Nikos Kazantzakis - The Last Temptation of Christ

He marched and marched, and his mind wandered. He was running from Magdalene, the whore, to God; from the cross to Paradise, from his mother and father to distant lands and seas, to myriad-faced men, white, yellow and black. Although he had never crossed the boundaries of Israel, ever since his early childhood he had shut his eyes within his father’s humble cottage and his mind, like a trained hawk with golden hawk bells, had darted from land to land, ocean to ocean, screeching with joy. It was not hunting anything, this hawk-mind of his; he had become oblivious of the body, he was escaping the flesh, ascending to heaven-and this was all he could possibly desire.

He marched and marched. The twisting path wound in and out through the vineyards, rose once more, reached the olive groves. The son of Mary followed it as one follows running water or the sad, monotonous chant of a camel driver. This whole journey seemed a dream to him. He scarcely touched the earth; his feet trod his human seal, the heel and five toes, lightly into the soil. The olive trees waved their laden branches and welcomed him. The grapes had begun to shine; the heavy clusters hung down until they reached the ground. The girls who went by with their white kerchiefs and firm, sunburned calves greeted him sweetly: Shalom! Peace!

Sometimes, when not a soul was visible on the path, he heard the heavy footsteps behind him again; a bronze splendor flared up in the air and was then snuffed out, and the evil laughter exploded once more over his head. But the son of Mary forced himself to be patient. He was approaching deliverance; soon he would see the lake opposite him, and behind the blue waters, hanging like a falcon’s nest between the red rocks, the monastery.

He followed the path, and his mind ran on, but suddenly he stopped, startled. There before him in a sheltered hollow, spread out beneath the date palms, was Magdala. His mind turned back, turned back, but his feet, against his will, began to lead him with sure steps to the perfumed hermitage of his cousin Magdalene, to the house which was condemned to the fires of hell.

“No, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go!” he murmured in terror. He tried to reverse his course, but his body refused. It stood its ground like a greyhound and smelled the air.

I’ll go away! he decided once more within himself, but he did not budge. He could see the clean, whitewashed houses and the ancient well with its marble brim. Dogs were barking, hens cackling. women laughing. Loaded camels knelt about the well, ruminating… I must see her, must see her, he heard a sweet voice within him say. It’s necessary. God has guided my feet-God, not my own mind-because I must see her, fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. It’s my fault, mine! Before I enter the monastery and put on the white gown I must beg her forgiveness. Otherwise it will not be possible for me to be saved. Thank you, Lord, for bringing me where I did not want to come!

He felt happy. Tightening his belt, he began the descent to Magdala.

A herd of camels lay on their bellies around the well. They had finished eating and now, still laden, were slowly, patiently, chewing their cud. They must have come from fragrant faraway lands, for the whole area smelled of spices.

Jesus halted at the well. An old woman who was drawing water tipped her jug for him, and he drank. He wanted to ask if Mary was at home, but he was too ashamed. God has pushed me to her house, he reflected. I have faith: she will most certainly be there.

He started down a well-shaded lane. There were many strangers in town, some dressed in the long white jellab of the Bedouins, others with expensive Indian cashmere shawls. A small door opened; a fat-bottomed matron with a black mustache emerged and burst into laughter as soon as she saw him.

“Well, well!” she shouted. “Greetings, Carpenter. So you too are going to worship at the shrine, eh?” She closed the door amid peals of laughter.

The son of Mary blushed scarlet, but gathered up strength. I must, I must, he thought; I must fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness.

He quickened his pace. Her house was at the other end of the village, surrounded by a small orchard of pomegranates. He remembered it well: a green single-leafed door decorated with a painting of two intertwined snakes, one black and one white, the work of one of her lovers, a Bedouin; and above the lintel, a large yellow lizard, its legs stretched out on both sides as though it were being crucified.

He got lost, retraced his steps, returned to where he had been-ashamed to ask his way. It was almost noon. He stopped under the shade of an olive tree to catch his breath. A rich merchant passed by. He had a short black curly beard, black almond-shaped eyes, many rings, and an aristocratic air. The son of Mary followed him.

He must be one of God’s angels, he thought as he walked behind him and admired the noble stature of his young body and the expensive cashmere shawl, embroidered with stunning birds and flowers, which covered his shoulders. He must be one of God’s angels, and he came down to show me the way.

The foreign nobleman strode unerringly through the winding alleys. Soon the green door with the two intertwined snakes came into view. An old crone sat outside on a stool. She had a grate filled with burning coals and was broiling crabs. Next to this were roasted pumpkin seeds and, in two deep wooden plates, chick-pea meatballs which she sold smothered in pepper.

The young nobleman bent over, gave a silver coin to the old lady, and entered. The son of Mary entered behind him.

Four merchants, lined up one behind the other, sat cross-legged on the ground of the courtyard: two old men with painted eye lashes and nails, two young men with black beards and mustaches. They all had their eyes riveted on the tiny, squat door of Mary’s chamber. It was closed. Now and then a shout issued from inside, or laughter, or the sound of someone being tickled, or the creaking of the bed-and the worshipers immediately broke off the chattering they had begun and, gasping for breath, shifted their positions. The Bedouin who had entered such a long time ago was late in coming out, and all the others in the courtyard, young and old alike, were in a hurry. The young Indian nobleman sat down in his place in the line, and behind him sat the son of Mary.

An immense pomegranate tree laden with fruit was in the middle of the court and two imposing cypresses stood on either side of the street door, one male with a trunk as straight as a sword, the other female with wide-open spreading branches. Suspended from the pomegranate was a wicker cage containing a richly decorated partridge which hopped up and down, nipped, kicked her rails and cackled.

The worshipers were munching dates which they took from their girdles, or biting nutmeg seeds to sweeten their breath. They had engaged each other in conversation in order to pass the time. Turning, they greeted the young nobleman and looked with disdain at the poorly dressed son of Mary behind him. The old man who was first in line sighed.

“There’s no martyrdom greater than mine,” he said. “Here I am in front of Paradise, and the door is closed.”

A youth with golden bands around his ankles laughed. “I transport spices from the Euphrates to the Great Sea. Do you see this partridge with the red claws here in front of us? I’m going to buy Mary with a shipment of cinnamon and pepper, put her in a gold cage and take her away. So, my lusty friends, what you have to do, do it quickly: it’s the last kiss you’ll get.”

“Thanks, my good-looking stalwart,” the second old man interrupted at this point. He had a snowy-white scented beard and slim-boned aristocratic hands, the palms of which were dyed with cinchona. “What you’ve just said will season today’s kiss that much more.”