The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Thirteen

THE SUN was about to touch the sky’s foundations. The fever of the day wilted, the wind died down, the lake sparkled rose and blue. Several storks, still hungry, stood on one leg upon the rocks, their eyes pinned on the water.

The ragamuffins fixed their eyes on the son of Mary and waited, not wanting to leave. What were they waiting for? They had forgotten their hunger and nakedness; they had forgotten the malice of the landowners, who had lacked the goodness of heart to leave a few grapes on the vintaged vines in order to sweeten the throat of poverty. They had been going from vineyard to vineyard since the morning, and their baskets remained empty. The same had happened at the reaping: they had gone from field to field, their sacks hanging empty at their sides; and each evening their children waited for them with opened mouths! But now-they did not know why or how-their baskets seemed suddenly to have been filled. They looked at the man in white in front of them and could not bear to leave. They waited. Waited for what? They themselves did not know.

The son of Mary returned their look. He too was waiting; he felt that all these souls were suspended from his neck. What did they want of him? What were they seeking? What could he give them, he who had nothing? He looked at them, looked at them, and for an instant lost courage and wanted to flee again, but was prevented by shame. What would become of Magdalene, who was clinging to his feet? And so many eyes gazing at him with yearning: how could he leave them unconsoled? To leave? But where to go? God was on every side. His grace pushed him where it pleased-no, not his grace, his power, his all-powerful power. The son of Mary now felt that this earth was his home-he had no other home; he felt that men were his desert-he had no other desert.

“Lord, your will be done,” he murmured, bowing his head and surrendering himself to God’s mercy.

An old man stood up among the ragamuffins and spoke. “Son of Mary, we are hungry, but it’s not bread we seek of you. You are poor, like ourselves. Open your mouth, say a kind word to us, and we shall be filled.”

A young man ventured: “Son of Mary, injustice is strangling us; our hearts can bear no more. You said you brought a kind word. Tell us that kind word; bring us justice!”

The son of Mary looked at the people. He heard the voice of freedom and hunger, and rejoiced. He felt that he had been awaiting this voice for years, this voice which had now come and called him by name. He turned to the people, his arms spread wide. “Brothers,” he said, “let us go!”

All at once, as though they too had been awaiting this call for years and had heard their true name for the first time, the people rejoiced and bellowed: “Let us go! In God’s name!”

The son of Mary took the lead; the rest moved off in one body. Next to the lake front was a pitted hill, still pale green despite the fiery heat of the summer sun, which beat down on it all day long. Now, in the sweetness of the evening, it was perfumed with thyme and savory. Its summit must have been the site of some ancient heathen temple, for fragments of several carved capitals of columns still lay on the ground. The clairvoyant fishermen, while fishing in the lake at night, regularly saw a white ghost sitting on the marble, and one night old Jonah even heard it weep… It was toward this hill that they all marched as if in a trance, the son of Mary in front, and behind, the great family of the poor.

Old Salome turned to her younger son. “Carry me in your arms. We’ll go too.” She took Mary’s hand. “Don’t cry, Mary,” she said. “Didn’t you see a glow around your son’s face?”

“I have no son, I have no son,” the mother replied, beginning to sob convulsively. “All those ragamuffins have sons, and I have none.” She started toward the hill, wailing and lamenting. Now she was sure: her son had abandoned her forever. When she ran to embrace him and take him home with her, he had looked at her with astonishment as though he did not know her; and when she said to him, “I am your mother,” he had put out his hand and pushed her away.

Old Zebedee saw his wife mount the hill with the multitude. Scowling, he grabbed his club, turned to his son Jacob and his son’s two companions, Philip and Nathanael, and pointed to the noisy, agitated mob. “They’re famished wolves, damn them all! We’d better howl along with them so they won’t take us for sheep and eat us. Let’s follow behind-but remember, no matter what that windmill son of Mary tells them, we’ll boo him. Do you hear! We mustn’t let him get the upper hand. Forward, all together, and look sharp!”

