The Collected Novels of José Saramago (115 page)

The sun has now disappeared behind the mountain. Enormous dark clouds over the valley of Jordan move slowly westward, as if pulled by this fading light that tinges their upper edges crimson. It has suddenly become cooler, and rain seems likely tonight although unusual for this time of the year. The soldiers have withdrawn, taking advantage of the waning light to return to their encampment some distance away, where their comrades-in-arms have probably arrived after carrying out a similar search in Nazareth. This is how a modern war should be fought, with the utmost coordination, not in the haphazard fashion of Judas the Galilean’s rebel force, and the outcome is there for all to see, thirty-nine of his men crucified, the fortieth an innocent man who came with the best of intentions and met a miserable death. The people of Sepphoris will look among the ruins of their burnt-out city for somewhere to spend the night, and at daybreak each family will salvage what possessions they can from their former homes, then go off to make a new life for themselves elsewhere, because not only has Sepphoris been razed to the ground but Rome will make sure the city is not rebuilt for some time. Mary and Jesus are two shadows in the midst of a dark forest consisting of nothing but trunks. The mother draws her son to her bosom, two frightened souls searching as one for courage, and the dead beneath the ground, it seems, wish to detain the living. Jesus suggested to his mother, Let’s spend the night in the city, but Mary told him, We cannot, your brothers and sisters are all alone and they must be famished. They could scarcely see where they were treading. After much stumbling, they finally reached the road, which in the dark stretched out like a parched riverbed. No sooner did they leave Sepphoris than it started raining, heavy drops to begin with, making a gentle sound as they hit the thick dust on the ground. The rain became more insistent, oppressive, the dust soon turned to mud, and Mary and her son had to remove their sandals to avoid losing them. They walk in silence, the mother covering her son’s head with her mantle, they have nothing to say to each other, perhaps they are even thinking vaguely that Joseph is not dead after all, that when they get home, they will find him tending to the children as best he can, and he will ask his wife, What on earth possessed you to go out without asking my permission, but the tears have welled up again in Mary’s eyes, not only because of her grief but also because of this infinite weariness, this continuous, persistent rain, the grim darkness, all much too sad and black for any hope that Joseph is still alive.

One day someone will tell the widow about the miracle witnessed at the gates of Sepphoris, when the tree trunks used to crucify the prisoners took root again and sprouted new leaves, and miracle is the right word, first because the Romans were in the habit of taking the crosses with them when they left, and secondly because trunks that have been chopped top and bottom have no sap left or shoots capable of transforming a thick, bloodstained post into a living tree. The credulous attributed this wonder to the blood of the martyrs, the skeptics said it was the rain, but no one had ever heard of blood or rain reviving trees once they were made into crosses and abandoned on a mountain slope or the plain of a desert. That it had been willed by God was something no one dared suggest, not only because His will, whatever that may be, is inscrutable, but also because no one could think of any good reason why the crucified of Sepphoris should be the beneficiaries of this peculiar manifestation of divine grace, which was really more in keeping with the style of pagan gods. These trees here will survive a long time, and the day will come when this episode will be forgotten, and since mankind seeks an explanation for everything, whether it be true or false, tales and legends will be invented, containing facts to begin with, then moving gradually away from the facts, until they become pure fantasy. Then eventually the trees will die of old age or be cut down to make way for a road, a school, a house, a shopping center, or a military base, the excavators will unearth the skeletons buried for two thousand years, and the anthropologists will appear on the scene, and an expert in anatomy will examine the remains and announce to a shocked world that there is conclusive evidence that men were crucified in those days with their legs bent at the knee. And people will be unable to refute these scientific findings though they find them aesthetically deplorable.

