by John Rechy
“Lady, I’m not sure we should dwell further on any lovemaking.” Madame tried to make her admonition seem one that any reasonable person would agree to without objection, but her voice quavered, her breathing rising nervously.
“Oh, but we must dwell there, Madame — and I shall.” My words could not have been firmer. I wanted, with my exact memories, to celebrate that cherished time.
In the shifting light of a benign evening — a sprinkle of stars had appeared where the edge of the sky was preparing dusk — their bodies on the ground glistened golden with the moisture of perspiration and desire as one movement glided into another, as if their bodies were involved in a beautiful dance of sensuality.
I leaned toward them.
A sudden breeze coaxed the leaves of palm trees to thrust a shadow on the sand. Under the enthralled gaze of the loitering sun, the shifting bodies pressing against each other became one. That united body moaned softly, thrust, and spilled.
Judas lay back, and held one arm out for Jesus to rest his head on.
It had worked! The deadly journey would not occur!
Jesus dressed. Without looking back, he walked away, disappearing into waves of desert heat.
Judas’s arm remained outstretched, embracing nothing.
XXIX
EVERYTHING PROCEEDED as if the interlude in the desert at dusk had not occurred. In his sermons, Jesus spoke harshly about “Heaven’s judgment on sinners.”
When Judas questioned him — with a dark look and a tilt of his head — Jesus would answer only, “My Father decrees judgment.”
“On our love?”
I wished that Judas could have withdrawn his words. I dreaded what Jesus might answer now. I should not have been afraid.
“I shall never judge our love wrong,” Jesus said.
Judas sighed. My heart rejoiced, for me, yes, but far, far more for Judas . . . and for Jesus.
“Then why —?” Judas did not finish; Jesus had already said:
“But nothing must compromise my Father’s business.” He had moved on to join the disciples nearby. Peter’s hostile stare remained on Judas.
“Lady,” Madame interrupted emphatically, “this is a point I’m sure will come up at interviews, perhaps even belligerently. I think it wise to deal with it forthrightly.” She fingered her necklace of marquise emeralds as if it were a simple rosary; Madame does not believe that jewelry should intimidate. “You make it clear that Jesus had not become a moralist . . . about . . . about . . . about such matters as you described during the incident at dusk.”
“I did indeed make that clear, Madame. Jesus never became a moralist.” She was right, however, that the point must be emphasized. I did not even attempt to restrain the passion I knew would flow into my sharp denunciation: “Others — twisted preachers, ministers, cardinals, rabbis, and especially popes — including, yes, the Pope who now conspires against me from the Grand Cathedral — it was they who distorted Jesus’ teachings into props for their own fears, inadequacies, envies — and especially into the shape of their own cruelties. Although Jesus’ means of achieving his goal shifted, he remained committed, in his heart — and Judas and I never questioned this — to true morality and —” I forgot her phrase.
“— social justice,” she supplied.
“— yes, for all the dispossessed.”
Madame sighed. “Oh, I’m relieved to have this cleared, because people are so peculiar about” — she coughed — “such things — and do prepare yourself, Lady. Mild as you may believe you made it, your description of what occurred at dusk between Jesus and Judas as you watched — resplendently naked —” She awarded me the last two words graciously, although her voice did rise precariously high. “— will not be greeted easily.”
“If my description was ‘mild,’ Madame” — I did not like the ring of her word — “it was so only because I viewed that beautiful interlude from the distance.”
“Precisely.”
Had she forgotten that she herself had often expressed more than a modicum of resistance in the area of “such things”? My look of surprise may have helped her to recollect just that. With a smile determined to be subtle, she said, “I’ve warned you, Lady, that, now and then, I might be forced to stand in as a cynical interviewer. Perhaps in the area in question — the matter we’ve been discussing — I succeeded so well that you may have thought that I was speaking for myself.” She studied her cup of tea intently — or she was simply hiding her face because surely she had every reason to blush at such a declaration.
