The Last Temptation of Christ (39 page)

He quickened his pace and started up the cobbled ascent. He found strength, for now he knew where he was going, where the road which God had shown him would lead. As he mounted, the clouds thinned out and a bit of sky appeared. The sun became visible just as it was setting. He heard the village cocks crowing, the dogs barking, the women on the roofs of their houses shouting to each other. Blue smoke rose from the chimneys. He could smell the burning wood.

“Blessed is the seed of man ...” he murmured as he passed the first house of the village and heard human conversation within.

Stones, water and houses were shining—no, not shining, laughing. The parched earth had quenched its thirst. The deluge had frightened both animals and men; but then the clouds began to scatter, revealing deep-blue sky, and the sun which had disappeared returned once more and brought reassurance to the world. Jesus, drenched and happy, went through the narrow, gurgling lanes. A young girl appeared, pulling a large-uddered goat to pasture.

“What is the name of your village?” Jesus smilingly asked her.

“Bethany.”

“And at which door may I knock to find a place to sleep? I’m a stranger here.”

“Wherever you find an open door, enter,” the girl replied with a laugh.

Wherever you find an open door, enter. This is a kindhearted, hospitable village, Jesus reflected, and he went forward to find the open door. The alleys had become small rivers, but the largest stones rose above the water. Jesus proceeded by hopping from stone to stone. The house doors were completely black from the rain, and closed. He turned at the first corner. A small arched door, painted indigo, stood wide open. A young woman, short and chubby, with a fat chin and thick lips, was standing in the doorway. Another young woman could be seen inside the palely lighted house. She was sitting at the loom, weaving and singing softly.

Jesus approached, stopped at the threshold and placed his hand over his heart in the sign of greeting. “I am a foreigner,” he said, “a Galilean. I am hungry and cold, and I have no place to sleep. I am an honest man. Allow me to spend the night in your home. I found the door open and entered. Excuse me.”

The young woman turned, her hand still full of chicken feed. She regarded him from head to foot tranquilly, then smiled. “We’re at your service,” she said. “Welcome. Come in.”

The weaver extricated herself from the loom and appeared in the yard. She was thin-boned and pale, with her black braids tied in a double bun on her head. Her eyes were large, fuzzy and sad. Around her frail neck she wore a necklace of turquoises as a charm against the evil eye. She looked at the visitor and blushed. “We’re alone,” she said. “Our brother Lazarus isn’t here. He went to the Jordan to be baptized.”

“And what difference does it make if we’re alone?” said the other. “He won’t eat us. Come inside, my good man. Don’t listen to her: she’s scared of her own shadow. We’ll call the villagers to keep you company, and the elders will come also to ask you who you are, where you’re going and what news you bring us. So, if you please, enter our poor house. What happened to you? Are you cold?”

“I’m cold, hungry and sleepy,” answered Jesus, striding across the threshold.

“All three will be remedied, have no fears,” she said. “Now I want you to know that I’m called Martha, and this is my sister Mary. And you?”

“Jesus of Nazareth.”

“A good man?” Martha laughed, teasing him.

“Yes, good,” he answered, his expression severe. “Good, to the best of my ability, Martha, my sister.”

He entered the cottage. Mary lighted the lamp and hooked it in place, illuminating the room and its immaculate whitewashed walls. There were two trunks of embossed cypress wood, several stools, and along the wall a long wooden platform with mattresses and pillows. The loom stood in one corner; in the other were two small earthenware jars for the olives and oil. The jug of cool water was on its shelf to the right of the entrance. Next to it a long linen towel hung on a peg. The house smelled of cypress wood and quince. At the back was a wide, unlighted fireplace with the cooking utensils suspended all around it.

“I’ll light a fire so that you can dry off. Sit down.” Martha found a stool and placed it for him in front of the hearth, then raced to the courtyard and brought in an armful of vine twigs, laurel branches and two logs of olive wood. She squatted, arranged the kindling into a little hut, and ignited it.

Crouching, his head between his two palms, his elbows on his knees, Jesus watched. What a holy ceremony it is, he reflected, to arrange wood and light a fire on a cold day: the flame comes like a merciful sister to warm you. And to enter an alien house, hungry and tired, and to see two other sisters, strangers, come and comfort you ... His eyes filled with tears.

