Thirst

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I must try to get some sleep. I lie down on the floor of the jail, which is dirtier than bare earth. I’ve learned to be indifferent to foul smells. All I have to do is remind myself that nothing smells bad on purpose—I don’t know if it’s true, but in any event, this reasoning helps me to put up with even the worst stench.

I’ve always been amazed at how, when we lie down, we can let the weight of our body go. Even though I don’t weigh much, what a deliverance! Incarnation means carrying this baggage of flesh around with me. In this day and age, plump people have the ascendancy. Not a model for me, I’m thin: you cannot be stout and then proclaim you are there on behalf of the poor. Madeleine thinks I’m handsome, but she’s the only one. My own mother moans when she sees me, “Eat, you look pitiful!”

I eat as little as possible. If I had to carry more than the hundred and twenty pounds I weigh, I’d be out of breath. I’ve noticed that quite a few people won’t listen to me because I’m so thin. In their eyes I read, “How can anyone find wisdom in such a beanpole?”

That is also why I chose Peter as my commander: he may be less inspired than John and less faithful than just any old stranger, but he has the features of a colossus. When he speaks, people are impressed. On top of it, that’s true for me, too. Although I know he will deny me, he inspires so much trust. It’s not just that he’s tall and well built. I love watching him eat. He doesn’t pick at his food, he grabs hold of it and gobbles it down, no simpering, with all the rough enjoyment of a brave man. He drinks straight from the pitcher, emptying it in one go, then he burps and wipes his mouth with the back of his strong hand. It’s not an act, he hasn’t noticed that other people have a different way of eating. You can’t help but love him.

As for John, he eats the way I do. I don’t know if he is seeking to imitate my own parsimony. Either way, it means my affection has to be kept at a distance. What a strange species we are! Nothing human is foreign to me. When I’m eating, I have to stop myself from saying to him, “Go ahead, eat, you get on our nerves with your manners!” It’s all the more absurd in that I behave like that myself.

For me to love John, I have to leave the table. When he’s walking next to me, listening to me, I love him. I’ve been assured that I’m a good listener. I don’t know what sort of effect that has on people, to have me listen to them. I do know that the way John listens is pure love, and it’s thrilling.

When I talk to Peter, he opens his eyes wide and listens for a minute. Then I see his attention begin to falter. It’s not his fault, he doesn’t realize, his gaze darts around looking for a place to settle. The moment I speak to John, he lowers his gaze slightly, as if he knows that what I am about to share with him in confidence will move him, even trouble him. When I stop talking, he remains silent for a little while then looks up at me again, his eyes shining.

Madeleine, too, listens to me like that. It is less astonishing, for an unfair reason: in this era of mine, women are taught to listen in this way. And yet, the ones who actually listen closely are few and far between. How I wish I could spend this last night with her! She used to say, “Let our sleep be the sleep of wild passion.” Then she would curl up next to me and fall asleep at once. I’ve never been a sound sleeper, so it was as if she were sleeping for both of us.

Thanks to her, I discovered that sleeping is an act of love. When we slept like that, our souls mingled even more than when we were making love. It was a long disappearance that took us away together. When at last I sank into sleep, it was with the exquisite sensation of being shipwrecked.

My illusion was confirmed upon awakening. I had lost my bearings to such a degree that our bed had become the shore where we had washed up, and where we were amazed to find we had survived. The gratitude of waking up on the beach, next to one’s beloved!

So powerful was this impression of having survived that the dawning day was bound to bring its share of joy. The first embrace, the first word of love, the first sip.

If there was a river nearby, Madeleine would suggest going for a dip. “There is no better way to start the morning,” she said. Nothing like it, indeed, to wash away the smells of too good a night.

“Make sure you quench your thirst while we’re there,” she added, “because I’ll have nothing better to offer you.”

We never had any sort of breakfast. The thought of eating the moment you get out of bed has always turned my stomach. I can’t believe it has become customary. But a few sips of water were just the thing to refresh one’s breath.

These delightful thoughts have no hypnagogic power. If I really want to fall asleep, I have to force myself to feel bored. It takes an iron will to be deliberately bored. Alas, perhaps it’s the imminence of death: nothing seems boring to me now—even the speeches of the Pharisees, which used to make my eyes turn glassy, now seem comical. I try to recall Joseph’s attempts to teach me the art of woodworking. I was such a bad pupil! And how disconcerted Joseph would look, he who never got angry!

Christ means gentle. The irony of it is that my human parents are a thousand times gentler than I am. They found each other: creatures of such similar goodness, it’s enough to make you discouraged. I can see straight into people’s hearts, I know when they’re good simply because they’re making an effort—that, by the way, was often my own attitude. Joseph was good by nature. I was at his side when he was dying, he did not even curse the stupid accident that cost him his life, but smiled at me and said:

“Mind you don’t let this happen to you, too.”

