The Last Temptation of Christ (51 page)

Today was the first time Matthew clearly understood where to start and how the life and times of Jesus had to be taken in hand. First of all, where he was born and who his parents and grandparents were, for fourteen generations. He was born in Nazareth to poor parents—to Joseph the carpenter and Mary, daughter of Joachim and Anne. ... Matthew took up his quill and called silently upon God to enlighten his mind and give him strength. But as he began to inscribe the first words on the paper in a beautiful hand, his fingers stiffened. The angel had seized him. He heard wings beat angrily in the air and a voice trumpeted in his ear, “Not the son of Joseph! What says the prophet Isaiah: ‘Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son.’ ... Write: Mary was a virgin. The archangel Gabriel descended to her house before any man had touched her, and said, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you!’ Straightway her bosom bore fruit. ... Do you hear? That’s what you’re to write. And not in Nazareth; no, he wasn’t born in Nazareth. Do not forget the prophet Micah: ‘And you, Bethlehem, tiny among the thousands of Judah, from you shall come forth One who is to be ruler in Israel, and his root is from of old, from the days of eternity.’ Jesus was therefore born in Bethlehem, and in a stable. What says the infallible psalm: ‘He took him from the stable where the lambs were suckling, in order to make him shepherd of the flock of Jacob.’ Why do you stop? I have freed your hand—write!”

But Matthew grew angry. He turned toward the invisible wings at his right and growled softly, so that the sleeping disciples would not hear him: “It’s not true. I don’t want to write, and I won’t!”

Mocking laughter was heard in the air, and a voice: “How can you understand what truth is, you handful of dust? Truth has seven levels. On the highest is enthroned the truth of God, which bears not the slightest resemblance to the truth of men. It is this truth, Matthew Evangelist, that I intone in your ear. ... Write: ‘And three Magi, following a large star, came to adore the infant. ...’ ”

The sweat gushed from Matthew’s forehead. “I won’t write! I won’t write!” he cried, but his hand was running over the page, writing.

Jesus heard Matthew’s struggle in his sleep and opened his eyes. He saw him bent over and gasping under the lamp, the squeaking quill running furiously over the page, ready to break.

“Matthew, my brother,” he said to him quietly, “why are you groaning? Who is above you?”

“Don’t ask me, Rabbi,” he replied, his quill still racing over the paper. “I’m in a hurry. Go to sleep.”

Jesus had a presentiment that God must be over him. He closed his eyes so that he would not disturb the holy possession.

THE DAYS and nights passed by. One moon came and went; the next came. Rain, cold, fires on the hearth; saintly vigils in old Salome’s house. ... Capernaum’s poor and aggrieved came each evening after the day’s work in order to hear the new Comforter. They arrived poor and unconsoled; they returned to their wretched huts rich and comforted. He transplanted their vineyards, boats and joys from earth to heaven; explained to them how much surer heaven was than earth. The hearts of the unfortunate filled with patience and hope. Even Zebedee’s savage heart began to be tamed. Little by little Jesus’ words penetrated him, lightly inebriating his mind. This world thinned out and over his head hovered a new world made of eternity and imperishable wealth. In this odd new world Zebedee and his sons and old Salome and even his five caïques and full coffers would live evermore. Best not grumble, therefore, when he saw these uninvited guests day and night in his house or sitting around his table. It would come, the recompense would come.

In midwinter the sun-drenched halcyon days arrived. The sun gleamed, warmed the bare bones of the earth and duped the almond tree in the middle of Zebedee’s yard: it thought that spring had come and began to put out buds. The kingfishers had been awaiting these warm merciful days, for they wished to entrust their eggs to the rocks. All the rest of God’s birds procreate in the spring, the kingfisher in midwinter. God pitied them and promised to allow the sun to come up warm several days in the winter, just for their sakes. Rejoicing, these nightingales of the sea flew now over the waters and rocks of Gennesaret and warbled their thanks to God for having once more kept his word.

