The youth buried his face between his knees. “Adonai,” he murmured, “Adonai, help!”
The warm, peaceful chamber was silent except for the bubbling of the fragrant pot of beans, and the hissing of the fire as it devoured the wood. Outside, the male waters poured out of the skies with a roar and the earth opened its thighs and giggled.
“Jesus, what are you thinking about?” asked Magdalene, not daring now to face the man.
“I’m thinking about God,” he answered in a strangulated voice, “about God, Adonai ...”
As he spoke, he repented of having pronounced the sacred name in a house such as this.
Magdalene jumped up and paced back and forth between the fire and the door. Her mind had grown furious.
God is the great enemy, she was thinking; yes, God. He never fails to intrude; he is evil, jealous; he won’t let a person be happy. She stopped behind the door and cocked her ear. The heavens were bellowing. A whirlwind had arisen and the pomegranates in the yard knocked against one another and were ready to break.
“The rain has let up a little,” she said.
“I’ll go,” replied the youth, rising.
“Eat first and put some strength into your body. Where can you go at such an hour? It’s pitch-black outside and still raining.”
She took down a round mat from the wall and spread it out on the floor. She removed the casserole from the fire, opened a small cupboard recessed in the wall and took out a toasted barley roll and two earthenware soup plates.
“This is the prostitute’s meal,” she said. “Eat, you essence of piety, eat—if it doesn’t disgust you.”
The hungry youth did not hesitate to put out his hand. The woman tittered.
“Is that the way you eat?” she hissed. “Without saying grace? Hadn’t you better give thanks to God for sending bread, broad beans and whores?”
Jesus’ mouthful stuck in his throat.
“Why do you hate me, Mary?” he said. “Why do you tease me? Look, tonight I am about to break bread with you; we have become friends again. Let bygones be bygones, and forgive me. That’s why I’ve come.”
“Eat, and stop your whining. If the forgiveness is not given, take it! You’re a man.”
She lifted her hand and divided the bread, laughing. “Blessed be the name of Him who sends bread, broad beans and whores to the world—and pious guests!”
They remained kneeling one opposite the other under the light of the lamp, and said nothing more. Both were hungry, both had suffered much anguish on this day, and they ate to replenish their forces.
The rain outside began to subside. The sky had found relief; the earth was filled. There was no sound except the cackling laughter of the rivulets which ran happily down the village’s cobbled streets.
They finished eating. The tiny cupboard also contained a sip of wine, which they drank, and several fully ripe dates for the sweet tooth. For some time, both remained silent and watched the fire, which was about to go out. Their minds rose and fell, danced with the dying flames.
It was cold. The youth got up and put more wood on the fire; Magdalene took another handful of laurel leaves and threw them on top: perfume filled the room. She went to the door and opened it. A wind had arisen; the clouds had already scattered. Two large stars, freshly bathed and immaculate, gleamed brilliantly over her yard.
“Is it still raining?” asked the youth, who stood again in the middle of the room, unable to make up his mind.
But Magdalene did not answer. She unrolled a mat, went to her trunk, took out sheets and thick woolen blankets—gifts from her lovers—and made up a bed in front of the fire.
“You’ll sleep here,” she said. “It’s cold and windy out, and almost midnight. Where can you go? You’ll catch your death of cold. Here’s where you’re going to sleep: next to the fire.”
The youth shuddered. “Here!”
“Are you afraid? Well, rest assured, my innocent dove, I won’t bother you. No, I won’t tempt you, I won’t touch your virginity, my pet—such as it’s worth!”
She put still more wood on the fire and lowered the wick of the lamp. “Pleasant dreams,” she said. “Tomorrow we both have much to do. You’ll set out along the road again, to seek your salvation; I’ll set out along another road, my own, and I too will be seeking salvation. Each his own road, and we shall never meet again. Good night.”
She fell onto her mattress and thrust her face into the pillow, biting the sheets all night long to hold back her cries and tears. She was afraid that if the man who was sleeping next to the fire heard her, he would take fright and leave. All night long she listened to him breathe tranquilly, restfully, like an infant nursing at the breast; and she,-lamenting softly within herself with tender, protracted sighs, lay awake and lulled him to sleep like a mother.
The next day at dawn she looked out between half-closed eyelashes and saw him get up, secure the leather strap tightly about his waist, and open the door. There he halted. He wanted to leave, but at the same time he did not want to leave. Turning, he looked at the bed and took a hesitating step toward it. He leaned over—it still was not very bright inside the room—he leaned over as though he wanted to find the woman and touch her. His left hand was thrust beneath the strap; with his right he covered his chin and mouth.
The woman lay on her back, motionless, her hair veiling her naked breasts. She watched him through her eyelashes, and her whole body trembled.
His lips moved: “Mary ...”
But as soon as he heard his own voice, he took fright. He reached the threshold with one bound, strode hurriedly across the courtyard and unbolted the door.
And then—jolting up from her mattress and throwing off the sheets—then Mary Magdalene began to weep.
