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I’m the prophet Jonah, without a doubt, he said to himself. I’ve been resurrected-the shark vomited me up again. But this time I’ve got a little sense in my head: I’m a prophet, all right, but I pretend to be a fisherman and don’t breathe a word to anyone; I don’t want to find myself in hot water all over again… He smiled with satisfaction at his own cu
He left his tools on the floor, rubbed his hands together with satisfaction, opened a cupboard, took out a gourdful of wine, tipped up his short, fat, scaly throat and began to drink, chuckling.
While the two contented old men drank in Capernaum, the son of Mary journeyed along the shore of the lake, plunged deep in thought. He was not all alone: behind him he heard the sand crunching. In Magdalene’s yard new merchants had dismounted and were now sitting cross-legged on the pebbles. They conversed quietly and munched dates and grilled crabs while they awaited their turns. At the monastery the monks had laid the Abbot out in the middle of his cell and were keeping the vigil. He still breathed; his protruding eyes stared at the opened door and his emaciated face was tensed: he seemed to be straining to hear something.
The monks looked at him and whispered among themselves.
“He’s trying to hear whether or not the rabbi has arrived from Nazareth to cure him.”
“He’s trying to hear whether or not the black wings of the archangel are coming near.”
“He’s trying to hear the footsteps of the approaching Messiah.”
They whispered and looked at him, and the soul of each was prepared at that hour to welcome the miracle. They all strained their ears, but they heard nothing except the heavy blows of a hammer on the anvil. In the far corner of the courtyard Judas had lighted his fires and was working through the night.
Chapter Ten
FAR AWAY in Nazareth, Mary the wife of Joseph sat in her simple cottage. The lamp was lighted, the door open. Hurriedly, she wound up the wool which she had spun. She had decided to rise and comb the villages in search of her boy. She wound and wound, but her mind was not on her work. Lonely and hopeless, it roamed the fields, visited Magdala and Capernaum, searched all around the shore of the lake of Ge
Is there no hope my heart may grow calm? her son asked himself early the next morning. He had gone around the lake and now he saw the monastery opposite him, wedged in among green-red rocks. As I proceed and near the monastery, my heart becomes more and more troubled. Why? Haven’t I taken the right road, Lord? It’s toward this holy retreat you’ve been pushing me, isn’t it? Why then do you refuse to extend your hand and gladden my heart?
Two monks dressed all in white appeared at the monastery’s large door. They climbed up onto a rock and gazed out in the direction of Capernaum.
“Still no sign,” said one of them, a half-crazy hunchback with a behind which nearly scraped the ground.
“He’ll be dead by the time they arrive,” said the other, a huge elephant of a man whose mouth, a shark-like slit, reached fully to his ears. “Go ahead, Jeroboam, I’ll keep on the look-out here until the camel appears.”
“Fine,” said the delighted hunchback, sliding down from the rock. “I’ll go and watch him die.”
The son of Mary stood irresolutely on the monastery’s threshold, his heart oscillating like a bell: should he enter or not? The cloister was circular and paved with flagstones. Not a single green tree graced the courtyard, not a flower, not a bird: only wild prickly pears all around. Along the circumference of this round, inhuman desolation were the cells, carved into the rock like tombs.
Is this the kingdom of heaven? the son of Mary asked himself. Is this where man’s heart grows calm?
He looked and looked, unable to decide to cross the threshold. Two black sheep dogs flew out of a corner and began to bark at him.
The stunted hunchback noticed the visitor and silenced the dogs with a whistle. Then he turned and scrutinized the newcomer from top to toe. The young man’s eyes seemed full of affliction to him, the clothes he wore were very poor, and blood trickled from his feet. He felt sorry for him.
“Welcome, brother,” he said. “What wind has tossed you out here into the desert?”
“God!” the son of Mary answered in a deep, despairing voice. The monk got frightened: he had never heard human lips pronounce God’s name with such terror. Folding his arms, he said nothing.
After a short pause, the visitor continued. “I’ve come to see the Abbot.”
“Maybe you’ll see him, but he won’t see you. What do you want with him?”
“I don’t know. I had a dream… I’ve come from Nazareth.”
“A dream?” said the half-crazy monk with a laugh.
“A terrible dream, Father. Since then my heart has had no peace. The Abbot is a saint; God taught him how to explain the languages of birds and dreams. That is why I came.”
It had never entered his mind to come to this monastery to ask the Abbot to explain the dream he had on the night he constructed the cross: that wild chase in his sleep and the redbeard rushing in front and the dwarfs who followed him with their instruments of torture. But now as he stood irresolutely on the threshold, suddenly the dream tore across his mind like a flash of lightning. That’s it! he shouted to himself. I’ve come because of the dream. God sent it in order to show me my road, and the Abbot is going to untangle it for me.
“The Abbot is dying,” said the monk. “You’ve arrived too late, my brother. Go back.”
“God commanded me to come,” the son of Mary replied. “Is he capable of hoaxing his children?”
The monk cackled. He had seen a good deal in his lifetime and had no confidence in God.
“He’s the Lord, isn’t he? So, he does whatever comes into his head. If he wasn’t able to inflict injustice, what kind of an Omnipotent would he be?”
He slapped the visitor on the back. He meant this slap to be a caress, but his huge paw was heavy, and it hurt the youth.
“All right, don’t get worried,” he said. “Here, step inside. I’m the guest master.”
They entered the cloister. A wind had arisen; the sand swirled over the flagstones. An opaque windstorm girded the sun. The air grew dark.
Gaping in the middle of the yard was a dried-out well. At other times it was filled with water, but now it had become filled with sand. Two lizards emerged to warm themselves on its corroded brim. The Abbot’s cell was open. The monk took his visitor by the arm. “Wait here while I ask the brothers for permission. Don’t budge.” He crossed his hands over his chest and entered. The dogs had placed themselves on either side of the Abbot’s threshold. Their necks stretched forward, they sniffed the air and yelped mournfully.