The Last Temptation of Christ (37 page)

The second night passed. Jesus did not speak. He was awaiting the third night: perhaps the prophet’s voice would sweeten.

The third night the Baptist twisted and turned upon the rock, uneasy. Without laughing, without talking, he examined Jesus with anguish, searched his arms, hands, shoulders and knees, then shook his head and remained quiet, sniffing the air. Illuminated by the starlight, his eyes stood out, glistening sometimes green, sometimes yellow; and sweat mingled with blood ran from his sun-baked forehead. Finally at daybreak, when the white dawn fell upon them, he took Jesus’ hand, looked into his eyes, and frowned. “When I first saw you emerge from the reeds by the Jordan and come directly toward me,” he said, “my heart bounded like a young calf. Can you think how Samuel’s heart leaped up when he first saw the red-haired beardless shepherd, David? That is how my heart leaped. But the heart is flesh and loves the flesh, and I have no faith in it. Last night I examined you, smelled you as though seeing you for the first time, but I could not find peace. I looked at your hands. They were not the hands of a wood-chopper, of a saviour. Too soft, too merciful. How could they swing the ax? I looked at your eyes. They were not a saviour’s eyes—too full of sympathy. I got up and sighed. Lord, I murmured, your ways are dark and oblique; you are capable of sending a white dove to burn up the world and turn it into ashes. We watch the heavens, expecting a thunderbolt, an eagle or a crow—and you give us a white dove. What use is there of questioning, of resisting? Do what you like.” He spread out his arms and hugged Jesus, kissed him on his right shoulder, then on his left. “If you are the One I’ve been waiting for,” he said, “you have not come in the form I imagined you would. Was it all for nothing then that I carried the ax and placed it at the root of the tree? Or can love also wield an ax?” He reflected for a moment. “I cannot judge,” he murmured finally. “I shall die without seeing the result. It does not matter, that’s my lot: a hard one—and I like it!” He squeezed Jesus’ hand. “Go, and good luck. Go talk with God in the desert. But come back quickly, so that the world will not remain all alone.”

Jesus opened his eyes. The river Jordan, the Baptist and the baptized, the camels and the lamentations of the people—all flared up in the air and were snuffed out. The desert now stretched before him. The sun had risen high and was burning: the stones steamed like loaves of bread. He felt his insides being mowed down by hunger. “I’m hungry,” he murmured, looking at the stones, “I’m hungry!” He remembered the bread which the old Samaritan woman had presented them. How delicious it had been, sweet like honey! He remembered the honey, split olives and dates he was treated to whenever he passed through a village; and the holy supper they had when, kneeling on the shore of Lake Gennesaret, they removed the grill, with its row of sweet-smelling fish, from the andirons. And afterward, the figs, grapes and pomegranates came to his mind, agitating him still further.

His throat was dry and parched from thirst. How many rivers flowed in the world! All these waters which bounded from rock to rock, rolled from one end of the land of Israel to the other, ran into the Dead Sea and disappeared—and he had not even a drop to drink! He thought of these waters and his thirst increased. He felt dizzy; his eyes fluttered. Two cunning devils in the shape of young rabbits emerged from the burning sand, stood up on their hind legs and danced. They turned, saw the eremite, screamed happily and began to hop toward him. They climbed onto his knees and jumped to his shoulders. One was cool, like water, the other warm and fragrant, like bread; but as he longingly put out his hands to grasp them, with a single bound they vanished into the air.

He closed his eyes and recollected the thoughts which hunger and thirst had dispersed. God came to his mind: he was neither hungry nor thirsty any more. He reflected on the salvation of the world. Ah, if the day of the Lord could only come with love! Was not God omnipotent? Why couldn’t he perform a miracle and by touching men’s hearts make them blossom? Look how each year at the Passover bare stems, meadows and thorns opened up at his touch. If only one day men could awake to find their deepest selves in bloom!

He smiled. In his thoughts the world had flowered. The incestuous king was baptized, his soul cleansed. He had sent away his sister-in-law Herodias and she had returned to her husband. The high priests and noblemen had opened their larders and coffers, distributed their goods to the poor; and the poor in their turn breathed freely once more and banished hate, jealousy and fear from their hearts. ... Jesus looked at his hands. The ax which the Forerunner had surrendered to him had blossomed: a flowering almond branch was now in his palm.

