He puffed for some time, scooping out the soil with his big toe. Suddenly he grabbed Jesus by the arm. His voice was hoarse and despairing. “I don’t know what to call you—son of Mary? son of the Carpenter? son of David? As you can see, I still don’t know who you are—but neither do you. We both must discover the answer; we both must find relief! No, this uncertainty cannot last. Don’t look at the others—they follow you like bleating sheep; don’t look at the women, who do nothing but admire you and spill tears. After all, they’re women: they have hearts and no minds, and we’ve no use for them. It’s we two who must find out who you are and whether this flame that burns you is the God of Israel or the devil. We must! We must!”
Jesus trembled all over. “What can we do, Judas, my brother? How can we discover the answer? Help me.”
“There is a way.”
“How?”
“We’ll go to John the Baptist. He will be able to tell us. He shouts, ‘He’s coming! He’s coming!’ doesn’t he? Well, then, as soon as he sees you, he’ll understand whether or not you’re the one who is coming. Let’s go: you’ll calm your nerves, and I’ll find out what I have to do.”
Jesus plunged into a profound meditation. How many times had this anxiety taken possession of him, how many times had he fallen face down on the ground, shaken with convulsions and foaming at the mouth! People thought him deranged, possessed with a devil, and they hurried by, frightened. But he was in the seventh heaven; his mind had fled its cage, ascended, knocked on God’s door and asked, Who am I? Why was I born? What must I do to save the world? Which is the shortest road—is it perhaps my own death?
He raised his head. Judas’s whole body was bent over him.
“Judas, my brother,” he said, “lie down next to me. The Lord will come in the form of sleep and carry us away. Tomorrow, God willing, we’ll start off bright and early to find the prophet of Judea, and whatever God desires, that is what will take place. I am ready.”
“I am ready too,” said Judas, and they lay down, one next to the other.
They both must have been extremely tired, for they slept instantaneously, and the next morning at dawn, Andrew, who was the first to awake, found them fast asleep in each other’s arms.
The sun fell upon the lake and illuminated the world. The redbeard took the lead, blazing trail. Jesus followed with his two faithful companions, John and Andrew. Thomas, who still had wares to sell, remained behind in the village. I like what the son of Mary says, the artful peddler spun in his brain, which was trying to make the best of both sides of the situation. The poor will eat and drink their fill for all eternity—as soon as they kick the bucket. That’s fine, but, meanwhile, look what happens to us here below! Watch out, Thomas you wretch, watch out—don’t get stuck in either place. To be on the safe side, the best thing is to load your basket with two kinds of wares: on the very top, for all to see, the combs and cosmetics; underneath, on the bottom, for grade-A customers, the kingdom of heaven. ... He giggled, swung the bundle once more onto his back and at daybreak tooted his horn, raised his high voice and began his rounds of the lanes of Bethsaida, hawking his earthly wares.
In Capernaum, Peter and Jacob had got up at dawn to pull in the nets. The mesh was already full of twitching fish which flashed in the sunlight. At any other time the two fishermen would have rejoiced to feel their nets so heavy, but today their minds were far away, and they did not speak. They were silent, but within themselves both had picked a quarrel, now with fate, which kept them tied generation after generation to this lake, now with their own minds, which calculated, recalculated, and did not let their hearts take wing. What kind of a life is this! they shouted to themselves. To throw the nets, catch fish, eat, sleep; and at the break of each new day to start the same old hand-to-mouth existence all over again—all day long, all year long, for the whole of our lives! How long? How long? Is this how we shall die? They had never thought about this until now. Their hearts had always been tranquil; they had followed the age-old way without complaint. This was how their parents had lived and their grandparents back for thousands of years—around this same lake, wrestling with the fish. One day they crossed their stiffened hands and died, and then their children and grandchildren came and, without complaint, took the identical road. These two, Peter and Jacob, had got along fine until now; they too had no complaint. But lately, suddenly, their surroundings had grown narrow and they were suffocating. Their gaze now was far away, out beyond the lake. Where? Toward what? They themselves did not know; all they knew was that they were suffocating.
And as if this torment was not enough, each day saw passers-by come with fresh news: corpses were revived, the paralyzed walked, blind men saw the light. “Who is this new prophet?” the passersby would ask the two fishermen. “Your brothers are with him, so you must know. We hear he’s not the son of the Carpenter of Nazareth but the son of David? Is this true?” But Peter and Jacob would shrug their shoulders and bend once again over the nets. They felt like weeping, to relieve themselves. Sometimes, after the passers-by had receded into the distance, Peter would turn to his comrade. “Do you believe these miracles, Jacob?”
“Pull the nets and keep quiet!” the loud-mouthed son of Zebedee would reply, and, giving a heave, he would bring the loaded net an arm’s-length closer.
This day too a carter passed by at dawn with additional news: “They say the new prophet ate in Bethsaida at old pinch-fist Ananias’s house. As soon as he finished eating and the slaves brought him water and he washed his hands, he drew near to Ananias, whispered something in his ear, and all at once the old man’s mind turned upside down, he burst into tears and began to divide his goods among the poor.”
