The Last Temptation of Christ (47 page)

“There is one God,” Jesus answered. “Do not blaspheme, centurion!”

Rufus shook his head. “I don’t intend to enter into a theological discussion with you,” he said. “I detest the Jews and if you don’t mind my saying so, all of you harp on God incessantly. The only thing I wanted to ask you was this: Can your God ...”

He stopped. He was ashamed to condescend to ask a favor of a Jew.

But straightway a narrow, virginal bed arose in his mind and lying upon it, motionless, the pale body of a young girl with two large green eyes which looked at him, looked at him, and implored him. ...

He swallowed his pride and leaned even farther over on his saddle. “Son of the Carpenter, can your God heal the sick?”

He looked agonizedly at Jesus. “Can he?” he asked again, seeing Jesus silent.

Jesus slowly rose from the rock where he was sitting and approached the rider. “ ‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’ Such is the law of my God.”

“Unjust!” shouted the centurion with a shudder.

“No, just!” Jesus contradicted him. “Father and son are of the same root. Together they rise to heaven, together they descend to hell. If you strike one, both are wounded; if one makes a mistake, both are punished. You, centurion, hunt and kill us, and the God of Israel strikes down your daughter with paralysis.”

“Son of the Carpenter, those are heavy words. I happened once to hear you speak in Nazareth, and your words then seemed sweeter than what would be suitable for a Roman. But now ...”

“Then the kingdom of heaven was talking, now the end of the world. Since the day you heard me, centurion, the just judge seated himself on his throne, opened his ledgers and called for Justice, who came, sword in hand, and stood next to him.”

“Is yours, then, one more God who goes no further than justice?” shouted the exasperated centurion. “Is that where he stops? What then was the new message of love you proclaimed last summer in Galilee? My daughter doesn’t need God’s justice; she needs his love. I seek a God who surpasses justice and who can heal my child. That’s why I’ve moved every stone in Israel to find you. ... Love—do you hear? Love, not justice.”

“Merciless loveless centurion of Rome: who puts these words into your savage mouth?”

“Suffering, and my love for my child. I seek a God who will cure my child, so that I may believe in him.”

“Blessed are those who believe in God without requiring miracles.”

“Yes, blessed. But I am a hard man and not easily convinced. I saw many gods in Rome—we’ve got thousands locked up in cages—and I’ve had enough of them!”

“Where is your daughter?”

“Here. She’s in a garden at the highest point in the village.”

“Let us go.”

The centurion braced himself and jumped off his horse. He and Jesus marched in front. Behind them at a distance came the disciples, and farther back still, the crowd of peasants. At that instant Thomas, rapturously happy, emerged from behind the legion’s rear guard. He had been going behind the soldiers, selling them his wares at an immense profit.

“Hey, Thomas,” the disciples shouted at him, “you’re still not coming with us, eh? Now you’ll see the miracle and believe.”

“I’ve got to see first,” Thomas answered, “and to touch.”

“Touch what, you shrewd merchant?”

“The truth.”

“Does truth have a body? What’s this you’re piping, blockhead!”

“If it has no body, what do I want with it?” said Thomas, laughing. “I need to touch things. I don’t trust my eyes or my ears; I trust my hands.”

They reached the highest part of the village and entered a cheery whitewashed house.

A girl of about twelve years of age was lying on a white bed, her two large green eyes open. When she saw her father her face lighted up. Her soul shook violently, trying to lift the paralyzed body, but in vain; and the joy on her face went out. Leaning over, Jesus took the girl’s hand. All his strength assembled in his palm—all his strength and love and mercy. Without speaking, he pinned his eyes onto the two green eyes and felt his soul flow impetuously from the tips of his fingers into the girl’s body. She looked at him ardently, her lips just parted, and smiled.

The disciples tiptoed into the room, with Thomas first and foremost, his sack of wares over his back and his horn under his belt. The peasants scattered throughout the garden and narrow lane. Everyone was holding his breath and waiting. The centurion, leaning against the wall, watched his daughter and struggled to hide his anguish.

Little by little the girl’s cheeks began to redden, her chest swelled, she was permeated by a sweet tingling which passed from her hand to her heart, and from her heart to the very soles of her feet. Her entrails rustled and stirred like the leaves of a poplar caught in a gentle breeze. Jesus felt the girl’s hand beat like a heart and return to life in his grasp. Only then did he open his mouth and speak.

“Rise, my daughter!” he gently commanded.

