Each night as soon as the lamp was extinguished the guardian angel unfolded his wings in the darkness and laid himself down next to his companion. They spoke together in whispers so that no one would hear, and the angel gave advice for the following day. Then he became the Negro boy again, crept over the wood shavings to his place and went to sleep.

But tonight he could not sleep. “Jesus, are you awake?” he repeated, raising his voice. When he saw that he received no answer he jumped up, came close to Jesus and gave him a push.

“Ho, Master Lazarus, I know you’re not asleep. Why don’t you answer?”

“I don’t want to talk. I’m happy,” said Jesus, closing his eyes. “Are you satisfied with me?” asked the angel, with pride. “Have you any complaint?”

“None, my boy, none.” His heart grew warm, rose up. “What an evil road I took to find God,” he murmured. “What a forsaken incline, all cliffs and precipices! I called and called, my voice rebounded from the uninhabited mountain and I thought it was an answer!”

The angel laughed. “Alone, you cannot find God. Two persons are needed, a man and a woman. You didn’t know that-I taught it to you; and thus, after so many years of seeking God, you finally found him-when you joined Mary. And now you sit in the darkness, you listen to him laugh and cry, and you rejoice.”

“That is the meaning of God,” Jesus murmured, “that is the meaning of man. This is the road.” He again closed his eyes.

His former life flashed through his mind, and he sighed. Extending his arm, he found the angel’s hand. “My guardian angel,” he said tenderly, “if you had not come, my boy, I would have been lost. Stay near me always.”

“I shall; don’t be afraid. I won’t leave you. I like you.”

“How long will this happiness last?”

“As long as I’m with you and you’re with me, Jesus of Nazareth.”

“For all eternity?”

The angel laughed. “What is eternity? Haven’t you been able yet to get rid of big words, Jesus of Nazareth, of big words, big ideas, kingdoms of heaven? Does this mean that even your son hasn’t succeeded in curing you?” He banged his fist on the ground. “Here is the kingdom of heaven: earth. Here is God: your son. Here is eternity: each moment, Jesus of Nazareth, each moment that passes. Moments aren’t enough for you? If so, you must learn that eternity will not be either.”

He was silent. Light footsteps were heard in the yard. Bare feet approached.

“Who’s there?” Jesus asked, getting up.

“A woman,” answered the angel with a smile. He went and unbolted the door.

“What woman?”

The angel shook his finger as though scolding him. “I told you once before-have you forgotten? There is only one woman in the world; one, with innumerable faces. One of those faces is coming. Get up to greet it. I am leaving.”

Like a snake, he slid into the shavings and vanished.

The bare feet halted outside the door. Turning toward the wall, Jesus closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. A hand pushed open the door and a woman slid inside, holding her breath. She went forward slowly, reached the corner where Jesus lay and, without talking or making any noise, rolled herself up at his feet.

Jesus felt a warmth rise from the soles of his feet to his knees, thighs, heart and neck. He lowered his hand, found the tresses and examined the woman’s face, throat and breasts in the darkness. She stooped, all expectation and submission, and did not speak; but her flesh trembled and her entire body was covered with a frosty sweat.

The man spoke softly, tenderly, full of compassion. “Who are you?”

The woman trembled and did not speak. Jesus was sorry he asked, for once again he had forgotten the angel’s words. Of what importance was her name, where she came from, or the shape, color, beauty or ugliness of her face? It was the feminine face of the earth. Her womb was smothering her: many sons and daughters were within, suffocating and unable to emerge. She had come to the man so that he might open a way for them. Jesus’ heart overflowed with compassion.

“I am Ruth,” the woman murmured, trembling.

“Ruth? What Ruth?”

“Martha.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

DAYS WENT BY, months, years. In the house of Master Lazarus the sons and daughters multiplied, and Martha and Mary competed to see who would give birth to the most. The man wrestled, sometimes in the workshop with pine, kermes oak and cypress, throwing them down and forcing them into tools for men; sometimes in the fields with winds, moles and nettles. In the evening he would return, exhausted, to sit in his yard, and his women would come and wash his feet and calves, light a fire, lay the table for him and open wide their arms. And then, just as he worked the wood, liberating the cradles which were within it, just as he worked the land, liberating the grapes and ears of grain which were within it, so too he worked the women and liberated from within them: God.

What happiness this is, Jesus reflected, what profound correspondence between body and soul, between earth and man!… And Martha and Mary held out their hands and touched the man they loved and the children which issued from their wombs and resembled him, touched them to see if they and all this joy and sweetness were real. So much happiness seemed much too much to them, and they trembled.

One night Mary had a horrible dream. She got up, went into the yard and saw Jesus, who had washed himself and was sitting contentedly on the ground, his palms pressed into the soil. She went near him and sat down at his side. “What are dreams, Rabbi?” she asked him softly. “What are they made of? Who sends them?”

“They are neither angels nor devils,” Jesus answered her. “When Lucifer started his revolt against God, dreams could not make up their minds which side to take. They remained between devils and angels, and God hurled them down into the inferno of sleep… Why do you ask? What did you dream, Mary?”

But Mary burst into tears and did not answer. Jesus stroked her hand. “As long as you keep it within you, Mary, it will eat away your insides. Bring it out into the light so that you can be rid of it.”

Mary wanted to begin but was so afraid she could hardly breathe. Jesus caressed her, gave her courage.

“The whole night the moon was so bright I could not sleep. But at dawn I must have fallen asleep, because I saw a bird… No, it wasn’t a bird: it had six fiery wings-it must have been one of the seraphim that surround God’s Throne. He came, fluttered silently around me and then suddenly rushed down and wrapped his wings about my head. He put his beak into my ear and spoke to me… Rabbi, I prostrate myself, I kiss your feet. Order me to be quiet!”

“Courage, Mary. I’m with you, aren’t I? Why are you afraid?… Well, he spoke to you. What did he say?”

“That all this, Rabbi, is…”

Once again she could not breathe. She grasped Jesus’ knees and squeezed them forcefully between her arms.

“That all this is… Is what, dearest Mary?”

“A dream.” She burst into tears.

Jesus shuddered. “A dream?”

“Yes, Rabbi. All this a dream.”

“What do you mean by all this?”

“You, me, Martha, our embraces at night, the children… All, all-all lies! Lies created by the Tempter to deceive us! He took sleep, death and air and fashioned them into… Rabbi, help me!”

She rolled to the ground, quivered convulsively for a moment and then suddenly became stiff. Martha ran out with some rose vinegar and chafed her- temples. Mary came to, opened her eyes and, seeing Jesus, clutched his feet.

“She moved her lips, Rabbi,” said Martha. “Bend down. She wants to say something to you.”

Jesus leaned over and raised her head. She moved her lips.

“What did you say, beloved Mary? I could not hear.”

Mary called up all her strength. “And that you, Rabbi…” she murmured.