The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Ten

FAR AWAY in Nazareth, Mary the wife of Joseph sat in her simple cottage. The lamp was lighted, the door open. Hurriedly, she wound up the wool which she had spun. She had decided to rise and comb the villages in search of her boy. She wound and wound, but her mind was not on her work. Lonely and hopeless, it roamed the fields, visited Magdala and Capernaum, searched all around the shore of the lake of Gennesaret. She was seeking her son. He had run away again; once more God had prodded him with his ox-goad. Doesn’t he pity him, she asked herself, doesn’t he pity me? What have we done to him? Is this the joy and glory he promised us? Why, God, was it Joseph’s staff which you made blossom, forcing me to marry an old man? Why did you cast your thunderbolt and plant in my womb this daydreamer, this night-walker of an only son? The whole time I was pregnant the neighbors came and admired me. “Mary, you are blessed above all women,” they said. I had blossomed; I was an almond tree covered with flowers from the roots to the highest branches. “Who is this flowering almond?” the passing merchants used to ask, and they stopped their caravans, got off their camels and filled my lap with gifts. Then, suddenly, a wind blew and I was stripped bare. I fold my arms over my fallow breasts. Lord, your will has been done: you made me blossom, you blew, the petals fell away. Is there no hope I may blossom again, Lord?

Is there no hope my heart may grow calm? her son asked himself early the next morning. He had gone around the lake and now he saw the monastery opposite him, wedged in among green-red rocks. As I proceed and near the monastery, my heart becomes more and more troubled. Why? Haven’t I taken the right road, Lord? It’s toward this holy retreat you’ve been pushing me, isn’t it? Why then do you refuse to extend your hand and gladden my heart?

Two monks dressed all in white appeared at the monastery’s large door. They climbed up onto a rock and gazed out in the direction of Capernaum.

“Still no sign,” said one of them, a half-crazy hunchback with a behind which nearly scraped the ground.

“He’ll be dead by the time they arrive,” said the other, a huge elephant of a man whose mouth, a shark-like slit, reached fully to his ears. “Go ahead, Jeroboam, I’ll keep on the look-out here until the camel appears.”

“Fine,” said the delighted hunchback, sliding down from the rock. “I’ll go and watch him die.”

The son of Mary stood irresolutely on the monastery’s threshold, his heart oscillating like a bell: should he enter or not? The cloister was circular and paved with flagstones. Not a single green tree graced the courtyard, not a flower, not a bird: only wild prickly pears all around. Along the circumference of this round, inhuman desolation were the cells, carved into the rock like tombs.

Is this the kingdom of heaven? the son of Mary asked himself. Is this where man’s heart grows calm?

He looked and looked, unable to decide to cross the threshold. Two black sheep dogs flew out of a corner and began to bark at him.

The stunted hunchback noticed the visitor and silenced the dogs with a whistle. Then he turned and scrutinized the newcomer from top to toe. The young man’s eyes seemed full of affliction to him, the clothes he wore were very poor, and blood trickled from his feet. He felt sorry for him.

“Welcome, brother,” he said. “What wind has tossed you out here into the desert?”

“God!” the son of Mary answered in a deep, despairing voice. The monk got frightened: he had never heard human lips pronounce God’s name with such terror. Folding his arms, he said nothing.

After a short pause, the visitor continued. “I’ve come to see the Abbot.”

“Maybe you’ll see him, but he won’t see you. What do you want with him?”

“I don’t know. I had a dream… I’ve come from Nazareth.”

“A dream?” said the half-crazy monk with a laugh.

“A terrible dream, Father. Since then my heart has had no peace. The Abbot is a saint; God taught him how to explain the languages of birds and dreams. That is why I came.”

