Now night will come, the son of Mary reflected; now God’s black daughter will arrive with her caravan of stars; and before the stars had a chance to come out and fill the sky, they filled his mind.
He had already begun to get ready to rise and resume his journey when he heard a horn behind him. A passer-by was calling him by name. He turned and in the thin light of the evening discerned someone signaling to him and mounting the slope, loaded down with an immense bundle. Who can it be? he asked himself, struggling to make out the wayfarer’s features beneath the bundle. Somewhere he had seen that pale face and short, scanty beard and those thin, crooked shanks before. Suddenly he cried out, “Is that you, Thomas? Have you started your circuit of the villages again?”
The wily, cross-eyed peddler stood in front of him now, panting. He placed his bundle on the ground and sponged the sweat from his pointed forehead and the tiny wry eyes whose ambivalent dance left you unable to tell whether they were rejoicing or scoffing.
The son of Mary liked him very much. He often saw him pass by his workshop on his way back from his rounds, the horn thrust under his belt. He would throw his bundle down on a bench and begin to talk about everything he had seen. He sneered, he laughed, he teased; he had faith neither in the God of Israel nor in any other god. They all jeer at us, he would say; they all jeer at us to make us slaughter kids for them, burn them sweet incense and shout ourselves hoarse hymning their beauty. ... The son of Mary listened to him, and his constricted heart relaxed a little: he admired this roguish mind which, despite all its poverty and all the slavery and misery of its race, found strength to conquer the slavery and the poverty by means of laughter and mockery.
And Thomas the peddler liked the son of Mary. He looked upon him as a naïve sheep, sickly and bleating, seeking God in order to hide behind his shadow.
“You’re a sheep, son of Mary,” he said to him regularly, splitting with laughter, “but you’ve got a wolf inside you, and this wolf is going to eat you up!” Then from under his shirt he would take a handful of dates or a pomegranate or an apple he had stolen from the orchard, and treat him.
“It’s good to see you,” he said now, as soon as he had caught his breath. “God loves you. Where are you going?”
“To the monastery,” Jesus replied, pointing toward the lake.
“Well, then, it’s doubly good to see you. Turn back!”
“Why? God—”
But Thomas exploded. “Do me a favor and don’t start up again about God. Where he’s concerned there are no boundaries. You walk all your life, this one and the next, trying to reach him, but the blessed fellow has no end. So forget about him and don’t mix him up in our affairs. Listen to me: here we’ve got to deal with man—with dishonest, seven-times-shrewd man. To begin with, watch out for Judas the redbeard. Before I left Nazareth I saw him whispering with the mother of the crucified Zealot, then with Barabbas and two or three other knife-wielding cronies of his from the brotherhood. I heard them mention your name, so watch out, son of Mary: don’t go to the monastery.”
But Jesus bowed his head. “Every living thing is in God’s hands. He decides whom he wants to save, whom he wants to slay. What resistance can we offer? I shall go, and may God help me!”
“You’ll go?” shouted Thomas in a rage. “But right now, right now as we talk, Judas is at the monastery with his knife hidden under his shirt. Do you carry a knife?”
The son of Mary shuddered. “No,” he said. “What use should I have for one?”
Thomas laughed. “Sheep ... sheep ... sheep ...” he murmured. He picked up his bundle. “Farewell. Do what you like. I tell you to turn back, and you say, ‘I shall go!’ All right, go—and kick yourself afterward when it’s too late!”
With a twinkle in his tiny wry eyes he started back down the slope, whistling.
The night now fell in earnest. The ground darkened, the lake sank away; in Capernaum the first lamps were lighted. The birds of the day had already buried their heads in their wings and gone to sleep; the night birds, awakening, began to go out on the hunt.
This is a holy hour, a good time to leave, thought the son of Mary. No one will see me—so let’s be off!
He recalled Thomas’s words.
