“It’s my fault, mine! mine!” the son of Mary cried, beating his chest. “And if it were only this!” he continued after a moment. “But ever since my childhood, Rabbi, I’ve not only kept the devil of fornication hidden deeply within me but also the devil of arrogance. Even when I was tiny—I could hardly walk at the time; I used to go along the wall, clinging to it to keep myself from falling—even then I shouted to myself—oh, what impudence! what impudence!—‘God, make me God! God, make me God! God, make me God!’ And one day I was holding a large bunch of grapes in my arms, and a gypsy woman passed by. She came over to me, squatted, and took my hand. ‘Give me the grapes,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell you your fortune.’ I gave them to her. She bent over and looked at my palm. ‘Oh, oh,’ she cried, ‘I see crosses—crosses and stars.’ Then she laughed. ‘You’ll become King of the Jews!’ she said, and went away. But I believed her and swaggered; and ever since then, Uncle Simeon, I haven’t been in my right mind. You’re the first person I’ve told, Uncle Simeon—until now I hadn’t confessed it to a soul: ever since that day I haven’t been in my right mind.”
He was quiet for a moment, but then: “I am Lucifer!” he screamed. “Me! Me!”
The rabbi unwedged his head from between his knees and clamped his hand over the young man’s mouth.
“Be still!” he ordered.
“No, I won’t be still!” said the overwrought youth. “Now I’ve started, and it’s too late. I won’t be still! I’m a liar, a hypocrite, I’m afraid of my own shadow, I never tell the truth—I don’t have the courage. When I see a woman go by, I blush and lower my head, but my eyes fill with lust. I never lift my hand to plunder or to thrash or kill—not because I don’t want to but because I’m afraid. I want to rebel against my mother, the centurion, God—but I’m afraid. Afraid! Afraid! If you look inside me, you’ll see Fear, a trembling rabbit, sitting in my bowels—Fear, nothing else. That is my father, my mother and my God.”
The old rabbi took the youth’s hands and held them in his own, in order to calm him. But Jesus’ body was quivering convulsively. “Do not be frightened, my child,” the rabbi said, comforting him. “The more devils we have within us, the more chance we have to form angels. ‘Angel’ is the name we give to repentant devils—so have faith. ... But I would like to ask you just one thing more: Jesus, have you ever slept with a woman?”
“No,” the youth answered softly.
“And you don’t want to?”
The youth blushed and did not breathe a word, but the blood was throbbing wildly at his temples.
“You don’t want to?” the old man asked once more.
“I do,” the youth answered, so softly that the rabbi could hardly hear.
But all at once he gave a start as though he had just waked up, and cried, “No, I don’t, I don’t!”
“Why not?” asked the rabbi, who could find no other cure for the youth’s pain. He knew from his own experience and from the multitudes of those possessed with demons who came to him cursing, frothing at the mouth and screaming that the world was too small for them: they married, and suddenly the world was no longer too small; they had children, and grew calm.
“It’s not enough for me,” the youth said in a steady voice. “I need something bigger.”
“Not enough for you?” exclaimed the rabbi with surprise. “Well, then, what do you want?”
Proud-gaited, high-rumped Magdalene passed through the youth’s mind, her breasts exposed, her eyes, lips and cheeks covered with make-up. She laughed and her teeth flashed in the sunlight; but as she wriggled up and down before him, her body changed, multiplied, and the son of Mary now saw a lake, which must have been the lake of Gennesaret, and around it thousands of men and women—thousands of Magdalenes—with happy, uplifted faces, and the sun fell upon them and they gleamed. But no, it was not the sun, it was himself, Jesus of Nazareth, who was bent over those faces and causing them to overflow with splendor. Whether from joy, desire or salvation he could not distinguish: all he saw was the splendor.
“What are you thinking about?” asked the rabbi. “Why don’t you answer me?”