And he died.

No, Joseph, I will not die falling off a roof.

Mother arrived too late.

“He didn’t suffer,” I said.

She stroked his face tenderly. My parents were not in love with each other, but they loved each other very much.

My mother, too, is a far better person than I am. Evil is completely foreign to her, so much so that she doesn’t see it when it’s right there in front of her. I envy her ignorance. I am not unacquainted with evil. In order for me to be able to spot it in other people, I have had to have some in myself as well.

I do not lament the fact. Were it not for this dark streak inside me, I could never have fallen in love. Falling in love does not lie in wait for creatures unversed in evil. Not that there is anything evil about love, but to fall in love, one must have those deep abysses to accommodate its profound dizziness.

This does not mean I am a bad man, nor that Madeleine is a bad woman. The dark streak was not active within us. More so for Madeleine than for me, of course. She would never have flown into a rage with the merchants at the Temple. Even if the cause was just, what a terrible memory I have of that anger! A sensation of venom spreading through my blood, ordering me to throw those people out, all that shouting; I hated every moment of it.

Fortunately, right now, I feel nothing of the sort. Even at my trial, when I heard those repulsive testimonies, my anger was not aroused. Indignation is a different fire, it does not cause such abominable suffering. If I managed to keep my scorn to myself, it is because scorn, unlike anger, is not explosive in nature.

Jesus, you won’t get any sleep, going on like this. You have no willpower!

I just woke up.

So, I did nod off after all. A moment of grace. I thank God, reflecting all the while that this really does take the cake, to be thanking him today of all days. But the fact remains: I got some sleep.

I can sense the sweetness of rest flowing through my veins. All it takes is a few minutes of sleep to feel this sensual delight. I savor it, knowing very well that it is for the last time.

I will never wake up again.

A poet, whose name I do not know, will say in the future, “All the pleasure of days is in their mornings.” I share this opinion. I like mornings. There is an inexorable power to that time of day. Even if the most terrible things have happened the day before, there is a purity to mornings.

I feel clean. I am not. My soul is clean this morning. The scorn I was feeling yesterday has vanished. I don’t want to rejoice too soon, yet I have the sudden conviction that I will die without hatred. I hope I’m not mistaken.

A final pee in a corner of the jail, then I lie back down and lo and behold, a miracle: it’s raining.

It’s the wrong time of year for rain. I find myself hoping it will last. They would have to cancel the show: a crucifixion in the rain would be a total flop; the audience would desert. The Romans need their tortures to draw crowds, otherwise they worry there is disapproval. They think if the people get entertainment, they won’t care about politics. Bad weather pays no heed to circumstances, but Rome has ears that can hear great distances: to crucify three men without the commoners turning up en masse would be considered a snub.

I’ve always loved the feeling of being sheltered the moment it starts raining harder and harder. It’s a wonderful sensation. Somewhat foolishly, we associate it with serenity. In truth, it is a moment of pleasure. The sound of rain requires a roof for a sound box: to be under that roof is the best place to enjoy the concert. A delightful score, changing subtly, rhapsodic without showing off: any common downpour has something of a blessing about it.

Now it’s becoming more of a deluge. I imagine a different fate. The authorities are fleeing the rising waters. They let me go. I return to my province, I marry Madeleine, we lead the simple life of ordinary people. Having been a mediocre carpenter, I turn to sheep herding. We make cheese with the ewe’s milk. Every evening, our children delight in it and they grow like plants. We grow old and happy.

Am I tempted? Yes. When I was younger, I rejoiced in being the chosen one. Now I no longer have that hunger, it has been sated. I would rather return to the sweetness of anonymity, wrongfully known as banality. And yet, there is nothing more extraordinary than a shared life. I love everyday life. Its repetitiveness allows one to deepen the sparkling moments of day and night: eating bread fresh from the oven, walking barefoot on the ground still damp with dew, filling one’s lungs with fresh air, lying next to one’s beloved—how could anyone want anything else?

That life, too, ends with death. I suppose, all the same, that dying is very different when it is the work of time: you die surrounded by your loved ones; it must be like falling asleep. If I could avoid this violence foretold, I could wish for nothing better.

The rain has stopped. My exquisite what-if has come to an end.

All will come to pass.

“Accept it,” whispers a kindly voice inside my head.

A wise man from Asia has suggested that hope and fear are the two sides of a same feeling, and that is why one must give up both of them. It makes sense: I have known hope—in vain, and now my terror is so much greater. However, the message that sends me to my death will not condemn hope. Perhaps it is a chimera, but the love that pours from me contains a hopefulness that has no counterpart in fear.

All the same, I will have to endure infinite suffering. “Accept it.” Do I have any choice? I accept it, if only to suffer less.