The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Seven

THE HEAVENS SPARKLED above him, while below, the earth wounded him with its stones and thorns. He had stretched out his arms; he struggled convulsively and moaned as though the whole earth was a cross on which he was being crucified.

The darkness passed over him with its large and small attendants-the stars and the birds of the night. On every side the dogs, submissive to man, barked on the thrashing floors and guarded the wealth of their masters. It was cold; Jesus shivered. Sleep overcame him for a moment and led him on an airy promenade to warm, faraway lands but straightway threw him back down again to earth, onto the stones.

Toward midnight he heard merry hells passing at the foot of the hill and, behind the bells, the melancholy song of a camel driver. There was the sound of conversation, someone sighed, the clear fresh voice of a woman spouted nut of the night, but the road quickly grew silent once more… Mounted on a golden-saddled camel, her face grooved from weeping, the make-up on her cheeks turned to mud, Magdalene was passing by-in the middle of the night. Wealthy merchants from the four corners of the earth had arrived. Finding her neither at the well nor in her house, they chose the camel with the richest, the most golden harness, and sent their driver to bring her to them posthaste. Their route had been extremely long and dangerous, but they kept constantly in mind a body they would find at Magdala, and this gave them strength. They had not found it, however, so they dispatched the driver and lined up in Magdalene’s yard, where they now sat with closed eyes, waiting.

Little by little the bells in the night grew dimmer, sweeter. They now seemed to the son of Mary like tender laughter, like purring jets of water which gushed into a deep orchard and called him caressingly by name; and in this way, gently, following the seductive ring of the camel’s bells, he slid back again into sleep.

He had a dream. The world seemed to be a green meadow, all in bloom, and God an olive-skinned shepherd boy with two twisted horns, newly grown and still tender, who sat next to a cistern of water and played his pipe. Never in his life had the son of Mary heard such a sweet, bewitching sound. While God the shepherd boy played on, the soil, fistful by fistful, quivered and stirred, grew spherical, came to life, and graceful deer with wreathlike antlers suddenly filled the meadow. God leaned over and looked at the water: the cistern filled with fish; he lifted his eyes to the trees: their leaves changed color, became twittering birds. He had gathered momentum; the piper’s music grew furious, and two insects as large as men emerged from the ground and at once began to embrace on the springtime grass. They rolled from one end of the meadow to the other, coupled, separated, coupled again, laughed indecently, scoffed at the shepherd boy, and hissed. The boy lowered his pipe and regarded the audacious and obscene pair. Suddenly his patience gave out. With one blow he crushed his pipe under his heel, and all at once deer, birds, trees, water and the glued man-woman vanished.

The son of Mary uttered a cry and awoke, but not before his eye was caught, just at the moment of awakening, by the pasted bodies of a man and a woman hurling down into the dark trapdoor of his bowels. Terrified, he jumped to his feet.

“So, such is the mud within me, such the filth!”

He unbelted the nail-studded leather strap, trampled the clothes he was wearing underfoot and, without speaking, began pitilessly to scourge his thighs, back and face. The blood spurted out and splashed him. He felt it and was relieved.

Dawn… The stars grew dim; the frosty wind pricked his bones. The cedar above him filled with wings and song. He turned around. The air was empty; in the light of the day the bronze eagle-headed Curse had become invisible again.

I must go away, must escape, he thought, must not set foot in Magdala-curse the place! I won’t stop till I reach the desert and bury myself in the monastery. There I shall kill the flesh and turn it into spirit.

He placed his palm on the ancient trunk of the cypress and stroked it. He felt the tree’s soul rise from the roots and branch out to the highest, tenderest twig.

“Farewell, my sister,” he murmured. “Last night under your shelter I brought shame upon myself. Forgive me.

He spoke and then, exhausted and with dismal forebodings, started down the hill.

He reached the main road. The plain was awakening; the first rays of the sun fell and filled the loaded threshing floors. with gold. “I must not go through Magdala,” he murmured again. “I’m afraid.” He stopped to decide which way to turn in order to reach the lake. He took the first narrow road he found on his right. He knew that Magdala sat to the left, the lake to the right, and he proceeded with confidence.