The young man burst out, asking abruptly, “Do you believe in dreams, Uncle Simeon? I do; I believe in nothing else. One night I dreamed that invisible enemies had me tied to a dead cypress. Long red arrows were sticking into me from my head to my feet, and the blood was flowing. On my head they had placed a crown of thorns, and intertwined with the thorns were fiery letters which said: ‘Saint Blasphemer.’ I am Saint Blasphemer, Rabbi Simeon. So you’d better not ask me anything else, or I’ll start my blasphemies.”
“Go ahead, my child—start,” the rabbi said tranquilly, again taking hold of his hand. “Start your blasphemies and relieve yourself.”
“There’s a devil inside me which cries, ‘You’re not the son of the Carpenter, you’re the son of King David! You are not a man, you are the son of man whom Daniel prophesied. And still more: the son of God! And still more: God!’ ”
The rabbi listened, bowed over, and shudders passed through his ramshackle body. The youth’s chapped lips were rimmed with froth; his tongue adhered to his palate: he could no longer speak. But what else was he to say? He had already said everything; he felt that his heart had been drained. Jerking his hands free of the rabbi’s grip, he got up. Then he turned to the old man. “Have you anything else to ask?” he said sarcastically.
“No,” replied the old man, who felt all the strength flow out of him into the earth and perish. In his lifetime he had extracted many devils from the mouths of men. The possessed came from the ends of the earth and he cured them. Their devils, however, were small, and easy: devils of the bath, of anger, of sickness. But now ... How could he wrestle with a devil like this?
Outside, the wind of Jehovah still beat on the door, trying to enter. There was no other sound. Not a jackal on the earth, nor a crow in the air. Every living thing cowered in fear, waiting for the Lord’s anger to pass.
THE SON of Mary leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. His mouth was bitter, poisonously bitter. The rabbi, his head once more wedged between his knees, meditated on hell and devils and the heart of man. ... No, hell with its devils was not in the great pit below the earth; it was in the breasts of men, in the breast of the most virtuous, the most just. God was an abyss, man was an abyss—and the old rabbi did not dare open his heart to see what lay within.
They did not speak for some time. Deep silence. ... Even the two black dogs had fallen asleep: they had grown tired of lamenting the deceased. Suddenly there was a sweet, piercing hiss from the yard. The half-mad Jeroboam jumped up, the first to hear it. The wind of Jehovah was always accompanied by this sweet hissing in the yard, and the monk bounded with delight whenever the sound reached his ears. The sun was setting, but the entire yard was still bathed in light, and on the flagstones next to the dried-up well, the monk’s eyes perceived a large snake, black with yellow patterns, lifting its swelled neck, vibrating its tongue, and hissing. Never in his life had Jeroboam heard a flute more seductive than this snaky throat. Now and then in the summertime, when he too dreamed of a woman, she appeared to him like this, like a snake which slid over the mat where he slept, put its tongue in his ear, and hissed. ...
Tonight Jeroboam had once more flown out of his cell, and now, holding his breath, he approached the enflamed snake. It piped; he looked at it, and began to pipe also and to feel the snake’s warmth pass into his body. Then, little by little, other snakes emerged from the dried-up well or out of the sand, or from around the cacti: one with a blue hood, another green with two horns, others yellow, dappled, black. ... Quickly, like water, they slid forward and joined the first snake, the decoy; they strung themselves all together, rubbed one against the next, licked each other: a snaky cluster of grapes hung in the middle of the yard, and Jeroboam opened his mouth and drooled. This is sex, he reflected. Men and women couple like this, and that is why God banished us from Paradise. ... His humped, unkissed body swayed back
and forth in time with the snakes.