It had never entered his mind to come to this monastery to ask the Abbot to explain the dream he had on the night he constructed the cross: that wild chase in his sleep and the redbeard rushing in front and the dwarfs who followed him with their instruments of torture. But now as he stood irresolutely on the threshold, suddenly the dream tore across his mind like a flash of lightning. That’s it! he shouted to himself. I’ve come because of the dream. God sent it in order to show me my road, and the Abbot is going to untangle it for me.

“The Abbot is dying,” said the monk. “You’ve arrived too late, my brother. Go back.”

“God commanded me to come,” the son of Mary replied. “Is he capable of hoaxing his children?”

The monk cackled. He had seen a good deal in his lifetime and had no confidence in God.

“He’s the Lord, isn’t he? So, he does whatever comes into his head. If he wasn’t able to inflict injustice, what kind of an Omnipotent would he be?”

He slapped the visitor on the back. He meant this slap to be a caress, but his huge paw was heavy, and it hurt the youth.

“All right, don’t get worried,” he said. “Here, step inside. I’m the guest master.”

They entered the cloister. A wind had arisen; the sand swirled over the flagstones. An opaque windstorm girded the sun. The air grew dark.

Gaping in the middle of the yard was a dried-out well. At other times it was filled with water, but now it had become filled with sand. Two lizards emerged to warm themselves on its corroded brim. The Abbot’s cell was open. The monk took his visitor by the arm. “Wait here while I ask the brothers for permission. Don’t budge.” He crossed his hands over his chest and entered. The dogs had placed themselves on either side of the Abbot’s threshold. Their necks stretched forward, they sniffed the air and yelped mournfully.

The Abbot lay stretched out in the middle of the cell, his feet toward the door. Around him the waiting monks dozed, exhausted by their all-night vigil. The moribund, stretched out as he was on his mat, kept his face continually tensed and his eyes open, riveted on the gaping doorway. The seven-branched candelabrum was still next to his face. It illuminated the polished arch of his forehead, the insatiable eyes, the hawk-like nose, the pale blue lips and the long white beard which reached his waist and covered the naked, bony chest. The monks had thrown incense kneaded with dried rose petals onto the lighted coals of an earthenward censer, and perfume invaded the air.

The monk entered, forgot why he had done so and squatted on the threshold, between the two dogs.

The sun had the door in its grasp now and was trying to enter to touch the Abbot’s feet. The son of Mary stood outside, waiting. There was no sound save the whining of the two dogs and, in the distance, the slow rhythmic blows of the sledge on the anvil.

The visitor waited and waited. The day advanced; they had forgotten him. There had been a frost during the night, but now as he stood outside the cell he felt the delicious warmth of the morning sun enter his bones.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the voice of the monk who was doing sentry duty on the rock: “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

The monks in the Abbot’s cell awoke with a start and flew outside, leaving the Abbot all alone.

Nerving himself, the son of Mary advanced two steps, timidly, and stopped on the threshold. Inside was the calm of death, of immortality. The Abbot’s pale, slender feet gleamed, bathed in sunlight. A bee buzzed near the ceiling; a fuzzy black insect flitted about the seven lights, hopping from one to the next as though trying to select its crematorium.

Suddenly the Abbot stirred. Exerting all his strength, he raised his head-and at once the eyes popped out of his head, his mouth dropped open, his nostrils sniffed the air, twitching insatiably. The son of Mary put his hand to his heart, lips and forehead in the sign of greeting.

The Abbot’s lips moved. “You’ve come… you’ve come… you’ve come…” he murmured, so imperceptibly that the son of Mary did not hear. But a smile of unspeakable bliss spread over the Abbot’s severe, embittered face and straightway his eyes closed, the nostrils remained motionless, his mouth shut and the two hands which were crossed over his breast rolled one to the right and the other to the left and rested on the ground with open, upturned palms.

In the courtyard meanwhile, the two camels had knelt. The monks rushed forward to help the old rabbi dismount.

“Is he alive, is he still alive?” the young novice asked in anguished tones.

“He’s still breathing,” answered Father Habakkuk. “He sees and hears everything, but does not speak.”