The girl moved peacefully, as though recovering from numbness; stretched herself, as if waking up; then, propping her hand against the bed, lifted her body—and with one jump was in her father’s arms. Thomas’s swivel eyes popped out of his head. He extended his hand and touched the girl, apparently wishing to make sure she was real. The disciples were astonished and frightened. The crowd, which had swarmed around, bellowed for an instant and then, terrified, became immediately mute. Nothing was heard but the girl’s refreshing laughter as she hugged and kissed her father.

Judas approached the master, his face angry and evil.

“You dissipate your strength on unbelievers. You help our enemies. Is this the end of the world you’ve brought us? Are these the flames?”

But Jesus, hovering far away in dark skies, did not hear him. He had been frightened more than anyone else at the sight of the girl jumping out of her bed. The disciples, unable to contain their joy, formed a circle and danced around him. So—they had done well to abandon everything and join him. He was the real thing: he performed miracles. Thomas placed a scale in his mind and weighed. On one tray he put his wares, on the other the kingdom of heaven. The trays oscillated for some time and finally stood still. The kingdom of heaven was the heavier. Yes, it was an excellent risk: I give five, I might get a thousand. Forward, then, in God’s name!

He approached the master. “Rabbi,” he said, “for your precious sake I’ll portion out my wares to the poor. Please don’t forget it tomorrow when the kingdom of heaven arrives. I’m sacrificing everything to come with you, for today I saw and touched the truth.”

But Jesus was still far away. He heard but did not answer.

“I’m going to keep only my horn,” continued the former merchant, “so that I can blow it to assemble the people. We’re selling new wares, immortal ones—and free!”

The centurion, holding his daughter in his arms, came up to Jesus. “Man of God,” he said, “you revived my daughter. What favor can I do for you?”

“I freed your daughter from the chains of Satan,” Jesus answered. “You, centurion, free those three rebels from the chains of Rome.”

Rufus bowed his head and sighed. “I cannot,” he murmured sadly, “truly, I cannot. I took an oath to the Roman Emperor, just as you took an oath to the God you worship. Is it right to betray our oath? Ask me any other favor you desire. I’m leaving for Jerusalem the day after tomorrow, and I want to do this favor for you before I go.”

“Centurion,” Jesus replied, “one day we shall meet in holy Jerusalem at a difficult hour. I shall ask the favor of you at that time. Until then, be patient.”

He placed his hand on the girl’s blond hair and kept it there for a long time. He closed his eyes, felt the warmth of the head, the softness of the hair, the sweetness of womanhood.

“My child,” he said at last, opening his eyes, “I am going to tell you something which I don’t want you to forget. Take your father by the hand and lead him to the true road.”

“Which is the true road, man of God?” the girl asked.

“Love.”

The centurion gave orders. Food and drink were brought, tables set.

“Be my guests,” he said to Jesus and the disciples. “Tonight you shall eat and drink in this house, for I celebrate my child’s resurrection. I have not been happy for years. Today my heart is filled to overflowing with joy. Welcome!”

He leaned over to Jesus. “I owe a great debt of gratitude to the God you worship,” he said. “Give him to me so that I can send him to Rome along with the other gods.”

“He will get there on his own,” Jesus answered, and he went out to the yard in order to breathe.

Night fell. The stars began to mount the sky. Below in the tiny village the lamps were lighted and the eyes of the people gleamed. This evening their everyday talk rose one degree higher than usual, for they sensed that God, like a kind lion, had entered their village.

The tables were set. Jesus sat down among his disciples and divided the bread but did not speak. Within him, his soul still anxiously flapped ‘its wings as though it had just escaped an immense danger or completed a great and unexpected exploit. The disciples around him did not speak either, but their hearts bounded for joy. All these ends of the world and kingdoms of heaven were not dreams and mere excitement, they were the truth; and the dark-complexioned, barefooted youth next to them who ate, spoke, laughed and slept like other men was truly the apostle of God.

When the meal ended and all the others lay down to sleep, Matthew knelt below the lamp, drew out the virgin notebook from under his shirt, took his quill from behind his ear, leaned over the blank pages and remained meditating for a long time. How should he begin? Where should he begin? God had placed him next to this holy man in order that he might faithfully record the words he said and the miracles he performed, so that they would not perish and that future generations might learn about them and choose, in their turn, the road of salvation. Surely, that was the duty God had entrusted to him. He knew how to read and write; therefore he had a heavy responsibility: to catch with his pen all that was about to perish and, by placing it on paper, to make it immortal. Let the disciples detest him, let them not want to frequent his presence because once he was a publican. He would show them now that the repentant sinner is better than the man who has never sinned.