She must have perceived that I knew that because she did this:
She held her head up, a motion that could not help but lift her bosom proudly, and said, “Whatever! I can tell you now that I am not — repeat, am not — a prude.” She emphasized her conviction by treating herself to an especially large almond tart that she had been courting all afternoon but had so far managed to avoid. She did not even notice that Ermenegildo was stretching his neck, having himself been courting the very same tart.
A waft of the stale, opulent perfume from the new flowers, whose shape distorted those in Eden, pushed me away from the present, and back to Jerusalem.
It was now clear — Judas reported this to me after wandering about the City to gather all such possible information — that Jesus’ transformation from rebellious reformer to God’s messenger was bewildering and frightening to the rulers of the State. His claim that he was the Messiah — other roaming preachers claimed that and were laughed at — did not threaten them so much as the power that might be seized by someone who was believed by the populace to be the Messiah. Although his promise now was of a vague kingdom as reward for suffering — and subservience among the people would only strengthen the rulers’ power — hadn’t this same man not long ago been a radical? Was his new “vision” a ploy to gain more power as a perceived Messiah and then shift his message and use his vast authority to stir the growing numbers of his followers to rebel? If he was to be checked, it must be while loyalty to him was still only shaping.
On a day when the sun blazed fiery orange in the City and yellow waves of heat radiated from the desert, Judas told me urgently, “The talk on the streets is that he’ll be arrested. Tonight. Jesus knows that.”
I didn’t believe him, didn’t want to believe him. So my heart sank when, immediately after, Jesus called us and his disciples to join him — “for a very special supper” — in the abandoned room we had made our own near the Mount of Olives.
We sat at the long table Joseph had carved. That was all that was left of him, I thought.
Jesus spoke in solemn riddles:
“This is my body.” He passed pieces of bread to the disciples seated with him.
“This is my blood.” He poured red wine.
The disciples welcomed participating in these mysterious rituals and ceremonies as added confirmation of their closeness to Jesus. Whether they understood his riddles or not, they joined unquestioningly, devoutly. I myself attributed these rites to Jesus’ glorious sense of drama. Most often, Judas would agree with me, while adding with a smile, “But sometimes — don’t you agree? — it veers on melodrama.”
Tonight Judas was not accepting.
He rose angrily from the table and grasped Jesus roughly by the shoulders, pushing the robe off his torso so that he clasped bare flesh. “This is your body,” he said. “And if you’re crucified, your blood will be real. Not this.” He had struck the table so hard that a glass of wine had overturned and spilled, deep red.
Peter challenged Judas: “How can you doubt our Lord?” He rushed to Jesus’ side, to cover him with the robe that had fallen off his shoulders.
Judas answered heatedly, “What’s said between me and Jesus is not for you to question. Or even listen to.” Peter reached out to grab Judas. Judas thrust his hand away. The two scuffled. I marveled at Judas’s agile strength. Jesus restrained them.
We ate silently — tensely aware of the sounds of a dry desert wind t
hat had begun to gather at sunset. I rose from the table, as if only to reach for a bread basket, but actually to do this: I touched Judas, trying to calm his anger and fear.
“Tonight I’ll pray in the Garden of Gethsemane,” Jesus said.
At any other time, I would have been impressed by the stroke of drama in his choice of that garden for evening prayers on this night of heated desert winds. It was an ominous garden of interlocking shadows created by olive trees and the jagged ruins of a temple. But this night was tense with real danger. Soundless distant lightning sliced like a glinting knife into the dark sky.
Judas and I joined Jesus when he stood ready to make his way to the garden. When they realized that we would go with him, Peter, James — the tall one — and John decided to follow.
We reached the garden. The hot fitful wind gnarled the branches of trees into coves of darkness. Then it subsided, leaving only the scraping of falling palm fronds to fade into a waiting stillness.
Jesus knelt, his elbows on a craggy stone, his hands pressed solemnly before his lips. No breeze sighed now for moments. The moonless night draped heat over us.
