The Last Temptation of Christ

  Peter looked at the head and licked his chops, but still did not dare put out his hand to remove the eyes and eat them. The Baptist was continually in his mind. The prophet’s eyes had gaped in the same way when they regarded mankind.

  “So, listen,” continued the innkeeper, “and enlighten, as I say, your infinitesimal brains. ... When God finished the world (why did the blessed fellow go to all that trouble anyway?) and washed the mud off his hands, he called all the newborn creatures and proudly asked them, ‘Say, birds and beasts, how do you like the world I built? Do you find anything wrong with it?’ They all straightway began to bleat, bray, moo, meow, and twitter: ‘Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!’

  “ ‘Bless you,’ said God. ‘By my faith, I don’t find a single defect either. My hands deserve congratulations.’ But he glimpsed the cock and the pig, who, heads bowed, were not breathing a word. ‘Halloo, pig!’ shouted God, ‘and you, Your Excellency the cock, why don’t you speak? Maybe the world I created doesn’t please you? Perhaps something is missing?’ But they still did not say a word. The devil, you can be sure, had hissed instructions into their ears: ‘Tell him that something is indeed missing—a low-growing plant which makes grapes that you crush, put in barrels and turn into wine.’

  “ ‘Look here, beasts, why don’t you speak?’ God shouted again, raising his gigantic hand. And then at last the two of them (the devil gave them courage) lifted their heads. ‘Master craftsman, what can we say to you? Congratulations to your hands; your world is fine—touch wood! But it lacks one low-growing plant which makes grapes which you crush, put in barrels and turn into wine.’

  “ ‘Ah, so that’s it! Now I’ll show you, you scoundrels,’ said God in a fit of temper. ‘It’s wine you want from me, is it, and drunkenness and brawls and vomiting? Let the vine be born!’ He rolled up his sleeves, took some mud, fashioned a vine plant, planted it. ‘Whoever overdrinks,’ he said, ‘hear my curse: may he have the mind of a cock and the snout of a pig!’ ”

  The companions burst out laughing, forgot the Baptist and buried their faces in the roast head. Judas was first and foremost. He split the skull in two and filled his hands with lamb brains. When the innkeeper saw the pillage he became frightened. They won’t even leave me a bone, he thought.

  “Say, lads,” he shouted, “it’s fine for you to eat and drink, but don’t forget the late John the Baptist. Ah, his poor head!’ ”

  They all froze with their portions in their hands; and Peter, who had chewed the eye and was getting ready to swallow it, choked. It would be disgusting to swallow it, but such a pity to, spit it out. What should he do? Of them all, only Judas was not bothered. The innkeeper filled the glasses.

  “May his name be long enshrined in our memories. Alas! his poor decapitated head. ... But here’s to yours, lads!”

  “And to yours, you old fox,” said Peter, gulping down the eye.

  “Don’t worry,” answered the innkeeper, “I’m not a bit afraid. I keep my nose out of God’s business and I don’t give a damn about saving the world! I’m an innkeeper, not an angel or archangel like your worships. At least I’ve saved myself from that fate.” With this, he grabbed what was left of the head.

  Peter opened his mouth, but suddenly his breath was taken away: a huge man, wild and pock-marked, had appeared on the threshold and was looking inside. The companions drew back into a corner. Peter hid behind Jacob’s broad shoulders.

  “Barabbas!” growled Judas, scowling. “Come in.”

  Barabbas bent his thick neck and perceived the disciples in the half light. His ugly face laughed sarcastically. “I’m delighted to find you, my lambs. I’ve gone halfway to China to dig you out.”

  The innkeeper got up, grumbling, and brought him a cup.

  “You’re just the one we needed, Captain Barabbas,” he murmured. He bore a grudge against him because every time he came to the tavern he became drunk, began brawls with the Roman soldiers who passed by, and it was the innkeeper who got into trouble. “Don’t start your old tricks again, pig-cock!”

