A loud rap at the door startles him. He looks at his watch. It is half past ten at night.
"Come in," he calls out, exasperation escaping from his voice like steam from a kettle.
No one enters. But he senses a brooding presence on the other side of the solid wood door.
"I said come in," he calls out again.
Still no rattling of the doorknob. Pathology is not a medical art that is much subject to emergency. The sick, or rather their biopsied samples, can nearly always wait till the next morning, and the dead are even more patient, so it's unlikely to be a clerk with an urgent case. And pathologists' offices are not located so that the general public might find them easily. Who then, at such an hour, on New Year's Eve at that, would wend their way through the basement of the hospital to look for him?
He gets up, upsetting both himself and a number of papers. He walks around his desk, takes hold of the doorknob, and opens the door.
A woman in her fifties, with lovely features and large brown eyes, stands before him. In one hand she is holding a bag. He is surprised to see her. She eyes him. In a warm, deep voice, she starts up: "Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but find no rest. I am poured out like water. My heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast. My mouth is dried up like a potsherd. Oh my darling, come quickly to my help!"
While a small part of Eusebio sighs, a larger part smiles. The woman at the door is his wife. She comes to his office to see him on occasion, though not usually at such a late hour. Her name is Maria Luisa Motaal Lozora, and he is familiar with the words of her lament. They are taken mostly from Psalm 22, her favourite psalm. She in fact has no cause for conventional suffering. She is in good mental and physical health, she lives in a nice house, she has no desire to leave him or the town where they live, she has good friends, she is never truly bored, they have three grown children who are happy and healthy--in short, she has all the elements that make for a good life. Only his wife, his dear wife, is an amateur theologian, a priest manque, and she takes the parameters of life, her mortal coildom, her Jobdom, very seriously.
She is fond of quoting from Psalm 22, especially its first line: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" His thought in response is that, nonetheless, there is "My God, my God" at the start of the plaint. It helps that there's someone listening, if not doing.
He has much listening to do, he does, with his wife, and not much doing. Her mouth might be dried up like a potsherd, but she never quotes the line that follows in Psalm 22--"and my tongue sticks to my jaws"--because that would be an untruth. Her tongue is never stuck to her jaws. Maria ardently believes in the spoken word. To her, writing is making stock and reading is sipping broth, but only the spoken word is the full roasted chicken. And so she talks. She talks all the time. She talks to herself when she is alone at home and she talks to herself when she is alone in the street, and she has been talking to him incessantly since the day they met, thirty-eight years ago. His wife is an endlessly unfurling conversation, with never a true stop, only a pause. But she produces no drivel and has no patience for drivel. Sometimes she chafes at the inane talk she has to endure with her friends. She serves them coffee and cake, she listens to their prattle, and later she grouses, "Guinea pigs, I am surrounded by guinea pigs."
He surmises that his wife read about guinea pigs and something about them aroused her resentment: their smallness, their utter harmlessness and defencelessness, their fearfulness, their contentedness simply to chew on a grain or two and expect no more from life. As a pathologist he quite likes the guinea pig. It is indeed small in every way, especially when set against the stark and random cruelty of life. Every corpse he opens up whispers to him, "I am a guinea pig. Will you warm me to your breast?" Drivel, his wife would call that. She has no patience for death.
When they were young, Maria tolerated for a while the amorous cooing of which he was so fond. Despite the surface brutality of his profession, he is soft of heart. When he met her the first time--it was in the cafeteria of the university--she was the most alluring creature he'd ever seen, a serious girl with a beauty that lit him up. At the sight of her, song filled his ears and the world glowed with colour. His heart thumped with gratitude. But quickly she rolled her eyes and told him to stop twittering. It became clear to him that his mission was to listen to her and respond appropriately and not to annoy her with oral frivolity. She was the rich earth and the sun and the rain; he was merely the farmer who got the crop going. He was an essential but bit player. Which was fine with him. He loved her then and he loves her now. She is everything to him. She is still the rich earth and the sun and the rain and he is still happy to be the farmer who gets the crop going.
