The Last Temptation of Christ (43 page)

“Caiaphas, the high goat-priest!” said the innkeeper. “Hold your noses, lads. The first part of the fish to stink is the head.” He squeezed his nostrils and spat. “He’s on his way again to his garden to eat, drink and play with his women and pretty boys. Confound it, if I were only God ... The world hangs from a single thread. I would cut that thread—yes, by my wine!—I would cut it and let the world go to the devil!”

“Let’s leave,” Peter said again. “It’s not safe here. My heart has eyes and ears too. ‘Leave,’ it shouts to me. ‘Leave, all of you, you miserable creatures!’ ”

He said that he heard his heart and as he said so he actually did hear it. Terrified, he jumped up and grasped a staff which he found in a corner, Seeing him, the others all jumped up too. His terror was contagious.

“Simon, you know him. If he comes, tell him we’ve gone off to Galilee,” Peter instructed.

“And who’s going to pay,” said the innkeeper anxiously. “The head, the wine ...”

“Do you believe in the next life, Simon of Cyrene?” asked Peter.

“Of course I do.”

“Well, I give you my word I’ll pay you there. If you want, I’ll put it in writing.”

The innkeeper scratched his head.

“What? Don’t you believe in the afterlife?” said Peter severely.

“I believe, Peter. Damn it, I believe—but not quite that much. ...”

BUT WHILE they were talking, a blue shadow suddenly fell over the threshold. They all recoiled. Jesus stood in the doorway, his feet bloody, his clothes covered with mud, his face unrecognizable. Who was it: the sweet teacher or the savage Baptist? His hair fell in twisted plaits down to his shoulders, his skin was now baked and roughened, his cheeks sunken and his eyes grown so large they invaded his entire face. His forcefully clenched fist, his hair, cheeks and eyes were identical with those of the Baptist. The open-mouthed disciples looked at him silently. Could the two men have joined and become one?

He
killed the Baptist, he ... he ... thought Judas as he stepped aside to let the disquieting newcomer pass. He observed how Jesus strode over the threshold, how he stared at each of them severely, how he bit his lips. ... He’s taken everything from him, everything; he’s plundered his body, Judas reflected. But his soul, his wild words? He’ll talk now, and we shall see. ...

They were all quiet for some time. The atmosphere of the tavern changed. The innkeeper crouched silently in the corner and stared goggle-eyed at Jesus, who came forward slowly, biting his lips. The veins in his temples had swelled. Suddenly they all heard his wild, hoarse voice. The companions shuddered, for this was not his own voice; it was the voice of the fearful prophet, the Baptist.

“You were leaving?”

No one answered. They had formed a bulwark, one behind the other.

“You were leaving?” he repeated angrily. “Speak, Peter!”

“Rabbi,” Peter answered in an unsure voice, “John heard your footsteps in his heart and we were just going out to welcome you.”

Jesus frowned. He was overcome by bitterness and anger, but restrained himself.

“Let us go,” he said, turning toward the door. He saw Judas, who was standing off to one side looking at him with his hard blue eyes.

“Are you coming, Judas?” he asked him.

“I’m with you to the death. You know that.”

“Not enough! Do you hear—not enough. Till beyond death! ... Let us go!”

The innkeeper flew out from his cramped position between the wine barrels. “Good luck, lads,” he cried, “and good riddance! Have a nice trip, Galileans, and when the happy time comes and you enter Paradise, don’t forget the wine I treated you to—and the head!”

“You have my word,” Peter answered him, his face serious and afflicted. He felt ashamed at having lied to the teacher out of fear. Jesus’ angry frown was a sure sign he had detected the lie. He was silently scolding him: Peter, coward, liar, traitor! Confound it, when will you become a man? When will you conquer fear? When will you cease turning—windmill!

Peter stood in the tavern’s entranceway, waiting to see in which direction the master would go. But Jesus, motionless, had cocked his ear and was listening to a bitter, monotonous melody sung by high, cracked voices from beyond the gate of David. It was the lepers. They had strewn themselves in the dust and were holding out the stumps of their arms to the passers-by while softly singing the majesty of David and the mercy of God, who had given them leprosy to enable them to pay for their sins here on earth, so that tomorrow in the future life their faces would shine like suns forever and ever.

Jesus grew bitter. He turned toward the city. The stores, workshops and taverns had opened; the streets had filled with people. How they ran and shouted, how the sweat poured from their bodies! He heard a fearful bellowing from horses, men, horns and trumpets: the holy city seemed to him a frightful beast, sick, its entrails filled with leprosy, madness and death.