The rabbi entered first, followed by the novice with the precious wallet containing the healer’s salves, herbs and magic amulets. The two black dogs, their tails between their legs, did not even turn their heads. Their necks were stretched out against the ground and they were yelping woefully, like human beings.

The rabbi heard them and shook his head. I’ve come too late, he reflected, but he did not speak.

He knelt by the Abbot’s side, leaned over his body and placed his hand on his heart. His lips were almost touching those of the Abbot.

“Too late,” he whispered. “I’ve come too late… Long may you live, Fathers!”

Crying out, the monks stooped and kissed the corpse, each according to his length of service, as prescribed by custom: Father Habakkuk the eyes, the remaining monks the beard and upturned palms, the novices the feet. And one of them took the Abbot’s crosier from the empty stall and laid it next to the holy remains.

The old rabbi knelt and regarded him, unable to tear away his eyes. What was this triumphant smile? What meaning had the mysterious gleam around the closed eyes? A sun, an unsetting sun, had fallen over this face and remained there. What was this sun?

He looked about him. The monks, still on their knees, were paying homage to the deceased; John, his lips glued to the Abbot’s feet, wept. The old rabbi shifted his glance from one monk to the next as though questioning them; and suddenly his eye was caught by the son of Mary standing motionless and tranquil in the back corner of the cell, his hands crossed on his breast. But spread over the whole of his face was the same calm, triumphant smile.

“Lord of Hosts, Adonai,” whispered the terrified rabbi, “will you never cease tempting my heart? Help my mind now to understand-and decide!”

The next day an angry blood-red sun ringed by a dark tempest bounded out of the sand. A fiery east wind arose from the desert; the world turned black. The monastery’s two ebony dogs tried to bark, but their mouths filled with sand and they remained still. The camels, glued to the ground, closed their eyes and waited.

Slowly, linked one to the next in a chain, the monks groped their way forward, struggling not to fall. Squashed together in a row and holding the Abbot’s remains tightly in their arms so that the wind would not take him from them, they proceeded, going to bury him. The desert swayed: rose and fell like the sea.

“It’s the desert wind, the breath of Jehovah,” murmured John, leaning his entire body against the son of Mary. “It withers every green leaf, dries up every spring, fills your mouth with sand. We’ll simply leave the sacred remains in a hollow, and the waves of sand will come to cover them up.”

The moment they passed over the monastery’s threshold the red-bearded blacksmith, his hammer over his shoulder, rose up black and enormous out of the swirling mist and looked at them for an instant, but immediately disappeared, enveloped by the sand. The son of Zebedee saw this ogre in the middle of the sandstorm. Terrified, he clutched his partner’s arm.

“Who was that?” he asked softly. “Did you see him?”

But the son of Mary did not reply. God arranges everything perfectly, and exactly as he desires, he reflected. Look how he brought Judas and me together-here in the desert, at the very ends of the earth. Well, then, Lord, let your will be done.

Bent over, they advanced all together, planting their feet in the burning sand. They tried to block their mouths and nostrils with the edge of their robes, but the fine sand had already descended to their throats and lungs. The wind suddenly took hold of Father Habakkuk, who was in the lead. It twirled him around and threw him down. The monks, blinded by the clouds of sand, walked over him. The desert whistled, the stones jingled; old Habakkuk uttered a hoarse cry, but no one heard.

Why shouldn’t Jehovah’s breath be the cool breeze which comes to us from the Great Sea? the son of Mary was thinking. He wanted to ask his companion but could not open his mouth. Why couldn’t the wind of Jehovah fill the dried-out wells of the desert with water? Why couldn’t the Lord love the green leaf and feel pity for men? Oh, if only one man could be found to approach him, fall at his feet and succeed, before being reduced to ashes, in telling him of man’s suffering, and of the suffering of the earth and of the green leaf!

