And truly, Simon was a good fellow. In his youth he had shipped out from Cyrene and opened a tavern, and every time Peter came to Jerusalem he put up at his house. The two of them ate and drank, talked, joked, sometimes broke out into a song, sometimes into a brawl, became friends again, drank some more, and then Peter would wrap himself up in a thick blanket, lie down on a bench and fall asleep. Simon was sitting now under his tent of entwined vine branches, a jug under his arm and a bronze cup in his hand. He was drinking, all by himself.
The two friends embraced. They were both half drunk, and each felt so much love for the other that his eyes filled with tears. After the initial shouts and hugs and repeated toasts were over, Simon began to laugh.
“I bet my bones you’re on your way to get baptized,” he said. “You’re doing the right thing; I give you my blessing. The other day I was baptized myself, and I don’t regret it. It’s quite satisfying.”
“And have you noticed any improvement?” asked Judas, who was eating, not drinking. His mind was full of thorns.
“What can I say to you, my friend? It’s been years since I was in the water. Water and I are at swords’ points. I’m made for wine; water is for the toads. But the other day I said to myself: Look here, why not go and get baptized? The whole world is going, and it’s certain that among the newly enlightened there’ll be a few who drink wine. They can’t all be imbeciles, so I’ll be able to make a few acquaintances and hook some clients. Everyone knows my tavern at the David gate. ... Well, to make a long story short, I went. The prophet is a savage, untamed beast—how can I describe him? Flames fly out of his nostrils—God protect me! He grabbed me by the neck and dunked me into the water up to my beard. I screamed. He was going to drown me, the infidel! But I survived, came out—and here I am!”
“And have you noticed any improvement?” Judas repeated.
“I swear to you by my wine that the bath did me a lot of good, yes, a lot of good. I felt relieved. The Baptist says I was relieved of my sins. But—just between you and me—I think I was relieved of a few grease spots, because when I came out of the Jordan there was a film of oil on top of the water an inch deep.”
He burst out laughing, filled his cup, drank; and then Peter and Jacob drank too. He refilled his cup and turned to Judas. “And you, blacksmith, don’t you drink? It’s wine, you blessed idiot, not water.”
“I never drink,” answered the redbeard, pushing away the cup.
Simon’s eyes popped. “Are you one of them?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes, one of them,” said Judas, and with one flourish of his hand he cut the conversation short.
Two painted women passed, stopped for a moment and winked at the four men.
“Nor women?” asked Simon, bewildered.
“Nor women,” Judas again dryly replied.
“What then, poor fellow?” shouted Simon, who could bear this no longer. “Why did God make wine and women, can you tell me? To while away his own time, or for us to while away ours?”
At that moment Andrew came up at a run. “Come quickly,” he shouted. “The teacher is in a hurry.”
“What teacher?” asked the innkeeper. “The one dressed all in white, the barefooted one?”
But the three companions had already left, and Simon the Cyrenian, standing disconcerted outside his tent, the empty cup still in his hand and the jug under his arm, watched them and shook his head. “This must be another Baptist, another lunatic. Bah, they’ve been sprouting up lately like mushrooms. Let’s drink to his health,” he said, filling the cup. “May God give him some sense!”
Meanwhile, Jesus and the companions had reached the great courtyard of the Temple. Halting, they washed their hands, feet and mouths in order to enter the Temple and worship. They glanced quickly around them: tiers, one after the other, all crowded with men and animals; well-shaded arcades, columns of white and blue marble girded with golden vine branches and grapes; and on every side, sheds, tents, carts, money-changers, barbers, wine-sellers; butchers. The air resounded with shouts, brawls and laughter, and the house of the Lord stank from sweat and filth.
