“Will he be crucified today?” someone asked.
Pilate considered the question and looked at me. He must have seen that something was missing, because he replied:
“No. Tomorrow.”
When I was once again alone in my cell, I knew what he wanted me to feeclass="underline" fear.
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Pilate was right. Until that night, I had never really known what fear was. In the Garden of Gethsemane, the night before my arrest, it was sorrow and dereliction that had caused my tears.
Now, I was discovering fear. Not the fear of death, that most common of abstract notions, but the fear of crucifixion: a very concrete fear.
I have the unerring conviction that I am the most incarnate of human beings. When I lie down to go to sleep, the mere abandonment of it procures such pleasure that I have to stop myself from moaning. Eating the humblest gruel, drinking even standing water would cause me to sigh with delight if I did not keep myself strictly in line. More than once, I have wept with bliss on breathing in the morning air.
And the opposite is also true: the most benign toothache can cause abnormal torment. I recall cursing my fate over a splinter. I hide this sensitive nature as carefully as the previous one: it does not tally with what I am supposed to represent. Yet another misunderstanding.
In my thirty-three years here on earth, I have had time to notice it: my father’s greatest success has been incarnation. That a disincarnate power could come up with the idea of inventing the body remains a masterful stroke of genius. Is it any surprise the creator was overwhelmed by his creation, the impact of which he could not foresee?
I’d like to say that this is why he created me, but it would not be true.
It would have been a good reason.
Humans complain, rightfully, of the imperfections of the body. The explanation is obvious: what would a house be worth if it were designed by a homeless architect? We only excel at things we practice daily. My father never had a body. For an ignorant sort, I think he did a remarkably good job.
My fear that night was a physical dizziness at the thought of what I would have to go through. Those who are tortured are expected to rise to the occasion. When they do not scream with pain, we say how brave they are. I suspect it is something else: I will find out what it is.
I feared the nails through my hands and feet. That was stupid: there would surely be greater pain. But that one I could imagine at least.
The jailer said to me:
“Try to get some sleep. You need to be in good shape tomorrow.”
On seeing my ironic expression, he added:
“Don’t laugh. It takes good health to die. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
And that is true. In addition, this was my last opportunity to sleep, and I do so like sleep. I did try, I lay down on the floor, I surrendered my body to rest: it wanted nothing to do with me. Whenever I closed my eyes, instead of finding sleep, I came upon terrifying images.
And so, I did what everyone does: to fight off the unbearable thoughts, I turned to other ones.
I relived my first miracle, my favorite. I realized, to my relief, that the newlyweds’ appalling testimony had not tarnished this memory.
It had not, however, gotten off to a very good start. Going to a wedding with one’s mother is a trying experience. My mother may well be pure of soul, but she nevertheless remains a normal woman. She kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye as if to say, well, my son, what are you waiting for to find yourself a bride? I pretended not to notice.
I must confess I do not much like weddings. I cannot really work out why. It’s the sort of sacrament that fills me with anxiety, something I understand all the less in that it does not concern me. I will not be getting married and do not regret it.
It was an ordinary wedding: a celebration where people displayed more joy than they really felt. I knew they were expecting something more from me. What could it be? I had no idea.
A distinguished meaclass="underline" bread and grilled fish, wine. The wine was not great, but the bread came warm from the oven, with a lovely crust, and the fish was salted to perfection and filled me with delight. I concentrated on my food so I could enjoy all of the flavor and texture. My mother seemed embarrassed that I was not talking with the other guests. In this respect, I resemble her: she’s not very talkative. Making small talk is something I cannot do, and neither can she.
My feelings for the bride and groom were those of amiable indifference, of the sort one feels for the friends of one’s parents. It must have been the third time I had met them, and, as always, they exaggerated, “We knew Jesus when he was a little boy,” and, “You look different with a beard.” The excessive familiarity of humans makes me feel slightly ill at ease. I wish I had never seen those newlyweds. Our relationship would have been more authentic.
I missed Joseph. That good man, who was hardly more talkative than my mother or me, excelled at playing the part: he listened so carefully that you thought you could hear his reply. I did not inherit that virtue. When people are making small talk, I don’t even pretend to listen.
“What are you thinking about?” my mother murmured.
“Joseph.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“You know why.”
I was never sure she really did know why, but if you have to explain that sort of thing to your mother, you’ll never see the end of it.
There was a sudden commotion.
“They’re out of wine,” said my mother.
I couldn’t see the problem. No more of that plonk, and so what! Cool water was better at quenching one’s thirst, so I went on eating conscientiously. It took me a moment to grasp that, to this family, a lack of wine was a source of irredeemable dishonor.
“They are out of wine,” my mother said again, pointedly.
An abyss opened at my feet. What a strange woman my mother is! She wants me to be normal, but at the same time I’m meant to work miracles!
How alone I felt at that moment. But I couldn’t put it off any longer. Then I had a flash of intuition. I said:
“Fetch two pitchers of water.”
The master of the house gave orders, I must be obeyed, and a great silence fell over the gathering. If I stopped to think, all would be lost. What was required was the opposite of thought. I obliterated myself. I knew that just beneath my skin there lay power, and that to get there, thought must be abolished. I yielded the floor to what, from that moment on, I would refer to as the husk, and I do not know what happened. For an insurmountable lapse of time, I ceased to exist.
When I came to, the guests were ecstatic:
“This is the best wine we’ve ever drunk in all the land!”
Everyone was tasting the new wine; their faces wore the sort of expression expected of them during religious ceremonies. I repressed a colossal desire to burst out laughing. And so, my father had deemed it fit for me to discover this power during a shortage of wine. What a sense of humor! And how could anyone disapprove? What could be more important than wine? I had been a man long enough to know that joy is not a given, and that very good wine is often the only way to find it.
The wedding was flowing with good cheer. The newlyweds looked happy at last. The urge to dance came over them, and the spirit of the wine left no one untouched.
“One must not serve the best wine after the inferior one!” people remarked to their hosts.
I can attest that it was not said in a critical way. Moreover, this assertion is quite open to debate. I believe the contrary. It is better to begin with an ordinary wine in order to instill joy in people’s hearts. For it is when people are as joyful as they can be that they are capable of welcoming a great wine and giving it the supreme attention it deserves.