The Last Temptation of Christ (65 page)

Jesus’ heart was also a bird. Perched on the top of his head, it twittered, “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming!”

But while he was galloping, suddenly, in the midst of his great exaltation, he remembered his disciples. Looking behind him, he examined the mass of lords and ladies, searched to find them—and did not find them.

He glanced at his companion with surprise.

“And my disciples?” he asked. “I don’t see them. Where can they be?”

He was answered with mocking laughter. “Dispersed.”

“Why?”

“Fear.”

“Even Judas?”

“All! All! They returned to their caïques, hid themselves in their cottages. They swear they never saw you, don’t know you. ... Don’t look behind you any more. Forget about them. Look in front.”

The inebriating perfume of flowering lemon trees invaded the air.

“Here we are,” said the angel, dismounting. His horse turned into light and vanished.

A deep lowing of complaint, all suffering and sweetness, resounded from within the olive grove. Jesus felt troubled: his own bowels seemed to be calling out. He looked. Tied to the trunk of an olive tree was a gleaming full-rumped bull, black with white forehead. His tail was held high, and a nuptial crown rested on his horns. Jesus had never seen such power, such brilliance, such hard muscles, nor eyes so dark, so full of virility. He was frightened. This is not a bull, he reflected; it is one of the dark, deathless faces of Almighty God.

The angel stood near him and smiled cunningly. “Don’t be afraid, Jesus of Nazareth. It’s a bull, a young virgin bull. Look how swiftly he moves his tongue and licks his moist nostrils, how he lowers his head and butts the olive tree, anxious to fight with it, how he shakes himself in order to break the rope and escape. ... Look down there in the meadow. What do you see?”

“Heifers, young heifers. They’re grazing.”

“They’re not grazing; they’re waiting for the young bull to break the rope. Listen once more how he bellows. What tenderness, what supplication, what power! Truly, like a dark and wounded god. ... Why has your face grown fierce, Jesus of Nazareth? Why do you look at me with those dark, unlaughing eyes?”

“Let us go,” Jesus bellowed softly. His voice was all tenderness, supplication and power.

“First I’ll release the bull,” answered the angel, laughing. “Don’t you feel sorry for him?”

He approached and untied the rope. For a moment the chaste beast did not move. But suddenly he understood: he was free. With a bound he rushed toward the meadow.

At precisely that instant Jesus heard the tinkling of bracelets and necklaces from within a lemon orchard. He turned. Mary Magdalene, crowned with lemon blossoms, was standing before him, bashful and trembling.

Jesus rushed forward and took her in his arms. “Magdalene, beloved Magdalene,” he cried, “oh, how many, how very many years I’ve longed for this moment! Who stepped between us and refused to leave us free—God? ... Why are you crying?”

“Because of my great joy, Beloved; because of my great longing. Come!”

“Let us go. Lead me!”

He turned to say goodbye to his companion, but the angel had vanished into the air. Behind them, the great royal cortege of lords, ladies, kings, white horses and white lilies had also vanished. Below in the meadow, the bull was mounting the heifers.

“Whom are you looking for, Beloved? Why do you gaze behind you? Only we two remain in the world. I kiss the five wounds on your feet, your hands, your heart. What joy this is, what a Passover! The whole world has been resurrected! Come.”

“Where? Give me your hand; lead me. I trust you.”

“To a dense orchard. You’re being hunted; they want to seize you. Everything was ready—the cross, the nails, the mob, Pilate—but suddenly an angel came and snatched you away. Come—before the sun mounts and they see you. They’ve grown rabid: they want your death.”

“What have I done to them?”

“You sought their good, their salvation. How can they ever pardon you for that! Give me your hand, Beloved. Follow the woman. She, always sure, finds the way.”

She took his hand. Her fiery-red veil swelled as she walked hastily under the flowering, soon-fruitful lemon trees. Her fingers, entwined in those of the man, were burning hot, and her mouth smelled of lemon leaves.

Out of breath, she stopped for a moment and looked at Jesus. He shuddered, for he saw her eye frolic seductively, cunningly, like the eye of the angel. But she smiled at him.

“Don’t be afraid, Beloved. For years and years I’ve had something on the tip of my tongue, but I never had the courage to reveal it to you. Now I shall do so.”

“What is it? Speak without fear, Beloved.”