This said, he too started to climb the hill, as slow as a lame donkey.

Just then Jonah’s two sons appeared. Peter held his brother by the arm and spoke to him tranquilly, tenderly, in order not to infuriate him. But the other was disturbed and kept his eyes on the swarms of people that were mounting, and on the man in white who led them.

“Who are they? Where are they going?” Peter asked Judas, who still stood in the street, unable to come to a decision.

“The son of Mary,” the redbeard sneered.

“And the troop behind him?”

“The poor who glean the grapes after the vintage. They took one look and attached themselves to him. I think he’s going up there to talk to them.”

“What can he say? He couldn’t even divide up hay for a pair of donkeys.”

Judas shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll see,” he growled, and he too started up the hill.

Two swarthy amazons were returning from the vineyards, exhausted and overheated, each with a large basket of grapes balanced on her head. Envying the camaraderie of the others, they decided to join them to pass the time, and attached themselves to the rear of the procession.

Old Jonah, his net on his shoulders, was dragging himself toward his shack. He was hungry, and impatient to arrive. When he saw his sons and the crowd mounting the hill, he stopped, open-mouthed, and gazed at them with round, fishlike eyes. He did not think of anything; he did not ask himself who had died, who was getting married, or where so many people were going all in a group. He did not think of anything; he simply stared with gaping mouth.

“Come on, fish-prophet Jonah, let’s go,” Zebedee called to him. “It’s a party! Seems like Mary Magdalene’s getting married. Come on, let’s go and have a good time!”

Jonah moved his thick lips. He was about to speak, but changed his mind. Giving a heave with his shoulder to adjust the net on his back, he went off toward his neighborhood with heavy steps. A considerable time later, as he was at last nearing his hut, his mind, after many labor pains, finally gave birth: “Go to the devil, Zebedee, you blockhead!” he grumbled; then, kicking open the door, he went in.

When Zebedee and his companions reached the top of the hill, Jesus was sitting cross-legged on the capital of a column. He had not opened his mouth yet; he seemed to be waiting for them. The crowd of paupers was in front of him, the men cross-legged on the ground, the women standing in back, looking at him. The sun had set, but Mount Hebron, to the north, still held the light at its summit and did not allow it to flee.

Jesus watched the light wrestle with the darkness, his hands crossed over his chest. At times he slowly drew his glance back onto the people’s faces, which were turned directly toward him. They were wrinkled, sorrowful, shrunken by hunger; and the eyes, pinned upon him, looked at him with reproach, as though he was to blame.

As soon as he saw Zebedee and his men, he rose. “Welcome,” he said. “Gather round, all of you. My voice is not very strong. I want to speak to you.”

Zebedee went in front in his capacity as village elder and enthroned himself on a stone. To his right were his two sons and also Philip and Nathanael; to his left, Peter and Andrew. Old Salome and Mary the wife of Joseph stood among the women, farther back. The other Mary, Mary Magdalene, was fallen at Jesus’ feet, her face hidden in her palms. Judas waited under a tormented, wind-gnarled pine tree, off to one side, and his hard blue eyes looked daggers at the son of Mary through the pine needles.

Jesus trembled secretly and struggled to find courage. This was the moment he had feared for so many years. It had come; God had conquered, had brought him by force where he wanted him-in front of men-in order to make him speak. And now, what could he say to them? The few joys of his life flashed through his mind, then the many sorrows, the contest with God, all that he had seen in his solitary wanderings-the mountains, flowers and birds, the shepherds who happily carried a stray sheep home on their shoulders, the fishermen throwing their nets to catch fish, the plowmen sowing, reaping, winnowing the grain and then transporting the produce to their homes. Heaven and earth opened and closed repeatedly within his mind: all the miracles of God-and he did not know which to choose first! He wanted to reveal them all, all! in order to console these inconsolables. This world which unfolded before him was God’s fairy tale, full of princesses and ogres, just like the tale his grandmother used to recite to keep him from crying; and God leaned over the edge of heaven and narrated it to men.