The rabbi heard the enticing sound, raised his head, and listened. God’s fiery wind blows, he said to himself, and right in the middle of it, the snakes mate. The Lord puffs and wants to incinerate the world, and up come the snakes to make love! For a moment the old man’s mind succumbed to the enticement and wandered. But suddenly he shuddered. Everything is of God, he reflected; everything has two meanings, one manifest, one hidden. The common people comprehend only what is manifest. They say, “This is a snake,” and their minds go no further; but the mind which dwells in God sees what lies behind the visible, sees the hidden meaning. These snakes which crept out today in front of the doors of this cell and began to hiss at precisely this moment, just after the son of Mary’s confession, must assuredly have a deep, concealed meaning. But what is that meaning?
He rolled up into a ball on the ground, his temples throbbing. What was the meaning? Cold sweat flowed over his sun-baked face. Sometimes he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the pale youth next to him; sometimes, with eyes closed and mouth opened, he listened intently to the snakes outside. What was the meaning?
He had learned the language of the birds from the great exorcist Josaphat, his former superior, who was Abbot when he came to the monastery to become a monk. He could interpret the sayings of swallows, doves and eagles. Josaphat had also promised to teach him the language of the snakes, but he died and took the secret with him. These snakes tonight were doubtless bringing a message, but what was that message?
He rolled himself up again and squeezed his head between his hands: his mind was jingling. He writhed and sighed for a considerable time and felt white and black thunderbolts tear through his brain. What was the meaning? What was the message? Suddenly he uttered a cry. He got up from the ground, took the Abbot’s crosier and leaned on it.
“Jesus,” he said in a low voice, “how does your heart feel?”
But the youth did not hear. He was plunged in unspeakable exultation. Tonight, after so many years, tonight, the night he had decided to confess and speak out, he was able for the first time to look into the darkness of his heart and distinguish, one by one, the serpents which were hissing within him. He gave them names, and as he did so, it seemed to him that they issued from his bowels and slid away outside, relieving him.
“Jesus, how does your heart feel?” the old man asked again. “Is it relieved?” He leaned over and took him by the hand. “Come,” he said tenderly, and he put his finger to his lips.
He opened the door. He held Jesus by the hand, and they crossed the threshold. The audacious snakes, glued one to the next and holding on to the earth with nothing but their tails, had risen in the middle of the fiery swirl of sand and were dancing in a row, completely at the mercy of God’s wind; and from time to time they stiffened and ceased moving, exhausted.
The son of Mary recoiled at the sight of them, but the rabbi squeezed his hand, held out the crosier and touched the edge of the snaky cluster.
“Here they are,” he said softly, watching the youth and smiling. “They’ve fled.”
“Fled?” asked the youth, perplexed. “Fled from where?”
“You feel your heart unburdened, don’t you? They have fled from your heart.”
The son of Mary stared with protruding eyes first at the rabbi, who was smiling at him, then at the snakes, which, all in a clump, were now transferring themselves in a dance toward the dried-up well. He put his hand to his heart and felt it beating quickly, elatedly.
“Let’s go inside,” said the rabbi, taking him again by the hand. They entered and the rabbi closed the door.
“Glory be to God,” he exclaimed with emotion. He looked at the son of Mary and felt strangely troubled.
This is a miracle, he said to himself. The life of this boy who stands before me is nothing but miracles. ... At one moment he wanted to hold his hands over Jesus’ head and bless him, at the next to stoop and kiss his feet. But he restrained himself. Had not God deceived him time after time until now? How many times, as he heard the prophets who had come forth lately from mountainside or desert, had he said, “This one is the Messiah”? But God deceived him each time, and the rabbi’s heart, which was ready to blossom, always remained a flowerless stump. So, he restrained himself. ... I must test him first, he thought. Those were the serpents which were devouring him. They have fled and he has been cleansed. He is capable now of rising. He will speak to men—and then we shall see.
The door opened, and in came Jeroboam the guest master with the two visitors’ meager supper of barley bread, olives and milk. He turned to Jesus. “I laid your sleeping mat in another cell tonight so that you could have company.”
