The Mud

"You! You!" she shouted, covering her lips and eyes with her palms.

"Mary," he said, "forgive me!"

Magdalene burst into a fit of hoarse heart-rending laughter.

You thought her vocal cords were about to snap into a thousand pieces.

"Mary," he repeated, "forgive me!"

And then she jumped up onto her knees, tightly enclosed in the sheet, and lifted her fist:

"Is this why you entered my yard, my young gallant? Is this why you mixed yourself in with my lovers: to hoax your way into my house in order to bring God the bogeyman down to me here on my hot bed? Well, you're late, my friend, very late; and as for your God, I don't want him—he's already broken my heart!" 

She moaned and spoke at the same time, and her infuriated breast heaved up and down behind the sheet.

"He's broken my heart, broken my heart...," she moaned again, and two tears welled up into her eyes and remained suspended on her long lashes…

"Don't blaspheme, Mary. I'm to blame, not God. That's why I came: I want to beg your forgiveness." 

But Magdalene exploded:

"You and your God have the identical snout; you're one and the same and I can't tell you apart. Sometimes I happen to think of him at night, and when I do curse the hour!—it's with your face that he bears down on me out of the darkness; and when I chance to meet you on the street—-curse the hour!  I feel that it's still God. I see rushing directly for me." 

She lifted her fist into the air:

"Don't bother me with God," she yelled. "Get out of here and don't let me see you again. There's only one refuge and consolation for me—the mud! Only one synagogue where I enter to pray and cleanse myself—the mud!"

"Mary, listen to me, let me speak, don't fall into despair. That's exactly what I've come for, my sister: to pull you out of the mud.  I have committed many sins. I'm on my way to the desert now to expiate them—many sins, Mary, but your calamity weighs on me the most."

Magdalene thrust her sharp nails towards the unexpected guest, maniacally, as though she wanted to tear open his cheeks.

"What calamity?" she shrieked. "I'm getting along fine, just fine; I don't need your holiness's compassion! I fight my own fight, all alone, and I ask no help from men, or from gods or devils either. I'm fighting to save myself, and save myself I will."

"Save yourself from what, from whom?"

"Not, as you think, from the mud, God bless it! That's where all my hopes are-in the mud. It's my road of salvation."

"The mud?"

"Yes, the mud: shame, filth, this bed, this body of mine, covered as it is with bites and bemired with the whole world's drivel, sweat and slime! Don't cast your covetous sheep's eye upon me like that. Keep your distance, coward! I don't want you here.  You disgust me, don't touch me! In order to forget one man, in order to save myself—I've surrendered my body to all men!" 

The son of Mary lowered his head.

"It's my fault," he repeated in a strangulated voice, and he clutched the strap which was tied around him, still splashed with blood. 

"Forgive me, my sister. It's my fault, but I shall pay off my debt."

Savage laughter again tore the woman’s throat:

"You bleat away piteously: 'It's my fault..., it's my fault, my sister.., I shall save you..,' but oh no, you don't lift your head like a man to confess the truth. You crave my body, and instead of saying so, which you wouldn't dare, you start blaming my soul and saying you want to save it. What soul, day-dreamer? A woman's soul is her flesh. You know it, you know it; but you don't have the courage to take this soul in your arms like a man and kiss it— kiss it and save it! I pity you and detest you!"

"You're possessed with seven devils, strumpet" cried the youth now, who had turned fiery red with shame.

“Seven devils.  Yes, your unlucky father is right."

Magdalene shuddered. She angrily gathered her hair into a coil and tied it up with a ribbon of red silk. For a considerable time she did not speak, but finally her lips moved:

"Not seven devils, son of Mary, not seven devils-seven wounds. You must learn that a woman is a wounded doe. She has no other joy, poor thing, except to lick her wounds...."

Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with one sweep of her palm, then exploded in a frenzy:

"Why did you come here? What do you want from me, standing over my bed like that? Go away!" 

The young man came one step closer.

"Mary, try to remember back to when we were still small children...”

"I don't remember! What kind of man are you? Still driveling?  You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You never had the courage to stand up by yourself like a man and not rely on anyone. If you're not hanging on to your mother’s apron strings, you're hanging on to mine, or God's. You can't stand by yourself, because you're scared. You don't dare look deep into your own soul - or into your body for that matter-because you're scared. And now you're off to the desert to hide, to stick your snout into the sand—because you're scared! Scared, scared! Poor fellow, I detest you, I pity you, and whenever I bring you to mind, my heart cracks in two."

Unable to continue, she began to weep. Although she wiped her eyes rabidly, the tears, together with her make-up, ran more and more furiously and bemired the sheets.

The young man felt a spasm in his heart. Oh, if he could only lose his fear of God, could only clasp her in his arms, wipe away her tears, caress her hair and gladden her heart; then take her with him and leave!

If he was a man, truly, that was what he had to do to save her.  What did she care about fasting, prayer and monasteries? No, these were not the way - how could they possibly save a woman?

To take her from this bed, to leave, to open a workshop in a distant village, for the two of them to live like man and wife, have children, suffer and rejoice like human beings: that was the woman's way of salvation and the way in which the man could be saved with her—the only way!

Niko Kazantzakis, The Last Temptation of Christ