Judas still stood in the low doorway of the isolated cell which the monks had given him as a workshop. Splitting with laughter, he watched the funeral procession which rolled and pitched, sank away and vanished at one moment, reappeared at the next. He had caught sight of the person he was hunting, and his dark eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Great is the God of Israel,” he whispered. “He arranges everything beautifully. He has brought the traitor right to the point of my knife.”

He went inside, stroking his mustache with delight. The cell was dark, but in a small furnace in the corner, the burning coals glowed fiercely. The low-rumped monk, half saint, half lunatic, was poking the fire, bellows in hand.

The blacksmith was in a good mood. “Hey, Father Jeroboam,” he said, “is this what they call the wind of God? I like it, I like it very much. I would blow that way myself, if I were God.”

The monk laughed. “I wouldn’t blow at all-I’m worn out.” He abandoned the bellows in order to sponge the sweat from his forehead and neck.

Judas approached him. “Will you do me a favor, Father Jeroboam?” he asked. “Yesterday a young man with a small black beard came as a guest to the monastery, a half lunatic like Your Worship. He was barefooted and wore a red-spotted kerchief on his head.”

“I was the first to see him,” said the monk, putting on airs. “But my dear smith, he’s no half lunatic; he’s as crazy as they come! He says he had a dream and traveled from Nazareth so that the Abbot-may he rest in peace-could disentangle it for him.”

“All right, then, listen: you’re the guest master, aren’t you? Whenever anyone comes, isn’t it you who fits up his cell, makes his bed, takes him to eat?”

“That’s me, no doubt about it! It seems I’m hopeless in any other function, so they made me the guest master. I wash, I sweep, and I feed the visitors.”

“Fine! Put his bed in my cell tonight. I can’t sleep alone, Jeroboam-how can I explain it to you? I have nightmares, Satan comes and tempts me, I’m afraid I’ll be damned to hell. But as soon as I feel a human being breathing near me, I grow calm. Go on, do it. I’ll give you a present: a pair of sheep shears so you can trim your beard. You can barber the monks too, and clip the camels-and no one will call you untalented any more. Do you hear what I say?”

“Bring me the shears!”

The blacksmith rummaged through his bag and extracted a pair of huge rusty scissors. The monk snatched them, brought them close to the light, opened them, closed them. His admiration was endless.

“Lord, you are great, and wonderful are your works,” he whispered, completely stupefied.

“Well?” said Judas, shaking him violently to wake him up.

“You shall have him tonight,” the monk answered, and, seizing the scissors, he left.

The others had returned already. They had not been able to go very far, for the wind of Jehovah twirled them around and threw them to the ground. They found a pit, rolled the carcass in and called for Father Habakkuk to say the prayer, but he was nowhere to be found, and the old rabbi of Nazareth bent over the pit and shouted to the evacuated, soul-less flesh: “Dust you are, return to dust. The soul within you has fled, you are needed no longer, you have accomplished your duty. Flesh, you have accomplished your duty: you aided the soul to descend to its earthly exile, to walk for a few suns and moons over the sand and stones, to sin, to feel pain, to yearn for heaven, its fatherland, and for God, its father. Flesh, the Abbot no longer needs you: dissolve!”

Even while the rabbi spoke, a layer of fine sand was deposited over the Abbot’s corpse: the face, beard and hands sank away. Still more clouds of sand arose, and the monks hurriedly retreated. The moment the half-crazy guest master snatched his sheep shears and left the blacksmith, the monks, blinded, their lips cracked, their armpits chafed, burrowed into the monastery, carrying old Habakkuk, whom they had found on the way back, half buried in the sand.

