He came to himself and quieted down. The invisible multitude vanished into the air. He turned and saw Jesus, who was leaning now against the wall listening to him, aghast.
“For the sake of Christ… Not you, Master Lazarus, but the true Christ-my Christ!”
Unable to control himself any longer, Jesus burst into sobs.
The young Negro approached him. “Jesus of Nazareth,” he said softly, “why are you crying?”
“Secret companion,” Jesus murmured, “how can anyone see the only way the world can be saved and not be forced to weep?”
Paul now descended from the platform. The scanty hair on his head was steaming. He took off his sandals, banged them to remove the dust and turned toward the street door.
“I have shaken the dust of your house from my sandals,” he said to Jesus, who stood, abashed, in the middle of the yard. “Farewell! Here’s to good food, good wine, nice kisses, Master Lazarus, and a fine old age! And don’t dare interfere with my work. If you do, you’re finished-do you hear, Master Lazarus-finished! But you mustn’t get the wrong idea. It’s been delightful meeting you. I’ve freed myself, and that’s just what I wanted: to get rid of you. Well, I did get rid of you and now I’m free; I’m my own boss. Farewell!”
This said, he unbolted the door and with one bound was in the main road to Jerusalem.
“What a rush he’s in!” said the Negro, going to the doorway and watching him with angry eyes. “He’s rolled up his sleeves and is running like a famished wolf, running to eat up the world.”
He turned in order to enwrap Jesus in his craft, to conjure away the dangerous spirit which had come from the heavens to bother him. But Jesus had already stridden over the threshold. He stood in the middle of the road and with anguish and longing watched the wild apostle recede at a run into the distance. Terrible memories and yearnings which he had completely forgotten now rose up within him.
The Negro was frightened, and grasped him by the arm. “Jesus,” he said softly, commandingly, “Jesus of Nazareth, your mind is wavering. What are you looking at? Come inside!”
But Jesus, silent and pale, jerked his arm and shook away the angel’s hand.
“Come inside,” the other repeated angrily. “You’d better listen to what I say; you know well enough who I am.”
“Leave me alone!” Jesus thundered, his eyes glued on Paul, who was finally about to disappear at the end of the road.
“Do you want to go with him?”
“Leave me alone!” Jesus thundered once more. His teeth were chattering: he had felt a sudden chill.
“Mary,” the Negro called, “Martha!” He held Jesus tightly around the waist so that he would not escape.
The two women heard and ran, with the mob of children behind them. The near-by doors opened, the neighbors emerged and formed a circle around Jesus, who stood in the middle of the road, as pale as a sheet. Suddenly his eyelids dropped, and quietly, gently, he rolled to the ground.
He felt himself being lifted up, put to bed, felt his temples being sprinkled with an essence of orange flowers, smelled the rose vinegar which was held before his nose. He opened his eyes, saw his two wives and smiled. When he glimpsed the Negro boy, he clasped his hand.
“Take hold of me well,” he said; “do not let me leave. I am fine here where I am.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
JESUS SAT under the ancient vine arbor in his yard, his white beard flowing over his uncovered chest. It was the day of the Passover. He had bathed, scented his hair, beard and armpits, and changed into clean clothes. The door was shut; there was no one near him. His wives, children and grandchildren laughed and played in the back part of the house; the Negro, who had climbed the eaves at dawn, gazed toward Jerusalem, silent and angry.
Jesus looked at his hands. They had grown extremely fat and gnarled. The blue-black desiccated veins stood out, and on the back of each hand the old mysterious wound had begun to fade and disappear. He shook his white, coarse-featured head and sighed.
“How quickly the years have gone by, how I’ve aged! And not only I, but my wives and the trees of my yard and the doors and windows and the stones I step on.”
Frightened, he shut his eyes and felt Time run like water from its high source-his mind-down through his neck, breast, loins and thighs, and flow out finally through the soles of his feet.
Hearing footsteps in the yard, he opened his eyes. It was Mary. She had seen him plunged in meditation and had come and seated herself at his feet. Jesus placed his hand on her hair, the raven-black hair which now, like his, had turned white. An inexpressible tenderness took possession of him. In my hands she became white, he reflected, in my hands she became white…
He bent over and spoke to her. “Do you remember, beloved Mary, do you remember how many times the swallows have come since the blessed day I crossed the threshold of your house as its master, and since I made my way, as husband, into your womb? How many times have we sown together, reaped, vintaged and gathered the olives? Your hair has turned white, Mary dearest, and so has the hair of courageous Martha.”
“Yes, Beloved, we have turned white,” Mary answered. “The years go by. We planted this vine whose shade we’re sitting under now, we planted it the year that accursed hunchback came, the one who threw a spell over you and made you faint-do you remember? How many years have we been eating these grapes?”
The Negro slid down from the edge of the roof without a sound and stepped in front of them. Mary got up and left. She did not like this strange adopted child. He did not grow, he did not age; he was not a man, he was a spirit, an evil spirit that had entered the house and would not leave again. And she did not like his derisive, frolicking eyes, nor his secret conversations with Jesus during the night.
The Negro approached, his eyes all mockery. His teeth were flashing, sharp and white. “Jesus of Nazareth,” he said softly, “the end is near.”
Surprised, Jesus turned. “What end?”
The Negro put his finger to his lips. “The end is near,” he repeated. He squatted opposite Jesus and looked at him, laughing.
“Are you leaving me?” Jesus asked, and he suddenly felt strangely glad and relieved.
“Yes, the end has come. Why are you smiling, Jesus of Nazareth?”
“Have a nice trip. I’ve got from you what I wanted: I don’t need you any more.”
“Is this the way you say goodbye to me? Can you be so ungrateful? All my years of toil for your sake, all my efforts to give you every joy you desired: were these efforts in vain?”
“If your purpose was to smother me in honey, like a bee, your pains have gone to waste. I’ve eaten all the honey I wanted, all I could, but I did not dip in my wings.”
“What wings, clairvoyant?”
“My Soul.”
The Negro guffawed maliciously. “Wretch, do you think you have a soul?”
“I have. And it doesn’t need guardian angels or Negro boys: it is free.”
The guardian angel went wild with rage. “Rebel!” he howled. He pulled up a stone from the courtyard, crumbled it between his palms and scattered the dust into the air.
“All right,” he said, “we shall see,” and he drew toward the door, cursing.
Wild cries, wailing, lamentation… Horses neighed; the highway filled with flocks of running people. “Jerusalem is burning!” they shouted. “They’ve taken Jerusalem! We’re lost!”
The Romans had besieged the city for months, but the Israelites placed their hopes in Jehovah. They were secure. The holy city could not burn, the holy city had no fears; an angel with a scimitar stood at each of her gates. And now…
The women dashed into the street, screaming and pulling their hair. The men tore their clothes and shouted for God to appear. Jesus rose, took Mary and Martha by the hand, brought them inside and bolted the door.