He smiled and opened wide his arms.

“Brothers,” he said in a trembling, still-unsteady voice, “brothers, forgive me if I speak in parables. I am a simple, illiterate man, poor and despised like yourselves. My heart has much to say, but my mind is unable to relate it. I open my mouth and without any desire on my part, the words come out as a tale. Forgive me, my brothers, but I shall speak in parables.”

“We’re listening, son of Mary,” shouted the people, “we’re listening!”

Once more Jesus opened his mouth. “The sower went out to sow his field, and as he sowed, one seed fell on the road and the birds came and ate it. Another fell on stones, found no soil in which to be nourished, and withered away. Another fell on thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it. Finally, another fell on good soil; it took root, sprouted an ear, brought forth grain and fed mankind. He among you who has ears to hear, let him hear!”

No one spoke. They all looked at each other, bewildered. But old Zebedee, who sought a pretext for a brawl, jumped up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t understand. I have ears, glory be to God, I have ears and I’m listening-but I don’t understand. What are you trying to say? Can’t you put it a little more clearly?” He laughed sarcastically, and proudly stroked his white beard.

“Or by any chance, are you the sower?”

“Yes,” Jesus replied with humility, “I am the sower.”

“The Lord preserve us!” exclaimed the old chief, banging his club on the ground. “And we, to be sure, are the stones and thorns and fields where you sow, eh?”

“You are,” the son of Mary answered, his voice still tranquil.

Andrew tensed his ear and listened. As he looked at Jesus his roused heart pounded furiously. It had pounded in this same way at the banks of the Jordan when he caught his first glimpse of John the Baptist-wrapped in the skins of animals, gnawed away by the sun, devoured so completely by prayer, vigils and hunger that nothing remained of him but two monstrous eyes-two live coals; and a larynx which cried, “Repent! Repent!” When he shouted, great waves swelled up on the Jordan, the caravans halted, the camels were unable to proceed. But now here was this other man in front of him who smiled and whose voice was tranquil and wavering-a gawky bird he was, struggling to twitter for the first time; and his eyes, instead of burning, caressed. Andrew’s heart winged back and forth between the two, completely bewildered.

Little by little, John moved away from his father’s side and approached Jesus. He had almost reached the teacher’s feet when Zebedee saw him and grew even more enraged than before. He was already sick and tired of false prophets. New ones sprouted up every day of the year and took the weight of the world upon their shoulders; and every single one of them, as though they had come to some previous understanding, attacked landlords, priests and kings. Whatever was stable and good in this world, they wanted to demolish. And now-what next!-here was the barefooted son of Mary! Ah, thought Zebedee, I’d better wring his neck for him while it’s still young and tender.

To find encouragement, he turned to see what the others were saying. He saw Jacob, his elder son, with wrinkled brow, but he could not tell whether from distress or anger; he saw his wife, who had come close now and was wiping her eyes; he shifted his glance to the ragamuffins and was terrified to see all of them, all of those famished paupers, staring at the son of Mary with opened mouths, like birds being fed by their mother.

“A plague on all beggars!” he grumbled as he slunk down next to his son. I’d best be still, he told himself, I’ll only get myself in trouble.

A calm, pathetic voice was heard. Someone sitting at Jesus’ feet had begun to talk. The people who were stretched out behind sat up to see. It was Zebedee’s younger son. He had crawled gradually to Jesus’ feet and was speaking to him now, with his head bent up.

“You are the sower and we are the stones, the thorns and the field. But what is the seed you hold?”

His fuzzy, virginal face was on fire, his black, almond-shaped eyes gazed at Jesus in an agony, his chubby white body, all tremors, was stretched upward and waiting. He had a foreboding that his whole life depended on the answer he would receive-this life, and the next.

Jesus had bent over in order to hear. He was silent for a considerable time as he listened to his heart and struggled to find the right word, the simple, everyday, immortal word. Hot sweat frosted his face.

“What is the seed you hold?” Zebedee’s son anxiously repeated.