The old rabbi brushed his eyes, mouth and neck with a damp cloth and squatted on the ground in front of the Abbot’s empty stall. Through the bolted door he could hear the breath of Jehovah parch and obliterate the world. The prophets strode across his brain, from temple to temple. It was in fiery air such as this that they had cried out to God; and at the approach of the Lord of Hosts they must have felt a similar burning of their lips and eyes. “Of course! God is a scorching wind, a flash of lightning I know that,” he murmured. “He is not an orchard in bloom. And the heart of man is a green leaf: God twists its stem and it withers. What can we do, how can we behave toward him to make his expression grow sweeter? If we offer him sacrificial lambs, he shouts, ‘I don’t want them, I don’t want flesh; my hunger is satisfied only with psalms.’ If we open our mouths and begin to sing the psalms, he shouts, ‘I don’t want words. Nothing but the flesh of the lamb, of the son, of the only son, will satisfy my hunger!’ ”

The old rabbi sighed. Thinking about God had driven him furious and worn him out. He looked for a corner where he could lie down. The monks, exhausted from lack of sleep, had scattered to their cells to go to bed and dream about the Abbot. His spirit would roam the monastery for forty days, would enter their cells to see what they were doing, and to give them advice or scold them. They lay down, therefore, both to rest and to see him in their sleep. The old rabbi turned and looked around him. He saw no one. The cell was empty except for the two black dogs. They had entered, had lain down on the flagstones, and were mournfully sniffing the deserted stall. Outside, the rabid wind beat on the door: it wanted to come in too.

But as the rabbi prepared to lie down next to the dogs, he discovered the son of Mary standing motionless in the corner, watching him. All at once the sleep fled from his drowsy eyelids. Troubled, he sat up and nodded to his nephew to approach. The youth seemed to have been waiting for the invitation. He came forward, a bitter smile quivering about his lips.

“Sit down, Jesus,” said the rabbi. “I want to talk to you.”

“I’m listening,” the youth replied, and he knelt opposite him. “I want to talk to you too, Uncle Simeon.”

“What are you seeking here? Your mother goes around the villages looking for you, and lamenting.”

“She seeks me; I seek God. We shall never meet,” answered the youth.

“You are heartless. You never loved your father and mother as a human being should.”

“So much the better. My heart is a lighted coal. It burns whomever it touches.”

“What’s the matter with you? How can you talk like that? What is lacking in you?” said the rabbi, stretching forth his head to get a better look at the son of Mary. The youth’s eyes were brimming with tears. “A hidden pain is devouring you, my boy. Confess it to me and relieve yourself. A pain hidden deep down-”

“One?” interrupted the youth, and the bitter smile spread over his entire face. “Not one, many!”

The heart-rending sound of this outburst terrified the rabbi. He placed his hand on the youth’s knee, to give him courage. “I’m listening, my boy,” he said gently. “Bring your sufferings into the light, draw them up out of your bowels. They thrive in darkness, but light kills them. Don’t be ashamed or afraid-speak!”

But the son of Mary had not the slightest idea how to begin or what to say: what to keep unrevealed deep in his heart, what to confess in order to relieve himself. God, Magdalene, the seven sins, the crosses, the crucified-all were passing through him and lacerating his insides.

The rabbi regarded him with a look of mute supplication and patted his knee.

“Can’t you, my child?” he said finally, in a low, tender voice. “Can’t you?”

“No, Uncle Simeon, I cannot.”

“Are you beset with many temptations?” he asked, his voice even softer now and tenderer.

“Many,” answered the youth, with terror, “many.”

“When I was young, my child,” the rabbi said with a sigh, “I too suffered much. God tormented and tested me just as he does you: he wanted to see if I would bear up, and for how long. I too had many temptations. I wasn’t afraid of some-the ones with savage faces-but others, the tame ones, the ones full of sweetness, those I feared; and as you know, in order to find a respite I came to this monastery, just as you have done. But God did not give up the chase, and it was here, right here, that he caught me. He sent a temptation dressed like a woman. Alas, I fell before this temptation; and since then-perhaps that is what God wanted, perhaps that is why he tormented me-since then I have been tranquil, and so has God: we were reconciled, and now we are friends. In the same way, my child, you will become reconciled with God-and be cured.”

