My mother, too, is a far better person than I am. Evil is completely foreign to her, so much so that she doesn’t see it when it’s right there in front of her. I envy her ignorance. I am not unacquainted with evil. In order for me to be able to spot it in other people, I have had to have some in myself as well.
I do not lament the fact. Were it not for this dark streak inside me, I could never have fallen in love. Falling in love does not lie in wait for creatures unversed in evil. Not that there is anything evil about love, but to fall in love, one must have those deep abysses to accommodate its profound dizziness.
This does not mean I am a bad man, nor that Madeleine is a bad woman. The dark streak was not active within us. More so for Madeleine than for me, of course. She would never have flown into a rage with the merchants at the Temple. Even if the cause was just, what a terrible memory I have of that anger! A sensation of venom spreading through my blood, ordering me to throw those people out, all that shouting; I hated every moment of it.
Fortunately, right now, I feel nothing of the sort. Even at my trial, when I heard those repulsive testimonies, my anger was not aroused. Indignation is a different fire, it does not cause such abominable suffering. If I managed to keep my scorn to myself, it is because scorn, unlike anger, is not explosive in nature.
Jesus, you won’t get any sleep, going on like this. You have no willpower!
I just woke up.
So, I did nod off after all. A moment of grace. I thank God, reflecting all the while that this really does take the cake, to be thanking him today of all days. But the fact remains: I got some sleep.
I can sense the sweetness of rest flowing through my veins. All it takes is a few minutes of sleep to feel this sensual delight. I savor it, knowing very well that it is for the last time.
I will never wake up again.
A poet, whose name I do not know, will say in the future, “All the pleasure of days is in their mornings.” I share this opinion. I like mornings. There is an inexorable power to that time of day. Even if the most terrible things have happened the day before, there is a purity to mornings.
I feel clean. I am not. My soul is clean this morning. The scorn I was feeling yesterday has vanished. I don’t want to rejoice too soon, yet I have the sudden conviction that I will die without hatred. I hope I’m not mistaken.
A final pee in a corner of the jail, then I lie back down and lo and behold, a miracle: it’s raining.
It’s the wrong time of year for rain. I find myself hoping it will last. They would have to cancel the show: a crucifixion in the rain would be a total flop; the audience would desert. The Romans need their tortures to draw crowds, otherwise they worry there is disapproval. They think if the people get entertainment, they won’t care about politics. Bad weather pays no heed to circumstances, but Rome has ears that can hear great distances: to crucify three men without the commoners turning up en masse would be considered a snub.
I’ve always loved the feeling of being sheltered the moment it starts raining harder and harder. It’s a wonderful sensation. Somewhat foolishly, we associate it with serenity. In truth, it is a moment of pleasure. The sound of rain requires a roof for a sound box: to be under that roof is the best place to enjoy the concert. A delightful score, changing subtly, rhapsodic without showing off: any common downpour has something of a blessing about it.
Now it’s becoming more of a deluge. I imagine a different fate. The authorities are fleeing the rising waters. They let me go. I return to my province, I marry Madeleine, we lead the simple life of ordinary people. Having been a mediocre carpenter, I turn to sheep herding. We make cheese with the ewe’s milk. Every evening, our children delight in it and they grow like plants. We grow old and happy.
Am I tempted? Yes. When I was younger, I rejoiced in being the chosen one. Now I no longer have that hunger, it has been sated. I would rather return to the sweetness of anonymity, wrongfully known as banality. And yet, there is nothing more extraordinary than a shared life. I love everyday life. Its repetitiveness allows one to deepen the sparkling moments of day and night: eating bread fresh from the oven, walking barefoot on the ground still damp with dew, filling one’s lungs with fresh air, lying next to one’s beloved—how could anyone want anything else?
That life, too, ends with death. I suppose, all the same, that dying is very different when it is the work of time: you die surrounded by your loved ones; it must be like falling asleep. If I could avoid this violence foretold, I could wish for nothing better.
The rain has stopped. My exquisite what-if has come to an end.
All will come to pass.
“Accept it,” whispers a kindly voice inside my head.
A wise man from Asia has suggested that hope and fear are the two sides of a same feeling, and that is why one must give up both of them. It makes sense: I have known hope—in vain, and now my terror is so much greater. However, the message that sends me to my death will not condemn hope. Perhaps it is a chimera, but the love that pours from me contains a hopefulness that has no counterpart in fear.
All the same, I will have to endure infinite suffering. “Accept it.” Do I have any choice? I accept it, if only to suffer less.
-
They have come for me at last.
I give a sigh of relief. The worst is behind me. It’s no longer just a matter of waiting for the ordeal.
I am quickly disillusioned. Now the show has begun. They’ve placed a crown of thorns on my head, pressing it down to make my scalp bleed. I’m sorry to say that ridicule does not kill.
I am publicly flogged. I cannot see the point of this spectacle. You could swear it’s some sort of appetizer. Before the main course, the crucifixion, there’s nothing like a little flogging to whet the appetite. Every crack of the whip leaves me stiff with pain. The kindly voice in my head repeats that I must accept. Just behind it, a grating voice resounds, “The fun and games have only just begun.” I stifle a nervous laugh which might be taken for insolence. It’s a pity I’m not supposed to be impertinent, that would amuse me.
I refuse to dwell on the fact that the whip is tearing me apart with pain: what lies ahead will be even more painful. And to think it’s actually possible to suffer even more than this!
There are some spectators, but not that many. This is for the happy few: they’ve been hand-picked, connoisseurs who can appreciate what they’re seeing. They seem to find the cast first-rate: the torturer excels at his flogging, the victim is modest, a most tasteful performance. Thank you, Pontius Pilate, your receptions continue to live up to their reputation. If you don’t mind, we won’t stay for the next round of festivities, which is bound to be more vulgar.
A blazing sun greets me outside. Did they flog me for that long? The morning has gone by. My eyes take several minutes to adjust to the glare. Suddenly, I see the crowd. Now there really is a crush. There are so many people you can hardly tell them apart. They share a single, avid gaze. They don’t want to lose a single crumb of the spectacle.
Not a trace of the night’s cool rain lingers in the air. The ground, however, still attests to its passage: it’s as muddy as it gets. I stare at the cross leaning against the wall. I mentally calculate its weight. Will I be able to carry it? Will I manage?
Absurd questions: I have no choice. Whether I’m able to or not, I’ll have to do it.
They bring the cross to me. It’s so heavy I could collapse. I am staggered. There’s no way around it. How will I manage?
To walk as quickly as possible: that’s the only way. Fat chance: my legs are like jelly. Every step requires an unthinkable effort. I work out the distance to Mount Calvary. It’s impossible. I’ll die long before I get there. It’s almost good news, I won’t be crucified.