He marched and marched, and his mind wandered. He was running from Magdalene, the whore, to God; from the cross to Paradise, from his mother and father to distant lands and seas, to myriad-faced men, white, yellow and black. Although he had never crossed the boundaries of Israel, ever since his early childhood he had shut his eyes within his father’s humble cottage and his mind, like a trained hawk with golden hawk bells, had darted from land to land, ocean to ocean, screeching with joy. It was not hunting anything, this hawk-mind of his; he had become oblivious of the body, he was escaping the flesh, ascending to heaven-and this was all he could possibly desire.

He marched and marched. The twisting path wound in and out through the vineyards, rose once more, reached the olive groves. The son of Mary followed it as one follows running water or the sad, monotonous chant of a camel driver. This whole journey seemed a dream to him. He scarcely touched the earth; his feet trod his human seal, the heel and five toes, lightly into the soil. The olive trees waved their laden branches and welcomed him. The grapes had begun to shine; the heavy clusters hung down until they reached the ground. The girls who went by with their white kerchiefs and firm, sunburned calves greeted him sweetly: Shalom! Peace!

Sometimes, when not a soul was visible on the path, he heard the heavy footsteps behind him again; a bronze splendor flared up in the air and was then snuffed out, and the evil laughter exploded once more over his head. But the son of Mary forced himself to be patient. He was approaching deliverance; soon he would see the lake opposite him, and behind the blue waters, hanging like a falcon’s nest between the red rocks, the monastery.

He followed the path, and his mind ran on, but suddenly he stopped, startled. There before him in a sheltered hollow, spread out beneath the date palms, was Magdala. His mind turned back, turned back, but his feet, against his will, began to lead him with sure steps to the perfumed hermitage of his cousin Magdalene, to the house which was condemned to the fires of hell.

“No, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go!” he murmured in terror. He tried to reverse his course, but his body refused. It stood its ground like a greyhound and smelled the air.

I’ll go away! he decided once more within himself, but he did not budge. He could see the clean, whitewashed houses and the ancient well with its marble brim. Dogs were barking, hens cackling. women laughing. Loaded camels knelt about the well, ruminating… I must see her, must see her, he heard a sweet voice within him say. It’s necessary. God has guided my feet-God, not my own mind-because I must see her, fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. It’s my fault, mine! Before I enter the monastery and put on the white gown I must beg her forgiveness. Otherwise it will not be possible for me to be saved. Thank you, Lord, for bringing me where I did not want to come!

He felt happy. Tightening his belt, he began the descent to Magdala.

A herd of camels lay on their bellies around the well. They had finished eating and now, still laden, were slowly, patiently, chewing their cud. They must have come from fragrant faraway lands, for the whole area smelled of spices.

Jesus halted at the well. An old woman who was drawing water tipped her jug for him, and he drank. He wanted to ask if Mary was at home, but he was too ashamed. God has pushed me to her house, he reflected. I have faith: she will most certainly be there.

He started down a well-shaded lane. There were many strangers in town, some dressed in the long white jellab of the Bedouins, others with expensive Indian cashmere shawls. A small door opened; a fat-bottomed matron with a black mustache emerged and burst into laughter as soon as she saw him.

“Well, well!” she shouted. “Greetings, Carpenter. So you too are going to worship at the shrine, eh?” She closed the door amid peals of laughter.

The son of Mary blushed scarlet, but gathered up strength. I must, I must, he thought; I must fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness.

He quickened his pace. Her house was at the other end of the village, surrounded by a small orchard of pomegranates. He remembered it well: a green single-leafed door decorated with a painting of two intertwined snakes, one black and one white, the work of one of her lovers, a Bedouin; and above the lintel, a large yellow lizard, its legs stretched out on both sides as though it were being crucified.

He got lost, retraced his steps, returned to where he had been-ashamed to ask his way. It was almost noon. He stopped under the shade of an olive tree to catch his breath. A rich merchant passed by. He had a short black curly beard, black almond-shaped eyes, many rings, and an aristocratic air. The son of Mary followed him.