During these lovely days the remaining disciples scattered to the fishing caïques and near-by villages so that they too could try their wings. Philip and Nathanael set out overland to meet with their friends the farmers and shepherds and proclaim the word of God to them. Andrew and Thomas went to the lake to catch the fishermen. Unsociable Judas departed all by himself toward the mountain to let the anger filter out of his system. Much of the master’s behavior pleased him, but there were some things he simply could not stomach. Sometimes the wild Baptist thundered through Jesus’ mouth, but sometimes the same old son of the Carpenter still bleated: Love! Love! ... What love, clairvoyant? Whom to love? The world has gangrene and needs the knife—that’s what I say!

Matthew was the only one who stayed in the house. He did not want to leave, for the teacher might speak, and Matthew must not let his words be carried away by the winds; he might perform some miracle, and Matthew must see it with his own eyes in order to recount it. And then again, where could he go, to whom could he talk? No one would come near him, because once upon a time he had been a dirty publican. He therefore remained in the house and from his corner glanced stealthily at Jesus, who sat in the yard under the budding almond tree. Magdalene was at his feet and he was speaking to her softly. Matthew strained his huge ear to catch a word, but in vain. All he could do was watch the rabbi’s severe, afflicted face and his hand, which every so often skimmed Magdalene’s hair.

It was the Sabbath and pilgrims had set out in the early morning from distant villages—farmers from Tiberias, fishermen from Gennesaret, shepherds from the mountains—to hear the new prophet speak to them about Paradise, the Inferno, unfortunate mankind, and God’s mercy. They would take him—the sun was out, it was a splendid day—and bring him up to the green mountainside where they could strew themselves on the warm grass to listen to him, and perhaps they might even fall sweetly asleep on the springtime turf. They assembled, therefore, outside in the road, for the door was shut, and shouted for the teacher to emerge.

“Magdalene, my sister,” said Jesus, “listen; the people have come to fetch me.”

But Magdalene, lost within the rabbi’s eyes, did not hear. And of all that he had been telling her for such a long time, she had heard nothing. She rejoiced solely in the sound of his voice: the voice told her everything. She was not a man; she had no need for words. Once she had said to him, “Rabbi, why do you talk to me about the future life? We are not men, to have need of another, an eternal life; we are women, and for us one moment with the man we love is everlasting Paradise, one moment far from the man we love is everlasting hell. It is here on this earth that we women live out eternity.”

“Magdalene, my sister,” Jesus repeated to her, “the people have come to fetch me. I must go.” He got up and opened the door. The road was full of ardent eyes and shouting mouths, and of the groaning sick who were stretching out their hands. ...

Magdalene appeared at the door and put her hand over her mouth so that she would not scream. “The people are wild beasts, wild bloodthirsty beasts who will devour him,” she murmured as she watched him calmly go in the lead, with the crowd behind him bellowing.

Jesus advanced with great, calm strides toward the mountain which rose above the lake, the mountain where he had once opened his arms to the multitude and cried, Love! Love! But between that day and this his mind had grown fierce. The desert had hardened his heart; he still felt the Baptist’s lips like two lighted coals upon his mouth. The prophecies flashed on and off within him; the divine inhuman shouts came back to life and he saw God’s three daughters, Leprosy, Madness and Fire, tear through the heavens and descend.

When he reached the summit of the hill and opened his mouth to speak, the ancient prophet bounded up from within him, and he began to shout: “ ‘The fearful army comes bellowing from the ends of the earth; terrible and quick-moving, it comes. Not one of the warriors limps from fatigue, not one is sleepy or ever sleeps. Not a single waist band is slack or a single shoe thong broken. The arrows are sharp, the bow strings taut; the horses’ hoofs are hard stones, the chariot wheels are whirlwinds. It roars menacingly like a lioness. Whomever it catches is lifted up in its teeth and can be saved by no one!’ ”

“What army is this?” shouted an old man whose white hair was standing on end.

“What army is this? Do you ask, you deaf, blind, foolish people!” Jesus lifted his hand to heaven. “It is the army of God, wretches! From a distance God’s warriors seem to be angels, but up close they are flames. I myself took them for angels this past summer on this very rock where I now stand, and I cried, Love! Love! But now the God of the desert has opened my eyes. I saw. They are flames! ‘I can endure you no longer,’ shouts God. ‘I am coming down!’ Lamentation is heard in Jerusalem and in Rome, lamentation upon the mountains and at the tombs. The earth weeps for its children. God’s angels descend to the scorched earth, search with their lamps to discover where Rome was, where Jerusalem. Between their fingers they crumble the ashes and smell them. This must have been Rome, they say, this Jerusalem; and they toss the ashes to the winds.”