“Whatever God wills, that is what will happen,” he murmured. “If God is the one who’s pushing me to go find my murderer, then let me go quickly and be killed. That, at least, I am able to do, and I’m doing it.” He turned and looked behind him.
“Let’s go,” he said to his invisible companion, and he set out toward the lake.
The night was sweet, warm, damp; a gentle wind blew from the south. Capernaum smelled of fish and jasmine. Old Zebedee sat in the courtyard of his house with his wife Salome, under the large almond tree. They had finished their meal and were chatting. Inside, their son Jacob twisted and turned on his mattress. Tangled up in his mind and infuriating his heart were the crucified Zealot, the new injustice God had done the people in taking their wheat, and the son of Mary, who had sold himself as a spy. These thoughts did not let him sleep; and his father’s chattering outside infuriated him that much more. Boiling over with rage, he jumped to his feet, went out into the yard and strode across the threshold.
“Where are you going?” his mother called to him anxiously.
“To the lake to catch a breath of fresh air,” he growled, and he vanished into the darkness.
Old Zebedee shook his head and sighed.
“The world isn’t what it used to be, wife,” he said. “Today the young folk are too big for their skins. They’re neither birds nor fish; they’re flying fish. The sea is too small for them, so they fly into the air. But they can’t last long there, so they plunge back down into the sea and then start all over again from the beginning. They’ve gone out of their minds. Why, just look at our son John, your darling. I’m for the monastery, he tells us. Prayers, fasting, God ... The fishing boat looks much too narrow to him—he can’t possibly fit in. And now here’s the other one, Jacob, whom I thought had some sense in his head. Mark my words: he’s fixed the rudder in the same direction. Didn’t you see tonight how he got all heated up, ready to burst, and how the house was too small for him? All right, it doesn’t matter to me, but who’s going to look after my boats and the men? Is all my toil going to go to waste? Wife, I’m troubled; bring me a little wine and a snack of octopus to restore my spirits.”
Old Salome played deaf. Her old husband had drunk quite enough already. She tried to change the subject. “They’re young,” she said. “Don’t let it worry you; it will blow over.”
“By gad, wife, you’re right! You’ve a fertile head on your shoulders. Why do I sit here getting a headache? That’s it: they’re young, it will blow over. Youth is a sickness; it passes. When I was young there were times when I too got all heated up and twisted and turned on my bed. I thought I was looking for God, but I was really looking for a wife—for you, Salome! I got married and calmed down. Our sons will do the same, so don’t give it another thought! I’m content now. ... Wife, bring me a snack and some octopus; and bring me a bit of wine, dear Salome—I want to drink to your health!”
In the adjoining neighborhood, a little farther on, old Jonah sat all alone in his cottage and mended his nets by the light of the lamp. He mended and mended, but his mind and thoughts were not on his dear departed wife, who had died at this time a year before, nor on his halfwit of a son Andrew, nor on that prize cow-brained nitwit, his other son Peter, who still went the rounds of the taverns of Nazareth, having left his father high and dry, old man that he was, to wrestle all alone with the fish. No, he was thinking of Zebedee’s words and laboring under a great inquietude. Perhaps he really was the prophet Jonah. He looked at his hands, feet, thighs: all scales. Even his breath and sweat smelled of fish, and now he remembered that the other day when he wept on account of his wife, his tears had smelled of fish too. And sly old Zebedee was right about the crabs: once in a while he found some in his beard. ... Perhaps he was the prop
het Jonah after all. Ah! that explained why he was never in the mood to talk, why the words had to be dragged out of him with a grapnel, why he always stumbled and tripped when he walked on dry land. But when he plunged into the lake: what a relief that was, what joy! The water lifted him up in its bosom, caressed him, licked him, purred in his ear and spoke to him; and he, like the fish, answered it without words, and bubbles came out of his mouth!