He must be one of God’s angels, he thought as he walked behind him and admired the noble stature of his young body and the expensive cashmere shawl, embroidered with stunning birds and flowers, which covered his shoulders. He must be one of God’s angels, and he came down to show me the way.

The foreign nobleman strode unerringly through the winding alleys. Soon the green door with the two intertwined snakes came into view. An old crone sat outside on a stool. She had a grate filled with burning coals and was broiling crabs. Next to this were roasted pumpkin seeds and, in two deep wooden plates, chick-pea meatballs which she sold smothered in pepper.

The young nobleman bent over, gave a silver coin to the old lady, and entered. The son of Mary entered behind him.

Four merchants, lined up one behind the other, sat cross-legged on the ground of the courtyard: two old men with painted eye lashes and nails, two young men with black beards and mustaches. They all had their eyes riveted on the tiny, squat door of Mary’s chamber. It was closed. Now and then a shout issued from inside, or laughter, or the sound of someone being tickled, or the creaking of the bed-and the worshipers immediately broke off the chattering they had begun and, gasping for breath, shifted their positions. The Bedouin who had entered such a long time ago was late in coming out, and all the others in the courtyard, young and old alike, were in a hurry. The young Indian nobleman sat down in his place in the line, and behind him sat the son of Mary.

An immense pomegranate tree laden with fruit was in the middle of the court and two imposing cypresses stood on either side of the street door, one male with a trunk as straight as a sword, the other female with wide-open spreading branches. Suspended from the pomegranate was a wicker cage containing a richly decorated partridge which hopped up and down, nipped, kicked her rails and cackled.

The worshipers were munching dates which they took from their girdles, or biting nutmeg seeds to sweeten their breath. They had engaged each other in conversation in order to pass the time. Turning, they greeted the young nobleman and looked with disdain at the poorly dressed son of Mary behind him. The old man who was first in line sighed.

“There’s no martyrdom greater than mine,” he said. “Here I am in front of Paradise, and the door is closed.”

A youth with golden bands around his ankles laughed. “I transport spices from the Euphrates to the Great Sea. Do you see this partridge with the red claws here in front of us? I’m going to buy Mary with a shipment of cinnamon and pepper, put her in a gold cage and take her away. So, my lusty friends, what you have to do, do it quickly: it’s the last kiss you’ll get.”

“Thanks, my good-looking stalwart,” the second old man interrupted at this point. He had a snowy-white scented beard and slim-boned aristocratic hands, the palms of which were dyed with cinchona. “What you’ve just said will season today’s kiss that much more.”

The young nobleman had lowered his heavy eyelids. His upper body swayed slowly back and forth and his lips stirred as though he were saying his prayers. Already, before entering Paradise, he had plunged into everlasting beatitude. He heard the cackling of the partridge, the tickling and the creaking inside the bolted chamber, heard the old woman at the door load her grate with live crabs, which then hopped onto the coals.

This is Paradise, he meditated, overcome with a great lassitude; this, the deep sleep we call life, the sleep in which we dream of Paradise. There is no other Paradise. I can get up now and go, for I require no further joy.

A huge, green-turbaned man in front of him pushed him with his knee and laughed. “Prince of India, what does your God have to say about all this?”

The youth opened his eyes. “All what?” he asked.

“Here, in front of you: men, women, crabs, love.”

“That everything is a dream.”

“Well, then, my brave lads-take care,” interrupted the old man with the snowy beard, who was telling his beads on a long amber chaplet. “Take care not to wake up!”

The small door opened and the Bedouin emerged. Swollen-eyed, he came forward slowly, licking his chops. The old man whose turn was next jumped up at once, as nimble as a strapping twenty-year-old boy.

“Bye-bye, Grandpa. Pity us and do it fast!” yelled the three whose turns followed.

But the old man was already removing his belt and advancing toward the chamber. This was no time for chatter! He entered and slammed the door behind him.

