Nikos Kazantzakis: The Last Temptation of Christ

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.

“Why do you cry?” he said to them compassionately. “Why do you resist God’s will? Listen to what I shall tell you, and do not be afraid. Time is a fire, beloved wives. Time is a fire, and God holds the spit. Each year he rotates one paschal lamb. This year the paschal lamb is Jerusalem; next year it will be Rome; the following year-”

“Be quiet, Rabbi,” Mary screamed. “You forget that we’re women, and weak.”

“Forgive me, Mary,” said Jesus. “I forgot. When the heart takes the uphill road it forgets, and has no mercy.”

While he spoke, heavy steps were heard outside in the street. There was the sound of gasping breaths, and thick staffs knocked loudly on the door.

The Negro jumped up, seized the bolt of the door, looked at Jesus and smiled mockingly. “Shall I open?” he asked, hardly able to restrain his laughter. “It’s your old companions, Jesus of Nazareth.”

“My old companions?”

“You shall see them!” said the Negro, and he threw the door wide open.

A cluster of tiny old men appeared in the doorway. Deteriorated and unrecognizable, they crept into the yard, one leaning against the other. It seemed as though they were glued together and could not be torn apart.

Jesus advanced one pace and stopped. He wanted to extend his hand to bid them welcome, but suddenly his soul felt crushed by an unbearable bitterness-by bitterness, indignation and pity. He clenched his fists and waited. There was a heavy effluvium from charred wood, singed hair and open wounds. The air stank. The Negro had climbed up onto the horse block. He watched them and laughed.

Taking one step more, Jesus turned to the old man who crept in the lead. “You, in front,” he said, “come here. Stand still while I push away the ruins of time and see who you are. My heart pounds, but this hanging flesh, these eyes filled with discharge-I do not know them.”

“Don’t you recognize me, my rabbi?”

“Peter! Are you the rock on which, once upon a time in the folly of my youth, I wanted to build my church? How you’ve degenerated, son of Jonah! No longer a rock but a sponge full of holes!”

“The years, my rabbi…”

“What years? The years are not to blame. As long as the soul stands erect it holds the body high and does not allow the years to touch it. Your soul has declined, Peter, your soul!”

“The troubles of the world came upon me. I married, had children, received wounds, saw Jerusalem burn… I’m human: all that broke me.”

“Yes, you’re human and all that broke you,” Jesus murmured with sympathy. “Poor Peter, in the state the world’s in today, you have to be both God and the devil to endure.”

He turned to the next one, who emerged from behind Peter’s shoulder. “And you?” he said. “They cut off your nose: your face has become a skull-all holes. How do you expect me to recognize you? Go on, old companion, speak. Say ‘Rabbi!’ and perhaps I shall remember who you are!”

The ramshackle form uttered a tremendous cry: “Rabbi!” and then lowered its head and was still.

“Jacob! Zebedee’s eldest son, the massive colossus, the mind set solidly foursquare!”

“His remains, Rabbi,” said Jacob, sniveling. “A wild storm crippled me. The keel cracked, the hull opened, the mast fell. I return to port a wreck.”

“What port?”

“You, Rabbi.”

“What can I do for you? I am not a shipyard where you can be caulked. What I shall say, Jacob, is hard, but just: the only port for you is the bottom of the sea. As your father used to say, two and two make four.”

He was suddenly overcome with indignation and intense sorrow. He turned to a second chaplet of old men. “And you three? Ho, you, you, the gawky bean-stalk: once upon a time weren’t you Nathanael? You’ve grown flabby. Just look at your bloated, dangling backside, belly and double chins! What did you do with your firm muscles, Nathanael? You are nothing but the skeleton of a three-storied house now. Yes, only scaffolding remains, but do not sigh-that is enough, Nathanael, to get you to heaven.”

But Nathanael became angry. “What heaven? It wasn’t bad enough I lost my ears, fingers and one eye! No, besides that, everything you pounded into us: the pomp, strutting, majesty, kingdom of heaven-the whole lot was drunkenness and now we’ve sobered up! What do you think, Philip? Am I right?”