When Mary and Jesus arrived home drenched to the skin, covered with mud, and shivering with cold, they found the children in better spirits than one might have expected, thanks to the resourcefulness of James and Lisa, who were older than the others. They remembered to light the fire when the night turned cold, and sat huddled against one another around it and tried to forget the pangs of hunger. Hearing someone knocking outside, James went to open the door. The rain poured in as their mother and brother crossed the threshold, it seemed to flood the house. The children stared, and knew their father would not be coming back when Jesus closed the door, but they said nothing until James finally asked, Where is Father. The ground slowly absorbed the water that dripped from wet clothes, and all that broke the silence was the damp wood crackling in the hearth. The children stared at their mother. James repeated the question, Where is Father. Mary opened her mouth to speak, but the word, like a hangman’s noose, choked her, forcing Jesus to intervene, Father is dead, he told them, and without knowing why, perhaps as proof that Joseph was dead, he took the wet sandals from his belt and showed them, I brought these back. The older children were already close to tears, but the sight of those forlorn sandals was too much for all of them, and the widow and her nine children were soon crying their hearts out. Not knowing which of them to comfort, she sank to her knees, exhausted, and her children gathered around her, like a cluster of grapes that did not need to be trampled to release the colorless wine of tears. Only Jesus remained standing, clasping the sandals to his bosom, musing that one day he would wear them, or this minute if he could summon the courage. One by one the children stole away from their mother, the older children tactfully leaving her to grieve, the younger ones following their example. Unable to share their mother’s sorrow, they simply wept, in this respect young children are like the very old, who cry for nothing, cry even when they no longer feel or because they are incapable of feeling.

Mary knelt in the middle of the room, as if awaiting a decision or sentence. She became aware of her wet clothes, got to her feet, shivering, opened a chest, and took out an old, patched tunic that had belonged to her husband. Handing it to Jesus, she told him, Remove that wet tunic, put this on, and go sit by the fire. Then she called her two daughters, Lisa and Lydia, and made them hold up a mat to form a screen while she too changed, before starting to prepare supper with the few provisions left in the house. Jesus, in his father’s tunic, sat by the fire. The tunic was too long for him at the hem and sleeves, in other circumstances his brothers would have laughed at him for looking like a scarecrow, but this was not the time for jesting, not only because they were in mourning but also because of the air of superiority that emanated from the boy, who suddenly appeared to have grown in stature, and this impression became even stronger when, slowly and deliberately, he took his father’s wet sandals and held them in front of the fire. James went and sat beside Jesus and asked him in a low voice, What happened to Father. They crucified him with the other rebels, Jesus whispered. But why. Who knows, there were forty men there, and Father was one of them. Perhaps he too was a rebel. Who are you talking about. Father, of course. Impossible, he was always here at home, working at his bench. And what about the donkey, did you find it. Nowhere to be seen, alive or dead. Supper was ready, and they all sat around the common bowl and ate what little food there was. By the time they finished eating, the younger children were nodding off to sleep, their spirits still troubled but their bodies in need of rest. The boys’ mats were laid out along the wall at the far end of the room. Mary told the two girls, You will sleep here with me, one on either side to avoid any jealousy. Cold air came through the gap in the door, but the house stayed warm, there was still heat coming from the fire. Huddling up against one another, the children gradually fell asleep despite their sighs. Holding back her tears, Mary waited for them to sleep, for she wished to grieve alone, her eyes were wide open as she contemplated a future without a husband and with nine mouths to feed. But unexpectedly the sorrow left her soul, and her body succumbed to fatigue, and then they were all asleep.

In the middle of the night Mary was awakened by the sound of moaning. She thought she dreamed it, but she had not been dreaming, she heard it a second time, louder. Taking care not to disturb her daughters, she sat up and looked around her, but the light from the oil lamp did not reach the far end of the room. Which of them could it be, she wondered, but knew in her heart it was Jesus who moaned. She got up quietly, went to fetch the lamp from its nail on the door, and raising it above her head, she examined the children one by one. Jesus tossed and turned, muttering to himself as if having a nightmare, he must be dreaming about his father, a mere boy and yet he has already witnessed so much suffering, death, blood, and torture. Mary thought to rouse him, to stop this agony, but changed her mind, she did not want to know what her son was dreaming, and then she noticed he was wearing his father’s sandals. She found this strange, it worried her, how foolish, quite uncalled for and so disrespectful, wearing his father’s sandals on the very day of the poor man’s death. Not knowing what to think, she returned to her mat. Perhaps because of those sandals, and the tunic, her son was reliving his father’s fatal adventure from the day Joseph left home, and thus the boy had passed into the world of men, to which he already belonged by the law of God, he was now heir to Joseph’s few possessions, a much-mended tunic and a pair of worn sandals, and his dreams, Jesus retracing his father’s last steps on earth. It did not occur to Mary that her son might be dreaming about something else.