They all eyed the Bedouin with envy, no one daring to speak. They sensed that he was cruising over deep waters far, far away, and indeed he did not so much as turn to look at them. He staggered through the courtyard, reached the street door, missed knocking over the old crone’s grate by a fraction of an inch, and disappeared finally into the crooked lanes. At that point, in order to redirect their thoughts, the huge fat man with the green turban started, out of a clear sky, to talk about lions, seas and faraway coral isles.

The time went by. Now and then the slow, gentle clicking of the amber beads could be heard. All eyes were pinned once more on the squat doorway. The old man was late, very late, in coming out.

The young Indian nobleman got up. The others turned with astonishment. Why had he got up? Wasn’t he going to speak? Was he about to leave?… He was happy. His face was resplendent; a gentle glow patched his cheeks. He wrapped the cashmere shawl tightly around him, put his hand to his heart and lips, and took his leave. His shadow passed tranquilly over the threshold.

“He woke up,” said the youth with the golden rings about his ankles. He tried to laugh, but a strange fear had suddenly overcome them all, and they began with anxious haste to discuss profit and loss, and the prices current in the slave markets of Alexandria and Damascus. Soon, however, they reverted to their barefaced talk of women and boys, and they stuck out their tongues and licked their chops.

“Lord, O Lord,” the son of Mary murmured, “where have you thrown me? Into what kind of yard? To sit up with what kind of men! This, Lord, is the greatest degradation of all. Give me strength to endure it!”

The pilgrims were hungry. One of them shouted, and the old crone entered, portioned out bread, crabs and patties of meat to the four men, and brought a jug of date wine. They crossed their legs, placed the meal in their laps and began to clap their jaws. One of them, feeling in a good mood, threw a large crab shell at the door and shouted, “Hey, Grandpa, do it quick; don’t take all day!” They all burst into peals of laughter.

“Lord, O Lord,” the son of Mary murmured again, “give me the strength to stay until my turn comes.”

The old man with the scented beard felt sorry for him.

“Hey, you, my fine lad,” he said, turning, “aren’t you hungry or thirsty? Come here and have a bite; it will give you strength.”

“Yes, poor fellow, you’d better eat,” the colossus with the green turban added, laughing. “When your turn comes and you go inside, we don’t want you to put us men to shame.”

The son of Mary blushed scarlet, lowered his head and did not speak.

“This one’s dreaming too,” said the old man, shaking out the crumbs and bits of crab which had filled his beard. “Yes, by Saint Beelzebub, he’s dreaming. He’ll get up now like the other and leave, mark my words.”

The son of Mary looked around him, terrified. Could the Indian nobleman really be right? Could all this-yard, pomegranate, grate, partridge, men-be a dream? Perhaps he was still under the cedar, dreaming.

He turned toward the street door as though seeking help, and saw his eagle-headed fellow voyager standing motionless next to the male cypress, armed to the teeth in bronze. Now, for the first time, the sight of her made him feel relieved and secure.

The old man came out, panting, and the huge green-turbaned man went in. Hours later came the turn of the youth with the golden bands around his ankles, then that of the old man with the amber rosary. The son of Mary now remained all alone in the yard, waiting.

The sun was about to set. Two clouds were sailing in the sky. They stopped, laden with gold. A thin gilding of frost fell over trees, soil and the faces of men.

The old man with the amber rosary came out. Stopping for a moment on the threshold, he wiped his running eyes, nose and lips, then shuffled with drooping shoulders toward the street door.

The son of Mary got up and turned to the male cypress. His companion lifted her foot, ready to follow behind him. He wanted to speak to her, to beg her to wait for him outside the door, to tell her that he wished to be alone, that he would not run away; but he knew his words would go to waste, and he remained silent. Tightening the strap around his middle, he raised his eyes and looked at the heavens. He hesitated, but a hoarse voice called angrily from within the chamber: “Is there anyone else? Come in!” It was Magdalene. Summoning all his strength, he went forward. The door was half open and he entered, trembling.