Martha got up, went to the larder and brought bread, honey and a brass pot of wine, which she placed at the stranger’s feet. “This is the appetizer,” she said. “Now I’ll put the pot on the fire so that you can taste something hot, and renew your strength. I imagine you’ve come a long way.”

“From the ends of the earth,” he answered. He bent eagerly toward the bread, olives and honey. What marvels they were, what joys! How generously God sent them to men! He ate and ate, blessing the Lord.

Mary, all the while, stood next to the lampstand and silently watched first the fire, then the unexpected guest, then her sister, who, swept away by the joy of having a man in her house and serving him, had sprouted wings.

Jesus raised the pot of wine and looked at the two women. “Martha and Mary, my sisters,” he said, “you must have heard of the flood in the time of Noah. All men were sinful, and everyone drowned except the few virtuous men who boarded the ark and were saved. Mary and Martha, I swear to you that if there is another flood, and if it is up to me to invite you to enter the new ark, I shall do so, my sisters, because this evening a poorly dressed, unknown, barefooted guest appeared at your door; you lighted a fire for him and he was warmed; you gave him bread and he was filled; you spoke a kind word to him and the kingdom of heaven came down and entered his heart. I drink to your health, my sisters. I’m delighted to meet you!”

Mary drew near and sat down at his feet. “I can’t hear enough of your voice, stranger,” she said, blushing terribly. “Speak more.”

Martha put the casserole on the fire, set the table and drew cool water from the well in the yard. Then she sent a young neighbor to announce to the three village elders that she would like them (if they would be so kind) to call at her house, because a visitor had come to her and her sister.

“Speak more,” Mary repeated, seeing Jesus quiet.

“What do you wish me to say, Mary?” Jesus asked. He lightly touched her black braids. “Silence is good. It says everything.”

“Silence does not satisfy a woman. Women, poor things, need a kind word.”

“Don’t listen to her. Not even a kind word satisfies a woman,” interrupted Martha, who was feeding the lamp with oil now so that it would last, for the elders were coming and would engage the visitor in profound discussions. “Not even a kind word satisfies poor womankind. A woman wants to hear her husband shake the house with his tread; she wants to suckle a baby in order to soothe her breast. She wants many things, Jesus of Galilee, many—but what do you men know about such matters!”

She tried to laugh but could not. She was thirty years old and unmarried.

They remained silent, listening to the fire devour the olive logs and lick the earthenware casserole which was bubbling away. The eyes of all three were lost in the flames.

Finally Mary spoke. “If you could only know how much goes through a woman’s mind while she sits and weaves! If you knew you would pity her, Jesus of Nazareth.”

“I do know,” said Jesus, smiling. “I too was once a woman, in another life, and I used to weave.”

“And what did you think about?”

“God. Nothing else, Mary, just God. And you?”

Mary did not answer, but her breast swelled. Martha heard their conversation and sighed, but restrained herself from speaking. Finally she could endure it no longer.

“Never fear,” she said, her voice suddenly harsh. “Mary and I, and all the unmarried women of the world, think of God. We hold him on our knees like a husband.”

Jesus bowed his head and did not speak. Martha removed the pot from the fire. The supper was ready. She went to the larder to bring the earthenware dishes so that she could serve the meal.

“I want to tell you something which struck my mind once while I was weaving,” said Mary, whispering so that her sister would not hear her from the larder. “I too was thinking of God on that day, and I spoke to him. ‘God,’ I said, ‘if you ever deign to enter our poor house, you will be its master, and we shall be the guests. And now ...” She choked, and was silent.

“And now?” said Jesus, leaning forward to hear. Martha appeared with the plates.

“Nothing,” Mary whispered, getting up.

“Come and eat,” said Martha. “The elders will be here any minute. They mustn’t find us still eating.”

All three knelt. Jesus took the bread, lifted it high and pronounced the blessing so warmly and with such pathos that the two astonished sisters turned and stared at him. But when they saw him they were terrified, for his face shone and the air behind his head was afire and quivering.

Mary put forth her hand. “Lord,” she cried, “you are the master and we the guests. Command us!”

Jesus lowered his head so that they would not see how troubled he was. This was the first cry, the first time a soul had recognized him.