Day broke with a clear sky. It was warm and bright, and there was no sign of further rain. Mary set out early with all her sons of school age, accompanied by Jesus, who as we mentioned earlier has already finished his studies. At the synagogue she informed the elders of Joseph’s death and the probable circumstances that led to his crucifixion, cautiously adding that as many of the burial rites as possible were observed, despite the haste and improvisation with which everything had to be done. Finding herself alone with Jesus as they headed home, she thought to ask him why he had decided to wear his father’s sandals, but something dissuaded her at the last moment. He might be at a loss to explain, might feel embarrassed. And unlike the child
who gets up in the middle of the night to steal food and is caught in the act, he could not very well make the excuse that he was feeling hungry, unless he meant a kind of hunger unknown to us. Another idea occurred to Mary. Now that her son was the head of the household, it was only right that as his mother and dependent she should show him respect, consideration, take an interest in the dream that disturbed his sleep, Were you dreaming about your father, she asked, but Jesus pretended not to hear, he turned his face away, but his mother, undeterred, repeated the question, Were you dreaming. She was taken aback when her son replied, Yes, then almost immediately said, No, his expression clouding over as if he was seeing his dead father once more. They walked on in silence. When they got home, Mary set about carding wool, thinking to herself that she should make the most of her skills and take on extra work to support her family. Meanwhile Jesus, after looking up at the sky to see if the good weather would hold, fetched his father’s workbench from the shed, checked the jobs that still had to be finished, and examined the various tools. Mary was pleased to see her son taking his new responsibilities so seriously. When the younger boys returned from the synagogue and they all sat down to eat, only the most careful observer would have guessed that this family had just lost a husband and father. Jesus’s dark, twitching eyebrows betrayed anxiety, but the others, including Mary, seemed tranquil and composed, for it is written, Make bitter weeping and make passionate wailing, and let your mourning be according to his desert for one day or two, lest evil be spoken of you, and so be comforted of your sorrow, for it is also written, Give not your heart unto sorrow, put it away remembering the last end, forget it not, for there is no returning again, him you shall not profit, and will only hurt yourself. There will be a time to laugh and rejoice, as surely as one day follows another, one season another, and the best lesson of all comes from the Book of Ecclesiastes, where it is written, There is nothing better for man in this world than that he should eat, drink, and be merry even as he labors. For to the man who is virtuous in His eyes God gives wisdom and knowledge and joy. That same afternoon, Jesus and James went onto the terrace to repair the roof, which had been leaking throughout the night, and in case anyone is wondering why this minor domestic problem was not mentioned earlier, let me remind him that the death of a human being takes precedence over all else.

Night returned, and another day would soon dawn. The family supped as best they could, then settled down on their mats to sleep. Mary woke with a start in the early hours, no, it was not she who was dreaming but Jesus. It was heartbreaking to hear his moans, which awakened the older children, but it would have taken much more to rouse the little ones, who were enjoying the deep sleep of the innocent. Mary found her son tossing and turning on his mat, his arms raised as if fending off a sword or lance, but he gradually quieted down, either because his attackers had withdrawn or because his life was ebbing away. Jesus opened his eyes and wept in his mother’s arms like a little child, even grown men become children again when they are frightened or upset, they do not like to admit it, poor things, but there is nothing like a good cry to relieve one’s sorrow. What’s wrong, my son, what troubles you, Mary asked in distress, and Jesus could not or would not answer, there was nothing childlike about those pursed lips. Tell me what you were dreaming about, insisted Mary, and trying to encourage him to speak, she asked, Did you see your father. The boy shook his head, released his arms, and fell back on his mat. Try to get some sleep, he told her, and then turning to his brothers, It’s nothing, go back to sleep, I’ll be all right. Mary rejoined her daughters but lay awake until morning, expecting Jesus’ dream to return at any moment. She wondered what this dream could be that caused him so much anguish, but nothing more happened. It did not occur to her that her son might also be lying awake, to keep from dreaming again. What a strange coincidence, she thought, that Jesus, who had always slept peacefully, should start having nightmares immediately after his father’s death, God forbid that it should be the same dream, she prayed inwardly. If her common sense assured her that dreams were neither bequeathed nor inherited, she was much deceived, because fathers do not need to confide their dreams to their sons for them to have the same dream at the same hour.