He plunged his quill into the bronze inkwell and heard a rustling of wings to his right. An angel seemed to come to his ear and dictate. With a sure, rapid hand he started to write: “The Book of the Generation of Jesus Christ, son of David, son of Abraham. Abraham begot ...”

He wrote and wrote until the east began to glow bluish-white and the first cock was heard to crow.

They departed, with Thomas and his horn in the lead. He sounded it, and the village awoke. “Farewell,” he shouted, “see you soon in the kingdom of heaven.” Jesus came from behind with the disciples and the mob of ragamuffins and cripples from Nazareth, who still followed him, augmented now by new ones from Cana. They were waiting. He can’t possibly forget us, they said to themselves. The blessed hour will come when he’ll turn toward us too, and rid us of hunger and disease. ... Today Judas remained at the end of the procession. He had found a set of large traveling bags and he halted before each door and spoke to the housewives in a half-beseeching, half-threatening voice. “On our side, we work for you, poor things, so you can be saved. On your side, you can help us—keep us from starving to death. You must know that even saints have to eat to get strength to save mankind. Some bread, cheese, raisins, dates, a handful of olives: no matter what it is, God writes it down and repays you in the next world. You give one split olive and he’ll repay you with a whole orchard.”

And if any housewife dallied in opening her larder, he shouted at her, “Why so tight-fisted, lady? Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or even tonight, the heavens will open, fire will fall and of all your goods nothing will be spared except what you give to us. If you’re saved, you miserable creature, you’ll owe it to the bread and olives and bottle of oil you gave me!”

The frightened women opened their larders, and by the time Judas reached the edge of the village his sacks were overflowing with alms.

Winter had begun; the earth shivered. Many trees, standing completely bare, were cold. Others—the olive, date, cypress—were blessed by God and retained their finery intact summer and winter. Similarly with men: all the poor were cold, like the bald trees. ... John had thrown his woolen robe over Jesus and now, shivering, was in a hurry to reach Capernaum in order to open his mother’s trunks. Old Salome had woven many things in her lifetime, and her heart was noble and generous. He would portion out warm clothes to the companions, and devil care if old lickpenny Zebedee grumbled. It was Salome, with her obstinacy and sweetness, who governed the house.

Philip was hurrying too, his thoughts on his bosom friend Nathanael, hunched over as he was all day long in Capernaum, sewing up and patching sandals and slippers. His life was being lost in this way. Where could he find time to lift his mind to God, to lean Jacob’s ladder against the heavens and mount! Oh, when will I get there, Philip thought, to unveil the great secret to the poor wretch, so that he too can be saved!

They took a turning, leaving Tiberias behind them on their left—Tiberias, despised by God, with its Baptist-murdering tetrarch condemned to the fires of hell. Matthew approached Peter to ask him everything he remembered about the river Jordan and the Baptist, so that he could write it all down event by event; but Peter recoiled and turned his face aside to avoid inhaling the publican’s breath. Saddened, Matthew wedged the partly filled notebook under his arm. He lagged behind and, finding two Garters who went to and from Tiberias, questioned them in order to learn—and to set down in his book—how the wicked murder took place. Was it true that the tetrarch became drunk and that his stepdaughter Salome danced before him naked? Matthew had to learn all the details in order to immortalize them in writing.

They had by this time arrived at the large well outside Magdala. Clouds had covered the sun: a pale darkness fell over the face of the earth. Black threads of rain hung down, joining sky and soil. ... Magdalene lifted her eyes to her skylight and saw the heavens blacken. “Winter is upon us,” she murmured; “I must move quickly.” She twirled the bobbin and began with great speed to spin the choice wool she had found. She intended to weave a warm cloak for her beloved so that he would not be cold. From time to time she glanced toward the yard and admired her grand pomegranate with its burden of fruit. She was guarding the pomegranates and not cutting them, for she had vowed them all to Jesus. God is exceedingly merciful, she reflected. One day my beloved will again pass through this narrow street, and then I shall fill my arms with pomegranates and place them at his feet. He will bend over, take one and refresh himself. ... While spinning, and admiring the pomegranate tree, she turned her life over in her mind. It began and ended with Jesus, the son of Mary. What sorrow, what joy she had had! Why had he left her, opening her door on that final night to flee like a burglar? Where had he gone? Was he still wrestling with shadows instead of digging the soil, fashioning wood or fishing the sea; instead of having a wife (women were God’s creatures too) and sleeping next to her? Ah, if he would only pass once more through Magdala so that she could run and place her pomegranates at his feet, to refresh him!