Chapter Three

THE YOUNG MAN remained all alone. He leaned against the cross and sponged the sweat from his forehead. The breath had caught in his throat; he was gasping. For an instant the world revolved about him, but then it stood still once more. He heard his mother light the fire so that she could put the meal on bright and early and be in time to run like the others to see the crucifixion. All her neighbors had left already. Her husband still groaned, fighting to move his tongue; but only his larynx was alive, and he made nothing but clucking sounds. Outside, the street was again deserted.

But while the youth leaned on the cross, his eyes shut, thinking nothing and hearing nothing except the beating of his own heart, suddenly he jolted with pain. Once more he felt the invisible vulture claw deeply into his scalp. “He’s come again, he’s come again…” he murmured, and he began to tremble. He felt the claws bore far down, crack open his skull, touch his brain. He clenched his teeth so that he would not cry out: he did not want his mother to become frightened again and start screaming. Clasping his head between his palms, he held it tightly, as though he feared it would run away. “He’s come again, he’s come again…” he murmured, trembling.

The first, very first time-he was already twelve years old and sitting with the sighing, sweating elders in the synagogue listening to them elucidate God’s word-he had felt a light, prolonged tingling on the top of his head, very tender, like a caress. He had closed his eyes. What bliss when those fluffy wings grasped him and carried him to the seventh heaven! This must be Paradise! he thought, and a deep, endless smile flowed out from under his lowered eyelids and from his happy, half-opened mouth, a smile which licked his flesh with ardent desire until his entire face disappeared. The old men saw this mysterious man-eating smile and conjectured that God had snatched the boy up in his talons. Putting their fingers to their lips, they remained silent.

The years went by. He waited and waited, but the caress did not return; and then, one day-Passover, springtime, glorious weather-he went to Cana, his mother’s village, to choose a wife. His mother had forced him; she wanted to see him married. He was twenty years old, his cheeks were covered with thick curly fuzz and his blood boiled so furiously he could no longer sleep at night. His mother had taken advantage of this, the acme of his youth, and prevailed upon him to go to Cana, her own village, to select a bride.

So there he stood, a red rose in his hand, gazing at the village girls as they danced under a large, newly foliaged poplar. And while he looked and weighed one against the other-he wanted them all, but did not have the courage to choose-suddenly he heard cackling laughter behind him: a cool fountain rising from the bowels of the earth. He turned. Descending upon him with her red sandals, unplaited hair and complete armor of ankle bands, bracelets and earrings was Magdalene, the only daughter of his uncle the rabbi. The young man’s mind shook violently. “It’s her I want, her I want!” he cried, and he held out his hand to give her the rose. But as he did so, ten claws nailed themselves into his head and two frenzied wings beat above him, tightly covering his temples. He shrieked and fell down on his face, frothing at the mouth. His unfortunate mother, writhing with shame, had to throw her kerchief over his head, lift him up in her arms and depart.

From that time on he was completely lost. It came when the moon was full and he roamed the fields, or during his sleep, in the silence of the night; and most often in springtime, when the whole world was in bloom and fragrant. At every opportunity he had to be happy, to taste the simplest human joys-to eat, sleep, to mix with his friends and laugh, to encounter a girl on the street and think, I like her-the ten claws immediately nailed themselves down into him, and his desire vanished.

But never before this daybreak had they fallen on him with such ferocity. He rolled himself up under his workbench and buried his head in his breast, remaining this way for a long time. The world sank away. He heard nothing but a hum inside him and, above, the furious beating of wings.

Little by little the claws relaxed, unhooked themselves and freed-slowly, one by one-first his mind, then the bone and finally the skin of his head. Suddenly he felt great relief, and great fatigue. Emerging from under the workbench, he put his hand to his head and hurriedly ran his fingers through his hair to investigate his scalp. It seemed to him that it had been pierced, but his searching fingers found not a single wound, and he grew calm. But when he drew out his hand and looked at it in the light, he shuddered. His fingers were dripping with blood.

“God is angry,” he murmured, “angry… The blood has begun to flow.”

He raised his eyes and looked: no one. But he smelled the bitter stench of a wild beast in the air. He has come again, he thought with terror; he is all around me and beneath my feet and above my head…

Bowing his head, he waited. The air was mute, immobile; the light-apparently naïve and harmless-played on the wall opposite him, and on the cane-lathed ceiling. I won’t open my mouth, he decided within himself. I won’t breathe a word. Perhaps he will take pity on me and leave.

But as he made this decision, his lips parted and he spoke. His voice was full of grievance. “Why do you draw my blood? Why are you angry? How long are you going to pursue me?”

He stopped. Bent over, his mouth open, the hairs of his head standing on end and his eyes full of fear, he listened…

At first there was nothing; the air was motionless, silent. But then, suddenly, someone above was speaking to him. He cocked his ear and heard-heard, and shook his head violently, continually, as though saying, No! No! No!

Finally he too opened his mouth. His voice no longer trembled. “I can’t! I’m illiterate, an idler, afraid of everything. I love good food, wine, laughter. I want to marry, to have children… Leave me alone!”

He remained still again and listened.

“What do you say? I can’t hear?”

Suddenly he had to put his hands over his ears to soften the savage voice above him. With his whole face squeezed together, holding his breath, he heard now, and answered: “Yes, yes, I’m afraid… You want me to stand up and speak, do you? What can I say, how can I say it? I can’t, I tell you! I’m illiterate!… What did you say?… The kingdom of heaven?… I don’t care about the kingdom of heaven. I like the earth. I want to marry, I tell you; I want Magdalene, even if she’s a prostitute. It’s my fault she became one, my fault, and I shall save her. Her! Not the earth, not the kingdom of this world-it’s Magdalene I want to save. That’s enough for me!… Speak lower, I can’t understand you.

He shaded his eyes with his palm: the soft light which entered through the skylight was dazzling him. He had riveted his eyes upon the ceiling above him, and was waiting. He listened, holding his breath, and the more he heard, the more his face glowed mischievously, contentedly. His thick fresh lips tingled with numbness, and suddenly he burst out laughing.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured, “you understand perfectly. Yes, on purpose; I do it on purpose. I want you to detest me, to go and find someone else; I want to be rid of you!

“Yes, yes, on purpose,” he continued, finding the courage to speak out, “and I shall make crosses all my life, so that the Messiahs you choose can be crucified!”

This said, he unhooked the nail-studded strap from its place on the wall and belted it around him. He looked at the skylight. The sun had at last risen high. The sky above was hard and blue, like steel. He had to hurry. The crucifixion was to take place at noon, under the full fury of the sun.