“If you’re in the seventh heaven and a passer-by requests a glass of water of you, descend from the seventh heaven in order to give it to him. If you are a holy saint and a woman requests a kiss of you, descend from your sanctity in order to give it to her. Otherwise you cannot be saved.”

Jesus seized her, threw back her head and kissed her on the mouth.

They both turned deathly pale. Their knees gave way. Unable to go further, they lay down under a flowering lemon tree and began to roll on the ground.

The sun came and stood above them. A breeze blew; several lemon flowers fell on the two naked bodies. A green lizard cemented itself to a stone opposite and watched them with its round, motionless eyes. Now and then the bull could be heard bellowing in the distance, rested now and satiated. A gentle drizzle cooled the two burning bodies and drew out the odor of the soil.

Purring, Mary Magdalene hugged the man, kept his body glued to hers.

“No man has ever kissed me. I have never felt a man’s beard over my lips and cheeks, nor a man’s knees between my knees. This is the day of my birth! ... Are you crying, my child?”

“Beloved wife, I never knew the world was so beautiful or the flesh so holy. It too is a daughter of God, a graceful sister of the soul. I never knew that the joys of the body were not sinful.”

“Why did you set out to conquer heaven, and sigh, and seek the miraculous water of eternal life? I am that water. You have stooped, drunk, found peace. ... Are you still sighing, my child? What are you thinking about?”

“My heart is a withered rose of Jericho which revives and opens up again when placed in water. Woman is a fountain of immortal water. Now I understand.”

“Understand what, my child?”

“This is the road.”

“The road? What road, dearest Jesus?”

“The road by which the mortal becomes immortal, the road by which God descends to earth in human shape. I went astray because I sought a route outside the flesh; I wanted to go by way of the clouds, great thoughts and death. Woman, precious fellow worker of God, forgive me. I bow and worship you, Mother of God. ... What shall we name the son we are going to have?”

“Take him to the Jordan and baptize him as you please. He’s yours.”

“Let’s call him Paraclete, the Comforter!”

“Shh, I hear someone coming through the trees. It must be my faithful little Negro. I told him to keep watch so that no one would come near. Here he is!”

“Saul, ma’am.”

The boy’s brilliantly white eyes danced; his chubby body was frothing all over like that of a horse after a gallop.

Magdalene jumped up and placed her hand over his mouth. “Quiet!”

She turned to Jesus. “Beloved husband, you’re tired. Sleep. I shall return quickly.”

But Jesus had already closed his eyes. A sweet sleep had flowed over his eyelids and temples, and he did not see Magdalene go away under the lemon trees and disappear down the deserted road.

But his mind jolted up. Leaving his body on the ground to sleep, it started out after Magdalene. Where was she going? Why had her eyes suddenly filled with tears and the world grown dim? His mind, like a hawk, flew over those eyes and did not let her escape.

The frightened young Negro stumbled along in front. They passed the olive grove. The sun still had not set. They entered the meadow. The heifers were stretched out on the grass, chewing their cud. They went down into a shady, rocky ravine where they heard dogs barking and the panting voices of men. Terror took hold of the young Negro. “I’m leaving,” he said, and ran off.

Magdalene remained all alone. She looked around her. Rocks, flint, a few brambles. A wild, barren fig tree protruded horizontally from the face of the cliff. Two ravens—sentries on the vantage point of a jutting rock—caught sight of Magdalene and began to screech as though calling their mates.

She heard the sound of stones being dislodged. Men were climbing the cliff. A black, red-spotted dog appeared, its tongue hanging out. The ravine became filled, like a cemetery, with cypresses and palms.

A calm, satisfied voice was heard. “Welcome.”

Magdalene turned around. “Who spoke? Who greeted me?”

“I did.”

“Who are you?”

“God.”

“God! Let me cover my hair and hide my breasts. Turn away your face, Lord; you must not see my nakedness—I’m ashamed. Why did you bring me into this savage wilderness? Where am I? I see nothing but cypresses and palms.”

“Exactly! Death and immortality. ... Great Martyr, I’ve brought you precisely where I want you. Prepare yourself for death, Magdalene, so that you may become immortal.”

“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to become immortal. Let me continue to live on the earth, and afterward, turn me into ashes.”

“Death is a caravan laden with spices and perfumes. Do not be afraid, Magdalene. Mount the black camel and enter the desert of heaven.”