“Is there no salvation?” cried a young mother, squeezing her baby to her breast. “I’m not talking for myself, but for my son.”

“There is!” Jesus answered her. “In every flood God contrives an ark and entrusts to it the leaven of the future world. I hold the key!”

“Who’ll be saved as leaven? Whom will you save? Do we have time?” cried another old man, and his lower jaw trembled.

“The Universe passes before me and I choose. On one side, all those who overate, overdrank, overkissed. On the other, the starving and oppressed of the world. These, the starving and oppressed, I choose. They are the stones with which I shall build the New Jerusalem.”

“The New Jerusalem?” shouted the people, their eyes shining.

“Yes, the New Jerusalem. I did not know it myself until God confided the secret to me in the desert. Love comes only after the flames. First this world will be reduced to ashes and then God will plant his new vineyard. There is no better fertilizer than ashes.”

“No better fertilizer than ashes!” echoed a hoarse, joyous voice which seemed like his own, only deeper and happier. Surprised, Jesus turned and saw Judas behind him. He felt afraid, for the redbeard’s face flashed lightning, as if the coming flames had already fallen over him.

Judas rushed forward and clasped Jesus’ hand. “Rabbi,” he whispered with unexpected tenderness, “my rabbi ...”

Never in his life had Judas spoken so tenderly to anyone. He felt ashamed. He stooped and pretended to ask something, though he himself did not know what; then, finding a small premature anemone, he pulled it up by the roots.

In the evening when Jesus returned and sat down once more on his stool in front of the hearth and stared into the fire, he suddenly felt that his inner God was in a hurry and would allow him to wait no longer. He was overcome by sorrow, exasperation and shame. Once more today he had spoken and waved the flames over the heads of the people. The simple fishermen and farmers had been frightened for a moment, but had then immediately regained their composure and quieted down. All these threats seemed to them like a fairy tale, and several of them had fallen asleep on the warm grass, lulled by his voice.

Uneasy and silent, he watched the fire. Magdalene stood in the corner and looked at him. She wanted to speak but did not dare. At times a woman’s speech gladdens a man; at times it makes him furious. Magdalene knew this and remained silent.

There was no sound. The house smelled of fish and rosemary. The window facing the courtyard was open. Somewhere nearby some medlar trees must have bloomed, for their aroma, sweet and peppery, entered with the evening breeze.

Jesus got up and closed the window. All these springtime perfumes were the breath of temptation; they were not the proper atmosphere for his soul. It was time to leave and find the air which suited him. God was in a hurry.

The door opened. Judas entered and flitted his blue eyes around the room. He saw the teacher with his eyes pinned on the fire; saw high-rumped Magdalene, Zebedee, who had fallen asleep and was snoring, and under the lamp, the scrivener scratching away and filling his paper with blots. ... He shook his head. Was this their great campaign? Was this the way they were setting out to conquer the world? One clairvoyant, one secretary, one woman of questionable morals, a few fishermen, one cobbler, one peddler—and all taking their ease at Capernaum! He curled himself up in a corner. Old Salome had already set the table.

“I’m not hungry,” he growled; “I’m sleepy,” and he shut his eyes so that he would not see the others, who presently sat down to dinner. A moth came in through the door, beat its wings around the flame of the lamp, went for a moment and fluttered in Jesus’ hair, then began to circle the room.

“We’re going to have a visitor,” said old Salome. “We’ll be pleased to see him.”

Jesus blessed the bread, divided it, and they began to eat. No one spoke. Old Zebedee, who had been awakened for the meal, felt suffocated by so much silence. He could stand it no longer.

“Talk, lads!” he said, banging his fist down on the table. “What’s wrong? Is there a corpse in front of us? Haven’t you heard: whenever three or four sit down and eat and do not talk about God, they might as well be sitting at a funeral supper. The old rabbi of Nazareth—God bless him—told me that once, and I still remember it. So speak, son of Mary. Bring God again into my house! Excuse me if I call you son of Mary, but I still don’t know what to call you. Some call you the son of the Carpenter, others the son of David, son of God, son of man. Everyone is confused. Obviously the world has not yet made up its mind.”