The Last Temptation of Christ (30 page)

“I want you to come, Judas, my brother.”

“And you’ll let me speak my mind freely; you’ll let me object, say ‘no’ when you say ‘yes’? Because—I’ll tell you so there will be no doubt in your mind—everyone else may listen to you with gaping mouth, but not me! I’m no slave; I’m a free man. That’s the way things are, and you’d better make the best of it.”

“But freedom, Judas, is exactly what I want too.”

The redbeard gave a start. Grasping Jesus’ shoulder, he shouted with fiery breath, “You want to free Israel from the Romans?”

“To free the soul from sin.”

Judas snatched his hand away from Jesus’ shoulder in a frenzy and banged his fist against the trunk of the olive tree. “This is where our ways part,” he growled, facing Jesus and looking at him with hatred. “First the body must be freed from the Romans, and later the soul from sin. That is the road. Can you take it? A house isn’t built from the roof down; it’s built from the foundation up.”

“The foundation is the soul, Judas.”

“The foundation is the body—that’s where you’ve got to begin. Watch out, son of Mary. I’ve said it once and I say it again: watch out, take the road I tell you. Why do you think I go along with you? Well, you’d better learn: it’s to show you your way.”

Andrew was under the neighboring olive tree. He heard talk in his sleep and awoke. Listening intently, he made out the rabbi’s voice and one other, raucous and full of anger. He quivered like a startled deer. Could people have come during the night to annoy the rabbi? Andrew knew that wherever the teacher went he left behind him many women and young men, and whole flocks of the poor, who loved him; but also many notables, many of the rich and old, who hated him and wanted his downfall. Could these criminals have sent some hooligan to harm him? He crept forward in the darkness on all fours, toward the voices. But the redbeard heard the creeping and rose to his knees.

“Who’s there?” he called.

Andrew recognized the voice. “Judas, it’s me, Andrew,” he answered.

“Go back to bed, son of Jonah. We’ve got private business.”

“Go to sleep, Andrew, my child,” Jesus said also.

Judas lowered his voice now. Jesus felt the redbeard’s heavy breath on his face.

“You’ll remember that I disclosed to you in the desert that the brotherhood commissioned me to kill you. But at the very last minute I changed my mind, put the knife back into its sheath and ran away from the monastery at dawn, like a thief.”

“Why did you change your mind, Judas, my brother? I was ready.”

“I wanted to wait.”

“To wait for what?”

Judas was silent for a moment. Then, suddenly: “To see if you were the One awaited by Israel.”

Jesus shuddered. He leaned against the trunk of the olive tree, his whole body trembling.

“I don’t want to rush into this and kill the Saviour; no, I don’t want that!” Judas cried out, wiping his brow, which had suddenly become drenched with sweat. “Do you understand?” he screamed, as though someone were strangling him. “Do you understand: I don’t want that!”

He took a deep breath. “He might not even know it himself, I said. Best be patient and let him live awhile, let him live so that we can see what he says and does; and if he isn’t the One we’re waiting for, there’s always plenty of time to get rid of him. ... That’s what I said to myself, that’s why I let you live.”

He puffed for some time, scooping out the soil with his big toe. Suddenly he grabbed Jesus by the arm. His voice was hoarse and despairing. “I don’t know what to call you—son of Mary? son of the Carpenter? son of David? As you can see, I still don’t know who you are—but neither do you. We both must discover the answer; we both must find relief! No, this uncertainty cannot last. Don’t look at the others—they follow you like bleating sheep; don’t look at the women, who do nothing but admire you and spill tears. After all, they’re women: they have hearts and no minds, and we’ve no use for them. It’s we two who must find out who you are and whether this flame that burns you is the God of Israel or the devil. We must! We must!”

Jesus trembled all over. “What can we do, Judas, my brother? How can we discover the answer? Help me.”

“There is a way.”

“How?”

“We’ll go to John the Baptist. He will be able to tell us. He shouts, ‘He’s coming! He’s coming!’ doesn’t he? Well, then, as soon as he sees you, he’ll understand whether or not you’re the one who is coming. Let’s go: you’ll calm your nerves, and I’ll find out what I have to do.”