THE MONASTERY lay perched in the desert beyond the lake of Gennesaret, built of ash-red stones and wedged in and hidden between huge ash-red rocks. Midnight. ... Out of the sky the waters fell, not in drops, but in floods. The hyenas, wolves and jackals howled, as did a pair of lions farther away—infuriated by the repeated thunderclaps. Plunged in impenetrable darkness, the monastery was frequently striped by the lightning flashes: the God of Sinai seemed to be flogging it. The monks were fallen face downward in their cells, beseeching Adonai not to drown the earth once more. Hadn’t he given his word to the patriarch Noah? Hadn’t he stretched a rainbow from earth to heaven as a sign of friendship?
The only light was in the Abbot’s cell. Joachim, the Abbot, sat beneath the seven-branched candelabrum in his elevated stall of cypress wood and listened—skinny, short of breath, his white beard like a river, his arms crossed, eyes closed—listened to John, the young novice, who stood at the lectern and read to him from the prophet Daniel.
“’A night vision fell upon me. I saw the four winds of heaven bound over the Great Sea. And four large beasts came up out of the sea and the one did not resemble the other. The first was like a lion and had the wings of an eagle. I beheld it until its wings were uprooted and it was made to stand upright on its feet like a man; and a man’s heart was wedged into its breast. And behold, there emerged a second beast and it resembled a bear; and someone said to it, Arise, devour much flesh. I looked and lo, a third beast. It resembled a leopard and had four wings on its back, like a bird. This beast had four heads, and dominion was given to it ...’ ”
The novice felt uneasy and stopped. He no longer heard the Abbot sigh or drive his nails with agitation into the stall; no longer even heard him breathe. Could he have died? For days and days now he had refused to put food into his mouth. He was angry with God and wanted to die. He wanted to die—that he made absolutely clear to the brothers—so that his soul might be unburdened of the body, might be relieved of this weight and enabled to ascend to heaven in order to find God. He had a complaint to settle with him: it was necessary for him to see him and talk to him. But the body was lead; it prevented his ascent. He decided, therefore, to send it about its business, to abandon it in the grave so that the true Joach
im could ascend to heaven and tell God his grievance. This was his duty. Wasn’t he one of the Fathers of Israel? The people had mouths, but no voice. They could not stand in front of God and relate their suffering. But Joachim could; he had no choice!
The novice turned and looked. Beneath the seven flames the Abbot’s head, pitted like old, worm-eaten wood, roughened by the sun and fasting: how it resembled the primordial rain-washed skulls of beasts which caravans sometimes encountered in the desert! What visions that head had seen, how many times heaven had opened up before it, how many times the bowels of hell! His mind was a Jacob’s ladder on which all of Israel’s anxieties and hopes climbed up and down.
Opening his eyes, the Abbot saw the novice standing before him, deathly pale. In the light of the menorah the blond fuzz on his cheeks glowed in all its virginity, and his eyes, swept away far into the distance, were full of affliction.
The Abbot’s severe expression sweetened. He loved this well-formed youth whom he had snatched from old Zebedee, his father, and brought here to be delivered up to God. He liked his submissiveness and ferocity, the silent lips and insatiable eyes, his sweetness and quick intelligence. One day, he reflected, this boy will speak with God, will do what I could not do; and the two wounds which I have on my shoulders, he will transform into wings. I did not rise to heaven during my lifetime, but he will during his.
The boy had come to the monastery once with his parents. It was to celebrate the Passover. The Abbot, a distant relation of old Zebedee’s, received them merrily and sat them at his own table. John was about sixteen years old at the time. While he ate, bent over his food, he felt the Abbot’s eye fall upon his scalp, push aside the bones, pass through the suture lines of his skull, into the brain. Terrified, he looked up, and the two glances joined in mid-air over the paschal table. From that day on, neither fishing boats nor the lake of Gennesaret had been large enough for the boy. He sighed and withered away until one morning old Zebedee grew weary and shouted, “Your mind isn’t on the fishing; it’s on God. Well, go on, go to the monastery. I had two sons. God willed that I divide them with him, so let’s divide them and be done with it—and let him have his way!”
The Abbot gazed at the boy who stood before him. He had intended to scold him, but as he looked at him, his expression sweetened. “Why did you stop, my child?” he asked. “You abandoned the vision in the middle. One mustn’t do that. He’s a prophet, and prophets must be revered.”
The boy turned fiery red, rolled the leathern scroll out on the lectern once more, and began again, chanting on one invariable note, to read: “ ‘After this I saw in my night visions a fourth beast, dreadful and sinister and terribly strong; and it had great iron teeth. It devoured and broke in pieces, and trampled the remainder with its feet. It did not resemble any of the other beasts; and it had ten horns—’ ”
“Stop!” shouted the Abbot. “That’s enough!”
The cry frightened the boy, and the sacred text rolled down onto the flagstones. He picked it up, placed his lips to it and kissed it; then went and stood in the corner, his eyes riveted on his superior. The Abbot, his fingernails now clawed into the stall, was shouting. “Daniel, all your prophecies have been fulfilled. The four beasts have passed over us. The lion with the wings of the eagle came and tore us open, the bear who feeds on Hebrew flesh came and ate us, the four-headed leopard came and bit us, east, west, north and south. The shameful beast with the iron teeth and the ten horns sits now above us: he has not come yet, has not fled. All the ignominy and fear you prophesied you would send us, Lord, you have sent—and we thank you! But you prophesied good things too. Why haven’t you sent those? Why are you so tight-fisted where they are concerned? You’ve given us a liberal supply of calamities; now give us generously of your benefits! Where is the son of man you promised us? ... John, read!”