All at once, Jesus jerked himself erect, spread out his arms and leaned toward the multitude.

“Love one another-” the cry escaped from his very bowels-“love one another!”

As he said this, he felt his heart become suddenly empty, and he collapsed onto the capital, exhausted.

Whispering arose. The people were roused. Many shook their heads; some laughed.

“What did he say?” asked an old man who was hard of hearing.

“That we should love one another.”

“Impossible!” said the old man, growing angry. “Someone who’s starving can’t love a man whose stomach is full. The victim of injustice can’t love his oppressor. Impossible! Let’s go home!”

Judas leaned against the pine tree and stroked his red beard in a rage. “So, son of the Carpenter,” he grumbled, “that’s what you’ve come to tell us, is it? Is this the stupendous message you bring us? You want us to love the Romans, eh? Are we supposed to hold out our necks like you do your cheek, and say, ‘Dear brother, slaughter me please’?”

Jesus heard the whispering, saw the scowling faces, the leaden eyes-and understood. Bitterness flowed over his face. Summoning up all his strength, he rose.

“Love one another! Love one another!” he repeated in a persistent, imploring voice. “God is love! I too used to think him savage, I too used to think that at his touch mountains fumed, men died. I hid in the monastery to escape; I fell on my face and waited. Now he will come, I said to myself; now he will fall on me like a thunderbolt. And one morning he did come, he blew over me like a cool breeze and said, ‘Arise, my child,’ and I arose, I came: here I am!”

He crossed his hands and bowed from the waist as though greeting the people before him.

Old Zebedee coughed and spat, squeezing his club. “God a cool breeze!” he growled softly, infuriated. “Go to hell, you quack!”

The son of Mary continued to speak. He went down now among the people, looked at them one by one, besought them one by one. He marched up and down, his arms lifted to heaven.

“He is our Father,” he said. “He will leave no pain unconsoled, no wound unhealed. However much we suffer pain and hunger in this world, by that much, and more, shall we be filled in heaven, shall we rejoice…”

Tired, he went up again to the capital of the column and sat down.

“Pie in the sky when we die!” a voice shouted, and laughter broke out.

But Jesus was swept away by God, and did not hear.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” he now shouted.

“Righteousness isn’t enough,” interrupted one of the famished. “Righteousness isn’t enough. We want bread!”

“Bread too,” said Jesus, sighing, “bread too… Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are those who mourn, for God will comfort them. Blessed are the poor, the meek, the wronged. It is for them, for you, the poor, the meek and the wronged, that God has prepared the kingdom of heaven.”

The two amazons, who stood with their baskets of grapes still on their heads, glanced rapidly at each other and without a word lowered their baskets and began, one to the right and the other to the left, to distribute the grapes to the poor. Magdalene, fallen at Jesus’ feet, still did not dare lift her head and let the people see her face, but she secretly kissed the teacher’s feet, which were buried in her hair.

Jacob’s endurance gave out; he jumped up and left. Andrew was infuriated. He extricated himself from his brother’s grasp and went and stood before Jesus. “I’ve just come from the river Jordan in Judea,” he shouted. “There a prophet proclaims: ‘Men are chaff and I am the fire. I have come to burn up and purify the earth, to burn up and purify the soul so that the Messiah may come forth!’ And you. son of the Carpenter, you preach love! Why don’t you take a look around you? Everywhere: liars, murderers, robbers! All are dishonest-rich and poor, oppressed and oppressors, Scribes and Pharisees-all! all! I too am a liar, I too am dishonest, and so is my brother Peter over there, and so is Zebedee with his fat paunch: he hears ‘love and thinks of his boats and men and how to steal as much as he can from the wine press.”

When old Zebedee heard this he flew into a rage. His blubbery nape turned fiery red, the veins of his neck swelled and he rushed forward with raised club, ready to strike. But Salome was in time to catch hold of his arm.

“Shame on you, shame on you,” she said to him softly. “Come, let’s go home.”