Only tonight he had hoped to get some work done. Clearly that is not to be the case. The Conversation is upon him.
"Hello, my angel," he says. "What a joyous surprise to see you! What's in the bag? You can't have been shopping. No shop would be open at this hour." He leans forward and kisses his wife.
Maria ignores the question. "Death is a difficult door," she says quietly. She steps into his office. "Eusebio, what's happened?" she exclaims. "Your office is an unholy mess. This is indecent. Where are your visitors supposed to sit?"
He surveys his office. He sees embarrassing disorder everywhere. Pathologists at work don't normally receive visitors who need to sit or who care for order. They usually lie flat and without complaint on a table across the hallway. He takes his workbench chair and places it in front of his desk. "I wasn't expecting you tonight, my angel. Here, sit here," he says.
"Thank you." She sits down and places the bag she brought with her on the floor.
He gathers up papers from his desk, which he stuffs in the nearest folder, which he stacks on other folders, which he then drops to the floor. He pushes the pile under his desk with a foot, out of sight. He crunches up stray bits of paper, sweeps up shameful accumulations of dust with the edge of his hand, using his other hand as a dustpan, which he empties into the wastepaper basket beside his desk. There, that's better. He sits down and looks across his desk at the woman sitting there. A man and his wife.
"I have found the solution at last, and I must tell you about it," she says.
The solution? Was there a problem?
"Why don't you do that, then," he replies.
She nods. "I first tried through laughter, because you like to laugh," she says without a trace of mirth. "You saw me, the books I was reading."
He thinks. Yes, that would explain the selection of books she ordered from her favourite Coimbra bookseller these last several months. Some plays of Aristophanes, Shakespeare, Lope de Vega, Moliere, Georges Feydeau, some weightier tomes of Boccaccio, Rabelais, Cervantes, Swift, Voltaire. All of these she read wearing the grimmest expression. He himself is not such an accomplished reader. He was not sure why she was reading these books, but, as always, he let her be.
"Humour and religion do not mix well," she goes on. "Humour may point out the many mistakes of religion--any number of vilely immoral priests, or monsters who shed blood in the name of Jesus--but humour sheds no light on true religion. It is just humour unto itself. Worse, humour misunderstands religion, since there is little place for levity in religion--and let us not make the mistake of thinking that levity is the same thing as joy. Religion abounds in joy. Religion is joy. To laugh at religion with levity, then, is to miss the point, which is fine if one is in the mood to laugh, but not if one is in the mood to understand. Do you follow me?"
"Though it's late, I think I do," he replies.
"Next I tried children's books, Eusebio. Did Jesus not say that we must receive the Kingdom of God like a little child? So I reread the books we used to read to Renato, Luisa, and Anton."
Images of their three children when they were small appear in his mind. Those little ones lived with their mother's volubility like children live in a rainy climate: They just ran out to play in the p
uddles, shrieking and laughing, heedless of the downpour. She never took umbrage at these joyous interruptions. With difficulty, he returns his attention to his wife.
"These books brought back many happy memories--and some sadness that our children are all grown up--but they brought no religious illumination. I continued my search. Then the solution appeared right in front of me, with your favourite writer."
"Really? How interesting. When I saw your nose in those Agatha Christies, I thought you were taking a break from your arduous studies."
He and she are devoted to Agatha Christie. They have read all her books, starting with the very first, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Thanks to the good works of the Circulo Portugues de Misterio, they receive her every new murder mystery the moment it is translated, and translation is prompt because Portuguese readers are eager. Husband and wife know better than to bother the other when one of them is absorbed in the latest arrival. Once they've both finished it, they go over the case together, discussing the clues they should have caught, and the avenues to the solution they ran down only to find they were dead ends. Agatha Christie's star detective is Hercule Poirot, a vain, odd-looking little Belgian man. But Poirot, inside his egg-shaped head, has the quickest, most observant mind. His "grey cells"--as he calls his brain--work with order and method, and these cells perceive what no one else does.