He wants us all to remember all this exactly as it’s occurring! I was certain.
Uncommonly deep into the night, Jesus knelt and prayed. No, this was not his usual mysterious drama. Something enormous was being prepared for.
Does he know exactly what? That question occurred powerfully now.
Peter, James, and John fell asleep.
Only Judas and I kept our vigil with him, as the night — impossible — grew darker, hotter. Even the few stars that had dotted the sky earlier melted into the blackening sky.
When Jesus rose, Judas blocked his path. “They’re planning your arrest, you know it, and you’re directing it. It’s gone far enough. I won’t allow it to proceed. We’ll make our way out by the back of the garden, and then —” The sound of his raised voice violated the sudden hot, but frozen, quiet of the garden — the leaves of surrounding trees stirred, but without making any sound; they just moved as the wind waited to spring again.
Jesus faced Judas, faced me, all dark shadows. Although he whispered, we recognized the voice we had cherished during intimate moments: “Beloved Judas, beloved Magdalene, trust me. Trust God. It will proceed only as far as He intends, no more.”
“And how far will that be? To Calvary, to Golgotha? The place where even stones form skulls, where everything reeks of death? Does God intend that?” Judas challenged.
“I won’t be harmed,” Jesus said. “God promised me that. You were with me; we were together; remember, Judas, Magdalene? Remember?”
“I remember when we ate the mushrooms,” Judas asserted, “when we all saw visions, heard voices — hallucinations!”
Jesus said firmly, “He asserted what I hadn’t believed before from my mother — what she already knew — that He had chosen me to carry out his mission —”
“Oh, don’t you see? Mary prepared you to be convinced. Then you were — under the spell of the mushrooms — but none of it was real, just your imagination, guided —” Judas challenged.
“My journey has been dictated by God —” It seemed to pain him to have to explain words that might separate us. “— and that mission is to purge mankind’s sins, from the beginning, to allow salvation at last. There is no substitute for salvation.”
Judas turned away. “Riddles, riddles.”
Jesus spoke his words with even graver care. “What better time to spread the word of His power than when He’ll thwart all the harm they’ll attempt on me?”
What guarantee? I longed to ask. I had experienced too many betrayals on the streets to allow unquestioned hope.
He answered my unasked question: “No harm shall fall on me. God won’t betray me — and he won’t betray my mother.”
His lone shadow flowed into the darkness as he moved down ancient crumbling steps. With renewed force, gathering even more heat from the desert plains, wind swept across the garden.
I detected the powerful, almost overwhelming perfume of flowers, a heavy redolence — it was not a scent — I had never before noticed. I looked around. There were no blossoms in this Garden of Gethsemane. From within the remains of the fallen temple, a bird flew out. The rustle of its wings scratched at the wind. Cawing — or did it scream? — the bird disappeared, a slice of blackness, darker than the sky.
“Jesus is certain God will save him before anyone can harm him,” Judas said in awe as he continued to stare after Jesus. He was only now allowing himself to face that Jesus believed, truly believed, that he was the Messiah. Judas seemed to be about to shout his protest of impending danger — he looked up, challenging the sky — but all that came from his throat was a sigh.
We hurried to catch up with Jesus as he walked down the stone path toward the edge of the garden. We passed Peter, James, John, who woke, startled, aware only then that they had fallen asleep.
“I closed my eyes only briefly, Lord,” Peter asserted.
The light of distant torches advanced, streaks of fire in the wind.
Judas grasped Jesus, turning him around. “Run away!”
Jesus did not move.
As if the power of his passion would convince him, Judas kissed Jesus roughly on the lips.
He would respond, I prayed. Then, this spell would break, and we would run away, Jesus and Judas and I, and we —
Peter stepped forward in bewildered threat at what he had seen, the kiss.
Jesus faced ahead, waiting. Judas withdrew, surrendering in horror to what was happening: Soldiers — and some of the rulers and a smattering of priests with them, half-hidden, intermingling — surrounded us.