The bellowing in the streets continued to increase, the men to run here and there. What is their hurry? Jesus asked himself. Why are they running, where are they going? He sighed. All, all—to hell!

He was troubled. Was it his duty to stay here in this cannibalistic city, to climb upon the roof of the Temple and shout, “Repent, the day of the Lord has come”? These unfortunate, panting people who ran up and down the streets had more need of repentance and comforting than the serene fishermen and plowmen of Galilee. I’ll stay here, thought Jesus. Here I shall first announce the destruction of the world, and the kingdom of heaven!

Andrew could not restrain his sorrow. He approached Jesus. “Rabbi,” he said, “they seized the Baptist and killed him!”

“It does not matter,” Jesus calmly replied. “The Baptist had sufficient time to do his duty. Let us hope, Andrew, that we shall have enough to do ours!” He saw the eyes of the Forerunner’s former disciple fill with tears. “Don’t be sad, Andrew,” he said to him, patting his shoulder. “He did not die. The only ones who die are those who are too late to become immortal. He was not too late. God granted him time.”

As he said this, his mind was enlightened. Truly, everything in this world depended on time. Time ripened all. If you had time, you succeeded in working the human mud internally and turning it into spirit. Then you did not fear death. If you did not have time, you perished. ... Dear God, Jesus silently implored, give me time, that is all I ask of you. Give me time. ... He felt he still had much mud within him, much of man. He was still subject to anger, fear, jealousy; when he thought of Magdalene his eyes grew misty; and just last night, as he secretly gazed at Lazarus’ sister Mary ...

He blushed from shame and immediately made his decision: he would leave this city. The hour of his death had not yet come; he was still not ready. ... Dear God, he again implored, give me time, time and nothing else. ... He nodded to the companions. “Come, my partisans, let us return to Galilee. In God’s name!”

The companions raced toward the lake of Gennesaret like aching, hungry horses returning to the beloved stable. Judas the redbeard was again in the lead. He was whistling. He had not felt his heart so contented for years. The teacher’s face, voice and fierceness since his return from the desert pleased him immensely. He killed the Baptist, he said over and over again to himself. He took him with him; lamb and lion joined and became one. Can the Messiah be lamb as well as lion, like the ancient monsters? ... He marched along, whistling and waiting. This silence can’t last, he reflected. One of these nights before we reach the lake, he will open his mouth and speak. He’ll tell us the secret: what he did in the desert, whether or not he saw the God of Israel, and what the two of them talked about. Then I shall judge.

The first night passed. Jesus, without speaking, looked at the stars. Around him, the tired companions slept. But Judas’s blue eyes sparkled in the darkness. He and Jesus sat up all night, one opposite the other, but did not utter a word.

At dawn they started out again. They left the stones of Judea behind them and reached the white soil of Samaria. Jacob’s well was deserted: not a single woman came to draw water and refresh them. They passed rapidly over the heretical soil and then saw their beloved mountains—snow-capped Hermon, graceful Tabor, holy Carmel.

The day grew dim. They lay down under a thickly foliaged cedar and watched the sunset. John pronounced the evening prayer: “Open your doors to us, Lord. The day declines, the sun falls, the sun disappears. We come to your doors, Lord. Open them to us. Eternal, we beseech you, forgive us. Eternal, we beseech you, have mercy upon us. Eternal, save us!”

The air was dark blue. The sky had lost the sun and not yet found the stars. Unadorned, it fell upon the earth. Jesus’ supple, long-fingered hands, pressed against the soil, shone white in the uncertain half light. Within him, the evening prayer was still circulating and doing its work. He heard the trembling hands of men beat desperately on the doors of the Lord, but the doors did not open. The men were knocking and shouting. What were they shouting?

He closed his eyes in order to hear distinctly. The birds of the day had returned to their nests; the night birds had not yet opened their eyes. The villages of mankind were far away: you heard neither the tumult of men nor the barking of dogs. The companions mumbled the evening prayers, but they were sleepy and the holy words sank within them without reverberation. Inside him, however, Jesus heard men beat on the doors of the Lord—on his own heart. They were beating on his warm human heart and crying, “Open! Open! Save us!”

Jesus grasped his breast as though he too were knocking at his heart and begging it to open. And while he struggled, believing himself all alone, he felt someone watching him from behind. He turned. Judas’s cold, inflamed eyes were pinned upon him. Jesus shuddered. This redbeard was a proud, untamable beast. Of all the companions, he felt him the closest to him and yet the furthest away. It seemed that he need explain himself to none other, only to him. He held out his right hand.

