“Damned hell-deserter,” he shouted at him, “how nice to meet you! What say, did you have a nice time down there, by God! Which is better, life or death?”
“Six of one, half dozen of the other,” Lazarus answered. He started to pass by, but Barabbas put out his arm and blocked the way.
“Excuse me, my dear ghost,” he said, “but Passover is coming, I don’t have a lamb, and this morning, so that I too could celebrate the Passover, I swore to God that in place of a lamb I would slaughter the first living thing I happened to meet along the road. Well, you’re in luck. Stick out your neck: you’re about to become a sacrifice to God.”
Lazarus started to scream. Barabbas seized him by the Adam’s apple but was immediately overcome with fright. He had caught hold of something exceedingly soft, like cotton. No—softer, like air. His fingernails went in and came out again without drawing a single drop of blood. Maybe he’s a ghost, he thought, and his heavily pock-marked face grew pale.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Lazarus answered, sliding out of Barabbas’s grip in order to escape.
“Stop!” Barabbas growled, seizing him now by the hair. But the hair, together with the scalp, remained in his hand. Lazarus’s skull flashed yellowish-white in the sunlight.
“Damn you!” Barabbas murmured, trembling. “Blast it, are you a ghost?” He clutched Lazarus’s right arm and shook it violently. “Say you’re a ghost and I’ll let you go.”
But as he shook the arm, it came off in his hand. Terror took hold of him. He threw the decayed arm into the flowering broom and spat, nauseated. He was so terrified, the hair on his head stood on end. He grabbed his knife. He wanted to finish him off in a hurry, to be rid of him. He took hold of him carefully by the nape of the neck, propped his throat against a stone and began the slaughter. He sliced and sliced, but the knife did not penetrate. It was like cutting through a tuft of wool. Barabbas’s blood ran cold. Am I slaughtering a corpse? he asked himself. He started to go down the hill in order to flee but saw Lazarus still moving and was afraid his confounded friend might find him and resurrect him again. Conquering his fear, he seized him at both ends and, just as one might wring out a wet garment before hanging it up on the line, he twisted him and gave him a snap. His vertebrae uncoupled and he separated at the middle into two pieces. These Barabbas hid under the broom; then he departed at a run. He ran and ran. It was the first time in his life he had been afraid. He dared not look back. “Ah,” he murmured, “if I can only get to Jerusalem in time to find Jacob! He’ll give me a talisman to exorcize the demon!”
In Lazarus’s house, meanwhile, Jesus was bending over the disciples, struggling to throw a little light into their minds so that what they were about to see would not frighten them into dispersing.
“I am the road,” he told them, “as well as the house toward which one heads. I am also the guide, and he whom one goes out to meet. You must all have faith in me. No matter what you see, do not be afraid, for I cannot die. Do you hear—I cannot die.”
Judas had remained all by himself in the yard. He was uprooting the pebbles with his big toe. Jesus frequently turned to look at him, and an inexpressible sorrow spread over his face.
“Rabbi,” John complained, “why do you always call him to stay near you? If you look into the pupils of his eyes you’ll see a knife.”
“No, John, beloved,” Jesus answered, “not a knife-a cross.”
The disciples gazed at each other, disturbed.
“A cross!” John exclaimed, falling on Jesus’ breast. “Rabbi, who is being crucified?”
“Whoever leans over those eyes and looks in will see his face on the cross. I looked, and I saw my face.”
But the disciples did not understand. Several laughed.
“It’s a good thing you told us, Rabbi,” snapped Thomas. “As for me, I won’t look into the redbeard’s eyes as long as I live!”
“Your children and grandchildren will, Thomas,” Jesus said. He glanced through the window at Judas, who was standing now on the doorstep, gazing toward Jerusalem.
“Your words are obscure, Rabbi,” Matthew complained. “How do you expect me to record them in my book?” All this time, he had been holding his pen in the air, unable to understand anything or to write.
“I don’t speak in order for you to write, Matthew,” Jesus answered bitterly. “You clerks are rightly called cocks: you think the sun won’t come up unless you crow. I feel like taking your pen and papers and throwing them into the fire!”
Matthew quickly gathered together his writings and shrank away.
Jesus’ rage did not abate. “I say one thing, you write another, and those who read you understand still something else! I say: cross, death, kingdom of heaven, God ... and what do you understand? Each of you attaches his own suffering, interests and desires to each of these sacred words, and my words disappear, my soul is lost. I can’t stand it any longer!”
He rose, suffocating. Suddenly he felt his mind and heart being filled with sand.
The disciples cowered. It was as though the rabbi still held the ox-goad and pricked them, as though they were sluggish oxen who refused to move. The world was a cart to which they were yoked; Jesus goaded them on, and they shifted under the yoke but did not budge. Looking at them, Jesus felt drained of all his strength. The road from earth to heaven was a long one, and there they were, motionless.
“How long will you have me with you?” he cried. “Those who guard within yourselves a grave question, hurry and ask it. Those who have a tender word to say to me, say it quickly: it will do me good. Say it, so that after I have gone you will not complain that you missed the opportunity to utter a kind word to me, that you never made me realize how much you loved me. Then it will be much too late.”