The day concluded with this feeling of relief. He lay down on the rock and fell asleep. All night long in his sleep he heard water running, small rabbits dancing, a strange rustling, and two damp nostrils examining him. It seemed to him that toward midnight a hungry jackal came up and smelled him. Was this a carcass, or wasn’t it? The beast stood for a moment unable to make up its mind. And Jesus, in his sleep, pitied it. He wanted to open his breast and give it food, but restrained himself. He was keeping his flesh for men.

He woke up before dawn. A network of large stars covered the sky; the air was fluffy and blue. At this hour, he reflected, the cocks awake, the villages are roused, men open their eyes and look through the skylight at the radiance which has come once more. The infants awake in their turn, the bawling begins and the mothers approach, holding forth their full breasts. ... For an instant the world undulated over the desert with its men and houses and cocks and infants and mothers—all made from the morning frost and breeze. But the sun would now rise to swallow them up! The eremite’s heart skipped a beat. If only I could make this frost everlasting! he thought. But God’s mind is an abyss, his love a terrifying precipice. He plants a world, destroys it just as it is about to give fruit, and then plants another. He recalled the Baptist’s words: “Who knows, perhaps love carries an ax ...” and shuddered. He looked at the desert. Ferociously red, it swayed under the sun, which had risen angrily, zoned by a storm. The wind blew; the smell of pitch and sulphur came to his nostrils. He thought of Sodom and Gomorrah—palaces, theaters, taverns, prostitutes—plunged in the tar. Abraham had shouted, “Have mercy, Lord; do not burn them. Are you not good? Take pity, therefore, on your creatures.” And God had answered him, “I am just, I shall burn them all!”

Was this, then, God’s way? If so, it was a great impudence for the heart—that clod of soft mud—to stand up and shout, Stop! ... What is our duty? he asked himself. It is to look down, to find God’s tracks in the soil and follow them. I look down; I clearly see God’s imprint on Sodom and Gomorrah. The entire Dead Sea is God’s imprint. He trod, and palaces, theaters, taverns, brothels—the whole of Sodom and Gomorrah—were engulfed! He will tread once more, and once more the earth—kings, high priests, Pharisees, Sadducees—all will sink to the bottom.

Without realizing it, he had begun to shout. His mind was wild with fury. Forgetting that his knees were unable to support him, he tried to rise, to set out on God’s trail, but he collapsed supine onto the ground, out of breath. “I am unable; don’t you see me?” he cried, lifting his eyes toward the burning heavens. “I am unable; why do you choose me? I cannot endure!” And as he cried out, he saw a black mass on the sand before him: the goat, disemboweled, its legs in the air. He remembered how he had leaned over and seen his own face in the leaden eyes. “I am the goat,” he murmured. “God placed him along my path to show me who I am and where I am heading. ...” Suddenly he began to weep. “I don’t want ... I don’t want ...” he murmured, “I don’t want to be alone. Help me!”

And then, while he was bowed over and weeping, a pleasant breeze blew, the stench of the tar and the carcass disappeared and a sweet perfume pervaded the world. The eremite heard water, bracelets and laughter jingling in the distance and approaching. His eyelids, armpits and throat felt refreshed. He lifted his eyes. On a stone in front of him a snake with the eyes and breasts of a woman was licking its lips and regarding him. The eremite stepped back, terrified. Was this a snake, a woman, or a cunning demon of the desert? Such a serpent had wrapped itself around the forbidden tree of Paradise and seduced the first man and woman to unite and give birth to sin. ... He heard laughter and the sweet, wheedling voice of a woman: “I felt sorry for you, son of Mary. You cried, ‘I don’t want to be alone. Help me!’ I pitied you and came. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t want you. I didn’t call you. Who are you?”

“Your soul.”

“My soul!” Jesus exclaimed, and he closed his eyes, horrified.

“Yes, your soul. You are afraid of being alone. Your great-grandfather Adam had the same fear. He too shouted for help. His flesh and soul united, and woman emerged from his rib to keep him company.”

“I don’t want you, don’t want you! I remember the apple you fed to Adam. I remember the angel with the scimitar!”

“You remember, and that’s why you’re in pain and you cry out and cannot find your way. I shall show it to you. Give me your hand. Don’t look back; don’t recall anything. See how my breasts take the lead. Follow them, my spouse. They know the way perfectly.”

“You are going to lead me also to sweet sin and the Inferno. I’m not coming. Mine is another road.”