Jesus put his palm over his nose and mouth. He looked all around him, but God was nowhere. “’I hate, I despise your festivities. I am nauseous from the stench of the fatted calves you slaughter for me. Take away from me the tumult of your psalms and your lutes.’ ” It was no longer the prophet, nor God, but the heart of Jesus which was upside down and crying out. Suddenly he felt faint. Everything disappeared. The. heavens opened and an angel with hair of fire rushed forth, his feet lashing out into the air. With smoke and flames rising from the hair of his head, he climbed onto a black rock in the middle of the courtyard and pointed his sword toward the proud, gold-saddled Temple.
Jesus staggered. He steadied himself on Andrew’s arm. Opening his eyes, he saw the Temple and the noisy people. The angel had hidden himself in the great light. Jesus extended his arms towards his companions. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I cannot last. I shall faint. Let us go.”
“Without worshiping?” said Jacob, scandalized.
“We worship within ourselves, Jacob,” said Jesus. “Each of our bodies is a temple.”
They left. Judas went in the lead, tapping his stick on the ground. He can’t endure filth, blood and shouting, he was thinking. He isn’t the Messiah.
A wild, throbbing Pharisee, stretched out face down on the last step of the Temple, was ravenously kissing the marble, and bellowing. Thick strings of talismans stuffed with terrifying texts from Scripture hung around his neck and arms. Repeated prostrations had made his knees calloused like a camel’s; and his face, neck and breast were covered with open, running wounds: every time this tempest of God threw him down, he would seize sharp stones and mutilate himself.
Andrew and John quickly stepped in front of Jesus so that he would not see the Pharisee. Peter came up to Jacob and leaned over to his ear. “You know him. He’s Jacob, the oldest son of Joseph the Carpenter. He makes his rounds selling talismans and every two minutes his evil spirit takes hold of him, and he rolls on the ground and literally murders himself.”
“Is he the one who’s hunting the master so ravenously?” asked Jacob, stopping for a moment.
“Yes. He says he’s a disgrace to their house.”
They went out by the Gold Door of the Temple, passed through the Cedron Valley and began to march toward the Dead Sea. On their right they passed the garden and olive grove of Gethsemane. The sky above them was white and burning. They reached the Mount of Olives. The world had sweetened a bit. Light dripped from every leaf of the olive trees; flocks of crows dashed one after the other toward Jerusalem.
Andrew, his arm around Jesus, was speaking about his former master, the Baptist. The closer he came to his lair, the more he breathed in, with terror, the prophet’s leonine breath.
“He is the veritable Elijah. He rushed down from Mount Carmel to heal man’s soul once more with fire. One night, with my own eyes, I saw the fiery chariot circle over his head; another night I saw a crow bring in its beak a lighted coal for him to eat. One day I took courage and asked him, ‘Are you the Messiah?’ He shook as though he’d stepped on a snake. ‘No,’ he answered with a sigh, ‘I am the ox who draws the plow. The Messiah is the seed.’ ”
“Why did you leave his side, Andrew?”
“I wanted to find the seed.”
“Have you found it?”
Andrew pressed Jesus’ hand to his heart and blushed violently. “Yes,” he answered, but he spoke so softly that Jesus did not hear.
They descended slowly, out of breath, toward the Dead Sea. The sun poured flames over them until their heads rattled. In front of them the mountains of Moab towered higher and higher, an arid wall. Behind them, lime white, were the mountains of Idumea. The road wound and descended more and more. They were entering a deep well, and they all held their breath.
We’re going down to the Inferno, they were all thinking, and they could smell the tar and b
rimstone.
The light blinded them. They groped their way forward, their feet lacerated, their eyes burning. They heard bells: two camels passed—not camels, but mirages which melted away in the violent heat.
“I’m afraid,” whispered Zebedee’s younger son. “This is the Inferno.”
“Courage,” Andrew answered him. “Haven’t you heard that Paradise is at the heart of the Inferno?”
“Paradise?”
“You’ll see shortly.”
