A devil, one of her seven devils, was goading her on to speak to the man and tempt him.
“Hours later you would finally manage to climb up the first step. Then you struggled to mount the second, then the third-where I sat, motionless, waiting for you. And then-”
The youth gave a start and held out his hand. “Be still,” he shouted; “don’t go further!”
But the woman’s face gleamed and flickered; the flames licked her eyebrows, lips, chin and uncovered throat. She took a handful of laurel leaves, threw them in the fire, and sighed.
“Then you took me by the hand-yes, you took me by the hand, Jesus-and we went inside and lay down on the pebbles of the yard. We glued the soles of our feet together, felt the warmth of our bodies mix, rise from our feet to our thighs, from our thighs to our loins. Then we closed our eyes and-”
“Quiet!” the youth shouted again. He lifted his hand in order to cover her mouth, but restrained himself-he was afraid to touch her lips.
The woman sighed now and continued, lowering her voice to a murmur. “Never in my whole life have I felt such sweetness.” She paused, and then: “it is that sweetness, Jesus, which I’ve been seeking ever since from man to man; but I have not found it.”
The youth buried his face between his knees. “Adonai,” he murmured, “Adonai, help!”
The warm, peaceful chamber was silent except for the bubbling of the fragrant pot of beans, and the hissing of the fire as it devoured the wood. Outside, the male waters poured out of the skies with a roar and the earth opened its thighs and giggled.
“Jesus, what are you thinking about?” asked Magdalene, not daring now to face the man.
“I’m thinking about God,” he answered in a strangulated voice, “about God, Adonai…”
As he spoke, he repented of having pronounced the sacred name in a house such as this.
Magdalene jumped up and paced back and forth between the fire and the door. Her mind had grown furious.
God is the great enemy, she was thinking; yes, God. He never fails to intrude; he is evil, jealous; he won’t let a person be happy. She stopped behind the door and cocked her ear. The heavens were bellowing. A whirlwind had arisen and the pomegranates in the yard knocked against one another and were ready to break.
“The rain has let up a little,” she said.
“I’ll go,” replied the youth, rising.
“Eat first and put some strength into your body. Where can you go at such an hour? It’s pitch-black outside and still raining.”
She took down a round mat from the wall and spread it out on the floor. She removed the casserole from the fire, opened a small cupboard recessed in the wall and took out a toasted barley roll and two earthenware soup plates.
“This is the prostitute’s meal,” she said. “Eat, you essence of piety, eat-if it doesn’t disgust you.”
The hungry youth did not hesitate to put out his hand. The woman tittered.
“Is that the way you eat?” she hissed. “Without saying grace? Hadn’t you better give thanks to God for sending bread, broad beans and whores?”
Jesus’ mouthful stuck in his throat.
“Why do you hate me, Mary?” he said. “Why do you tease me? Look, tonight I am about to break bread with you; we have become friends again. Let bygones be bygones, and forgive me. That’s why I’ve come.”
“Eat, and stop your whining. If the forgiveness is not given, take it! You’re a man.”
She lifted her hand and divided the bread, laughing. “Blessed be the name of Him who sends bread, broad beans and whores to the world-and pious guests!”
They remained kneeling one opposite the other under the light of the lamp, and said nothing more. Both were hungry, both had suffered much anguish on this day, and they ate to replenish their forces.
The rain outside began to subside. The sky had found relief; the earth was filled. There was no sound except the cackling laughter of the rivulets which ran happily down the village’s cobbled streets.
They finished eating. The tiny cupboard also contained a sip of wine, which they drank, and several fully ripe dates for the sweet tooth. For some time, both remained silent and watched the fire, which was about to go out. Their minds rose and fell, danced with the dying flames.
It was cold. The youth got up and put more wood on the fire; Magdalene took another handful of laurel leaves and threw them on top: perfume filled the room. She went to the door and opened it. A wind had arisen; the clouds had already scattered. Two large stars, freshly bathed and immaculate, gleamed brilliantly over her yard.
“Is it still raining?” asked the youth, who stood again in the middle of the room, unable to make up his mind.
But Magdalene did not answer. She unrolled a mat, went to her trunk, took out sheets and thick woolen blankets-gifts from her lovers-and made up a bed in front of the fire.
“You’ll sleep here,” she said. “It’s cold and windy out, and almost midnight. Where can you go? You’ll catch your death of cold. Here’s where you’re going to sleep: next to the fire.”
The youth shuddered. “Here!”
“Are you afraid? Well, rest assured, my innocent dove, I won’t bother you. No, I won’t tempt you, I won’t touch your virginity, my pet-such as it’s worth!”
She put still more wood on the fire and lowered the wick of the lamp. “Pleasant dreams,” she said. “Tomorrow we both have much to do. You’ll set out along the road again, to seek your salvation; I’ll set out along another road, my own, and I too will be seeking salvation. Each his own road, and we shall never meet again. Good night.”
She fell onto her mattress and thrust her face into the pillow, biting the sheets all night long to hold back her cries and tears. She was afraid that if the man who was sleeping next to the fire heard her, he would take fright and leave. All night long she listened to him breathe tranquilly, restfully, like an infant nursing at the breast; and she,-lamenting softly within herself with tender, protracted sighs, lay awake and lulled him to sleep like a mother.
The next day at dawn she looked out between half-closed eyelashes and saw him get up, secure the leather strap tightly about his waist, and open the door. There he halted. He wanted to leave, but at the same time he did not want to leave. Turning, he looked at the bed and took a hesitating step toward it. He leaned over-it still was not very bright inside the room-he leaned over as though he wanted to find the woman and touch her. His left hand was thrust beneath the strap; with his right he covered his chin and mouth.
The woman lay on her back, motionless, her hair veiling her naked breasts. She watched him through her eyelashes, and her whole body trembled.
His lips moved: “Mary…”
But as soon as he heard his own voice, he took fright. He reached the threshold with one bound, strode hurriedly across the courtyard and unbolted the door.
And then-jolting up from her mattress and throwing off the sheets-then Mary Magdalene began to weep.
Chapter Eight
THE MONASTERY lay perched in the desert beyond the lake of Gennesaret, built of ash-red stones and wedged in and hidden between huge ash-red rocks. Midnight… Out of the sky the waters fell, not in drops, but in floods. The hyenas, wolves and jackals howled, as did a pair of lions farther away-infuriated by the repeated thunderclaps. Plunged in impenetrable darkness, the monastery was frequently striped by the lightning flashes: the God of Sinai seemed to be flogging it. The monks were fallen face downward in their cells, beseeching Adonai not to drown the earth once more. Hadn’t he given his word to the patriarch Noah? Hadn’t he stretched a rainbow from earth to heaven as a sign of friendship?