  “Listen, as long as the impure tread the land of Israel, I keep my fists up, so get any other idea out of your head. Bring food, lousy horse-hide!”

  The innkeeper pushed forward the platter of bones. “Eat. You’ve got teeth like a dog’s: they break bones.”

  Barabbas emptied his cup in one gulp, twisted his mustache and turned to the companions. “And where is the good shepherd, my lambs? I have an old account to settle with him.” His eyes were spitting fire.

  “You’re drunk before you even start drinking,” Judas said to him severely. “Your valiant exploits have already caused us enough bother.”

  “What do you have against him?” John dared to ask. “He’s a holy man. When he walks he looks at the ground so that he won’t step on the ants.”

  “So that an ant won’t step on him, you mean. He’s afraid. Is he a man?”

  “He rescued Magdalene from your claws, and now you cry over spilled milk,” Jacob had the courage to say.

  “He crossed me,” Barabbas growled, his eyes growing cloudy, “he crossed me, and he’s going to pay for it!”

  But Judas grabbed him by the arm and took him to one side. He spoke to him softly, hurriedly, with anger. “What business do you have here? Why did you leave the mountains of Galilee? The brotherhood chose them for your hide-out. Others are assigned here in Jerusalem.”

  “Are we fighting for freedom or aren’t we?” Barabbas objected in a rage. “If we are, I’m free to do whatever enters my head. I came to see for myself about this Baptist with his signs and great wonders. Maybe he’s the One we’ve been waiting for, I said to myself. If so, let him come without more delay, take the lead, and begin the slaughter. But I arrived too late. They’d already cut off his head. ... Judas, you’re my leader—what have you got to say?”

  “I say you should get up and leave. Don’t mix in other people’s business.”

  “I should leave? Are you serious? I came because of the Baptist and I hit upon the son of the Carpenter. I’ve been hunting him for ages, and now that God has set him right in front of my nose, you say I should give him up?”

  “Leave!” Judas commanded him. “That’s my business. Don’t stick your hand in it.”

  “What’s your purpose? The brotherhood, for your information, wants him killed. He’s an emissary of the Romans: they pay him to shout about the kingdom of heaven so that the people will be hoaxed into forgetting the earth and our slavery. But you, now ... What’s your purpose?”

  “Nothing. I have my own account to settle. Beat it!”

  Barabbas turned and threw a last glance at the companions, who were listening with cocked ears. “See you soon, my lambs,” he shouted at them maliciously. “No one gets away this easily from Barabbas. You’ll see, we’ll talk the matter over again.” He disappeared in the direction of the David gate.

  The innkeeper winked at Peter. “He’s given him his orders,” he said to him softly. “Call that a brotherhood! They kill one Roman and the Romans kill ten Israelites. Not ten, fifteen! Watch out, lads!”

  He leaned over to Peter and hissed in his ear: “Listen to me: don’t trust Judas Iscariot. These redbeards ...”

  But he stopped. The redbeard had just reseated himself on his stool.

  John was troubled. He got up, stood in the doorway and looked up and down. The teacher was nowhere in sight. The day had begun; the streets were filled with people. Beyond the David gate all was forsaken: pebbles, ashes, not a single green leaf—nothing but standing white stones: tombstones. The air stank from the carcasses of dogs and camels. So much wildness frightened John. Everything here was stone: stone the faces of men, stone their hearts, stone the God they worshiped. Where was the Merciful Father that the teacher had brought them! Oh, when would the beloved master appear so that they could return to Galilee!

  Peter rose. His endurance had given out. “Brothers, let’s go! He won’t come.”

  “I hear him approaching,” whisp
ered John timidly.

  “Where do you hear him, clairvoyant?” said Jacob, who did not care for his brother’s dream phantasies. Like Peter, he was impatient to find the lake and his boats once more. “Where do you hear him, can you tell me?”