The sun finally went down. The mountains of Moab turned dark purple, the mountains of Idumea, pink—bringing comfort to the eyes of men. Suddenly, at a twist in the road, their sight was refreshed—their sight and their bodies, as though they had stepped into cool water. What were those unexpected meadows directly in front of them, right in the sand; what were those waters which chuckled, and the pomegranates charged with fruit and the white, shaded cottages? The air was suddenly perfumed with jasmine and rose.
“Jericho,” Andrew shouted happily. “They have the sweetest dates in the whole world here, and the most miraculous roses: if they wither, all you do is dip them in water and they revive.”
The night fell abruptly. The first lamps had already been lighted.
“To travel, watch the darkness fall, arrive in a village, see the first lamps lighted and have nothing to eat, nor anywhere to sleep, and to let everything depend on God’s grace and the goodness of men—this, I think, is one of the greatest and purest joys in the world,” said Jesus, stopping to enjoy fully this holy moment.
The village dogs scented the strangers and began to bark. Doors opened; lighted lamps appeared, searched the darkness and then returned inside. The companions went to all the doors, knocked, were cheerfully offered here a slice of bread or a pomegranate, there a handful of grapes or of green olives. They amassed all these alms from God and man, reclined in the corner of an orchard, ate, and immediately fell asleep. And all night long in their dreams they heard the desert shifting, lulling them to sleep like the sea. But Jesus, in his sleep, heard trumpets—and the walls of Jericho came tumbling down.
It was nearly midday when the companions, deathly pale, their tongues hanging out, reached the accursed Dead Sea. Fish that descended the current of the Jordan perished as they touched it; the few squat trees on its banks were like standing bones. The water was leaden, thick, motionless. If you were pious and you leaned over it, you could see two rotted whores, Sodom and Gomorrah, embracing on the black bottom.
Jesus got up on a rock and gazed into the distance: desolation. The earth was burning; the mountains had melted away. He took Andrew by the arm and asked him, “Where is John the Baptist? I see no one ... no one. ...”
“Over there behind the reeds,” Andrew replied, “the river becomes calm. The water forms a pool, and the prophet baptizes. Let’s go find him. I know the way.”
“You’re tired, Andrew. Stay with the others. I’ll go by myself.”
“He’s savage. I’ll accompany you, Rabbi.”
“I want to go by myself, Andrew. Stay here.”
He started toward the reeds, his heart pounding strongly. He placed his hand over it and patted it to make it calm. A new flock of crows appeared from the desert and flew hurriedly toward Jerusalem.
Suddenly he heard someone walking behind him. He turned. It was Judas.
“You forgot to call me,” said the redbeard, smiling caustically. “This is the most difficult hour, and I want to be with you.”
“Come,” Jesus said.
They went forward silently, Jesus in front, Judas behind. They pushed aside the reeds and plunged their feet into the lukewarm river slime. A black snake gave a start, slid onto a rock and lifted its head and neck. It looked at them with its tiny, cunning eyes and hissed, half its body glued to the rock, half standing erect. Jesus stopped for a moment and waved his hand amicably at the snake, as though bidding it welcome. Judas lifted his oaken club, but Jesus put out his arm and restrained him.
“Don’t hurt it, Judas, my brother,” he said. “It too does its duty—by biting.”
The heat was roaring and the south wind which blew from the Dead Sea carried a heavy stench of rotting carcasses. Jesus now began to hear a wild, hoarse voice. Now and then he was able to distinguish a few words: “Fire ... ax ... barren tree ...” and then, louder: “Repent! Repent!” All at once a large multitude burst into shouts and wailing. Jesus went forward slowly, craftily, as though approaching the cave of a wild beast. He pushed aside the reeds: the noise increased. Suddenly he bit his lips to prevent himself from screaming—for there he was, standing on his reed-like legs upon a rock which rose above the waters of the Jordan. Was this a man, a locust, the angel of Hunger, or the archangel of Revenge? Wave after wave of bellowing men broke upon the rocks—Ethiopians with painted fingernails and eyelashes, Chaldeans with thick brass rings in their noses, Israelites with long greasy sideburns. Frothing at the mouth, the south wind shaking him like a reed, the Baptist was shouting, “Repent! Repent! The day of the Lord has come! Roll on the ground, bite the dust, howl! The Lord of Hosts has said: ‘On this day I shall command the sun to set at noon; I shall crush the horns of the new moon and spill darkness over heaven and earth. I shall reverse your laughter, turn it into tears, and your songs into lamentation. I shall blow, and all your finery—hands, feet, noses, ears, hair—will fall to the ground.’ ”
Judas strode forward and took Jesus by the arm. “Do you hear? Do you hear? Look! that’s how the Messiah speaks! He is the Messiah!”