“What did he whisper to him?” asked Peter, his eyes lost once more in the distance, far beyond the lake.
“Ah, if only I knew!” said the Carter, laughing. “I would hammer it into the ear of every rich man, so that the poor might have a chance to breathe. ... Farewell,” he called, continuing on his way, “and good fishing!”
Peter turned to speak to his companion but immediately changed his mind. What could he say to him? More words? Hadn’t he had enough of them by now? He felt like smashing the whole works down on the ground, like getting up in disgust and going away for ever. Yes, he would go away! Jonah’s hut was too small for him now, and so was this washbasin of water, this lake of Gennesaret. “This isn’t living,” he murmured; “it just isn’t living! I’ll go away!”
Jacob turned. “What are you mumbling about?” he asked. “Be still!”
“Nothing, damn it, nothing!” Peter answered, and he started furiously to pull in the nets.
At that instant the solitary figure of Judas appeared at the summit of the green hill where Jesus had first spoken to men. He held a crooked stick cut along the road from a wild kermes oak, and banged it on the ground as he marched. The three other companions appeared after him. Out of breath, they halted for a moment on the summit to survey the world below them. The lake glittered happily; the sun caressed it, and it laughed. The fishing boats were red and white butterflies on the water. Above them flew the winged fishermen, the seagulls. Capernaum buzzed in the distance. The sun had risen high: the day was in its glory.
“Look, there’s Peter!” said Andrew, pointing to the beach, where his brother was pulling in the nets.
“And Jacob!” John said with a sigh. “They still can’t wrench themselves away from the world.”
Jesus smiled. “Do not sigh, beloved companion,” he said. “Lie down here, all of you, and rest. I shall go down and bring them.”
He began the descent with quick, buoyant steps. He’s like an angel, John thought, admiring him. Nothing is missing but the wings. ... Stepping from stone to stone, Jesus descended. When he reached the shore he slowed his pace and approached the two fishermen who were leaning over their nets. He stood behind them and looked at them for a long time without moving. He looked at them, his mind empty of thoughts; but he felt himself being drained: a f
orce was escaping from inside him. Everything grew light, hovered in the air, floated above the lake like a cloud; and the two fishermen grew light also and hovered in the air, and their net with its contents was apotheosized: this was no longer a net, these were no longer fish—they were people, thousands of happy, dancing people. ...
Suddenly the two fishermen felt a tingling on the top of their heads, a strange, sweet numbness. They jumped up and turned with fright. Behind them, Jesus stood motionless and silent, watching them.
“Forgive us, Rabbi!” cried Peter, mortified.
“Why, Peter? What have you done that I should forgive you?”
“Nothing,” Peter murmured. And suddenly: “Do you call this living? I’m sick of it!”
“So am I!” said Jacob, and he smashed the net down on the ground.
“Come,” said Jesus, extending his hands to both of them. “Come, I shall make you fishers of men.”
He took each by the hand and stepped between them. “Let us go,” he said.
“Shouldn’t I say goodbye to my father?” asked Peter, remembering old Jonah.
“Do not even look back, Peter. We haven’t time. Let’s go.”
“Where?” asked Jacob, halting.
“Why do you ask? No more questions, Jacob! Come!”
Old Jonah, all this time, was cooking, bent over the grate and waiting for his son Peter so that they could sit down together and eat. Only one son—the Lord preserve him—remained to him now. Peter was a sensible lad, a good manager; the other, Andrew, the old man had long ago written off the books. He followed first this charlatan, then that one, and left his aging father all by himself to mend the nets and wrestle with the winds and the confounded boat, besides cooking and taking care of the house—he had been fighting with these domestic devils ever since the death of his wife. But Peter—my blessing upon him, Jonah reflected—Peter stands by me and gives me strength. ... He sampled the food. Ready. He glanced at the sun. Almost noon. “I’m hungry,” he grumbled, “but I won’t eat until he comes.” Crossing his hands, he waited.
Zebedee’s house, farther along, was open. Baskets and jugs filled the yard; in the corner was the still. These were the days when the raki which had been distilled from the grape skins and stems left in the wine press was being drawn off, and the whole house smelled of alcohol. Old Zebedee and his wife were having their dinner at a small table under the despoiled vine arbor. Old Zebedee mashed the food as best he could with his toothless gums and talked about developing his business. For a long time now he’d had his eye on the cottage of old Nahum, his next-door neighbor, who was in debt to him and had not the wherewithal to pay. Next week, God willing, Zebedee planned to put the house up for auction. For years now he had longed to get it so that he could knock down the dividing wall and widen his yard. He had a wine press, but he wanted an olive press also, so that the whole village could come to him to extract its olive oil, and he could take out a percentage and fill his own jars for the year. But where was the wine press to fit? At all costs he must get Nahum’s house. ...