"Death on the Nile was such a marvel of ingenuity! Her next book must be due soon," he says.
"It must."
"And what solution did you find in Agatha Christie?"
"Let me first explain the path I have taken," she replies. "This path twists and turns, so you must listen carefully. Let us start with the miracles of Jesus."
The miracles of Jesus. One of her favourite topics. He glances at the clock next to his microscope. The night is going to be long.
"Is something the matter with your microscope?" his wife asks.
"Not at all."
"Peering through it won't help you understand the miracles of Jesus."
"That is true."
"And staring at the clock won't save you from your future."
"True again. Are you thirsty? Can I offer you water before we start?"
"Water from that glass?" She peers critically at the filthy glass on his desk.
"I propose to clean it."
"That would be a good idea. I'm fine for the moment, though. But how appropriate that you should mention water--we shall come back to water. Now, pay attention. The miracles of Jesus--so many of them, are there not? And yet, if we look closely, we can see that they fall into two categories. Into one category fall those miracles that benefit the human body. There are many of these. Jesus makes the blind see, the deaf hear, the dumb speak, the lame walk. He cures fevers, treats epilepsy, exorcizes psychological maladies. He rids lepers of their disease. A woman suffering from haemorrhages for twelve years touches his cloak and her bleeding stops. And of course he raises the dead--Jairus's daughter and the widow of Nain's only son, both freshly dead, but also Lazarus, who has been dead for four days and whose body stinks of death. We might call these the medical miracles of Jesus, and they represent the overwhelming majority of his miraculous work."
Eusebio remembers the autopsy he performed earlier today, speaking of bodies that stink of death. The mushy, puffy body of a floater is an abhorrence to the eyes and to the nose, even when these are trained.
"But there are other miracles that benefit the human body besides the medical miracles," his wife continues. "Jesus makes the nets of fishermen bulge with catch. He multiplies fish and loaves of bread to feed thousands. At Cana he turns water into wine. In alleviating hunger and quenching thirst, Jesus again benefits the human body. So too when he stills a storm that is swamping the boat his disciples are travelling in and rescues them from drowning. And the same when he gets Peter to pay the temple tax with the coin from the fish's mouth; in doing that, he saves Peter from the beating he would have endured had he been arrested."
Maria has benefitted his body, Eusebio muses, as he has hers. To love and then to have a fun time of it--is there any greater joy? They were like birds in springtime. Their carnal relations settled over the years, but the satisfaction has remained--the comfort of a sturdy, warm nest. Renewed love for Maria flames within him. When they met, she never told him that her name was Legion, that teeming within her were all the prophets and apostles of the Bible, besides a good number of the Church Fathers. When she was giving birth to their children--with each one the ordeal began with something like a plate breaking inside her, she said--even then, as he sat in the waiting room listening to her panting and groaning and shrieking, she discoursed on religion. The doctor and the nurses came out with thoughtful expressions. He had to remind them to tell him about the new baby. Even as she suffered and they worked, she caused them to think. How did he end up with a wife who was both beautiful and profound? Did he deserve such luck? He smiles and winks at his wife.
"Eusebio, stop it. Time is short," she whispers. "Now, why does Jesus benefit the human body? Of course he does his miracle work to impress those around him--and they are impressed. They're amazed. But to show that he is the Messiah, why does Jesus cure infirmities and feed hungry stomachs? After all, he could also soar like a bird, as the devil asked him to do, or, as he himself mentioned, he could go about casting mountains into seas. These too would be miracles worthy of a Messiah. Why body miracles?"
Eusebio remains hushed. He's tired. Worse, he's hungry. He remembers the bag at his wife's feet. Perhaps he should wash the glass in the small sink in his office and, when returning to his desk, try to glimpse inside the bag. She usually brings him something to eat when she visits.
His wife answers her question. "Jesus performs these miracles because they bring relief where we want it most. We all suffer in our bodies and die. It is our fate--as you well know, my dear, spending your days cutting up human carrion. In curing and feeding us, Jesus meets us at our weakest. He eases us of our heavy burden of mortality. And that impresses us more deeply than any other display of mighty power, be it flying in the air or throwing mountains into seas.