The boy moved away from the corner where he had been standing with the scroll under his shirt. Going up to the lectern, he began again to read. But his voice, like his superior’s, had now grown fierce.
“ ‘I looked in my night visions and, behold, one like a son of man came upon the clouds of heaven and approached the Ancient of days, and was brought near to him. And to him was given dominion and glory and the kingdom, and all peoples, nations and men of all tongues served him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion, that shall never end; and his kingdom is indestructible.’ ”
The Abbot, unable to restrain himself any longer, left his stall, took one step, then one more, reached the lectern, tripped and was about to fall, but managed to put his palm heavily down on the holy manuscript and steady himself.
“Where is the son of man you promised us? Did you give us your word or didn’t you? You can’t deny it—here it is in writing!” He banged his hand angrily, exultantly, on the prophecy. “Here it is in writing! John, read it again!”
But the Abbot could not wait. Before the novice had time to start, he seized the scripture, lifted it high into the light and began, without looking, to cry out in a triumphant voice: “’To him was given dominion and glory and the kingdom, and all peoples, nations and men of all tongues served him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion, that shall never end; and his kingdom is indestructible.’ ”
He left the scroll open on the lectern and looked through the window at the darkness outside.
“Well, where is the son of man?” he shouted, gazing into the blackness. “He isn’t yours any more, seeing that you promised him to us—he’s ours! Well, where is he? Why don’t you give him dominion, glory and the kingdom so that your people, the people of Israel, can govern the whole universe? Our necks are stiff from watching the sky and waiting for it to open. When, when? Yes—why do you harp on it—we know well enough that one second for you is a thousand years for men. All right, but if you’re just, Lord, you’ll measure the time with man’s measure, not with yours. That’s what justice means!”
He started toward the window, but his knees sagged and he halted and thrust out his hands as though he wanted to steady himself on the air. The boy ran to support him, but the Abbot grew angry and nodded to him not to touch him. Calling up all his strength, he reached the window, leaned against the wall, extended his head as far as he could, and looked out. Darkness. ... The flashes of lightning were fewer now, but the waters still thundered down upon the rocks which flanked the monastery. Every time the cacti were hit by lightning they seemed to whirl about and be transformed: they became a nation of cripples with the leprous stumps of their arms lifted toward the sky.
Tensing body and soul, the Abbot listened. From far in the distance came the howling of the wild game of the desert. The animals were not hungry; they were afraid. Close by, almost on top of them, a beast wrapped in fire and whirlwind bellowed and approached in the darkness. The Abbot listened to the voices of the desert and as he listened suddenly he shuddered and turned. Some invisible being had entered his cell! He looked. The seven flames of the candelabrum flickered turbulently and were on the point of going out; the nine strings of the harp, which was leaning unused in a corner, vibrated wildly, as though some invisible hand had seized them in a fury in order to snap them. The Abbot began to tremble.
“John,” he said softly, looking around him, “come here, close to me.”
The boy flew out of his corner and approached.
“Command me, Father,” he said, and he placed his knees on the ground, to prostrate himself.
“John, go and call the monks. I have something to tell them before I depart.”
“Before you depart, Father?”
The boy shuddered. Two large black wings, beating in back of the old man, had caught his eye.
“I’m going,” said the Abbot, and his voice suddenly seemed to come from beyond the other shore, “I’m going! Didn’t you see the seven flames lurch and draw away from their wicks? Didn’t you hear the nine strings of the harp vibrate madly, ready to snap? I’m going, John. Run and call the monks. I want to speak to them.”
The
boy bowed his head and disappeared. The Abbot remained standing in the middle of the cell under the seven-branched candelabrum. Now at last he was alone with God: he could speak his mind freely, with no fear of being overheard. He lifted his head calmly; he knew that God stood before him.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said to him. “Why do you enter my cell, why do you try to put out the light, shatter the harp and capture me? I’m coming, and not only of your will, but of my own. I’m coming. I hold in my hands the tables on which the complaints of my people are written. I want to see you and speak to you. I know you don’t listen or at least pretend you don’t listen, but I shall bang on your door until you open, and if you don’t open (nobody’s here now to hear me, so I’ll speak freely), if you don’t open your door, I shall break it down! You’re fierce, you love fierce people—they alone you name your sons. Until now we have wept, prostrated ourselves and said, Your will be done! But we cannot last any longer, Lord. How long are we going to wait? You are fierce, you love fierce people—we shall become fierce. Our wills be done now—ours!”
As the Abbot spoke he kept his ear tensed so that he could hear whatever was in the air. But the rain had abated, the thunder had retreated into the distance—the claps were muffled and came from the east, far away over the desert. The seven flames burned steadily above the old man’s white head.