The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Eleven

THE SON of Mary leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. His mouth was bitter, poisonously bitter. The rabbi, his head once more wedged between his knees, meditated on hell and devils and the heart of man… No, hell with its devils was not in the great pit below the earth; it was in the breasts of men, in the breast of the most virtuous, the most just. God was an abyss, man was an abyss-and the old rabbi did not dare open his heart to see what lay within.

They did not speak for some time. Deep silence… Even the two black dogs had fallen asleep: they had grown tired of lamenting the deceased. Suddenly there was a sweet, piercing hiss from the yard. The half-mad Jeroboam jumped up, the first to hear it. The wind of Jehovah was always accompanied by this sweet hissing in the yard, and the monk bounded with delight whenever the sound reached his ears. The sun was setting, but the entire yard was still bathed in light, and on the flagstones next to the dried-up well, the monk’s eyes perceived a large snake, black with yellow patterns, lifting its swelled neck, vibrating its tongue, and hissing. Never in his life had Jeroboam heard a flute more seductive than this snaky throat. Now and then in the summertime, when he too dreamed of a woman, she appeared to him like this, like a snake which slid over the mat where he slept, put its tongue in his ear, and hissed…

Tonight Jeroboam had once more flown out of his cell, and now, holding his breath, he approached the enflamed snake. It piped; he looked at it, and began to pipe also and to feel the snake’s warmth pass into his body. Then, little by little, other snakes emerged from the dried-up well or out of the sand, or from around the cacti: one with a blue hood, another green with two horns, others yellow, dappled, black… Quickly, like water, they slid forward and joined the first snake, the decoy; they strung themselves all together, rubbed one against the next, licked each other: a snaky cluster of grapes hung in the middle of the yard, and Jeroboam opened his mouth and drooled. This is sex, he reflected. Men and women couple like this, and that is why God banished us from Paradise… His humped, unkissed body swayed back and forth in time with the snakes.

The rabbi heard the enticing sound, raised his head, and listened. God’s fiery wind blows, he said to himself, and right in the middle of it, the snakes mate. The Lord puffs and wants to incinerate the world, and up come the snakes to make love! For a moment the old man’s mind succumbed to the enticement and wandered. But suddenly he shuddered. Everything is of God, he reflected; everything has two meanings, one manifest, one hidden. The common people comprehend only what is manifest. They say, “This is a snake,” and their minds go no further; but the mind which dwells in God sees what lies behind the visible, sees the hidden meaning. These snakes which crept out today in front of the doors of this cell and began to hiss at precisely this moment, just after the son of Mary’s confession, must assuredly have a deep, concealed meaning. But what is that meaning?

He rolled up into a ball on the ground, his temples throbbing. What was the meaning? Cold sweat flowed over his sun-baked face. Sometimes he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the pale youth next to him; sometimes, with eyes closed and mouth opened, he listened intently to the snakes outside. What was the meaning?

He had learned the language of the birds from the great exorcist Josaphat, his former superior, who was Abbot when he came to the monastery to become a monk. He could interpret the sayings of swallows, doves and eagles. Josaphat had also promised to teach him the language of the snakes, but he died and took the secret with him. These snakes tonight were doubtless bringing a message, but what was that message?

He rolled himself up again and squeezed his head between his hands: his mind was jingling. He writhed and sighed for a considerable time and felt white and black thunderbolts tear through his brain. What was the meaning? What was the message? Suddenly he uttered a cry. He got up from the ground, took the Abbot’s crosier and leaned on it.

“Jesus,” he said in a low voice, “how does your heart feel?”

But the youth did not hear. He was plunged in unspeakable exultation. Tonight, after so many years, tonight, the night he had decided to confess and speak out, he was able for the first time to look into the darkness of his heart and distinguish, one by one, the serpents which were hissing within him. He gave them names, and as he did so, it seemed to him that they issued from his bowels and slid away outside, relieving him.

“Jesus, how does your heart feel?” the old man asked again. “Is it relieved?” He leaned over and took him by the hand. “Come,” he said tenderly, and he put his finger to his lips.

He opened the door. He held Jesus by the hand, and they crossed the threshold. The audacious snakes, glued one to the next and holding on to the earth with nothing but their tails, had risen in the middle of the fiery swirl of sand and were dancing in a row, completely at the mercy of God’s wind; and from time to time they stiffened and ceased moving, exhausted.

The son of Mary recoiled at the sight of them, but the rabbi squeezed his hand, held out the crosier and touched the edge of the snaky cluster.

“Here they are,” he said softly, watching the youth and smiling. “They’ve fled.”

“Fled?” asked the youth, perplexed. “Fled from where?”

“You feel your heart unburdened, don’t you? They have fled from your heart.”