Old Salome heard his words, but her mind was on John, her beloved. Where could he be? What was this honey that dripped from the new prophet’s lips? She wanted so much to see him again, to hear him speak once more and bring God down into the hearts of men! My son did well, she reflected; he took the right road, and I give him my blessing. She recalled the dream she had had a few days earlier in which she pulled open the door and slammed it behind her, leaving this house with its wine presses and bursting larders in order to follow the new prophet. I ran behind him, barefooted and hungry, she thought, and for the first time in my life, I understood the meaning of happiness.
“Are you listening to me?” demanded old Zebedee, who saw his wife’s eyes momentarily droop. “Where is your mind?”
“I’m listening,” Salome replied, and she looked at him as though she had never seen him before.
At that moment the old man heard familiar voices in the street. He raised his eyes.
“”There they are!” he shouted. Seeing the man in white, flanked by his own two sons, he flew to the doorway, his mouth still full of food.
“Hey, lads,” he shouted, “where are you headed? Is this the way to pass my house? Stop!”
He was answered by Peter, while the others went on ahead: “We’ve got a job on our hands, Zebedee.”
“What job?”
“A very involved, complicated job,” said Peter, and he burst out laughing.
The old man’s eyes popped out of his head. “You too, Jacob, you too?” he cried, swallowing his mouthful unchewed. With his throat torn in two he went inside and looked at his wife.
“Say goodbye to your sons, Zebedee,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s taken them from us.”
“Jacob too?” said the old man, not knowing what to think. “But he had some sense in his head. It’s impossible!”
Salome did not speak. What could she say to him? How could he understand? No longer hungry, she got up, placed herself in the doorway and watched the happy company take the royal highway which followed the Jordan toward Jerusalem. She lifted her aged hand and spoke softly, so that her husband would not hear: “My blessing upon you all.”
At the exit of the village they encountered Philip, who had led his sheep to the edge of the lake to graze. He had climbed high up on a red rock and, using his staff as a support, was bending forward to admire his shadow, a black ripple on the blue-green waters of the lake below. When he heard the crunching of pebbles beneath him on the road, he stood up straight.
“Hello!” he shouted, recognizing the passers-by. “Hey, can’t you see me? Where are you headed?”
“For the kingdom of heaven!” shouted Andrew. “Are you coming?”
“Look here, Andrew, speak sensibly, will you? If you’re on your way to Magdala for the wedding, I’m with you. Nathanael invited me too, you know. He’s marrying off his nephew.”
“Won’t you go farther than Magdala?” Jacob yelled at him.
“I have sheep,” Philip answered. “Where can I leave them?”
“In God’s hands,” said Jesus without turning.
“The wolves will eat them!”
“Let them!” shouted John.
Good God, those fellows have gone completely mad, the shepherd concluded, and he whistled to gather together his flock.
The companions marched along. Judas, carrying his crooked staff, again took the lead. He was in the greatest hurry to arrive. The hearts of the others were joyous. They whistled like the blackbirds and laughed as they went. Peter approached Judas, the leader, the only one whose expression was somber. He did not whistle, did not laugh; he led the way, anxious to arrive.
“Judas, tell me once and for all where we’re going,” Peter said to him softly.
Half of the redbeard’s face laughed. “To the kingdom of heaven.”
“Stop joking, for God’s sake, and tell me where we’re going. I’m afraid to ask the teacher.”
“To Jerusalem.”
“Ouch! Three days’ march!” said Peter, pulling at his gray hairs. “If I’d only known, I would have brought my sandals, and a loaf of bread and a gourdful of wine, and my stick.”
This time the whole of the redbeard’s face laughed. “Ah, poor Peter,” he said, “the ball is rolling now and can’t be stopped. Say goodbye to your sandals and your bread and wine and stick. We’ve left—can’t you understand that, Peter—we’ve left the world; left the land and the sea, and gone into the air!” He leaned over to Peter’s ear: “There’s still time. ... Go!”
“How can I go back now?” said Peter, and he spread his arms and turned them in every direction as though he were hemmed in and suffocating. “All this seems tasteless to me now,” he said, pointing to the lake, the fishing boats and the houses of Capernaum.
“Agreed!” said the redbeard, shaking his large head. “Well, then, stop your grumbling, and let’s go!”
FIRST THE VILLAGE DOGS picked up hi
s scent and began to bark. Soon the children were running to Magdala with the news: “He’s coming! He’s coming!”
“Who, boys, who?” the villagers asked, opening their doors.
“The new prophet!”
The thresholds filled with women young and old; the men abandoned their work; the sick jumped for joy and prepared to crawl out to touch him. He had already won a great name for himself in the vicinity of the lake of Gennesaret. His gifts and powers had been proclaimed from village to village by the epileptics, the blind and the paralyzed whom he had cured:
“He touched my darkened eyes and I saw the light.”
“As soon as he ordered me to throw down my crutches and walk, I began to dance.”
“Whole armies of demons were feeding on my insides. He lifted his hand and commanded them: ‘Be gone, go to the pigs!’ Straightway they bounded out of my bowels, kicking, and entered the pigs that were grazing on the shore. The animals went mad. One climbed on top of the other, and they hurled themselves into the water and drowned.”