The son of Mary shook his head. “I do not think I shall be cured so easily,” he murmured. He remained silent, as did the rabbi next to him. They were both breathing rapidly, gasping.

“I don’t know where to begin,” said the youth, starting to rise, “I shall never begin: I’m too ashamed!”

But the rabbi kept a firm hold on the youth’s knee. “Don’t get up,” he commanded, “don’t go away. Shame is also a temptation. Conquer it-stay! I’m going to ask you some questions; I’ll do the asking and you’re going to be patient and answer me… Why did you come to the monastery?”

“To save myself.”

“To save yourself? From what? From whom?”

“From God.”

“From God!” the rabbi cried out, troubled.

“He’s been hunting me, driving his nails into my head, my heart, my loins. He wants to push me-”

“Where?”

“Over the precipice.”

“What precipice?”

“His. He says I should rise up and speak. But what can I say? ‘Leave me alone; I have nothing to say!’ I shouted at him, but he refused. ‘Aha! so you refuse, do you?’ I said to him. ‘All right, then, now I’ll show you-I’ll make you detest me, and then you’ll leave me alone…’ I fell, therefore, into every conceivable sin.”

“Into every conceivable sin?” cried the rabbi.

But the young man did not hear. He had been carried away by his indignation and pain.

“Why should he choose me? Doesn’t he uncover my breast and look in? All the serpents are entwined and hissing there, hissing and dancing-all the sins. And above all…”

The word stuck in his throat. He stopped. Sweat spouted from the roots of his hair.

“And above all?” asked the rabbi softly.

“Magdalene!” said Jesus, raising his head.

“Magdalene!”

The rabbi’s face had grown pale.

“It’s my fault, mine, that she took the road she did. I drove her to the pleasures of the flesh when I was still a small child-yes, I confess it. Listen, Rabbi, if you want to be horrified. It must have been when I was about three years old. I slipped into your house at a time when no one was home. I took Magdalene by the hand; we undressed and lay down on the ground, pressing together the soles of our naked feet. What joy that was, what a joyful sin! From that time on Magdalene was lost; she was lost-she could no longer live without a man, without men.”

He looked at the old rabbi, but the other had placed his head between his knees and did not speak.

“It’s my fault, mine! mine!” the son of Mary cried, beating his chest. “And if it were only this!” he continued after a moment. “But ever since my childhood, Rabbi, I’ve not only kept the devil of fornication hidden deeply within me but also the devil of arrogance. Even when I was tiny-I could hardly walk at the time; I used to go along the wall, clinging to it to keep myself from falling-even then I shouted to myself-oh, what impudence! what impudence!-‘God, make me God! God, make me God! God, make me God!’ And one day I was holding a large bunch of grapes in my arms, and a gypsy woman passed by. She came over to me, squatted, and took my hand. ‘Give me the grapes,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell you your fortune.’ I gave them to her. She bent over and looked at my palm. ‘Oh, oh,’ she cried, ‘I see crosses-crosses and stars.’ Then she laughed. ‘You’ll become King of the Jews!’ she said, and went away. But I believed her and swaggered; and ever since then, Uncle Simeon, I haven’t been in my right mind. You’re the first person I’ve told, Uncle Simeon-until now I hadn’t confessed it to a soul: ever since that day I haven’t been in my right mind.”

He was quiet for a moment, but then: “I am Lucifer!” he screamed. “Me! Me!”

The rabbi unwedged his head from between his knees and clamped his hand over the young man’s mouth.

“Be still!” he ordered.

“No, I won’t be still!” said the overwrought youth. “Now I’ve started, and it’s too late. I won’t be still! I’m a liar, a hypocrite, I’m afraid of my own shadow, I never tell the truth-I don’t have the courage. When I see a woman go by, I blush and lower my head, but my eyes fill with lust. I never lift my hand to plunder or to thrash or kill-not because I don’t want to but because I’m afraid. I want to rebel against my mother, the centurion, God-but I’m afraid. Afraid! Afraid! If you look inside me, you’ll see Fear, a trembling rabbit, sitting in my bowels-Fear, nothing else. That is my father, my mother and my God.”