And behind them all, as if materializing out of the darkness, strange bands of men, women — old, young — were approaching. I could hear their voices — no, only angered, wordless sounds.
Peter whispered urgently to James and John: “Judas betrayed our Lord, with a kiss. Whatever else happens tonight, remember that.” Only I overheard those terrible words, but there was no time now to deny them. Events were crashing about us —
“But, Lady, there would come a time when you would tell the truth,” Madame gladdened me by saying firmly.
“Yes, Madame. Yes!”
One of the priests derided Jesus: “Are you the son of God?”
“Deny it!” Judas begged.
Hope sputtered again. Jesus would disclaim what they wanted him to say; he would not allow the easy charge of blasphemy.
He remained silent, serene.
“You’ll answer that to the high priest Annas,” one of the rulers sneered.
The soldiers advanced to bind Jesus.
Jesus held out his hands to them, without fear. He glanced up as if in assertion of a sacred covenant.
As they marched Jesus away under disintegrating arches choked by coils of dark vines in the garden, Judas said urgently to me, “The rulers want him dead now — but only Pontius Pilate can pronounce the sentence.” Even within the increasing blackness of this night, pain and fear darkened Judas’s face as if a heavy shadow had been flung by the wind only on him. He rushed his words: “Pilate loves his wife, go to her, Magdalene, persuade her, do whatever you must, we need more time to —” He could not find definite words. “We need more time! I have to stay with him.”
Already, Judas was wending his way into the crowd of shadowy men and women who had just joined in the arrest — their voices only a steady drone of menacing sounds.
How was it possible that night was extending so long?
Disguised as a servant, I made my way toward the chambers of Pilate’s wife. I heard moans, sighs. I waited, pretending to be sorting flowers in a vase, an arrangement of white orchids that seemed to have been sprinkled with golden pollen. I pretended to be peering at them when I heard Pilate emerging out of the chamber. He was adjusting his toga. He called back, grumbling, “I’m sorry, dear, they’re bringing someone over. So early, too,” he seemed to lament to himself.
At any other time I would have noticed that he was a handsome man.
I moved into the chamber he had just left. His wife was lying naked on the bed, a beautiful woman. One full, milky breast was partially concealed by her long hair, which parted exactly to reveal its nipple. She uncurled her smooth legs, and I could not help but notice in surprise that the light patch between her thighs glistened with what looked like the golden pollen on the white orchids I had seen outside in a vase. One of the flowers rested nearby, abandoned, on the marble floor. The woman started when she saw me — and then quickly recognized me.
“You’re the woman who follows that man they claim is holy.”
I simply nodded.
“I remember even more now, some time back,” the woman said. “I was in my carriage. A crowd was about to stone you. The man they call Jesus interceded.”
“Yes, but we staged it all, to teach those vile men a lesson.”
Pilate’s wife stood up, unashamed in her nudity, exhibiting it. A sprinkle of golden pollen fell to her bare feet.
“You staged it?” she asked.
“Staged,” I reiterated. Had I begun with a misstep?
“How delicious!” she laughed.
I wanted to embrace her with relief. “Now I’m here to beg with you for his life.”
“He’s in danger?”
“They’re bringing him before your husband.” I rushed my words. “They say he’s committed blasphemy, that he claims to be the Messiah.”
“How silly.” She sat before a mirror and dabbed at her face, cleansing it.
“Yes, but it can lead to crucifixion, unless —”
Pilate’s wife turned to face me. She stood up. Sequins of glistening pollen from the white orchid fell as she walked slowly toward me. She stood close to me. She drew my dress from my breasts. “Beautiful,” she said. “My dear, I do believe there is nothing in the world more beautiful than the beautiful breasts of a beautiful woman. Men are so wise to notice that.” She touched the dab of hair between her legs, then touched one of my breasts with the same finger; a dot of golden pollen remained there.
