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Knitting his brows, Jacob shoved Jesus away from him. “Listen to me, son of the Carpenter,” he said, lowering his voice, “here’s where our ways part. You may not know where you’re headed, but I do. All right, go now, but this won’t be the last you’ll see or hear of me. No matter where you lead me, poor devil, I’ll follow you-and woe is you! That’s all I’ve got to say; but mark my words, this road you’ve chosen, you won’t leave it alive!”
This said, and without offering him his hand, he cascaded down the slope at a run.
Zebedee’s adopted sons removed the copper cauldron from the fire and sat in a circle around it. First to dip in the wooden spoon was the old man himself. He chose the largest fish and began to eat. But the oldest of the group put out his hand to prevent him.
“We forgot to say grace,” he reminded him.
Old Zebedee, still chewing his mouthful of food, lifted the wooden spoon and started to give thanks to the God of Israel for sending fish, grain, wine and oil to nourish the generations of the Hebrews and enable them to endure until the coming of the day of the Lord-when their enemies would be scattered, when all nations would fall prostrate at Israel’s feet and worship her, when all gods would fall prostrate at the feet of Adonai and worship him. “That is why we eat, Lord, that is why we marry and have children, that is why we live-all for your sake!”
This said, he swallowed the fish in one gulp.
While master and men ate and enjoyed the fruits of their labor, their eyes fixed on the lake-the mother that nourished them-suddenly Jacob appeared before them, puffing and covered with mud. The fishermen crowded together to make room for him, and old Zebedee, who was in a merry mood, cried, “Welcome to my first-born! You’re in luck, sit down and eat. What news?”
No answer. The son knelt by his father’s side but did not extend his hand to the fragrant, steaming cauldron.
Old Zebedee turned his head timidly and looked at him. He knew this peevish, taciturn son of his inside-out, and feared him. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. “What kind of a face is that? Who’ve you been fighting with this time?”
“With God, devils and men,” Jacob answered in a rage. “I’m not hungry!”
Ouch! he’s come to spoil our soup, Zebedee said to himself, but he strained to retain his good humor and change the subject. He slapped his son lovingly on the knee. “Hey, you rascal,” he said, winking at him, “who were you talking with along the way?”
Jacob gave a start. “So we have spies, have we? Who told you?… I wasn’t talking with anyone!”
He got up, went to the lake, plunged in knee-deep and washed himself. Then he returned to the group, but as he saw how happy they were, all eating and laughing, he burst out, “You eat and drink, and in Nazareth others are crucified for your sakes!”
Unable to stand the sight of them any more, he started toward the village, grumbling.
Old Zebedee watched him recede. “My sons are thorns in my flesh,” he said, shaking his large head. “One too soft and pious, the other too pigheaded: wherever he goes or stops, he’s sure to start a row. Thorns… Neither of them developed into a true man: a little bit soft, a little bit against the grain; sometimes kind, sometimes a snapping dog; half devil, half angel-in short, a man!”
Sighing, he grabbed a gilthead to force the bitterness down. “Thank goodness we have the giltheads,” he said, and the lakes which make them and the God who makes the lakes.”
“If you speak like that, what must old Jonah say?” said the old man of the group. “The poor fellow sits on a rock every evening, looks toward Jerusalem and weeps for his son Andrew. He’s another one of those clairvoyants. They say he discovered a prophet and goes the rounds with him, eating nothing but locusts and honey, and grabbing people to dunk them in the Jordan, apparently to wash away their sins.”
“And we’re told to have sons to thrive!” said Zebedee. “Fetch me the gourd, men. There’s still some wine, isn’t there? My spirits need lifting!”
They heard heavy, slow-moving footsteps on the pebbles. Some cumbersome beast seemed to be approaching in a rage. Old Zebedee turned.
“Welcome to Jonah, the good man!” he shouted. He sponged off his wine-stained beard, rose respectfully and offered him his place. “I’ve just been having it out with my sons and the giltheads. Come, try your hand at the giltheads and tell us what news from Saint Andrew, your son.”
An old fisherman appeared before them. He was short and stocky, barefooted, roasted by the sun; with cloudy, stale eyes, an immense head covered by curly white hair, and skin which had grown fishlike scales. Leaning forward, he stared at them one by one, looking for somebody.
“Who are you looking for, Father Jonah?” Zebedee asked. “Are you too weary to speak?”
He gazed at his feet, his beard, his hair, all tangled and filled with fishbones and seaweed, and at his thick, chapped lips which opened and closed like those of a fish and made no sound. Zebedee wanted to laugh, but suddenly he was overcome by fright. A foolish suspicion darted through his mind. Terrified, he stretched forth both his hands as though he wished to prevent old Jonah from coming closer.
“Speak! Can you be the prophet Jonah?” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “Such a long time with us, and you’ve been hiding all the while? I adjure you in the name of Adonai: speak! Once I heard the holy Abbot of the monastery tell about the shark that swallowed the prophet Jonah and how, afterward, the fish vomited and Jonah jumped out of its belly, a man as before. So help me God, the way the Abbot described him to us he was just like you: seaweed entwined in the hair of his head and chest, and his beard full of newborn crabs. No offense, Jonah, but I wager that if I feel under your beard I’ll find crabs there.”
The fishermen burst out laughing, but Zebedee continued to gaze at his old friend with terror in his eyes.
“Speak, man of God,” he said to him. “Are you the prophet Jonah?”
Old Jonah shook his head. He couldn’t recall being swallowed by any fish. It was possible, however. After so many years wrestling with the fish, what chance did he have to remember?
“It’s him, it’s him!” murmured old Zebedee, his eyes darting from side to side as though he wanted to escape. He knew that prophets were freakish men whom one must not trust. They disappeared into the air, the sea, or into fire-and afterward, when you least expected them, lo! there they were in front of you! Had not Elijah risen to heaven mounted on fire? Yet he still lived and reigned, and no matter what mountain peak you scaled, there he was before you. The same was true of Enoch: immortal. And now, here was the prophet Jonah. He plays ignorant, Zebedee said to himself; he pretends to be a fisherman and the father of Peter and Andrew. Better tackle him with kindness: these prophets are an odd, pigheaded lot, and if you don’t watch out you’ll find yourself in hot water.
He sweetened his voice. “Beloved neighbor, Father Jonah,” he began, “you are looking for someone-is it Jacob? He returned from Nazareth but was tired, it seems, and went to the village. If you want to know about your son Peter, he says he’s well and that you shouldn’t worry: he’s well, he’s coming soon, he sends his best wishes. Do you hear me, Jonah? Give me some sign.”
He spoke sweetly to him and stroked his leathery shoulders. Who could tell, everything was possible, and this blockhead of a fisherman might be the prophet Jonah. So, best take care!
Old Jonah stooped, snatched a small sea scorpion out of the cauldron, stuffed the whole thing into his mouth and began to chew it, bones and all.
“I’m going,” he mumbled, and he turned his back on them. Once more the pebbles began to crunch. A seagull skimmed over his head, flapped its wings and stopped for a moment as though its eye had caught sight of a crab under the fisherman’s hair. But it uttered a hoarse cry, apparently from fear, and flew away.