“No barefooted beggars are going to get the upper hand here in my territory!” he yelled at the top of his voice, so that all could hear. Huffing and puffing, he turned to the son of Mary. “And you, Carpenter, don’t go playing the Messiah with me, because woe is you, poor thing, you’ll end up being crucified like the others-that’s the way you’ll forget your problems! But it’s not you I pity, you good-for-nothing, it’s the unlucky mother who has you for her only son.”

He pointed to Mary, who had collapsed to the ground in a heap and was beating her head against the stones.

But the old man’s anger was still not appeased. He continued to bang his club on the ground, and shouted, “ ‘Love,’ he says, and forward everyone-you’re all brothers, so grab what you can, everything’s on the house! But can I love my enemy? Can I love the beggar who roams outside my yard, just itching to break down the door and rob me? ‘Love,’ he says-just listen to the cock-brain! Three cheers for the Romans! That’s what I say, even if they’re heathens. Three cheers! They keep order!”

This provoked the paupers to action. Bellowing furiously, they started toward Zebedee, and Judas bounded out from his pine tree. Old Salome was terrified. She silenced her husband by putting her hand over his mouth and then turned to the stormy, intimidating multitude which was coming closer.

“Don’t listen to him, my children. His rage makes him say one thing when he means another.”

She turned to the old man. “Let’s go,” she said in a commanding tone.

She nodded also to her darling son, who sat tranquil and happy at Jesus’ feet.

“Come, my boy,” she said. “It’s dark.”

“I’m going to stay, Mother,” the youth answered.

Mary got up from the rocks where she had thrown herself. Wiping her eyes, she went forward with unsteady steps in order to fetch her son and bring him home. The unfortunate woman had been frightened both by the love which the poor had shown him and by the threats hurled at him by the rich village elder.

“I implore you in God’s name not to listen to him,” she said now to one, now to another as she went by. “He’s ill… ill… ill…”

Trembling, she approached her son. He now stood with crossed hands, gazing out over the lake. “Come, my child,” she said to him tenderly, “come, let’s go home together…”

He heard the voice, turned and looked at her with surprise. He seemed to be asking who she was.

“Come, my child,” Mary repeated, clasping him around the waist. “Why do you look at me like that? Don’t you know me? I am your mother. Come, your brothers are waiting for you in Nazareth, and your old father…”

The son shook his head. “What mother,” he said calmly, “what brothers? My mother and brothers are here.”

Holding out his hand, he indicated the ragamuffins and their wives, and red-haired Judas, who stood mutely in front of the pine tree and looked at him with rage.

“And my father-” he raised his finger toward heaven-“my father is God.”

The eyes of this luckless victim of God’s thunderbolt began to flow with tears. “Is there any mother in the whole world more miserable than I?” she said. “I had one son, one, and now…”

Old Salome heard the heart-rending cry. Leaving her husband, she retraced her steps and took Mary by the hand. But the other resisted, and turned once more to her son.

“You’re not coming?” she cried. “This is the last time I’m going to say it to you: Come!”

She waited. The son was silent: he had again turned his face toward the lake.

“You’re not coming?” the mother cried in a heart-rending voice. She lifted her hand.

“Aren’t you afraid of a mother’s curse?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” answered the son without turning. “And I’m not afraid of anyone, except God.”

Mary’s face became ferocious. She lifted her fist and even opened her mouth to utter the curse, but old Salome was in time to place her hand over the mother’s lips.

“Don’t! Don’t!” she said. She clasped her around the waist and forcefully dragged her away. “Come, Mary, my child,” she said, “come, let’s go. I have something to tell you.”

The two women started down the hill to Capernaum. Old Zebedee went in front in a rage, decapitating the thistles with his club.

Salome spoke to Mary. “Why are you crying, Mary, my child? Didn’t you see them?”

Mary looked at her with surprise and held back her tears. “See what?” she asked.

“While he spoke, didn’t you see blue wings, thousands of blue wings behind him? I swear to you, Mary, there were whole armies of angels.”