"Now to the second category of the miracles of Jesus, the category of the miracle of interpretation. This category contains only a single miracle. Do you know what that miracle is?"
"Tell me," Eusebio says softly.
"It is when Jesus walks on the water. There is no other miracle like it. Jesus tells his disciples to get into the boat and travel on ahead. They set out, while Jesus goes onto the mountain to pray. The day ends. The disciples strain at their oars against a strong wind--but there is no storm; their bodies are not in any danger. After a long night of toil, as the new day is starting, they see Jesus coming towards their boat, walking on the sea. They are terrified. Jesus reassures them: 'It is I; do not be afraid.' Matthew, in his version of the story, has Peter ask the Lord if he can join him. 'Come,' says Jesus. Peter gets out of the boat and walks on the water towards Jesus, but then the wind frightens him and he begins to sink. Jesus reaches out with his hand and brings Peter back to the boat. The adverse wind ceases.
"Why would Jesus walk on water? Did he do it to save a drowning soul, to benefit a human body? No--Peter got into trouble in the water after Jesus began walking on it. Was there some other impetus? Jesus started his miraculous walk very early in the morning from remote shores, alone, and at sea he was seen by no one but his disciples, who were out of sight of land. In other words, there was no social necessity to the miracle. Walking on water did no one any particular good, raised no specific hopes. It was neither asked for, nor expected, nor even needed. Why such an anomalous miracle in documents as spare and winnowed as the Gospels? And this unique miracle can't be hidden away. It appears in two of the synoptic Gospels--Matthew and Mark--and in John, one of the very few crossover miracles. What does it mean, Eusebio, what does it mean? In a moment of clarity, I saw."
He perks up. It always goes like this. She talks and talks and talks, and then suddenly he
is hooked, like a fish in a biblical story. What did she see?
"I saw that the miracle of Jesus walking on the water means little when taken at face value. However, when it is taken as saying one thing but implying another--in other words, as allegory--then the miracle opens up. Swimming is a modern invention--people at the time of Jesus could not swim. If they fell into deep water, they sank and they drowned--that is the literal truth. But if we think of water as the experience of life, it is also the religious truth. Men and women are weak, and in their weakness they sink. Jesus does not sink. A man drowning in water naturally looks up. What does he see? While he is being engulfed by choking darkness, he sees above him the clear light and pure air of salvation. He sees Jesus, who stands above those struggling in weakness, offering them redemption. This explains Peter's hapless performance on the water: He is only human, and therefore he begins to sink. Read so, as an allegory about our weakness and Jesus' purity and the salvation that he offers, the miracle takes on a whole new meaning.
"Now, I asked myself, why would this miracle demand an allegorical reading but not the others? Would the miracles that benefit the human body gain from a similar reading? I had never thought of that. Poor stupid woman that I am, I had always taken the body miracles of Jesus as factual truth. In my mind Jesus really did cure leprosy, blindness, and other ailments and infirmities, and he really did feed the thousands. But is the Lord to be reduced to an itinerant doctor and a peddler of buns? I don't think so. The miracles that benefit the human body must also mean something greater."
"What?" Eusebio asks pliantly.
"Well, what else could they be but symbols of the Everlasting Kingdom? Each miraculous cure of Jesus is a glimpse of the ultimate place that is ours, if we have faith. Have faith, and you will be cured of your mortality, you will be fed forever. Do you understand the import of what I am saying?" Eusebio ventures a nod. Maria's voice is warm, buttery, comforting. If only he could eat it. He peeks at the clock. "The miracle of Jesus walking on the water is a guide to how we must read Scripture as a whole. The Gospels are lesser, their message weakened, if we read them as though they are reports by four journalists. But if we understand them as written in a language of metaphors and symbols, then they open up with moral depth and truth. That is the language used by Jesus himself, is it not? How did he teach the people?"