“No, Judas, my brother,” Jesus answered; “he who holds the ax and opens the way for the Messiah speaks in that way, but the Messiah does not.” He bent down, broke off a sharp green leaf and passed it between his teeth.
“He who opens the way is the Messiah,” the redbeard growled. He pushed Jesus in order to make him emerge from the reeds and show himself.
“Move ahead; let him see you,” he ordered. “He will judge.”
Jesus came out into the sunlight, took two hesitating steps, stumbled, and stopped, his eyes glued to the prophet. His whole soul had become a gaze which explored the prophet, ran over his reed-like legs and up to his fiery head and then still higher, to the full invisible stature. The Baptist’s back was turned. He felt the vehement stare ransacking his entire body, grew angry, swung completely around and half closed his two round, hawk-like eyes in order to see better. Who was this silent, motionless young man dressed all in white and staring at him? Somewhere, sometime, he had seen him. Where? When? He struggled in agony to remember. Could it have been in a dream? He often dreamed about men dressed similarly all in white. They never talked to him but simply stared and waved their hands as if greeting him or saying goodbye. Then the cock of the dawn would crow and they would turn into light and disappear.
Suddenly the Baptist, still looking at him, cried out. He remembered: one day at exactly noon he had lain down on the bank of the river and taken out the Prophet Isaiah, written on a goatskin. All at once stones, water, people, reeds and river vanished; the air filled with fires, trumpets and wings, the words of the prophet opened like doors, and the Messiah stepped forth. He remembered that he was dressed all in white, thin, gnawed by the sun, barefooted and, like this man, he held a green leaf between his teeth!
The ascetic’s eyes filled with joy and fear. He tumbled down from his rock and approached, stretching forth his gnarled neck.
“Who are you? Who?” he asked, his terrible voice trembling.
“Don’t you know me?” said Jesus, advancing one more step. His own voice was trembling: he knew that his fate depended on the Baptist’s reply.
It’s him, him, the Baptist was thinking. His heart thumped furiously and he could not, dared not, decide. Once more he stretched forward his neck: “Who are you?” he asked again.
“Haven’t you read the Scriptures?” Jesus answered in a voice sweet yet complaining, as though he were scolding him. “Haven’t you read the prophets? What does Isaiah say? Forerunner, don’t
you remember?”
“Is it you, you?” whispered the ascetic. He put his hands on Jesus’ shoulders and examined his eyes.
“I have come ...” Jesus said hesitatingly, then stopped, unable to breathe, unable to continue. It was as if he were putting forth his foot and searching to see whether or not he could take a further step without falling down.
The savage prophet leaned on top of him and examined him silently. He wondered if he had ever heard the wonderful, terrifying words which had escaped Jesus’ lips.
“I have come ...” the son of Mary repeated, so softly that not even Judas, who was on the alert behind them with cocked ear, could hear. This time the prophet gave a start. He had understood.
“What?” he said, and the hairs of his head stood on end.
A crow passed over them and uttered a hoarse cry like that of a drowning man who was mocking something, or laughing. The Baptist became angry. He bent over to pick up a stone to throw at the bird. The crow had flown away, but he continued to look for it, rejoicing in the passage of time—for in this way his mind gradually grew calm. ... Rising, he said tranquilly, “Welcome.” He looked at him, but there was no love in his eyes.