Амели Нотомб - Thirst

I have returned to my century. I am struggling. Where will I find the energy not to collapse again? Some part of my brain is envisioning the moment of the accident. My eyes can see the place where it will happen. I bargain with myself, “Just one more step… just another half a step…”

Falling is an illusion of repose. And still, I savor this second fall. It feels so good to surrender to the law of gravity. A hail of lashes falls upon me at once, the sweet sensation lasts only a second, but in the state I’m in, every second counts.

It feels as if I have been carrying, dragging this cross for hours. That can’t be right. I’m finding it hard to recall my former life. Since I embarked on the way to Calvary, I’ve been dazzled first by a man, then by a woman. I saw my mother again, too. It has often been said that I liked women better. To prefer one sex over the other would, in my opinion, be a sign of disregard.

The daughters of Jerusalem crowd around me, weeping. I try to get them to dry their tears:

“Come now, it’s just a bad spell to get through, it will all work out.”

I don’t believe a word I’m saying. It won’t work out, it will only get worse. It’s just that their sobs won’t let me breathe. How can we help someone? Certainly not by crying in front of them. Simon helped me, Veronica helped me. Neither one of them was crying. Nor did they have grins on their faces: they were taking concrete steps.

No, I do not prefer women. I think they protect me. I cannot attribute that to anything other than the sweetness of my behavior toward them, which is not normal practice among men in these parts.

Need I point out that I do not prefer men, either? There are certain verbs I avoid, such as prefer, or replace—people have no idea how alike these verbs are. I’ve seen people fight in order to be preferred, never realizing that this merely makes them replaceable.

One day, people will claim that no one is irreplaceable. That is the contrary of my message. The love that consumes me asserts that every individual is irreplaceable. It is appalling to know in advance that my ordeal is serving no purpose.

That’s not altogether true. A few individuals will understand. I cannot rule out the fact that they won’t need my sacrifice for that. I’ll never know. Better not to let it fill me with bitterness, which would only make my fate even more terrible.

Strange thoughts come to you when you are dragging a cross along like this. It’s an exaggeration to call them thoughts, they are merely snatches, short-circuits. What I am carrying is far too heavy for me. I have never felt so wretched.

It’s a pity I did not know this sooner: to carry only a light burden is sufficient as an ideal in life. An incredible lesson which will be of no use to me. I recall spending entire days on the road, congratulating myself on my happiness over nothing. I wasn’t happy over nothing. I was savoring lightness.

I have collapsed for the third time. Biting the dust has acquired its full meaning. The ground isn’t muddy now, the sun has dried the earth. I can see the top of Mount Calvary. Why am I in a hurry to get there? I find it hard to believe I’ll suffer any more on the cross than under it, as I do now.

It’s a common experience: when you climb a mountain, first you look at it from below, where it doesn’t seem so high. You have to get to the top to realize just how high it is. Calvary is just a little mound, but it feels as if this climbing will never end.

I don’t know how I managed to get back to my feet. As things stand, everything is an effort, I’m aching all over. I must be solid, since I haven’t passed out. The last steps are the worst, I cannot feel the joy of having overcome an ordeal, I know that what is about to begin here is of another nature altogether.

They waste no time proving this to me in the simplest way: they stripped off my clothing. It was only a robe of linen and a belt: now I appreciate just what those rags were worth.

As long as you are dressed, you are someone. Now I’m no one. I’m nothing at all anymore. A little voice in my head whispers, “They left you your loincloth. It could be worse.” The entire human condition can be summed up like that: it could be worse.

I don’t dare look at the two men who are already on their crosses. I will spare them the pain of being stared at, something I have just experienced myself at length.

One of the two sneers at me, “If you are the son of God, ask your father to get you out of this.”

I sincerely admire the fact that, in his situation, he hasn’t lost his sarcastic wit.

I hear the other one saying, “Quiet, he deserves this less than we do.”

He’s suffering to this degree and is still eager to defend me—I am touched. I thank the man.

No, I didn’t tell him that he was saved. To say such a thing to someone who is going through such an ordeal would be playing games. And to tell one of the crucified men, “You are saved,” and not the other would have been the height of pettiness and cynicism.

I’m pointing out these issues because this is not what will be written in the Gospels. Why not? I don’t know. The evangelists were nowhere near me when this happened. And regardless of what people have said, they didn’t know me. I’m not angry with them, but nothing is more irritating than those people who, under the pretext that they love you, claim that they know you inside out.

In truth, I felt the pull of fraternal love toward those two crucified men for the simple reason that I was about to share their ordeal. Someday someone will come up with the expression “affirmative action” to suggest what might have been my attitude toward the man we will call the good thief. I have no opinion on the matter, I just know the two men moved me, each in his own way. For while I loved what the good thief said to me, I also loved the pride of the bad one—who wasn’t actually bad. I don’t see what’s so bad about stealing a loaf of bread, and I can understand why someone might not feel remorse in such a situation.

The time has come: I am lying on the cross. What I carried will henceforth be carrying me. I see the nails and hammers coming. I’m so frightened that I find it hard to breathe. They nail my feet and my hands. It doesn’t take long, I hardly have time to realize. And then they raise my cross between my brothers’.

Now I feel this incredible pain for the first time. To have nails through my palms was nothing compared to having my weight upon them, and what is true for my hands is a thousand times worse for my feet. The rule is, above all, don’t move. The slightest movement increases what is already unbearable pain.

I tell myself I’ll get used to it, that my nerves cannot go on feeling something this horrific for long. But I find out that they most certainly can, and that this equipment of mine can record the most infinitesimal variations as well as the most enormous.

To think that when I was dragging this cross, I believed that the purpose of life was to avoid carrying any heavy burdens! The meaning of life is to avoid pain. That’s it.

There’s no way out of this. I am entirely absorbed by my pain. No thoughts, no memories can set me free.

I look at the people looking at me. “What’s it like, this thing you’re going through?” That’s what I read in countless gazes, both compassionate and cruel. If I had to answer them, I couldn’t find the words.

I’m not holding it against the cruel ones. For a start, because all my faculties have been monopolized by my pain, and then, because if my pain can bring someone pleasure, it’s better that way.

Madeleine has come. I didn’t like seeing my mother, but it moves me to see my beloved. She is so beautiful that compassion cannot disfigure her. My suffering is so great that my soul cries out, even if my lips are silent, unable to imagine a fitting cry.