I’m the prophet Jonah, without a doubt, he said to himself. I’ve been resurrected—the shark vomited me up again. But this time I’ve got a little sense in my head: I’m a prophet, all right, but I pretend to be a fisherman and don’t breathe a word to anyone; I don’t want to find myself in hot water all over again. ... He smiled with satisfaction at his own cunning. I managed it beautifully, he reflected. Look how many years no one got wind of it, not even me, until that devilish Zebedee came along. Well, it’s a good thing he opened my eyes.
He left his tools on the floor, rubbed his hands together with satisfaction, opened a cupboard, took out a gourdful of wine, tipped up his short, fat, scaly throat and began to drink, chuckling.
While the two contented old men drank in Capernaum, the son of Mary journeyed along the shore of the lake, plunged deep in thought. He was not all alone: behind him he heard the sand crunching. In Magdalene’s yard new merchants had dismounted and were now sitting cross-legged on the pebbles. They conversed quietly and munched dates and grilled crabs while they awaited their turns. At the monastery the monks had laid the Abbot out in the middle of his cell and were keeping the vigil. He still breathed; his protruding eyes stared at the opened door and his emaciated face was tensed: he seemed to be straining to hear something.
The monks looked at him and whispered among themselves.
“He’s trying to hear whether or not the rabbi has arrived from Nazareth to cure him.”
“He’s trying to hear whether or not the black wings of the archangel are coming near.”
“He’s trying to hear the footsteps of the approaching Messiah.”
They whispered and looked at him, and the soul of each was prepared at that hour to welcome the miracle. They all strained their ears, but they heard nothing except the heavy blows of a hammer on the anvil. In the far corner of the courtyard Judas had lighted his fires and was working through the night.
FAR AWAY in Nazareth, Mary the wife of Joseph sat in her simple cottage. The lamp was lighted, the door open. Hurriedly, she wound up the wool which she had spun. She had decided to rise and comb the villages in search of her boy. She wound and wound, but her mind was not on her work. Lonely and hopeless, it roamed the fields, visited Magdala and Capernaum, searched all around the shore of the lake of Gennesaret. She was seeking her son. He had run away again; once more God had prodded him with his ox-goad. Doesn’t he pity him, she asked herself, doesn’t he pity me? What have we done to him? Is this the joy and glory he promised us? Why, God, was it Joseph’s staff which you made blossom, forcing me to marry an old man? Why did you cast your thunderbolt and plant in my womb this daydreamer, this night-walker of an only son? The whole time I was pregnant the neighbors came and admired me. “Mary, you are blessed above all women,” they said. I had blossomed; I was an almond tree covered with flowers from the roots to the highest branches. “Who is this flowering almond?” the passing merchants used to ask, and they stopped their caravans, got off their camels and filled my lap with gifts. Then, suddenly, a wind blew and I was stripped bare. I fold my arms over my fallow breasts. Lord, your will has been done: you made me blossom, you blew, the petals fell away. Is there no hope I may blossom again, Lord?
Is there no hope my heart may grow calm? her son asked himself early the next morning. He had gone around the lake and now he saw the monastery opposite him, wedged in among green-red rocks. As I proceed and near the monastery, my heart becomes more and more troubled. Why? Haven’t I taken the right road, Lord? It’s toward this holy retreat you’ve been pushing me, isn’t it? Why then do you refuse to extend your hand and gladden my heart?
Two monks dressed all in white appeared at the monastery’s large door. They climbed up onto a rock and gazed out in the direction of Capernaum.
“Still no sign,” said one of them, a half-crazy hunchback with a behind which nearly scraped the ground.
“He’ll be dead by the time they arrive,” said the other, a huge elephant of a man whose mouth, a shark-like slit, reached fully to his ears. “Go ahead, Jeroboam, I’ll keep on the look-out here until the camel appears.”
“Fine,” said the delighted hunchback, sliding down from the rock. “I’ll go and watch him die.”
The son of Mary stood irresolutely on the monastery’s threshold, his heart oscillating like a bell: should he enter or not? The cloister was circular and paved with flagstones. Not a single green tree graced the courtyard, not a flower, not a bird: only wild prickly pears all around. Along the circumference of this round, inhuman desolation were the cells, carved into the rock like tombs.