The women listened. They were heaped up in a corner, their chins wedged between their knees. From time to time they sighed. They understood everything but could say nothing. Suddenly Magdalene uttered a cry. She was the first to have the presentiment, and the funeral lamentation broke out within her. She jumped up and went into the inner room. Searching under her pillow, she found the crystal flagon she had brought with her. It was full of Arabian perfume which a former lover had given her in payment for one night. As she followed Jesus she carried it always with her, poor wretch, saying to herself: God is great; who knows but the day will come when I shall wash the hair of my beloved in this precious scent. The day might come when he’ll wish to stand next to me as a bridegroom. Such were the hidden longings of her bosom; but now behind her beloved’s body she saw death—not Eros, death. It too, like a marriage, required perfumes. She removed the crystal flagon from under her pillow, placed it in her bosom and began to weep. Holding the flagon to her breast and rocking it like an infant, she wept quietly, so that she would not be heard. Then she wiped her eyes, went out and fell at Jesus’ feet. Before he could lean over to lift her up, she crushed the flagon and the fragrant myrrh flowed over the holy feet. Then, weeping, she let out her hair and wiped the perfumed feet. With the remaining perfume she washed the beloved head. Straightway she again collapsed at the rabbi’s feet and kissed them.
The disciples were provoked.
“It’s a shame to let so much expensive perfume go to waste,” said Thomas, the merchant. “If we’d sold it, we’d have been able to feed many of the poor.”
“To dower orphans,” said Nathanael.
“To buy sheep,” said Philip.
“It’s a bad sign,” John murmured, sighing. “With such perfumes the corpses of the rich are anointed. You shouldn’t have done it, Mary. If Charon smells his beloved aroma and comes ...”
Jesus smiled. “You will always have the poor with you,” he said, “but you will not always have me. It does not matter, therefore, if a flagon of perfume has been wasted for my sake. There are times when even Prodigality mounts to heaven and sits next to her well-born sister Nobility. You, John, beloved: do not feel oppressed. Death always comes. It is bette
r that it come when the hair is perfumed.”
The house had the fragrance of a rich tomb. Judas appeared and glanced at the rabbi. Could he have revealed the secret to the disciples? Were they anointing the moribund with funeral myrrh?
But Jesus smiled, “Judas, my brother,” he said, “the swallow flies faster in the air than the deer moves on land; and faster than the swallow moves the mind of a man; and faster than the mind of a man, the heart of a woman.” When he had spoken, he indicated Magdalene with his eyes.
Peter opened his mouth. “We have said many things but have forgotten the most significant. Where in Jerusalem, Rabbi, shall we have our Passover? I say we should go to Simon of Cyrene’s tavern.”
“God has arranged it differently,” said Jesus. “Get up, Peter. Take John and go to Jerusalem. You’ll see a man there with a pitcher on his shoulder. Follow him. He will enter a house. You enter also and say to the owner, ‘Our master sends greetings and asks you, Where are the tables laid so that I may eat the Passover supper with my disciples?’ And he will reply, ‘My compliments to your master. Everything is ready. We look forward to seeing him.’ ”
The disciples stared at each other, wide-eyed in admiration, like infants.
“Are you serious, Rabbi?” asked Peter, goggle-eyed. “Everything ready? The lamb, the skewer, the wine—everything?”
“Everything,” Jesus answered. “Go. Have faith. We sit here and talk, but God does not sit and does not talk. He works for men.”
At that moment they heard a feeble rale from the back corner of the house. They all turned, ashamed. All that time they had forgotten the old rabbi in his death agony! Magdalene ran with the three other women behind her. The disciples reached the bedside. Jesus again placed his palm on the old man’s icy mouth. The other opened his eyes, saw him and smiled. Then he moved his hand, signaling the men and women to leave. When they were alone, Jesus bent over and kissed his mouth, eyes and forehead. The old man looked into his eyes, his face radiant.
“I saw the three again—Elijah, Moses and you. I’m sure now. ... I’m going!”
“God bless you, Father. Are you pleased?”
“Yes. Let me kiss your hand.”
He seized Jesus’ hand and glued his icy lips to it for a long time. He looked at him ecstatically, mutely, saying goodbye to him. But in a moment he spoke.
“When will you also come—there, above?”
“Tomorrow, on the Passover. I’ll see you then, Father!”
The old rabbi crossed his hands. “Release your servant now, O Lord,” he murmured. “My eyes have seen my Saviour!”
THE SUN had reached the horizon and, brilliantly red, was about to set. At the opposite end of the sky a bluish-white glow had already appeared in the east. Soon the paschal moon would emerge, enormous and mute. The pale rays of the sun still entered the house, fell obliquely over Jesus’ thin face, caught the foreheads, noses and hands of the disciples and, going into the corner, caressed the old rabbi’s calm, happy, now-immortal face. Mary sat at her loom. She was in a deep shadow and no one saw the tears which ran peacefully down her cheeks and chin and onto the half-woven cloth. The house was still fragrant; Jesus’ fingertips dripped with myrrh.