  “In my heart,” the younger brother answered. “It is always the first to hear, the first to see.”

  Jacob and Peter shrugged their shoulders, but the innkeeper snapped, “Don’t scoff. The boy is right. I’ve heard say that— Wait, the thing they call Noah’s ark, what do you think it is? Man’s heart, of course! Inside sits God with all his creatures. Everything drowns and goes to the bottom while it alone sails over the waters with its cargo. This heart of man knows everything—yes! don’t laugh—everything!”

  Trumpets blared, a din arose, the people in the streets made way. The companions became suspicious and flew to the door. Beautiful, nimble adolescents were conveying a litter decorated in gold; and lying inside stroking his beard was a blubbery notable, with clothes of silk, golden rings and a face greasy with easy living.

  “Caiaphas, the high goat-priest!” said the innkeeper. “Hold your noses, lads. The first part of the fish to stink is the head.” He squeezed his nostrils and spat. “He’s on his way again to his garden to eat, drink and play with his women and pretty boys. Confound it, if I were only God ... The world hangs from a single thread. I would cut that thread—yes, by my wine!—I would cut it and let the world go to the devil!”

  “Let’s leave,” Peter said again. “It’s not safe here. My heart has eyes and ears too. ‘Leave,’ it shouts to me. ‘Leave, all of you, you miserable creatures!’ ”

  He said that he heard his heart and as he said so he actually did hear it. Terrified, he jumped up and grasped a staff which he found in a corner, Seeing him, the others all jumped up too. His terror was contagious.

  “Simon, you know him. If he comes, tell him we’ve gone off to Galilee,” Peter instructed.

  “And who’s going to pay,” said the innkeeper anxiously. “The head, the wine ...”

  “Do you believe in the next life, Simon of Cyrene?” asked Peter.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, I give you my word I’ll pay you there. If you want, I’ll put it in writing.”

  The innkeeper scratched his head.

  “What? Don’t you believe in the afterlife?” said Peter severely.

  “I believe, Peter. Damn it, I believe—but not quite that much. ...”

  BUT WHILE they were talking, a blue shadow suddenly fell over the threshold. They all recoiled. Jesus stood in the doorway, his feet bloody, his clothes covered with mud, his face unrecognizable. Who was it: the sweet teacher or the savage Baptist? His hair fell in twisted plaits down to his shoulders, his skin was now baked and roughened, his cheeks sunken and his eyes grown so large they invaded his entire face. His forcefully clenched fist, his hair, cheeks and eyes were identical with those of the Baptist. The open-mouthed disciples looked at him silently. Could the two men have joined and become one?

  He killed the Baptist, he ... he ... thought Judas as he stepped aside to let the disquieting newcomer pass. He observed how Jesus strode over the threshold, how he stared at each of them severely, how he bit his lips. ... He’s taken everything from him, everything; he’s plundered his body, Judas reflected. But his soul, his wild words? He’ll talk now, and we shall see. ...

  They were all quiet for some time. The atmosphere of the tavern changed. The innkeeper crouched silently in the corner and stared goggle-eyed at Jesus, who came forward slowly, biting his lips. The veins in his temples had swelled. Suddenly they all heard his wild, hoarse voice. The companions shuddered, for this was not his own voice; it was the voice of the fearful prophet, the Baptist.

  “You were leaving?”

  No one answered. They had formed a bulwark, one behind the other.

  “You were leaving?” he repeated angrily. “Speak, Peter!”

  “Rabbi,” Peter answered in an unsure voice, “John heard your footsteps in his heart and we were just going out to welcome you.”

  Jesus frowned. He was overcome by bitterness and anger, but restrained himself.

  “Let us go,” he said, turning toward the door. He saw Judas, who was standing off to one side looking at him with his hard blue eyes.

  “Are you coming, Judas?” he asked him.

  “I’m with you to the death. You know that.”

  “Not enough! Do you hear—not enough. Till beyond death! ... Let us go!”