Jesus plunged into a profound meditation. How many times had this anxiety taken possession of him, how many times had he fallen face down on the ground, shaken with convulsions and foaming at the mouth! People thought him deranged, possessed with a devil, and they hurried by, frightened. But he was in the seventh heaven; his mind had fled its cage, ascended, knocked on God’s door and asked, Who am I? Why was I born? What must I do to save the world? Which is the shortest road—is it perhaps my own death?

He raised his head. Judas’s whole body was bent over him.

“Judas, my brother,” he said, “lie down next to me. The Lord will come in the form of sleep and carry us away. Tomorrow, God willing, we’ll start off bright and early to find the prophet of Judea, and whatever God desires, that is what will take place. I am ready.”

“I am ready too,” said Judas, and they lay down, one next to the other.

They both must have been extremely tired, for they slept instantaneously, and the next morning at dawn, Andrew, who was the first to awake, found them fast asleep in each other’s arms.

The sun fell upon the lake and illuminated the world. The redbeard took the lead, blazing trail. Jesus followed with his two faithful companions, John and Andrew. Thomas, who still had wares to sell, remained behind in the village. I like what the son of Mary says, the artful peddler spun in his brain, which was trying to make the best of both sides of the situation. The poor will eat and drink their fill for all eternity—as soon as they kick the bucket. That’s fine, but, meanwhile, look what happens to us here below! Watch out, Thomas you wretch, watch out—don’t get stuck in either place. To be on the safe side, the best thing is to load your basket with two kinds of wares: on the very top, for all to see, the combs and cosmetics; underneath, on the bottom, for grade-A customers, the kingdom of heaven. ... He giggled, swung the bundle once more onto his back and at daybreak tooted his horn, raised his high voice and began his rounds of the lanes of Bethsaida, hawking his earthly wares.

In Capernaum, Peter and Jacob had got up at dawn to pull in the nets. The mesh was already full of twitching fish which flashed in the sunlight. At any other time the two fishermen would have rejoiced to feel their nets so heavy, but today their minds were far away, and they did not speak. They were silent, but within themselves both had picked a quarrel, now with fate, which kept them tied generation after generation to this lake, now with their own minds, which calculated, recalculated, and did not let their hearts take wing. What kind of a life is this! they shouted to themselves. To throw the nets, catch fish, eat, sleep; and at the break of each new day to start the same old hand-to-mouth existence all over again—all day long, all year long, for the whole of our lives! How long? How long? Is this how we shall die? They had never thought about this until now. Their hearts had always been tranquil; they had followed the age-old way without complaint. This was how their parents had lived and their grandparents back for thousands of years—around this same lake, wrestling with the fish. One day they crossed their stiffened hands and died, and then their children and grandchildren came and, without complaint, took the identical road. These two, Peter and Jacob, had got along fine until now; they too had no complaint. But lately, suddenly, their surroundings had grown narrow and they were suffocating. Their gaze now was far away, out beyond the lake. Where? Toward what? They themselves did not know; all they knew was that they were suffocating.

And as if this torment was not enough, each day saw passers-by come with fresh news: corpses were revived, the paralyzed walked, blind men saw the light. “Who is this new prophet?” the passersby would ask the two fishermen. “Your brothers are with him, so you must know. We hear he’s not the son of the Carpenter of Nazareth but the son of David? Is this true?” But Peter and Jacob would shrug their shoulders and bend once again over the nets. They felt like weeping, to relieve themselves. Sometimes, after the passers-by had receded into the distance, Peter would turn to his comrade. “Do you believe these miracles, Jacob?”

“Pull the nets and keep quiet!” the loud-mouthed son of Zebedee would reply, and, giving a heave, he would bring the loaded net an arm’s-length closer.

This day too a carter passed by at dawn with additional news: “They say the new prophet ate in Bethsaida at old pinch-fist Ananias’s house. As soon as he finished eating and the slaves brought him water and he washed his hands, he drew near to Ananias, whispered something in his ear, and all at once the old man’s mind turned upside down, he burst into tears and began to divide his goods among the poor.”

“What did he whisper to him?” asked Peter, his eyes lost once more in the distance, far beyond the lake.

“Ah, if only I knew!” said the Carter, laughing. “I would hammer it into the ear of every rich man, so that the poor might have a chance to breathe. ... Farewell,” he called, continuing on his way, “and good fishing!”