Is this the kingdom of heaven? the son of Mary asked himself. Is this where man’s heart grows calm?
He looked and looked, unable to decide to cross the threshold. Two black sheep dogs flew out of a corner and began to bark at him.
The stunted hunchback noticed the visitor and silenced the dogs with a whistle. Then he turned and scrutinized the newcomer from top to toe. The young man’s eyes seemed full of affliction to him, the clothes he wore were very poor, and blood trickled from his feet. He felt sorry for him.
“Welcome, brother,” he said. “What wind has tossed you out here into the desert?”
“God!” the son of Mary answered in a deep, despairing voice. The monk got frightened: he had never heard human lips pronounce God’s name with such terror. Folding his arms, he said nothing.
After a short pause, the visitor continued. “I’ve come to see the Abbot.”
“Maybe you’ll see him, but he won’t see you. What do you want with him?”
“I don’t know. I had a dream. ... I’ve come from Nazareth.”
“A dream?” said the half-crazy monk with a laugh.
“A terrible dream, Father. Since then my heart has had no peace. The Abbot is a saint; God taught him how to explain the languages of birds and dreams. That is why I came.”
It had never entered his mind to come to this monastery to ask the Abbot to explain the dream he had on the night he constructed the cross: that wild chase in his sleep and the redbeard rushing in front and the dwarfs who followed him with their instruments of torture. But now as he stood irresolutely on the threshold, suddenly the dream tore across his mind like a flash of lightning. That’s it! he shouted to himself. I’ve come because of the dream. God sent it in order to show me my road, and the Abbot is going to untangle it for me.
“The Abbot is dying,” said the monk. “You’ve arrived too late, my brother. Go back.”
“God commanded me to come,” the son of Mary replied. “Is he capable of hoaxing his children?”
The monk cackled. He had seen a good deal in his lifetime and had no confidence in God.
“He’s the Lord, isn’t he? So, he does whatever comes into his head. If he wasn’t able to inflict injustice, what kind of an Omnipotent would he be?”
He slapped the visitor on the back. He meant this slap to be a caress, but his huge paw was heavy, and it hurt the youth.
“All right, don’t get worried,” he said. “Here, step inside. I’m the guest master.”
They entered the cloister. A wind had arisen; the sand swirled over the flagstones. An opaque windstorm girded the sun. The air grew dark.
Gaping in the middle of the yard was a dried-out well. At other times it was filled with water, but now it had become filled with sand. Two lizards emerged to warm themselves on its corroded brim. The Abbot’s cell was open. The monk took his visitor by the arm. “Wait here while I ask the brothers for permission. Don’t budge.” He crossed his hands over his chest and entered. The dogs had placed th
emselves on either side of the Abbot’s threshold. Their necks stretched forward, they sniffed the air and yelped mournfully.
The Abbot lay stretched out in the middle of the cell, his feet toward the door. Around him the waiting monks dozed, exhausted by their all-night vigil. The moribund, stretched out as he was on his mat, kept his face continually tensed and his eyes open, riveted on the gaping doorway. The seven-branched candelabrum was still next to his face. It illuminated the polished arch of his forehead, the insatiable eyes, the hawk-like nose, the pale blue lips and the long white beard which reached his waist and covered the naked, bony chest. The monks had thrown incense kneaded with dried rose petals onto the lighted coals of an earthenward censer, and perfume invaded the air.
The monk entered, forgot why he had done so and squatted on the threshold, between the two dogs.
The sun had the door in its grasp now and was trying to enter to touch the Abbot’s feet. The son of Mary stood outside, waiting. There was no sound save the whining of the two dogs and, in the distance, the slow rhythmic blows of the sledge on the anvil.
The visitor waited and waited. The day advanced; they had forgotten him. There had been a frost during the night, but now as he stood outside the cell he felt the delicious warmth of the morning sun enter his bones.