  The innkeeper flew out from his cramped position between the wine barrels. “Good luck, lads,” he cried, “and good riddance! Have a nice trip, Galileans, and when the happy time comes and you enter Paradise, don’t forget the wine I treated you to—and the head!”

  “You have my word,” Peter answered him, his face serious and afflicted. He felt ashamed at having lied to the teacher out of fear. Jesus’ angry frown was a sure sign he had detected the lie. He was silently scolding him: Peter, coward, liar, traitor! Confound it, when will you become a man? When will you conquer fear? When will you cease turning—windmill!

  Peter stood in the tavern’s entranceway, waiting to see in which direction the master would go. But Jesus, motionless, had cocked his ear and was listening to a bitter, monotonous melody sung by high, cracked voices from beyond the gate of David. It was the lepers. They had strewn themselves in the dust and were holding out the stumps of their arms to the passers-by while softly singing the majesty of David and the mercy of God, who had given them leprosy to enable them to pay for their sins here on earth, so that tomorrow in the future life their faces would shine like suns forever and ever.

  Jesus grew bitter. He turned toward the city. The stores, workshops and taverns had opened; the streets had filled with people. How they ran and shouted, how the sweat poured from their bodies! He heard a fearful bellowing from horses, men, horns and trumpets: the holy city seemed to him a frightful beast, sick, its entrails filled with leprosy, madness and death.

  The bellowing in the streets continued to increase, the men to run here and there. What is their hurry? Jesus asked himself. Why are they running, where are they going? He sighed. All, all—to hell!

  He was troubled. Was it his duty to stay here in this cannibalistic city, to climb upon the roof of the Temple and shout, “Repent, the day of the Lord has come”? These unfortunate, panting people who ran up and down the streets had more need of repentance and comforting than the serene fishermen and plowmen of Galilee. I’ll stay here, thought Jesus. Here I shall first announce the destruction of the world, and the kingdom of heaven!

  Andrew could not restrain his sorrow. He approached Jesus. “Rabbi,” he said, “they seized the Baptist and killed him!”

  “It does not matter,” Jesus calmly replied. “The Baptist had sufficient time to do his duty. Let us hope, Andrew, that we shall have enough to do ours!” He saw the eyes of the Forerunner’s former disciple fill with tears. “Don’t be sad, Andrew,” he said to him, patting his shoulder. “He did not die. The only ones who die are those who are too late to become immortal. He was not too late. God granted him time.”

  As he said this, his mind was enlightened. Truly, everything in this world depended on time. Time ripened all. If you had time, you succeeded in working the human mud internally and turning it into spirit. Then you did not fear death. If you did not have time, you perished. ... Dear God, Jesus silently implored, give me time, that is all I ask of you. Give me time. ... He felt he still had much mud within him, much of man. He was still subject to anger, fear, jealousy; when he thought of Magdalene his eyes grew misty; and just last night, as he secretly gazed at Lazarus’ sister Mary ...

  He blushed from shame and immediately made his decision: he would leave this city. The hour of his death had not yet come; he was still not ready. ... Dear God, he again implored, give me time, time and nothing else. ... He nodded to the companions. “Come, my partisans, let us return to Galilee. In God’s name!”

&nb
sp; The companions raced toward the lake of Gennesaret like aching, hungry horses returning to the beloved stable. Judas the redbeard was again in the lead. He was whistling. He had not felt his heart so contented for years. The teacher’s face, voice and fierceness since his return from the desert pleased him immensely. He killed the Baptist, he said over and over again to himself. He took him with him; lamb and lion joined and became one. Can the Messiah be lamb as well as lion, like the ancient monsters? ... He marched along, whistling and waiting. This silence can’t last, he reflected. One of these nights before we reach the lake, he will open his mouth and speak. He’ll tell us the secret: what he did in the desert, whether or not he saw the God of Israel, and what the two of them talked about. Then I shall judge.