The serpent giggled derisively and showed her sharp, poisonous teeth. “Do you wish to follow God’s tracks, the tracks of the eagle—you worm! You, son of the Carpenter, wish to bear the sins of an entire race! Aren’t your own sins enough for you? What impudence to think that it’s your duty to save the world!”

She’s right ... she’s right ... the eremite thought, trembling. What impudence to wish to save the world!

“I have a secret to tell you, dear son of Mary,” said the snake in a sweet voice, her eyes sparkling. She slid down from the rock like water and began, richly decorated, to roll toward him. She arrived at his feet, climbed onto his knees, curled herself up and with a spring reached his thighs, loins, breast and finally leaned against his shoulder. The eremite, despite himself, inclined his head to hear her. The snake licked Jesus’ ear with her tongue. Her voice was seductive and far away: it seemed to be coming from Galilee, from the edge of Lake Gennesaret.

“It’s Magdalene ... it’s Magdalene ... it’s Magdalene ...”

“What?” said Jesus, shuddering. “What about Magdalene?”

“... it’s Magdalene you must save!” the snake hissed imperatively. “Not the Earth—forget about the Earth. It’s her, Magdalene, you must save!”

Jesus tried to shake the serpent away from his head, but she thrust herself forward and vibrated her tongue in his ear. “Her body is beautiful, cool and accomplished. All nations have passed over her, but it has been written in God’s hand since your childhood that she is for you. Take her! God created man and woman to match, like the key and the lock. Open her. Your children sit huddled together and numb inside her, waiting for you to blow away their numbness so that they may rise and come out to walk in the sun. ... Do you hear what I’m telling you? Lift your eyes, give me some sign. Just nod your head, my darling, and this very hour I shall bring you, on a fresh bed—your wife.”

“My wife?”

“Your wife. Look how God married the whore Jerusalem. The nations passed over her, but he married her to save her. Look how the prophet Hosea married the whore Gomer, daughter of Debelaim. In the same way, God commands you to sleep with Mary Magdalene, your wife, to have children, and save her.”

The serpent had now pressed its hard, cool, round breast against Jesus’ own and was sliding slowly, tortuously, wrapping itself around him. Jesus grew pale, closed his eyes, saw Magdalene’s firm, high-rumped body wriggling along the shores of Lake Gennesaret, saw her gaze toward the river Jordan and sigh. She extended her hand—she was seeking him; and her bosom was filled with children: his own. He had only to twitch the corner of his eye, to give a sign, and all at once: what happiness! How his life would change, sweeten, become more human! This was the way, this! He would return to Nazareth, to his mother’s house, would become reconciled with his brothers. It was nothing but youthful folly—madness—to want to save the world and die for mankind. But thanks to Magdalene, God bless her, he would be cured; he would return to his workshop, take up once more his old beloved craft, once more make plows, cradles and troughs; he would have children and become a human being, the master of a household. The peasants would respect him and stand up when he passed. He would work the whole week long and on Saturday go to the synagogue in the clean garments woven for him of linen and silk by his wife Magdalene, with his expensive kerchief over his head, his golden wedding ring on his finger; and he would have his stall with the elders, would sit and listen peacefully and indifferently while the seething, half-insane Scribes and Pharisees sweated and shivered to interpret the Holy Scriptures. He would snigger and look at them with sympathy. Where would they ever end up, these theologians! He was interpreting Holy Scripture quietly and surely by taking a wife, having children, by constructing plows, cradles, and troughs. ...

He opened his eyes and saw the desert. Where had the day gone! The sun was once more inclining toward the horizon. The serpent, her breast glued to his own, was waiting. She hissed tranquilly, seductively, and a tender, plaintive lullaby flowed into the evening air. The entire desert rocked and lullabied like a mother.

“I’m waiting ... I’m waiting ...” the snake hissed salaciously. “Night has overtaken us. I’m cold. Decide. Nod to me, and the doors of Paradise will be opened to you. Decide, my darling. Magdalene is waiting. ...”

The eremite felt paralyzed with fear. As he was about to open his mouth to say Yes, he felt someone above looking down on him. Terrified, he lifted his head and saw two eyes in the air, two eyes only, as black as night, and two white eyebrows which were moving and signaling to him: No! No! No! Jesus’ heart contracted. He looked up again beseechingly, as if he wished to scream: Leave me alone, give me permission, do not be angry! But the eyes had grown ferocious and the eyebrows vibrated threateningly.