The son of Mary stared with protruding eyes first at the rabbi, who was smiling at him, then at the snakes, which, all in a clump, were now transferring themselves in a dance toward the dried-up well. He put his hand to his heart and felt it beating quickly, elatedly.

“Let’s go inside,” said the rabbi, taking him again by the hand. They entered and the rabbi closed the door.

“Glory be to God,” he exclaimed with emotion. He looked at the son of Mary and felt strangely troubled.

This is a miracle, he said to himself. The life of this boy who stands before me is nothing but miracles… At one moment he wanted to hold his hands over Jesus’ head and bless him, at the next to stoop and kiss his feet. But he restrained himself. Had not God deceived him time after time until now? How many times, as he heard the prophets who had come forth lately from mountainside or desert, had he said, “This one is the Messiah”? But God deceived him each time, and the rabbi’s heart, which was ready to blossom, always remained a flowerless stump. So, he restrained himself… I must test him first, he thought. Those were the serpents which were devouring him. They have fled and he has been cleansed. He is capable now of rising. He will speak to men-and then we shall see.

The door opened, and in came Jeroboam the guest master with the two visitors’ meager supper of barley bread, olives and milk. He turned to Jesus. “I laid your sleeping mat in another cell tonight so that you could have company.”

But the minds of the two visitors were far away, and they did not hear. The snakes could be heard again, from the bottom of the well. They were piping, piping and gasping for breath.

“They’re getting married,” said the monk, giggling. “The wind of God blows, and they-a plague on them!-they don’t get scared; they get married!”

He looked at the old man and winked, but the rabbi had begun to dip his bread into the milk and to chew. He wanted to gain strength, to transform the bread, olives and milk into intelligence so that he could speak to the son of Mary. The stunted hunchback eyed first the one, then the other, got bored, and left.

The two sat cross-legged facing each other, and ate in silence. The cell had grown dim. The stools, the Abbot’s stall and the lectern, with the prophet Daniel still opened upon it, gleamed fuzzily in the darkness. The air of the cell still smelt of sweet incense. Outside, the wind grew calm.

“The wind has subsided,” the rabbi said at one point. “God has come and gone.”

The youth did not reply. They’ve left, they’ve left, he was thinking; the serpents have fled from within me. Perhaps that is just what God wanted, perhaps that is why he brought me here to the desert: to be cured. He blew, the serpents heard him, came out of my heart and fled. Glory be to God!

Having finished eating, the rabbi lifted his hands and gave thanks to God. Then he turned to his companion. “Jesus, where is your mind? I am the rabbi of Nazareth, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Uncle Simeon,” said the youth, coming out of his great torpor with a start.

“The hour is here, my child. Are you ready?”

“Ready? Ready for what?” asked Jesus, shuddering.

“You know very well-why do you ask me? Ready to stand up and speak.”

“To whom?”

“To mankind.”

“To say what?”

“Don’t worry about that. You just open your mouth; God seeks nothing more from you. Do you love mankind?”

“I don’t know. I see men and feel sorry for them, nothing else.”

“That’s enough, my child, that’s enough. Rise up and speak to them. Your sorrows may then be multiplied, but theirs will be relieved. Perhaps that is why God sent you into the world. We shall see!”

“Perhaps that is why God sent me into the world?” the youth repeated. “How do you know, Father?” His soul left his body and hung on tenterhooks, awaiting the response.

“I don’t. No one told me; but still, it’s possible. I’ve seen signs. Once when you were a boy you took some clay and fashioned a bird. While you caressed it and talked to it, it seemed to me that this bird of clay grew wings and flew out of your grasp. It’s possible that this clay bird is the soul of man, Jesus, my child-the soul of man in your hands.”

The youth got up and carefully opened the door. Putting out his head, he listened. The snakes were completely silent now-at last. Pleased, he turned to the old rabbi. “Give me your blessing, Father, and do not say anything else to me. You’ve spoken quite enough; I cannot bear to hear more.”

And after a pause: “I’m tired, Uncle Simeon. I’m going to bed. Sometimes God comes during the night and explains the events of the day… Sleep well, Uncle Simeon.”

The guest master was waiting for him outside the door.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll show you where I put your bed. What’s your name, my fine lad?”

“Son of the Carpenter.”

“Mine’s Jeroboam. I’m also called Brother Crackbrain, and also The Hunchback. So what! I keep my nose to the grindstone and gnaw the dry crust which God gave me.”

“What dry crust?”

The hunchback laughed. “Don’t you understand, nitwit? My soul! And as soon as I get done-good night, pleasant dreams-along comes Charon and starts gnawing on me!”

He halted and opened a tiny squat door.

“Enter,” he said. “There-in the back corner, to the left-your mat!” Guffawing, he pushed him through the doorway. “Sleep well, my fine lad, and pleasant dreams. But never fear, you’ll dream about women-it’s in the monastery air.”

