The Last Temptation of Christ
The time went by. Now and then the slow, gentle clicking of the amber beads could be heard. All eyes were pinned once more on the squat doorway. The old man was late, very late, in coming out.
The young Indian nobleman got up. The others turned with astonishment. Why had he got up? Wasn’t he going to speak? Was he about to leave? ... He was happy. His face was resplendent; a gentle glow patched his cheeks. He wrapped the cashmere shawl tightly around him, put his hand to his heart and lips, and took his leave. His shadow passed tranquilly over the threshold.
“He woke up,” said the youth with the golden rings about his ankles. He tried to laugh, but a strange fear had suddenly overcome them all, and they began with anxious haste to discuss profit and loss, and the prices current in the slave markets of Alexandria and Damascus. Soon, however, they reverted to their barefaced talk of women and boys, and they stuck out their tongues and licked their chops.
“Lord, O Lord,” the son of Mary murmured, “where have you thrown me? Into what kind of yard? To sit up with what kind of men! This, Lord, is the greatest degradation of all. Give me strength to endure it!”
The pilgrims were hungry. One of them shouted, and the old crone entered, portioned out bread, crabs and patties of meat to the four men, and brought a jug of date wine. They crossed their legs, placed the meal in their laps and began to clap their jaws. One of them, feeling in a good mood, threw a large crab shell at the door and shouted, “Hey, Grandpa, do it quick; don’t take all day!” They all burst into peals of laughter.
“Lord, O Lord,” the son of Mary murmured again, “give me the strength to stay until my turn comes.”
The old man with the scented beard felt sorry for him.
“Hey, you, my fine lad,” he said, turning, “aren’t you hungry or thirsty? Come here and have a bite; it will give you strength.”
“Yes, poor fellow, you’d better eat,” the colossus with the green turban added, laughing. “When your turn comes and you go inside, we don’t want you to put us men to shame.”
The son of Mary blushed scarlet, lowered his head and did not speak.
“This one’s dreaming too,” said the old man, shaking out the crumbs and bits of crab which had filled his beard. “Yes, by Saint Beelzebub, he’s dreaming. He’ll get up now like the other and leave, mark my words.”
The son of Mary looked around him, terrified. Could the Indian nobleman really be right? Could all this—yard, pomegranate, grate, partridge, men—be a dream? Perhaps he was still under the cedar, dreaming.
He turned toward the street door as though seeking help, and saw his eagle-headed fellow voyager standing motionless next to the male cypress, armed to the teeth in bronze. Now, for the first time, the sight of her made him feel relieved and secure.
The old man came out, panting, and the huge green-turbaned man went in. Hours later came the turn of the youth with the golden bands around his ankles, then that of the old man with the amber rosary. The son of Mary now remained all alone in the yard, waiting.
The sun was about to set. Two clouds were sailing in the sky. They stopped, laden with gold. A thin gilding of frost fell over trees, soil and the faces of men.
The old man with the amber rosary came out. Stopping for a moment on the threshold, he wiped his running eyes, nose and lips, then shuffled with drooping shoulders toward the street door.
The son of Mary got up and turned to the male cypress. His companion lifted her foot, ready to follow behind him. He wanted to speak to her, to beg her to wait for him outside the door, to tell her that he wished to be alone, that he would not run away; but he knew his words would go to waste, and he remained silent. Tightening the strap around his middle, he raised his eyes and looked at the heavens. He hesitated, but a hoarse voice called angrily from within the chamber: “Is there anyone else? Come in!” It was Magdalene. Summoning all his strength, he went forward. The door was half open and he entered, trembling.
Magdalene lay on her back, stark naked, drenched in sweat, her raven-black hair spread out over the pillow and her arms entwined beneath her head. Her face was turned toward the wall and she was yawning. Wrestling with men on this bed since dawn had tired her out. Her hair, nails and every inch of her body exuded smells of all nations, and her arms, neck and breasts were covered with bites.
The son of Mary lowered his eyes. He had stopped in the middle of the room, unable to go farther. Magdalene waited without moving, her face turned toward the wall. But she heard no masculine grunts behind her, no one getting undressed, not even a panting breath. Frightened, she abruptly turned her face in order to see—and all at once uttered a cry, seized the sheet and wrapped herself up.
“You! You!” she shouted, covering her lips and eyes with her palms.
“Mary,” he said, “forgive me!”
Magdalene burst into a fit of hoarse, heart-rending laughter. You thought her vocal cords were about to snap into a thousand pieces.
“Mary,” he repeated, “forgive me!”
And then she jumped up onto her knees, tightly enclosed in the sheet, and lifted her fist: “Is this why you entered my yard, my young gallant? Is this why you mixed yourself in with my lovers: to hoax your way into my house in order to bring God the boogeyman down to me here on my hot bed? Well, you’re late, my friend, very late; and as for your God, I don’t want him—he’s already broken my heart!”
She moaned and spoke at the same time, and her infuriated breast heaved up and down behind the sheet.
“He’s broken my heart, broken my heart,” she moaned again, and two tears welled up into her eyes and remained suspended on her long lashes.
“Don’t blaspheme, Mary. I’m to blame, not God. That’s why I came: I want to beg your forgiveness.”
But Magdalene exploded. “You and your God have the identical snout; you’re one and the same and I can’t tell you apart. Sometimes I happen to think of him at night, and when I do—curse the hour!—it’s with your face that he bears down on me out of the darkness; and when I chance to meet you on the street—curse the hour!—I feel that it’s still God I see rushing directly for me.”
She lifted her fist into the air. “Don’t bother me with God,” she yelled. “Get out of here and don’t let me see you again. There’s only one refuge and consolation for me—the mud! Only one synagogue where I enter to pray and cleanse myself—the mud!”
“Mary, listen to me, let me speak, don’t fall into despair. That’s exactly what I’ve come for, my sister: to pull you out of the mud. I have committed many sins—I’m on my way to the desert now to expiate them—many sins, Mary, but your calamity weighs on me the most.”
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 o
h 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.”