Suddenly, while they sat there in silence, each one feeling more and more heart-stricken as the night approached, a swallow came like a sword-thrust through the window, circled three times over their heads, peeped joyously, turned again toward the sun and left like a dart. They hardly had time to see its white belly and serrated wings.
As though this was the mysterious sign he had been waiting for, Jesus rose. “The time has come,” he said.
He threw a lingering glance around him at the fireplace, the work tools, household utensils, lamp, water jug, loom; then at the four women—old Salome, Martha, Magdalene and Mary the weaver; lastly at the white old man who had entered the life everlasting.
“Farewell,” he said, waving his hands.
None of the three younger women was able to answer. But old Salome said, “Don’t look at us like that, my child. You seem to be saying goodbye to us forever.”
“Farewell,” Jesus repeated. He approached the women and placed his palm first on Magdalene’s hair, next on Martha’s. The weaver then rose and came near. She too bowed her head. They felt as though he were blessing and embracing them, as though he were going to take the three of them with him—always. But then all three abruptly began the dirge.
They went out into the yard. The disciples followed behind him. On the hedge of the yard, above the well, a honeysuckle had blossomed. Now that night had fallen, its perfume spilled forth. Jesus put out his hand, picked a flower and passed it between his teeth. May God give me strength, he prayed within his heart, may God give me strength to hold this tender flower between my teeth all through the great throes of crucifixion and not bite into it!
On the threshold of the street door he stopped once more, lifted his hand and cried in a deep voice, “Women, farewell!”
None of them answered. Their lamentations resounded in the courtyard.
Jesus took the lead, and the group started along the road to Jerusalem. The full moon rose from the mountains of Moab, the sun set behind the mountains of Judea. For a moment the two great jewels of the sky stopped and looked at each other. Then the one mounted, the other sank down.
Jesus nodded to Judas, who came and marched by his side. The two of them must have had secrets to exchange, for they spoke softly. Sometimes Jesus would lower his head, sometimes Judas; and each carefully weighed his words of response to the other, as though each word were a gold piece.
“I’m sorry, Judas, my brother,” Jesus said, “but it is necessary.”
“I’ve asked you before, Rabbi—is there no other way?”
“No, Judas, my brother. I too should have liked one; I too hoped and waited for one until now—but in vain. No, there is no other way. The end of the world is here. This world, this kingdom of the Devil, will be destroyed and the kingdom of heaven will come. I shall bring it. How? By dying. There is no other way. Do not quiver, Judas, my brother. In three days I shall rise again.”
“You tell me this in order to comfort me and make me able to betray you without rending my own heart. You say I have the endurance—you say it in order to give me strength. No, the closer we come to the terrible moment ... no, Rabbi, I won’t be able to endure!”
“You will, Judas, my brother. God will give you the strength, as much as you lack, because it is necessary—it is necessary for me to be killed and for you to betray me. We two must save the world. Help me.”
Judas bowed his head. After a moment he asked, “If you had to betray your master, would you do it?”
Jesus reflected for a long time. Finally he said, “No, I do not think I would be able to. That is why God pitied me and gave me the easier task: to be crucified.”
Jesus took him by the arm and spoke to him softly, enticingly. “Do not abandon me; help me. Didn’t you speak to the high priest Caiaphas? The Temple slaves who’ll seize me, aren’t they ready and armed? Hasn’t everything happened just as we planned, Judas? Let us therefore celebrate the Passover tonight all together, and I shall give you a sign to rise and fetch them. The dark days are only three; they will pass by like lightning, and on the third day we shall exult and dance all together—at the resurrection!”
“Will the others know?” Judas asked, pointing with his thumb to the flock of disciples in back.
“I’ll tell them tonight. I don’t want them to offer any resistance when the soldiers and Levites seize me.”
Judas wrinkled his lips in contempt. “They offer resistance! Where did you find them, Rabbi? One is worse than the next.”
Jesus lowered his head and did not reply.
The moon rose and flowed over the earth, anointing stones, trees and men. Dark blue shadows fell on the land. In back the disciples, flocked together, talked and bickered. Some licked their chops at the thought of the banquet, some spoke with concern of J
esus’ piercing words; and Thomas remembered the poor old rabbi. “It’s all over with him. Here’s to our turn!”
“What, will we die too?” said Nathanael, surprised. “Didn’t we say we were headed for immortality?”
“Right, but it seems we first have to go by way of death,” Peter explained to him.
Nathanael shook his head. “We’re taking a bad route to immortality,” he grumbled. “Mark my words, we’ll find it damned unpleasant down there in hell!”
White and diaphanous like a ghost, Jerusalem now towered all moonlit in the air before them. The houses, in the moonlight, seemed to be detached and suspended above the ground. A din compounded of men singing psalms and animals being slaughtered rose more and more clearly into the night.
Peter and John stood waiting at the eastern fortress gate. Their faces flashing under the brilliant moon, they ran out happily to receive them. “Everything happened just as you said it would, Rabbi. The tables are set. Dinner is served!”