Magdalene lay on her back, stark naked, drenched in sweat, her raven-black hair spread out over the pillow and her arms entwined beneath her head. Her face was turned toward the wall and she was yawning. Wrestling with men on this bed since dawn had tired her out. Her hair, nails and every inch of her body exuded smells of all nations, and her arms, neck and breasts were covered with bites.

The son of Mary lowered his eyes. He had stopped in the middle of the room, unable to go farther. Magdalene waited without moving, her face turned toward the wall. But she heard no masculine grunts behind her, no one getting undressed, not even a panting breath. Frightened, she abruptly turned her face in order to see-and all at once uttered a cry, seized the sheet and wrapped herself up.

“You! You!” she shouted, covering her lips and eyes with her palms.

“Mary,” he said, “forgive me!”

Magdalene burst into a fit of hoarse, heart-rending laughter. You thought her vocal cords were about to snap into a thousand pieces.

“Mary,” he repeated, “forgive me!”

And then she jumped up onto her knees, tightly enclosed in the sheet, and lifted her fist: “Is this why you entered my yard, my young gallant? Is this why you mixed yourself in with my lovers: to hoax your way into my house in order to bring God the boogeyman down to me here on my hot bed? Well, you’re late, my friend, very late; and as for your God, I don’t want him-he’s already broken my heart!”

She moaned and spoke at the same time, and her infuriated breast heaved up and down behind the sheet.

“He’s broken my heart, broken my heart,” she moaned again, and two tears welled up into her eyes and remained suspended on her long lashes.

“Don’t blaspheme, Mary. I’m to blame, not God. That’s why I came: I want to beg your forgiveness.”

But Magdalene exploded. “You and your God have the identical snout; you’re one and the same and I can’t tell you apart. Sometimes I happen to think of him at night, and when I do-curse the hour!-it’s with your face that he bears down on me out of the darkness; and when I chance to meet you on the street-curse the hour!-I feel that it’s still God I see rushing directly for me.”

She lifted her fist into the air. “Don’t bother me with God,” she yelled. “Get out of here and don’t let me see you again. There’s only one refuge and consolation for me-the mud! Only one synagogue where I enter to pray and cleanse myself-the mud!”

“Mary, listen to me, let me speak, don’t fall into despair. That’s exactly what I’ve come for, my sister: to pull you out of the mud. I have committed many sins-I’m on my way to the desert now to expiate them-many sins, Mary, but your calamity weighs on me the most.”

Magdalene thrust her sharp nails toward the unexpected guest, maniacally, as though she wanted to tear open his cheeks.

“What calamity?” she shrieked. “I’m getting along fine, just fine; I don’t need your holiness’s compassion! I fight my own fight, all alone, and I ask no help from men, or from gods or devils either. I’m fighting to save myself, and save myself I will.”

“Save yourself from what, from whom?”

“Not, as you think, from the mud, God bless it! That’s where all my hopes are-in the mud. It’s my road of salvation.”

“The mud?”

“Yes, the mud: shame, filth, this bed, this body of mine, covered as it is with bites and smeared with the whole world’s drivel, sweat and slime! Don’t cast your covetous sheep’s eye upon me like that. Keep your distance, coward! I don’t want you here. You disgust me; don’t touch me! In order to forget one man, in order to save myself, I’ve surrendered my body to all men!”

The son of Mary lowered his head. “It’s my fault,” he repeated in a strangulated voice, and he clutched the strap which was tied around him, still splashed with blood. “Forgive me, my sister. It’s my fault, but I shall pay off my debt.”

Savage laughter again tore the woman’s throat. “You bleat away piteously: ‘It’s my fault… it’s my fault, my sister… I shall save you…’ but oh no, you don’t lift your head like a man to confess the truth. You crave my body, and instead of saying so, which you wouldn’t dare, you start blaming my soul and saying you want to save it. What soul, daydreamer? A woman’s soul is her flesh. You know it, you know it; but you don’t have the courage to take this soul in your arms like a man and kiss it-kiss it and save it! I pity you and detest you!”

“You’re possessed with seven devils, whore!” cried the youth now, who had turned fiery red with shame. “Seven devils. Yes, your unlucky father is right.”