They rose from the low table just as the doorway darkened and a gigantic old man appeared on the threshold. His beard flowed like a river; he was large-boned, his arms firm, his breast as hairy as a ram’s. He held a crooked staff which was taller than he was and which he used, not to lean upon, but to beat others and keep the village in order.

“Welcome to our poor house, Father Melchizedek,” said both women, curtsying.

He entered, and a second old man appeared on the vacant threshold. This one was thin, with a long, horse-like head and no teeth. Flames darted out of his tiny eyes, and it was impossible to look at him for very long. The snake’s poison is supposed to be behind its eyes; behind this man’s eyes was fire, and behind the fire a twisted, perverse mind.

The women curtsied, welcomed him, and he too went inside. Behind him appeared the third old man, blind, stumpy, as fat as a pig. He held his staff before him: its eyes guided him and prevented him from stumbling. He was a good soul. He loved to joke, and when he judged the villagers, he did not have the heart to punish a single one of them. “I am not God,” he would say. “He who judges will be judged. Mend your arguments, my children, so that I don’t get into trouble in the next world!” Sometimes he paid the restitution out of his own pocket; sometimes he went to prison himself in order to save the offender. Some called him a fool, some a saint; and old Melchizedek could not bear the sight of him—but what could he do: he was dealing with a man descended from the priestly race of Aaron, and the most potent householder of the village.

“Martha,” said Melchizedek, whose staff reached the ceiling beams, “where is the stranger who has entered our village?”

Jesus rose from the corner by the chimney where he had remained, silently watching the fire.

“You?” said the old man, examining him from head to toe.

“Yes, me,” Jesus replied. “I come from Nazareth.”

“Galilean?” gummed the second old man, the venomous one. “Nothing good can come out of Nazareth. The Scriptures declare it.”

“Don’t scold him, Father Samuel,” interrupted the blind elder. “True, the Galileans are prattlers, idiots and provincial boors, but they’re honest. Our guest this evening is an honest man. I can tell from his voice.”

He turned toward Jesus. “Welcome, my child.”

“Are you a merchant?” asked old Melchizedek. “What do you sell?”

While the elders talked, the established men of the village—the reputable landowners—came in through the opened door. They had learned of the arrival of a stranger, had donned their finery and come to pass the time by welcoming him, seeing where he was from and what he had to say. They entered, and knelt on the ground behind the three elders.

“I don’t sell anything,” said Jesus. “I used to be a carpenter in my village, but I abandoned my work, left my mother’s house and dedicated myself to God.”

“You did well to escape from the world, my child,” said the blind man, “but take care, for now, poor fellow, you’ve got yourself mixed up with a bad devil, this God. How will you escape from him?” He burst into laughter.

Hearing this, old Melchizedek was ready to explode with malicious rage. But he remained silent.

“Monk?” the second elder hissed derisively. “You’re another one of those Levites, are you? A Zealot? False prophet?”

“No, no, Father,” Jesus replied, troubled, “no, no!”

“What then?”

The village ladies were now entering with all their jewelry in order to see the stranger and to be seen by him. Was he old, young, handsome? What did he sell? Or could he be a suitor for the hand of one of these beautiful but aging girls, Martha, or Mary? It was centuries since a man had embraced them: they would go insane, poor things. ... Let’s go and see!

They adorned themselves, came, and stood in a row behind the men.

“What, then?” the old viper asked once more.

Jesus suddenly felt a chill and held his hands in front of the fire. His clothes, still wet, steamed. For some time he was silent, thoughtful. This is a good moment to speak out, he was thinking, a good moment to reveal the word which the Lord confided to me and to awaken the God that sleeps within these men and women who destroy themselves in the pursuit of vain cares. They ask me what I sell. I shall answer: the kingdom of heaven, the salvation of the soul, life everlasting. Let them give the very clothes off their backs to buy this Great Pearl. He glanced rapidly around him, saw the faces in the lamplight and in the glow of the fire: rapacious, cunning, aged by petty, man-devouring cares, shriveled from fear. He pitied them and wanted to stand up and speak, but this night he was so very tired. It was many days since he had slept in the house of a human being or had rested his head on a pillow. Sleepy, he leaned against the smoky chimney wall and closed his eyes.