“Judas, my brother,” he said, “look: what am I holding?”

Judas strained his neck in the half light in order to see. “Nothing,” he answered. “I don’t see anything.”

“You will see it shortly,” said Jesus smiling.

“The kingdom of heaven,” said Andrew.

“The seed,” said John. “Rabbi, do you remember what you told us by the lake the first time you parted your lips and spoke to us? ‘The sower has come out to sow his seed. ...’ ”

“And you, Peter?” Jesus asked.

“Master, what can I say to you? If I ask my eyes: nothing. If I ask my heart: everything. Between the two, my mind swings like a bell.”

“Jacob?”

“Nothing. Forgive me, Rabbi, but you’re not holding a single thing.”

“Look!” said Jesus, and he violently lifted his arm. And as he lifted it high and brought it forcefully down, the companions became frightened. Judas was so happy he blushed a bright rose and his whole face gleamed. He grasped Jesus’ hand and kissed it.

“Rabbi,” he shouted, “I saw! I saw! You’re holding the Baptist’s ax!”

But straightway he felt ashamed and angry because he had not been able to restrain his joy. He withdrew again and leaned against the trunk of the cedar.

Jesus’ voice was heard, tranquil and grave. “He brought it to me and placed it at the roots of the rotted tree. That is why he was born: to bring it to me. He could do no more. I came, stooped, picked up the ax—that is why I was born. Now begins my own duty: to chop down the rotted tree. I believed I was a bridegroom and that I held a flowering almond branch in my hand, but all the while I was a wood-chopper. Do you remember how we danced and promenaded in Galilee, proclaiming the beauty of the world, the unity of heaven and earth, and how Paradise would presently open up for us to enter? Friends, it was all a dream. Now we are awake.”

“Is there no kingdom of heaven, then?” Peter cried out, terrified.

“There is, Peter, there is—but within us. The kingdom of heaven is within us; the Devil’s kingdom is without. The two kingdoms fight. War! War! Our first duty is to chop down Satan with this ax.”

“Which Satan?”

“This world about us. Courage, friends—I invited you to war, not to a wedding. Forgive me, for I did not know myself. But whoever among you thinks of wife, children, fields, happiness, let him leave! There is nothing to be ashamed of. Let him rise, say goodbye to us quietly and leave with our blessing. There is still time.”

He was silent. He swept his eyes over the companions. No one moved. The Evening Star, like an immense drop of water, rolled behind the cedar’s black boughs. The night birds shook their dark wings and awoke. A cool breeze flowed down from the mountains. And suddenly, in the sweetness of the eventide, Peter jumped forward and shouted, “Rabbi, I’m with you in this war cheek by jowl—to the death!”

“Those are boastful words, Peter, and I don’t like them. We are passing along a difficult road. Men will oppose us, Peter—for who desires his own salvation? When did a prophet ever rise up to save the people and the people not stone him to death? We are marching along a difficult road. Hold on to your soul for dear life, Peter—it must not escape. The flesh is weak; don’t trust it. ... Do you hear? It’s you I’m talking to, Peter.”

Peter’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “Don’t you have faith in me, Rabbi?” he murmured. “The man you look at in that way and do not trust: one day he will die for you.”

Jesus put his hand on Peter’s knee and stroked it. “It’s possible ... possible ...” he murmured. “Forgive me, dearest Peter.”

He turned to the others. “John the Baptist baptized with water,” he said, “and they killed him. I shall baptize with fire. I am making that clear to you tonight so that you’ll know it and won’t complain to me when the dark times crush down upon us. Before we even set out, I’m informing you which way we’re headed: toward death—and after we die, immortality. This is the way. Are you ready?”

The companions grew numb. This voice was severe. It no longer frolicked and laughed; it was calling them to arms. In order to enter the kingdom of heaven, then, would they have to go by way of death? Was there no other road? They were simple men, poor illiterate day laborers, and the world was rich and all-powerful—how could they take up arms against it? If only the angels could descend from heaven and come to their aid! But none of the disciples had ever seen an angel walk on earth and help the poor and despised. They remained silent therefore, secretly measuring and remeasuring the danger. Judas watched them out of the corner of his eye and chuckled with pride. He alone did not calculate. He went to war despising death, caring nothing for his body and less for his soul. He had but one great passion, and it would be a supreme joy to destroy himself for that passion’s sake.