Magdalene shuddered. She angrily gathered her hair into a coil and tied it up with a ribbon of red silk. For a considerable time she did not speak, but finally her lips moved. “Not seven devils, son of Mary, not seven devils-seven wounds. You must learn that a woman is a wounded doe. She has no other joy, poor thing, except to lick her wounds.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with one sweep of her palm, then exploded in a frenzy. “Why did you come here? What do you want from me, standing over my bed like that? Go away!”

The young man came one step closer. “Mary, try to remember back to when we were still small children…”

“I don’t remember! What kind of a man are you? Still driveling? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You never had the courage to stand up by yourself like a man and not rely on anyone. If you’re not hanging on to your mother’s apron strings, you’re hanging on to mine, or God’s. You can’t stand by yourself, because you’re scared. You don’t dare look deep into your own soul-or into your body for that matter-because you’re scared. And now you’re off to the desert to hide, to stick your snout into the sand-because you’re scared! Scared, scared! Poor fellow, I detest you, I pity you, and whenever I bring you to mind, my heart cracks in two.”

Unable to continue, she began to weep. Although she wiped her eyes rapidly, the tears, together with her make-up, ran more and more furiously and bemired the sheets.

The young man felt a spasm in his heart. Oh, if he could only lose his fear of God, could only clasp her in his arms, wipe away her tears, caress her hair and gladden her heart; then take her with him and leave!

If he was a man, truly, that was what he had to do to save her. What did she care about fasting, prayer and monasteries? No, these were not the way-how could they possibly save a woman? To take her from this bed, to leave, to open a workshop in a distant village, for the two of them to live like man and wife, have children, suffer and rejoice like human beings: that was the woman’s way of salvation and the way in which the man could be saved with her-the only way!

Night was falling now. Far in the distance thunder rumbled; a flash of lightning entered through a crack in the door and ignited Mary’s now-livid face, only to snuff it out again. New thunderclaps were heard, closer than before. The choking sky had come down and nearly touched the earth.

A great weariness suddenly overcame the youth. His knees sagged; he sat down cross-legged on the ground. The nauseating stench of musk, sweat and he-goats hit his nostrils. He stroked his throat with his palm so that he would not throw up.

He heard Mary’s voice in the darkness. “Turn your head the other way. I want to get up to light the lamp, and I’m naked.”

“I’m going to leave,” said the youth softly. Summoning up all his strength, he rose.

But Mary pretended that she had not heard. “Take a look in the yard, and if anyone’s still there, tell him to go away.”

The youth opened the door and put out his head. The air had become dark. Large scattered drops were being slung at the pomegranate leaves; the sky hung over the earth, ready to fall. The old crone had taken her lighted grate and burrowed into the yard, where she stood glued to the trunk of the male cypress. The heavy drops began to come down harder and harder.

“No one,” said the youth, quickly closing the door. The squall had now lashed out in full force.

Magdalene had jumped out of bed in the meantime and covered herself with a warm woolen shawl embroidered with lions and deer, presented to her that morning by a loving Ethiopian. Her shoulders and loins shuddered with delight at the sweet warmth of the garment. Stretching up on tiptoe, she unhooked the lamp from the wall.

“No one,” the youth repeated, with gladness in his voice.

“The old lady?”

“Under the cypress. It’s a real squall.”

Mary flew into the yard, discovered the lighted grate in the darkness, and approached.

“Grandmother Noemi,” she said, pointing toward the bolt of the street door, “take your grate and your crabs and go home. I’ll lock up. No one else tonight!”

“You’ve got your lover inside, eh?” hissed the old woman, vexed at losing her night customers.

“Yes,” Magdalene answered, “he’s inside. Go!”

Grumbling, the old lady got up and gathered together her utensils.

“He’s a real beauty, your ragamuffin,” she mumbled softly with her toothless gums, but Mary, who was in a hurry, shoved her outside and barred the door. The heavens had opened; the whole sky was pouring into her yard. She uttered a shrill cry of joy, just as she used to do as a child every time she saw the first autumn rain. When she got inside, her shawl was drenched.