But Mary shook her head in despair. “I didn’t see anything,” she murmured, “I didn’t see anything… anything.” Then, after a pause: “What good are angels to me, Salome? I want children and grandchildren to be following him, children and grandchildren, not angels!”

But old Salome’s eyes were filled with blue wings. Putting out her hand, she touched Mary’s breast and whispered to her as though confiding a great secret. “You are blessed, Mary, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”

But Mary was inconsolable. She shook her head and followed behind, weeping.

The infuriated ragamuffins, meanwhile, had encircled Jesus. They uttered threats, beat their staffs on the ground, waved their empty baskets in the air.

“Death to the rich!” they shouted. “You spoke well, son of Mary-death to the rich!”

“Go in the lead and we’ll burn down Zebedee’s house.”

“No, let’s not burn it,” others objected. “Let’s break in and divide up his wheat, oil, wine and the coffers-full of expensive clothes… Death to the rich!”

Jesus waved his arms in despair. “I didn’t say that! I didn’t say that!” he shouted. “I said, ‘Brothers, love!’ ”

But the poor were driven wild by hunger: how could they listen!

“Andrew is right,” they yelled. “First fire and the ax, then love!”

Andrew heard this, standing at Jesus’ side, but his head was bowed in thought, and he did not reply. When his teacher in the desert spoke, he was thinking, his words fell on men’s heads like stones and crushed them. But this man next to him portioned out his words to men like bread… Who was right? Which of the two roads led to the world’s salvation-force or love?

While all this was spinning in his mind he felt two hands on his scalp. Jesus had drawn near and gently placed his palms on the top of Andrew’s head. The fingers were beautifully supple and so very long that whatever they grasped, they embraced-they had spread out over Andrew’s entire head. Andrew did not budge. He felt the suture lines of his skull open and an unutterable honey-thick sweetness flow in, descend to his brain, reach his mouth, neck and heart, continue to his loins, ramify to the very soles of his feet. He rejoiced with his whole body, his whole soul-deeply, with the very roots of his being, like a thirsty tree that is watered. He did not speak. If only these hands above him would never go away! Now, after so much struggle, he finally felt security and inner peace.

A short distance away, Philip and simple Nathanael, the two inseparable friends, were having words.

“I like him,” said the gangling cobbler. “His words are as sweet as honey. Would you believe it: listening to him, I actually licked my chops!”

The shepherd was of a different opinion. “I didn’t like him. He says one thing and does another; he shouts, ‘Love! Love!’ and builds crosses and crucifies!”

“That’s all over and done with, I tell you, Philip. He had to pass that stage, the stage of crosses. Now he’s passed it and taken God’s road.”

“I want works!” Philip insisted. “The itch has begun to attack my sheep. Let him come first to say a blessing over them. If they’re cured, then I’ll believe in him. Otherwise, he can go you know where with the rest of his kind. Why shake your head? If he wants to save the world, let him start with my sheep.”

Night fell and covered lake, vineyards and the faces of men. David’s wain appeared in the sky. In the east a red star hung like a drop of wine over the desert.

Jesus suddenly felt tired and hungry. He wanted to be alone. The people gradually recalled the journey home, and their houses and the small children who awaited them. Their daily cares crushed down on them again. This was a flash of lightning-they had let themselves be swept away, but now it had passed and they had been recaptured by the wheel of everyday need. Singly, and in pairs-furtively, like deserters-they slipped away and left.

Overcome by melancholy, Jesus lay down on the ancient marble. No one held out his hand to bid him goodbye; no one asked him if he was hungry or if he had a place to spend the night. His face turned toward the darkening earth, he heard the hurried steps recede, recede… and then die out. Suddenly all was quiet. He lifted his head: no one. He looked around him: darkness. The people had left. Around him, nothing but the stars above; within him, nothing but fatigue and hunger. Where could he go? At which door could he knock? He curled up again on the ground, feeling reproachful and aggrieved. “Even the foxes have lairs in which to sleep,” he murmured, “and I have none.” He closed his eyes. A smarting cold had come down with the night, and he was shivering.