Splitting with laughter, he shut the door with a thunderous bang.

The son of Mary did not move. Darkness… At first he distinguished nothing, but little by little half-transparent whitewashed walls began ever so imperceptibly to appear; a jug glittered in a niche along the wall; and in the corner, riveted upon him, were two sparking eyes.

He groped his way slowly forward, his arms stretched before him. His foot stumbled on the unfolded mat, and he stopped. The two eyes shifted, following him.

“Good evening, friend,” the son of Mary greeted his companion, but no one replied.

Hunched up into a ball, his chin against his knees, his heavy, gasping breaths reverberating throughout the cell, Judas leaned against the wall and watched him. Come… come… come… he murmured within himself, the knife squeezed in his fist against his breast. Come… come… come… he murmured, watching the son of Mary approach. Come… come… come… he murmured, luring him.

His mind went back to the village where he was born, Kerioth, in faraway Idumea. He remembered that this was exactly how his uncle the exorcist had lured the jackals, rabbits and partridge he wanted to kill. He used to lie down on the ground, pin his burning eyes on the game and produce a hiss full of longing, entreaty and command: come… come… come… The animal would immediately grow dizzy and start to creep, head bowed and out of breath, toward the hissing mouth.

Suddenly Judas began to hiss-softly at first and with much tenderness, but all at once the sound grew stronger, became fierce and menacing, and the son of Mary, who had lain down to sleep, jumped up in terror. Who was this next to him? Who was hissing? He felt the odor of an incensed beast in the air, and understood.

“Judas, my brother, is that you?” he asked quietly.

“Crucifier!” growled the other, angrily stamping his heel on the ground.

“Judas, my brother,” the youth repeated, “the crucifier suffers more than the crucified.”

The redbeard lashed out and twirled his whole body around so that it faced the son of Mary.

“I swore to my brothers the Zealots and to the mother of the crucified that I would kill you. Welcome, cross-maker. I hissed, and you came.”

He jumped to his feet, bolted the door and then returned to the corner and rolled himself up again into a ball, with his face turned toward Jesus.

“Did you hear what I said? Don’t start your blubbering. Get ready!”

“I am ready.”

“No shouting now! Quick! I want to get away while it’s still dark.”

“I’m delighted to see you, Judas, my brother. I’m ready. It wasn’t you who hissed; it was God-and I came. His abounding grace arranged everything perfectly. You came just at the right moment, Judas, my brother. Tonight my heart was unburdened, purified: I can present myself now before God. I have grown tired of wrestling with him, grown tired of living. I offer you my neck, Judas-I am ready.”

The blacksmith groaned and knit his brows. He did not like, did not like at all-indeed, it disgusted him to touch a neck which was offered undefended, like a lamb’s. What he wanted was resistance, body-to-body grappling, and the kill to come at the very end as was appropriate for real men, after the blood had become heated: a just reward for the struggle.

The son of Mary waited, his neck stretched forward. But the blacksmith thrust out his huge hand and pushed him away.

“Why don’t you resist?” he growled. “What kind of a man are you? Get up and fight!”

“But I don’t want to, Judas, my brother. Why should I resist? What you want, I want; and surely God wants the same-that is why he put all the pieces together so perfectly. Don’t you see: I departed for this monastery, you departed at the same moment; I arrived and right away my heart was cleansed: I prepared myself to be killed; you took your knife, huddled in this corner and prepared yourself to kill; the door opened, I entered… What further signs could you possibly want, Judas, my brother?”

But the blacksmith did not speak. He chewed his mustache in a frenzy; his boiling blood circulated by fits and starts, rose to his head and fired his brain a bright red, rushed down again leaving it pale, then remounted.

“Why do you build crosses?” he thundered finally.

The young man lowered his head. That was his secret-how could he reveal it? How could the blacksmith give credence to the dreams which God sent him, or to the voices he heard when he was all alone, or the talons which nailed themselves into the top of his head and wanted to lift him to heaven? And he resisted and did not want to go-how could Judas understand that? He clutched sin, desperately, as a means of keeping himself on earth.

“I cannot explain it to you, Judas, my brother. Forgive me,” he said contritely, “but I cannot.”

The blacksmith shifted his position so that he could better distinguish the youth’s face in the darkness. He looked at it avidly, then slowly drew back and leaned once again against the wall. What kind of a person is this? he asked himself. I can’t understand. I wonder if it’s the devil who’s guiding him-or God? In either case, damn him! he leads him with a sure hand. He doesn’t resist, and that is the greatest resistance. I can’t slaughter lambs; men, yes, but not lambs.

