Bye-bye, Grandpa. Pity us and do it fast!” yelled the three whose turns followed.

  But the old man was already removing his belt and advancing toward the chamber. This was no time for chatter! He entered and slammed the door behind him.

  They all eyed the Bedouin with envy, no one daring to speak. They sensed that he was cruising over deep waters far, far away, and indeed he did not so much as turn to look at them. He staggered through the courtyard, reached the street door, missed knocking over the old crone’s grate by a fraction of an inch, and disappeared finally into the crooked lanes. At that point, in order to redirect their thoughts, the huge fat man with the green turban started, out of a clear sky, to talk about lions, seas and faraway coral isles.