But the minds of the two visitors were far away, and they did not hear. The snakes could be heard again, from the bottom of the well. They were piping, piping and gasping for breath.
“They’re getting married,” said the monk, giggling. “The wind of God blows, and they—a plague on them!—they don’t get scared; they get married!”
He looked at the old man and winked, but the rabbi had begun to dip his bread into the milk and to chew. He wanted to gain strength, to transform the bread, olives and milk into intelligence so that he could speak to the son of Mary. The stunted hunchback eyed first the one, then the other, got bored, and left.
The two sat cross-legged facing each other, and ate in silence. The cell had grown dim. The stools, the Abbot’s stall and the lectern, with the prophet Daniel still opened upon it, gleamed fuzzily in the darkness. The air of the cell still smelt of sweet incense. Outside, the wind grew calm.
“The wind has subsided,” the rabbi said at one point. “God has come and gone.”
The youth did not reply. They’ve left, they’ve left, he was thinking; the serpents have fled from within me. Perhaps that is just what God wanted, perhaps that is why he brought me here to the desert: to be cured. He blew, the serpents heard him, came out of my heart and fled. Glory be to God!
Having finished eating, the rabbi lifted his hands and gave thanks to God. Then he turned to his companion. “Jesus, where is your mind? I am the rabbi of Nazareth, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, Uncle Simeon,” said the youth, coming out of his great torpor with a start.
“The hour is here, my child. Are you ready?”
“Ready? Ready for what?” asked Jesus, shuddering.
“You know very well—why do you ask me? Ready to stand up and speak.”
“To whom?”
“To mankind.”
“To say what?”
“Don’t worry about that. You just open your mouth; God seeks nothing more from you. Do you love mankind?”
“I don’t know. I see men and feel sorry for them, nothing else.”
“That’s enough, my child, that’s enough. Rise up and speak to them. Your sorrows may then be multiplied, but theirs will be relieved. Perhaps that is why God sent you into the world. We shall see!”
“Perhaps that is why God sent me into the world?” the youth repeated. “How do you know, Father?” His soul left his body and hung on tenterhooks, awaiting the response.
“I don’t. No one told me; but still, it’s possible. I’ve seen signs. Once when you were a boy you took some clay and fashioned a bird. While you caressed it and talked to it, it seemed to me that this bird of clay grew wings and flew out of your grasp. It’s possible that this clay bird is the soul of man, Jesus, my child—the soul of man in your hands.”
The youth got up and carefully opened the door. Putting out his head, he listened. The snakes were completely silent now—at last. Pleased, he turned to the old rabbi. “Give me your blessing, Father, and do not say anything else to me. You’ve spoken quite enough; I cannot bear to hear more.”
And after a pause: “I’m tired, Uncle Simeon. I’m going to bed. Sometimes God comes during the night and explains the events of the day. ... Sleep well, Uncle Simeon.”
The guest master was waiting for him outside the
door.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll show you where I put your bed. What’s your name, my fine lad?”
“Son of the Carpenter.”
“Mine’s Jeroboam. I’m also called Brother Crackbrain, and also The Hunchback. So what! I keep my nose to the grindstone and gnaw the dry crust which God gave me.”
“What dry crust?”
The hunchback laughed. “Don’t you understand, nitwit? My soul! And as soon as I get done—good night, pleasant dreams—along comes Charon and starts gnawing on me!”
He halted and opened a tiny squat door.
“Enter,” he said. “There—in the back corner, to the left—your mat!” Guffawing, he pushed him through the doorway. “Sleep well, my fine lad, and pleasant dreams. But never fear, you’ll dream about women—it’s in the monastery air.”
Splitting with laughter, he shut the door with a thunderous bang.
The son of Mary did not move. Darkness. ... At first he distinguished nothing, but little by little half-transparent whitewashed walls began ever so imperceptibly to appear; a jug glittered in a niche along the wall; and in the corner, riveted upon him, were two sparking eyes.