But Matthew grew angry. He turned toward the invisible wings at his right and growled softly, so that the sleeping disciples would not hear him: “It’s not true. I don’t want to write, and I won’t!”
Mocking laughter was heard in the air, and a voice: “How can you understand what truth is, you handful of dust? Truth has seven levels. On the highest is enthroned the truth of God, which bears not the slightest resemblance to the truth of men. It is this truth, Matthew Evangelist, that I intone in your ear… Write: ‘And three Magi, following a large star, came to adore the infant…’ ”
The sweat gushed from Matthew’s forehead. “I won’t write! I won’t write!” he cried, but his hand was running over the page, writing.
Jesus heard Matthew’s struggle in his sleep and opened his eyes. He saw him bent over and gasping under the lamp, the squeaking quill running furiously over the page, ready to break.
“Matthew, my brother,” he said to him quietly, “why are you groaning? Who is above you?”
“Don’t ask me, Rabbi,” he replied, his quill still racing over the paper. “I’m in a hurry. Go to sleep.”
Jesus had a presentiment that God must be over him. He closed his eyes so that he would not disturb the holy possession.
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE DAYS and nights passed by. One moon came and went; the next came. Rain, cold, fires on the hearth; saintly vigils in old Salome’s house… Capernaum ’s poor and aggrieved came each evening after the day’s work in order to hear the new Comforter. They arrived poor and unconsoled; they returned to their wretched huts rich and comforted. He transplanted their vineyards, boats and joys from earth to heaven; explained to them how much surer heaven was than earth. The hearts of the unfortunate filled with patience and hope. Even Zebedee’s savage heart began to be tamed. Little by little Jesus’ words penetrated him, lightly inebriating his mind. This world thinned out and over his head hovered a new world made of eternity and imperishable wealth. In this odd new world Zebedee and his sons and old Salome and even his five caïques and full coffers would live evermore. Best not grumble, therefore, when he saw these uninvited guests day and night in his house or sitting around his table. It would come, the recompense would come.
In midwinter the sun-drenched halcyon days arrived. The sun gleamed, warmed the bare bones of the earth and duped the almond tree in the middle of Zebedee’s yard: it thought that spring had come and began to put out buds. The kingfishers had been awaiting these warm merciful days, for they wished to entrust their eggs to the rocks. All the rest of God’s birds procreate in the spring, the kingfisher in midwinter. God pitied them and promised to allow the sun to come up warm several days in the winter, just for their sakes. Rejoicing, these nightingales of the sea flew now over the waters and rocks of Gennesaret and warbled their thanks to God for having once more kept his word.
During these lovely days the remaining disciples scattered to the fishing caïques and near-by villages so that they too could try their wings. Philip and Nathanael set out overland to meet with their friends the farmers and shepherds and proclaim the word of God to them. Andrew and Thomas went to the lake to catch the fishermen. Unsociable Judas departed all by himself toward the mountain to let the anger filter out of his system. Much of the master’s behavior pleased him, but there were some things he simply could not stomach. Sometimes the wild Baptist thundered through Jesus’ mouth, but sometimes the same old son of the Carpenter still bleated: Love! Love!… What love, clairvoyant? Whom to love? The world has gangrene and needs the knife-that’s what I say!
Matthew was the only one who stayed in the house. He did not want to leave, for the teacher might speak, and Matthew must not let his words be carried away by the winds; he might perform some miracle, and Matthew must see it with his own eyes in order to recount it. And then again, where could he go, to whom could he talk? No one would come near him, because once upon a time he had been a dirty publican. He therefore remained in the house and from his corner glanced stealthily at Jesus, who sat in the yard under the budding almond tree. Magdalene was at his feet and he was speaking to her softly. Matthew strained his huge ear to catch a word, but in vain. All he could do was watch the rabbi’s severe, afflicted face and his hand, which every so often skimmed Magdalene’s hair.
It was the Sabbath and pilgrims had set out in the early morning from distant villages-farmers from Tiberias, fishermen from Gennesaret, shepherds from the mountains-to hear the new prophet speak to them about Paradise, the Inferno, unfortunate mankind, and God’s mercy. They would take him-the sun was out, it was a splendid day-and bring him up to the green mountainside where they could strew themselves on the warm grass to listen to him, and perhaps they might even fall sweetly asleep on the springtime turf. They assembled, therefore, outside in the road, for the door was shut, and shouted for the teacher to emerge.
“Magdalene, my sister,” said Jesus, “listen; the people have come to fetch me.”
But Magdalene, lost within the rabbi’s eyes, did not hear. And of all that he had been telling her for such a long time, she had heard nothing. She rejoiced solely in the sound of his voice: the voice told her everything. She was not a man; she had no need for words. Once she had said to him, “Rabbi, why do you talk to me about the future life? We are not men, to have need of another, an eternal life; we are women, and for us one moment with the man we love is everlasting Paradise, one moment far from the man we love is everlasting hell. It is here on this earth that we women live out eternity.”
“Magdalene, my sister,” Jesus repeated to her, “the people have come to fetch me. I must go.” He got up and opened the door. The road was full of ardent eyes and shouting mouths, and of the groaning sick who were stretching out their hands…
Magdalene appeared at the door and put her hand over her mouth so that she would not scream. “The people are wild beasts, wild bloodthirsty beasts who will devour him,” she murmured as she watched him calmly go in the lead, with the crowd behind him bellowing.
Jesus advanced with great, calm strides toward the mountain which rose above the lake, the mountain where he had once opened his arms to the multitude and cried, Love! Love! But between that day and this his mind had grown fierce. The desert had hardened his heart; he still felt the Baptist’s lips like two lighted coals upon his mouth. The prophecies flashed on and off within him; the divine inhuman shouts came back to life and he saw God’s three daughters, Leprosy, Madness and Fire, tear through the heavens and descend.
When he reached the summit of the hill and opened his mouth to speak, the ancient prophet bounded up from within him, and he began to shout: “ ‘The fearful army comes bellowing from the ends of the earth; terrible and quick-moving, it comes. Not one of the warriors limps from fatigue, not one is sleepy or ever sleeps. Not a single waist band is slack or a single shoe thong broken. The arrows are sharp, the bow strings taut; the horses’ hoofs are hard stones, the chariot wheels are whirlwinds. It roars menacingly like a lioness. Whomever it catches is lifted up in its teeth and can be saved by no one!’ ”
“What army is this?” shouted an old man whose white hair was standing on end.
“What army is this? Do you ask, you deaf, blind, foolish people!” Jesus lifted his hand to heaven. “It is the army of God, wretches! From a distance God’s warriors seem to be angels, but up close they are flames. I myself took them for angels this past summer on this very rock where I now stand, and I cried, Love! Love! But now the God of the desert has opened my eyes. I saw. They are flames! ‘I can endure you no longer,’ shouts God. ‘I am coming down!’ Lamentation is heard in Jerusalem and in Rome, lamentation upon the mountains and at the tombs. The earth weeps for its children. God’s angels descend to the scorched earth, search with their lamps to discover where Rome was, where Jerusalem. Between their fingers they crumble the ashes and smell them. This must have been Rome, they say, this Jerusalem; and they toss the ashes to the winds.”