Peter turned to speak to his companion but immediately changed his mind. What could he say to him? More words? Hadn’t he had enough of them by now? He felt like smashing the whole works down on the ground, like getting up in disgust and going away for ever. Yes, he would go away! Jonah’s hut was too small for him now, and so was this washbasin of water, this lake of Gennesaret. “This isn’t living,” he murmured; “it just isn’t living! I’ll go away!”

Jacob turned. “What are you mumbling about?” he asked. “Be still!”

“Nothing, damn it, nothing!” Peter answered, and he started furiously to pull in the nets.

At that instant the solitary figure of Judas appeared at the summit of the green hill where Jesus had first spoken to men. He held a crooked stick cut along the road from a wild kermes oak, and banged it on the ground as he marched. The three other companions appeared after him. Out of breath, they halted for a moment on the summit to survey the world below them. The lake glittered happily; the sun caressed it, and it laughed. The fishing boats were red and white butterflies on the water. Above them flew the winged fishermen, the seagulls. Capernaum buzzed in the distance. The sun had risen high: the day was in its glory.

“Look, there’s Peter!” said Andrew, pointing to the beach, where his brother was pulling in the nets.

“And Jacob!” John said with a sigh. “They still can’t wrench themselves away from the world.”

Jesus smiled. “Do not sigh, beloved companion,” he said. “Lie down here, all of you, and rest. I shall go down and bring them.”

He began the descent with quick, buoyant steps. He’s like an angel, John thought, admiring him. Nothing is missing but the wings. ... Stepping from stone to stone, Jesus descended. When he reached the shore he slowed his pace and approached the two fishermen who were leaning over their nets. He stood behind them and looked at them for a long time without moving. He looked at them, his mind empty of thoughts; but he felt himself being drained: a force was escaping from inside him. Everything grew light, hovered in the air, floated above the lake like a cloud; and the two fishermen grew light also and hovered in the air, and their net with its contents was apotheosized: this was no longer a net, these were no longer fish—they were people, thousands of happy, dancing people. ...

Suddenly the two fishermen felt a tingling on the top of their heads, a strange, sweet numbness. They jumped up and turned with fright. Behind them, Jesus stood motionless and silent, watching them.

“Forgive us, Rabbi!” cried Peter, mortified.

“Why, Peter? What have you done that I should forgive you?”

“Nothing,” Peter murmured. And suddenly: “Do you call this living? I’m sick of it!”

“So am I!” said Jacob, and he smashed the net down on the ground.

“Come,” said Jesus, extending his hands to both of them. “Come, I shall make you fishers of men.”

He took each by the hand and stepped between them. “Let us go,” he said.

“Shouldn’t I say goodbye to my father?” asked Peter, remembering old Jonah.

“Do not even look back, Peter. We haven’t time. Let’s go.”

“Where?” asked Jacob, halting.

“Why do you ask? No more questions, Jacob! Come!”

Old Jonah, all this time, was cooking, bent over the grate and waiting for his son Peter so that they could sit down together and eat. Only one son—the Lord preserve him—remained to him now. Peter was a sensible lad, a good manager; the other, Andrew, the old man had long ago written off the books. He followed first this charlatan, then that one, and left his aging father all by himself to mend the nets and wrestle with the winds and the confounded boat, besides cooking and taking care of the house—he had been fighting with these domestic devils ever since the death of his wife. But Peter—my blessing upon him, Jonah reflected—Peter stands by me and gives me strength. ... He sampled the food. Ready. He glanced at the sun. Almost noon. “I’m hungry,” he grumbled, “but I won’t eat until he comes.” Crossing his hands, he waited.

Zebedee’s house, farther along, was open. Baskets and jugs filled the yard; in the corner was the still. These were the days when the raki which had been distilled from the grape skins and stems left in the wine press was being drawn off, and the whole house smelled of alcohol. Old Zebedee and his wife were having their dinner at a small table under the despoiled vine arbor. Old Zebedee mashed the food as best he could with his toothless gums and talked about developing his business. For a long time now he’d had his eye on the cottage of old Nahum, his next-door neighbor, who was in debt to him and had not the wherewithal to pay. Next week, God willing, Zebedee planned to put the house up for auction. For years now he had longed to get it so that he could knock down the dividing wall and widen his yard. He had a wine press, but he wanted an olive press also, so that the whole village could come to him to extract its olive oil, and he could take out a percentage and fill his own jars for the year. But where was the wine press to fit? At all costs he must get Nahum’s house. ...