The old rabbi took the youth’s hands and held them in his own, in order to calm him. But Jesus’ body was quivering convulsively. “Do not be frightened, my child,” the rabbi said, comforting him. “The more devils we have within us, the more chance we have to form angels. ‘Angel’ is the name we give to repentant devils-so have faith… But I would like to ask you just one thing more: Jesus, have you ever slept with a woman?”

“No,” the youth answered softly.

“And you don’t want to?”

The youth blushed and did not breathe a word, but the blood was throbbing wildly at his temples.

“You don’t want to?” the old man asked once more.

“I do,” the youth answered, so softly that the rabbi could hardly hear.

But all at once he gave a start as though he had just waked up, and cried, “No, I don’t, I don’t!”

“Why not?” asked the rabbi, who could find no other cure for the youth’s pain. He knew from his own experience and from the multitudes of those possessed with demons who came to him cursing, frothing at the mouth and screaming that the world was too small for them: they married, and suddenly the world was no longer too small; they had children, and grew calm.

“It’s not enough for me,” the youth said in a steady voice. “I need something bigger.”

“Not enough for you?” exclaimed the rabbi with surprise. “Well, then, what do you want?”

Proud-gaited, high-rumped Magdalene passed through the youth’s mind, her breasts exposed, her eyes, lips and cheeks covered with make-up. She laughed and her teeth flashed in the sunlight; but as she wriggled up and down before him, her body changed, multiplied, and the son of Mary now saw a lake, which must have been the lake of Gennesaret, and around it thousands of men and women-thousands of Magdalenes-with happy, uplifted faces, and the sun fell upon them and they gleamed. But no, it was not the sun, it was himself, Jesus of Nazareth, who was bent over those faces and causing them to overflow with splendor. Whether from joy, desire or salvation he could not distinguish: all he saw was the splendor.

“What are you thinking about?” asked the rabbi. “Why don’t you answer me?”

The young man burst out, asking abruptly, “Do you believe in dreams, Uncle Simeon? I do; I believe in nothing else. One night I dreamed that invisible enemies had me tied to a dead cypress. Long red arrows were sticking into me from my head to my feet, and the blood was flowing. On my head they had placed a crown of thorns, and intertwined with the thorns were fiery letters which said: ‘Saint Blasphemer.’ I am Saint Blasphemer, Rabbi Simeon. So you’d better not ask me anything else, or I’ll start my blasphemies.”

“Go ahead, my child-start,” the rabbi said tranquilly, again taking hold of his hand. “Start your blasphemies and relieve yourself.”

“There’s a devil inside me which cries, ‘You’re not the son of the Carpenter, you’re the son of King David! You are not a man, you are the son of man whom Daniel prophesied. And still more: the son of God! And still more: God!’ ”

The rabbi listened, bowed over, and shudders passed through his ramshackle body. The youth’s chapped lips were rimmed with froth; his tongue adhered to his palate: he could no longer speak. But what else was he to say? He had already said everything; he felt that his heart had been drained. Jerking his hands free of the rabbi’s grip, he got up. Then he turned to the old man. “Have you anything else to ask?” he said sarcastically.

“No,” replied the old man, who felt all the strength flow out of him into the earth and perish. In his lifetime he had extracted many devils from the mouths of men. The possessed came from the ends of the earth and he cured them. Their devils, however, were small, and easy: devils of the bath, of anger, of sickness. But now… How could he wrestle with a devil like this?

Outside, the wind of Jehovah still beat on the door, trying to enter. There was no other sound. Not a jackal on the earth, nor a crow in the air. Every living thing cowered in fear, waiting for the Lord’s anger to pass.