Suddenly he heard a groan from behind the marble and then muffled weeping. Opening his eyes, he perceived a woman crawling toward him on all fours in the darkness. When she arrived she unplaited her hair and began to sponge his feet, which had been cruelly lacerated by the stones. He recognized her by her scent.

“Magdalene, my sister,” he said, placing his hand on her warm, perfumed head, “Magdalene, my sister, return to your home and sin no more.”

“Jesus, my brother,” she said, kissing his feet, “let me follow in your shadow until I die. Now I know what love is.”

“Return to your home,” Jesus repeated. “When the hour comes, I shall call you.”

“I want to die for you, my child.”

“Do not be impatient, Magdalene. The hour will come, but it has not come yet. I will call you when it does. Now, go.”

She was about to object when she heard his voice again, and this time it was extremely stern: “Go!”

Magdalene began to descend the hill. Her light steps were audible for a short while; then, little by little, they were snuffed out, and nothing remained but the smell of her body in the air. But the night breeze blew and carried this away too.

The son of Mary now remained completely alone. Above him: God, his ebony night-face splashed with stars. Jesus cocked his ear as though he wanted to hear a voice in the starry darkness. He waited… Nothing. He wanted to open his mouth and ask the Invisible: Lord, are you pleased with me? but did not dare. He wanted to say many things to the Invisible, but did not dare. He was terrified by the abrupt silence which closed in upon him. Surely the Lord must be displeased with me, he suddenly thought, shuddering. But why am I to blame, Lord? I’ve told you, how many times have I told you: I cannot speak! But you have pushed me more and more, sometimes laughing, sometimes frowning with anger; and this morning at the monastery when the monks chased me in order to make me Abbot-unworthy that I am-and bolted all the doors to prevent my escape, you opened a tiny hidden gate for me, you dug your talons into my hair and threw me down here in front of this immense crowd. “Speak,” you ordered me; “the hour has come!” But I kept my lips squeezed tight and said nothing. You shouted, but I said nothing. Finally your patience gave out and you darted forward and opened my mouth. I did not open it, you opened it for me-by force; you anointed it not with lighted coals as you are accustomed to anoint the lips of your prophets, no, not with lighted coals, but with honey! And I spoke. My heart was angry; it incited me to cry: God is fire!-yes, just like your prophet the Baptist-God is fire, he’s coming! Men without law, without justice, without honor: where will you hide? He is coming!… That’s what my heart tried to make me shout, but you anointed my lips with honey, and instead, I cried, “Love! Love!”

“Lord, O Lord,” he murmured, “I cannot fight with you. Tonight I surrender my arms. Your will be done!”

As soon as he said this, he felt relieved. Lowering his head to his breast like a drowsy bird, he closed his eyes and slept. Straightway it seemed to him that he withdrew an apple from under his shirt, split it, removed a seed and planted it in front of him in the ground. No sooner had he done so than the seed germinated, pushed up through its covering of earth, formed a stem, sprouted branches, leaves, flowers-and produced fruit: hundreds of red apples…

The stones shifted; a man’s footsteps were heard. Jesus’ sleep took fright and fled. He raised his eyelids and saw someone standing before him. Happy that he was no longer alone, he calmly, mutely, welcomed the man’s warm presence.

The night visitor came forward and knelt. “You must be hungry,” he said. “I’ve brought you bread, honey and fish.”

“Who are you, my brother?”

“Andrew, the son of Jonah.”

“They all abandoned me and left. Yes, it is true that I am hungry. How is it, my brother, that you remembered me and brought me bread, honey and fish, all the riches of God? Nothing is wanting but the kind word.”

“I bring you that too,” said Andrew, the darkness giving him courage. Jesus did not see the youth’s trembling hands, nor the two tears which rolled down his pale cheeks.

“That first-the kind word first,” said Jesus, holding out his hand to him and smiling.

“Rabboni, my master,” whispered the son of Jonah, and he stooped and kissed his feet.