The youth stood in the middle of the room, unable to make up his mind whether to stay or go. Which was God’s will? It was pleasant here, and warm; he had even become accustomed to the nauseating odor. Outside: wind, rain and cold. He knew no one in Magdala, and Capernaum was far away. Should he go or stay? His soul swung back and forth like a ringing bell.

“It’s coming down in buckets, Jesus. I bet you haven’t eaten a thing today. Help me light the fire and we’ll cook.” Her voice was tender and attentive, like a mother’s.

“I’m going to leave,” said the youth, turning toward the door.

“Sit down and we’ll eat together!” Magdalene ordered. “Does the thought disgust you? Are you afraid you’ll pollute yourself by eating with a whore?”

The youth took logs and kindling from the corner, bent down by the stone jamb of the fireplace, in front of the two andirons, and lighted the fire.

Magdalene’s heart had grown calm. Smiling now, she filled a pot with water and placed it on the fire. From a sack hanging on the wall she took two heaping handfuls of de-eyed broad beans and threw them in. Then she knelt in front of the lighted fire and listened. Outside, the floodgates of heaven had opened up.

“Jesus,” she said quietly, “you asked me if I remembered when we were children and played together…”

But the young man, kneeling like Magdalene in front of the hearth, simply stared at the fire, his mind far away. He felt as though he had already reached the monastery in the desert, as though he had put on the white robe and begun to promenade in the solitude; and his heart was a small, happy goldfish swimming in the deep, tranquil waters of God. Outside, the world was falling apart; within him, peace, love and security.

“Jesus,” the voice next to him repeated, “you asked me if I remembered when we were children and played together…”

Magdalene’s face, reflecting the light of the flames, glowed like red-hot iron. But the youth, submerged in the desert, did not hear.

“Jesus,” the woman said again, “you were three and I was one year older. There were three steps leading to the door of our house and I used to sit on the highest one and watch you struggle for hours, unable to mount the first step. You fell, you got up again, and I did not even lift my little finger to help you. I wanted you to come to me, but not before you suffered greatly… Do you remember?”

A devil, one of her seven devils, was goading her on to speak to the man and tempt him.

“Hours later you would finally manage to climb up the first step. Then you struggled to mount the second, then the third-where I sat, motionless, waiting for you. And then-”

The youth gave a start and held out his hand. “Be still,” he shouted; “don’t go further!”

But the woman’s face gleamed and flickered; the flames licked her eyebrows, lips, chin and uncovered throat. She took a handful of laurel leaves, threw them in the fire, and sighed.

“Then you took me by the hand-yes, you took me by the hand, Jesus-and we went inside and lay down on the pebbles of the yard. We glued the soles of our feet together, felt the warmth of our bodies mix, rise from our feet to our thighs, from our thighs to our loins. Then we closed our eyes and-”

“Quiet!” the youth shouted again. He lifted his hand in order to cover her mouth, but restrained himself-he was afraid to touch her lips.

The woman sighed now and continued, lowering her voice to a murmur. “Never in my whole life have I felt such sweetness.” She paused, and then: “it is that sweetness, Jesus, which I’ve been seeking ever since from man to man; but I have not found it.”

The youth buried his face between his knees. “Adonai,” he murmured, “Adonai, help!”

The warm, peaceful chamber was silent except for the bubbling of the fragrant pot of beans, and the hissing of the fire as it devoured the wood. Outside, the male waters poured out of the skies with a roar and the earth opened its thighs and giggled.

“Jesus, what are you thinking about?” asked Magdalene, not daring now to face the man.

“I’m thinking about God,” he answered in a strangulated voice, “about God, Adonai…”

As he spoke, he repented of having pronounced the sacred name in a house such as this.

Magdalene jumped up and paced back and forth between the fire and the door. Her mind had grown furious.

God is the great enemy, she was thinking; yes, God. He never fails to intrude; he is evil, jealous; he won’t let a person be happy. She stopped behind the door and cocked her ear. The heavens were bellowing. A whirlwind had arisen and the pomegranates in the yard knocked against one another and were ready to break.

