Nikos Kazantzakis - The Last Temptation of Christ

“Here, Master,” he said with a smile. “Gifts for the two sisters. Silk clothing, earrings, bracelets, fans made of precious feathers-the complete feminine armor. Now you can knock at the door.”

Jesus knocked. He heard the sound of clogs in the yard and then a sweet voice called, “Who’s there?”

Jesus blushed scarlet. He recognized the voice: it was Mary’s. The door opened and the two sisters fell at his feet.

“Rabbi, we worship your Passion, we salute your holy resurrection. Welcome!”

“Allow me to touch your breast, Rabbi, to see if it’s really you,” said Mary.

“Mary, he’s flesh, real flesh,” Martha exclaimed, “flesh-like us. Don’t you see? And look, there’s his shadow on our doorstep.”

Jesus listened, and smiled. He felt the two sisters touching him, smelling him, rejoicing.

“Martha and Mary, twin flames: it’s fine to see you. Tranquil, humble, courteous house of men: it’s fine to see you. We are still alive, we still hunger, act and weep. Glory be to God!”

While still talking and greeting the two sisters, he entered the house.

“It’s fine to see you, fireplace and loom and kneading trough, and table and pitcher and beloved lamp! Faithful servants of woman, I bow and worship your grace. When woman arrives at the gate of Paradise she will stop and ask, ‘Lord, will my companions enter too?’

“ ‘What companions?’ God will ask her.

“ ‘Here-the trough, cradle, lamp, pitcher and loom. If they don’t go in, neither do I.’

“And goodhearted God will laugh. ‘You’re women; can I refuse you a favor? Enter, all of you. Paradise is so full of troughs, cradles and looms, I have no place left for the saints.”’

The two women laughed. Turning, they saw the small Negro with the overflowing basket.

“Rabbi, who is this boy?” Mary asked. “I like his teeth.”

Jesus sat down in front of the hearth. They brought milk, honey and whole-wheat bread. Jesus’ eyes filled with tears.

“The seven heavens were not big enough for me,” he said, “nor the seven great virtues nor the seven great ideas. And now, what miracle is this, my sisters? A tiny house is big enough for me, and a mouthful of bread, and the simple words of a woman!”

He marched up and down the house as its master, brought in an armful of vine branches from the yard, fed the fire. The flames leaped up. He bent over the well, drew water and drank. He put out his hands, placed them on the shoulders of Martha and Mary and took possession of them.

“Dearest Martha and Mary,” he said, “I shall change my name. They killed your brother, whom I raised from the dead. I shall come and sit in the place where he sat, here in the corner; I shall take his ox-goad, I shall plow, sow and harvest his fields. When I return in the evening my sisters will wash my weary feet and lay the table for me. Then I shall sit by the fire, on his stool. My name is Lazarus.”

While he spoke the small Negro bewitched him with his large eyes. The more he looked at him, the more Jesus’ face changed, as did his whole body: head, chest, thighs, hands and feet. He grew more and more to resemble Lazarus, a ripe, mature Lazarus, all health and strength, with a bull neck, sunburned chest and huge gnarled hands. The two sisters watched this metamorphosis in the half-light and trembled.

“I’ve changed body. I’ve changed soul. Hello! I proclaim war against poverty and fasting. The soul is a lively animal; it wants to eat. This mouth beneath my beard and mustache is the soul’s mouth, the only mouth the soul has. I declare war against chastity. An infant sits mute and numb in the womb of every woman. Open the doors and let him out! He who does not beget, murders… Are you crying, Mary?”

“How else can I respond, Rabbi? We women have no other answer.”

Martha opened wide her arms. “We women,” she said, “are two arms incurably open. Come in, my Rabbi. Sit down. Command. You are the master of the house.”

Jesus’ face shone. “I’ve finished wrestling with God,” he said. ‘We have become friends. I won’t build crosses any more. I’ll build troughs, cradles, bedsteads. I’ll send a message to have my tools brought from Nazareth; I’ll have my embittered mother come too, so that she can bring up her grandchildren and feel some sweetness on her lips at last, poor thing.”

One of the women leaned her bosom against his knees; the other took his hand and would not let it go. In front of the fire the small Negro had propped his cheek on his knees and was pretending to sleep. But from between his long eyelashes his black eyes watched Jesus and the two women, and a sly, contented smile spread across his face.

Mary, her bosom leaning against Jesus’ knees, was speaking. “I was sitting at the loom, Rabbi, working your Passion-a cross, with thousands and thousands of swallows all around-into a white blanket. I was shuttling the black and red threads and singing a dirge; and you heard me, pitied me and came.”

Martha waited quietly for her sister to finish. Then she commenced. “I know nothing except how to knead bread, wash clothes and say yes. Those are my only graces, Rabbi. I have a premonition that you’ll choose my sister as your wife, but allow me to breathe in the air of married life along with you: allow me to make and air your beds and take charge of all the household needs.”

She stopped, sighed, and then: “The girls of our village sing a song, a very bitter song. They sing it in the springtime, the days when the birds sit on their eggs. Instead of reciting it, let me sing it to you so that you’ll understand, because its bitterness lies in the tune:

Ho, you! beardless stalwarts-

I’m weary of selling, of selling myself

And finding no buyer.

I offer all at a bargain, including myself:

First come, first served!

Whoever gives me a swallow’s egg,

I shall grant him my lips;

Whoever gives me an eagle’s egg,

I shall grant him my breasts;

And whoever gives me a stab,

I shall grant him my heart!

Her eyes filled with tears. Mary entwined her arms around the man’s waist as though she feared he was going to be taken from her.

Martha felt a knife pierce her heart, but she gathered up courage and spoke again. “Rabbi, I want to say just one thing more to you, and then I’ll get up and leave you with Mary. Once there was a robust landowner named Boaz who lived near here, in Bethlehem. It was summer and his slaves had reaped, threshed, winnowed and made stacks on the threshing floor, the wheat on the right, the chaff on the left. He lay down between the two stacks and went to sleep. In the middle of the night a poor woman named Ruth came quietly, in order not to waken him, and sat at his feet. She was a childless widow and had suffered much. The man felt the warmth of her body at his feet. He lowered his hand, searched, found her and raised her to his breast… Do you understand, Rabbi?”

“Yes. Speak no more.”

“I’m leaving,” said Martha, and she rose.

The two remained alone. Taking a mat and the blanket which was decorated with the cross and the swallows, they went up to the roof of the house. A merciful cloud covered the sun. They hid under the embroidered blanket so that God would not see them, and began to caress each other. Once, the cover slipped off for a moment and Jesus opened his eyes. He saw the Negro boy sitting on the edge of the roof. He was holding a shepherd’s pipe and piping, his eyes staring far off in the direction of Jerusalem.

The next day the whole village stopped by to admire the new Lazarus. The small Negro ran errands, drew water from the well, milked the ewes, helped Martha to start the fire and then curled up on the doorstep and played his pipe. Loaded with gifts of ears of corn, milk, dates or honey, the villagers came to greet the strange visitor who looked so much like Lazarus. They saw the Negro on the doorstep, teased him and laughed. He laughed too.