“You’re a coward, you miserable wretch!” he burst out. “Ooo-why don’t you go to hell! You’re slapped on one cheek and you, what do you do, you right away turn the other. You see a knife, and right away you stick out your neck. A man can’t touch you without feeling disgusted.”

“God can,” the son of Mary murmured tranquilly.

The blacksmith twisted the knife in his fist, unable to make up his mind. For an instant he imagined he saw a halo of light trembling in the darkness over the youth’s bowed head. Terror came over him, and the joints of his hands went slack.

“I may be thickheaded,” he said to the son of Mary, “but speak-I’ll understand. Who are you? What do you want? Where do you come from? What are these tales that surround you on every side: a flowering staff, a lightning flash, the fainting spells which seize you while you walk, the voices which you’re said to hear in the darkness? Tell me, what is your secret?”

“Pity, Judas, my brother.”

“For whom? Whom do you pity? Is it yourself, your own wretchedness and poverty? Or perhaps you feel sorry for Israel? Well, speak! Is it for Israel? That’s what I want you to say, do you hear? That and nothing else. Are you being devoured by Israel ’s suffering?”

“By man’s, Judas, my brother.”

“Forget about ‘man.’ The Greeks who slaughtered us for so many years, curse them!-they’re men. The Romans are men, and they’re still slaughtering us and soiling the Temple and our God. Why care about them? It’s Israel you should keep your sights on, and if you feel pity, it should be pity for Israel. All the others can go to the devil!”

“But I feel pity for the jackals, Judas, my brother, and for the sparrows, and the grass.”

“Ha! Ha!” jeered the redbeard. “And for the ants?”

“Yes, for the ants too. Everything is God’s. When I bend over the ant, inside his black, shiny eye I see the face of God.”

“And if you bend over my face, son of the Carpenter?”

“There too, very deep down, I see the face of God.”

“And you don’t fear death?”

“Why should I, Judas, my brother? Death is not a door which closes; it is a door which opens. It opens, and you enter.”

“Enter where?”

“The bosom of God.”

Judas sighed with vexation. This fellow just can’t be caught, he reflected; he can’t be caught, because he has no fear of death… Propping his chin on his palm, he looked at Jesus and strained to come to a decision.

“If I don’t kill you,” he said finally, “what do you plan to do?”

“I don’t know. Whatever God decides… I should like to get up and speak to men.”

“To tell them what?”

“How do you expect me to know, Judas, my brother? I’ll open my mouth, and God will do the talking.”

The halo of light around the youth’s head grew brighter; his sad, wasted face flashed like lightning and his large, jet-black eyes seduced Judas with their unutterable sweetness. The redbeard felt troubled and lowered his eyes. I wouldn’t kill him, he thought, if I were sure he would go out to speak and rouse the hearts of the Israelites, rouse them to attack the Romans.

“What are you waiting for, Judas, my brother?” asked the youth. “Or perhaps God did not send you to kill me; perhaps he wills something else, something unknown even to you, and you look at me and struggle to divine what it is. I am ready to be killed, and I am also ready to live. Decide.”

“Don’t be in a rush,” the other answered dejectedly. “The night is long; we have plenty of time.”

But after a pause, he shouted frantically, “A fellow can’t even talk to you without getting himself in hot water. I ask you one thing and you answer another: I can’t pin you down. My heart and mind were more certain before I saw you and listened to you than they are now. Leave me alone. Turn your head the other way and go to sleep. I want to be alone so that I can digest all this and see what I’m going to do.”

This said, he turned toward the wall, grumbling.

The son of Mary lay down on his mat and tranquilly crossed his hands.

Whatever God wants, that is what will happen, he reflected, and he closed his eyes with confidence.

An owl emerged from its hole in the rock facing them, saw that God’s whirlwind had passed, flew to and fro silently and then began to hoot tenderly, calling its mate. God has left, it called; we’ve escaped once more, dearest-come! High above, the skylight of the cell had filled with stars. The son of Mary opened his eyes and was happy to see them. They moved slowly, disappeared; others arose. The hours went by.

Judas twisted and turned, still cross-legged on his mat. Now and then he got up, gasping and murmuring, and went as far as the door, only to return again. The son of Mary watched him with half-closed eyes and waited. Whatever God wants, that is what will happen, he thought, and he waited. The hours passed by.

A camel in the stable adjacent to them neighed with fear; she must have seen a wolf or a lion in her sleep. Immense new stars mounted ferociously from the east, ordered like an army.

Suddenly a cock crowed in the still-deep darkness. Judas jumped up. With one stride he was at the door. He opened it violently, closed it behind him. His bare feet could be heard stamping heavily over the flagstones.

And then, the son of Mary turned and saw his faithful fellow voyager. She was in the corner, erect and vigilant in the darkness.

“Forgive me, my sister,” he said to her. “The hour has not yet come.”