“The rain has let up a little,” she said.

“I’ll go,” replied the youth, rising.

“Eat first and put some strength into your body. Where can you go at such an hour? It’s pitch-black outside and still raining.”

She took down a round mat from the wall and spread it out on the floor. She removed the casserole from the fire, opened a small cupboard recessed in the wall and took out a toasted barley roll and two earthenware soup plates.

“This is the prostitute’s meal,” she said. “Eat, you essence of piety, eat-if it doesn’t disgust you.”

The hungry youth did not hesitate to put out his hand. The woman tittered.

“Is that the way you eat?” she hissed. “Without saying grace? Hadn’t you better give thanks to God for sending bread, broad beans and whores?”

Jesus’ mouthful stuck in his throat.

“Why do you hate me, Mary?” he said. “Why do you tease me? Look, tonight I am about to break bread with you; we have become friends again. Let bygones be bygones, and forgive me. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Eat, and stop your whining. If the forgiveness is not given, take it! You’re a man.”

She lifted her hand and divided the bread, laughing. “Blessed be the name of Him who sends bread, broad beans and whores to the world-and pious guests!”

They remained kneeling one opposite the other under the light of the lamp, and said nothing more. Both were hungry, both had suffered much anguish on this day, and they ate to replenish their forces.

The rain outside began to subside. The sky had found relief; the earth was filled. There was no sound except the cackling laughter of the rivulets which ran happily down the village’s cobbled streets.

They finished eating. The tiny cupboard also contained a sip of wine, which they drank, and several fully ripe dates for the sweet tooth. For some time, both remained silent and watched the fire, which was about to go out. Their minds rose and fell, danced with the dying flames.

It was cold. The youth got up and put more wood on the fire; Magdalene took another handful of laurel leaves and threw them on top: perfume filled the room. She went to the door and opened it. A wind had arisen; the clouds had already scattered. Two large stars, freshly bathed and immaculate, gleamed brilliantly over her yard.

“Is it still raining?” asked the youth, who stood again in the middle of the room, unable to make up his mind.

But Magdalene did not answer. She unrolled a mat, went to her trunk, took out sheets and thick woolen blankets-gifts from her lovers-and made up a bed in front of the fire.

“You’ll sleep here,” she said. “It’s cold and windy out, and almost midnight. Where can you go? You’ll catch your death of cold. Here’s where you’re going to sleep: next to the fire.”

The youth shuddered. “Here!”

“Are you afraid? Well, rest assured, my innocent dove, I won’t bother you. No, I won’t tempt you, I won’t touch your virginity, my pet-such as it’s worth!”

She put still more wood on the fire and lowered the wick of the lamp. “Pleasant dreams,” she said. “Tomorrow we both have much to do. You’ll set out along the road again, to seek your salvation; I’ll set out along another road, my own, and I too will be seeking salvation. Each his own road, and we shall never meet again. Good night.”

She fell onto her mattress and thrust her face into the pillow, biting the sheets all night long to hold back her cries and tears. She was afraid that if the man who was sleeping next to the fire heard her, he would take fright and leave. All night long she listened to him breathe tranquilly, restfully, like an infant nursing at the breast; and she,-lamenting softly within herself with tender, protracted sighs, lay awake and lulled him to sleep like a mother.

The next day at dawn she looked out between half-closed eyelashes and saw him get up, secure the leather strap tightly about his waist, and open the door. There he halted. He wanted to leave, but at the same time he did not want to leave. Turning, he looked at the bed and took a hesitating step toward it. He leaned over-it still was not very bright inside the room-he leaned over as though he wanted to find the woman and touch her. His left hand was thrust beneath the strap; with his right he covered his chin and mouth.

The woman lay on her back, motionless, her hair veiling her naked breasts. She watched him through her eyelashes, and her whole body trembled.

His lips moved: “Mary…”

But as soon as he heard his own voice, he took fright. He reached the threshold with one bound, strode hurriedly across the courtyard and unbolted the door.

And then-jolting up from her mattress and throwing off the sheets-then Mary Magdalene began to weep.