“Oh, who are those frenzied travelers who emerged from behind the cypresses?”

“Don’t be afraid, Magdalene; they are my camel-drivers. Shade your eyes with your hand. Don’t you see the black camel they are leading, the one with the red velvet saddle on which you’ll ride? Do not resist.”

“Lord, I’m not afraid of death, but I have a complaint to make. Just now, for the first time, my flesh and soul were considered worthy of having the same mouth; for the first time, both of them were kissed—and must I die?”

“This is an excellent moment for you to die, Magdalene. You won’t find a better one, so do not resist.”

“Oh! what are those cries, threats and peals of laughter I hear? Lord, do not abandon me. They’re coming to kill me!”

She heard the voice, still calm and satisfied, but far away now in the distance. “Magdalene, you have attained the highest joy of your life. You can go no higher. Death is kind. ... Until we meet again, First Martyr!”

The voice disappeared. From a bend in the ravine the mob of frenzied Levites and bloodthirsty slaves of Caiaphas emerged with knives and hatchets. They saw Magdalene, and cleavers, dogs and men fell upon her.

“Mary Magdalene, whore!” they howled in fits of laughter.

A black cloud covered the sun; the earth grew dark.

“I’m not, I’m not!” the unfortunate woman cried out. “I was, but am not. Today I was born!”

“Mary Magdalene, whore!”

“I was, but I’m not now, I swear it. Don’t kill me. Mercy! Who are you, you with the bald head, the fat belly, the crooked legs—you, the hunchback? Don’t touch me!”

“Mary Magdalene, whore! I am Saul. The God of Israel sent me from Damascus and gave me the authority to kill him.”

“To kill whom?”

“Your lover!”

He turned to his gang.

“On her, lads! She’s his lover, she’ll know. Tell us where you’ve hidden him, strumpet!”

“I won’t!”

“I’ll kill you!”

“In Bethany!”

“Liar! We’ve just come from there. You’ve got him hidden somewhere near here. The truth now!”

“Let go of my hair! Why do you want to kill him? What has he done to you?”

“Whoever lifts his hand against the holy Law—death!”

While the hunchback spoke he looked at her passionately and came closer and closer, his breath on fire.

Magdalene fluttered her eyelids. “Saul,” she said, “look at my breasts, my arms, my throat. Wouldn’t it be a shame if they perished? Don’t kill them!”

Saul came still closer. His voice was smothered, hoarse. “Confess where he is and I won’t kill you. I like your breasts, your arms, your neck. Pity your beauty and confess! Why do you look at me like that? What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking, Saul—and sighing—just thinking what miracles you would perform if God suddenly flashed within you and you saw the truth! To conquer the world my beloved needs disciples like you—not fishermen, peddlers and shepherds, but flames like yourself, Saul!”

“Conquer the world! Does he want to conquer the world? How? Speak, Magdalene, because that’s just what I want to do.”

“With love.”

“With love?”

“Saul, listen to what I’m going to tell you. Send the others away—I don’t want them to hear. This man you’re hunting and want to kill is the son of God, the Saviour of the world, the Messiah! Yes, by the soul which I shall render to God!”

A skinny, tubercular Levite with a scanty gray beard hissed: “Saul, Saul, her arms are wolf snares. Beware!”

“Go away!”

He turned again to Magdalene. “With love? I too want to conquer the world. I go down to the ports, see the ships leaving, and my heart burns. I want to reach the ends of the earth, but not as a beggarly slave of a Jew: no, as a king, with my sword! But how? It’s impossible. I feel so wretched I want to kill myself. In the meantime I find relief by killing others.”

He was quiet for a moment and then, coming still closer to the woman, “Where is your master, Magdalene?” he asked in a gentle tone. “Tell me so that I can go find him and speak with him. I want him to tell me what love is, and which kind of love will conquer the world. ... Why are you crying?”

“Because I do want to reveal to you where he is. I want the two of you to meet. He is all sweetness; you all fire. Together, you will conquer the world. But I don’t trust you; no, I don’t trust you, Saul—and that’s why I’m crying.”

She was still speaking when a stone whistled through the air and broke her jaw.

“Brothers—in the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob—strike!” howled the consumptive Levite. It was he who had seized the first stone and had struck her.