The Gospel According to Lazarus

by Richard Zimler

  Unfortunately, the Lord of Creation abandons me when the Nubian young woman I have chosen kneels before me, and she and I are unable to entice him to return.

  As though sensing my despair, Gephen steals into bed with me that night. He curls into my belly and purrs consolingly, as if to remind me that, at the very least, Yeshua is far away and safe.

  When I wake in the night, I tiptoe to my children’s room. I watch them sleep, for it is by their side that I am still able to believe that I can choose the future I want.

  I cannot say how, but observing the two of them also graces me with a revelation: Annas would have ordered at least one spy to watch my every movement and make certain that I have been keeping silent about my resurrection. The man would have been told to plunge his dagger into my heart if I were to slip up even once.

  Goliath …

  Being dead for two days must have slowed down the workings of my mind, for I ought to have understood much sooner who he was and why he has been trailing me.

  20

  Yirmi and I step outside into the chilly dawn shortly after cock-crow, intending to visit Yeshua’s mother and then head to Lucius’ villa. But a large group of people are waiting for my blessings outside my door, including an ancient widow with so crooked a back that she resembles the Hebrew letter dalet.

  My blessing is not enough for her, and she begs me for a charm that will permit her to stand up straight. At a loss to know what to do, I give her one of the tesserae I always keep in my scrip. She tucks it under her tongue and assures me – tears rolling down her cheeks – that she will tell her children and her children’s children about the mitzvah I did for her this day – and never take my gift from her mouth.

  Will the hope I’ve given her only deepen her despair when no miracle takes the bend from her back? And will the others I soon bless return for vengeance when they find that their ills have not disappeared?

  Yirmi and I find Maryam still asleep, so we leave word with her niece, Helena, that Nikodemos has assured me that Yeshua is returning this morning to the safety of the Galilee.

  On our walk to work, I look behind us whenever we turn a corner, but I do not spot Goliath. In all likelihood he has grown more cautious. Or, if good fortune is with me, then Annas has realized by now that I shall keep my vow to him and has withdrawn his henchman.

  A sense of embarking on a journey – of escaping forced isolation – eases my heart as we reach the Upper Town. There, the swallows of Yerushalayim – who are the most wild-hearted and talkative in Zion – dart around us as though guiding us to treasure. A woolly-looking carob tree peers at us over the disintegrating wall of an old villa, greeting us with its shimmering brown pods. I face the sunrise and breathe in on its crimson-and-rose radiance, and, when my son and I overhear morning prayers coming through the open window of a house near by, we repeat them to ourselves, hand in hand, eager to embrace the community of words that we have inherited from Mosheh.

  My bruised rib voices few complaints this morning, which is a solemn relief. But the continuing pains in my right leg make it difficult for me to climb uphill. Still, I refuse my son’s assistance and deny any discomfort, since I do not want him to worry about me. When I am forced to pause on one occasion, I tell him that I want to admire the exuberant purple wildflowers growing out of the ancient roof tiles of a house just ahead – and it does indeed seem worth reminding ourselves of the colourful affection of plants for the sun.

  We no longer see the glories of God that have become familiar, I think when I finally turn my eyes from the blossoms.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Yirmi asks a few moments later, because, without realizing it, I have begun staring at him.

  ‘Nothing,’ I tell him, though I catch myself wondering what I fail to see in his face because we are together every day. Did he always have my mother’s delicate lips, and is it fair of me to be sure from the suspicious way he looks at me that he will grow to share her love of secrecy?’

  Blue.

  I see now that that is the colour of my love for him, because it is the colour of the sky and the sea, and of their union at the horizon, which, in the language of Torah, is also the home of all those who love honestly and fully.

  When I tell my son this, he says, ‘Father, you don’t speak like anyone else I know.’

  In case I might interpret his comment as an insult, he grimaces comically and sticks out his tongue. Leah used to call it his frog face.

  It fills me with hope to know that he is again at ease with me after the humiliations of the previous day.

  Soon after we set off again, I recall that the Gate of Sabbath will open today at sundown. My sisters and I shall then join hands with our children and with Grandfather Shimon, and – together with Gephen and Ayin – we shall board our Ark and continue our pilgrimage to the centre of God’s creation, as we always have.

  What I most love about the Sabbath are the sacred prayers we speak, which are soft and honeyed in my mouth, as though created by God to feed the first man and woman and all their children.

  Yirmi and I work all day on my mosaic at the bottom of Lucius’ swimming pool, and it is a relief to inhabit my hands. In the late morning, my employer visits us. From the rim at the pool, he surveys our latest improvements with a hopeful face. At length, he nods to himself – satisfied with what he has seen – and asks how much longer the mosaic will take.

  This is a question to which he already knows the answer, but he asks me every few days all the same.

  ‘I’m still uncertain,’ I answer, wiping the sweat from my brow with my hand.

  ‘But seriously, Eli, a week, two weeks … What do you think?’

  ‘A month if you keep me talking!’

  Despite his ugly frown and grumbling retreat, Lucius reveals how pleased he is with my progress by serving my son and me his best Anatolian wine with our midday meal.

  Late that afternoon, as we are making ready to leave, he leads an elderly Roman guest to the pool. The visitor has grey whiskers on his cheeks and stunning sky-blue eyes, and his languid, gracious, feminine hand gestures make me think of Aphroditos, the bearded Aphrodite worshipped in Cyprus.

  After we exchange greetings, the elderly gentleman, whose name is Paullus, gestures towards Yirmi. ‘And is this your son?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, his name is Yirmiyahu, though we call him Yirmi.’

  I summon the boy to come to me and put my hands on his shoulders, since he looks as if he is searching his mind for an incantation that will render him invisible.

  ‘Do you understand me when I speak Greek, Yirmi?’ Paullus asks.

  ‘Naí, olígin ti,’ he replies, meaning only a little.

  ‘I’m afraid my son is being modest,’ I interject. ‘He takes lessons from a learned master of Greek and is fast becoming fluent.’

  ‘My teacher, Rabbi Elad, was born in Elis,’ Yirmi explains.

  ‘I’ve been two Elis on two occasions!’ Paullus tells us, smiling brightly in order to encourage my son, which wins me to him straight away.

  ‘Then you’ve seen … seen the statue of Zeus … in Olympia?’ Yirmi stammers excitedly.

  ‘Indeed I have, young man.’

  ‘Is he really covered in gold and ivory? And as gigantic as Rabbi Elad says? Will I be able to go right up to him and touch him if I visit?’

  Paullus laughs good-naturedly at my son’s enthusiasm. ‘The statue of Zeus of which you speak is ten times the height of the tallest man,’ he replies. ‘And the shine of the dawn sun off his golden robes is blinding. But what is truly astonishing about him is that he always seems ready to stand and speak. His hands, his sandalled feet, his lips … every part of him seems ready to come to life, which is why it is said that the sculptor, Phidias, must also have been a masterful sorcerer.’ Paullus raises his hands in the way Romans do to signify obedience to Olympus. ‘So many visitors from distant ports have fainted from God-terror while approaching Zeus that the residents recommend that one always worship him accompanied
by a local. They call the condition Olympian Vertigo.’

  He uses the word sunkope to indicate the onset of dizziness and loss of strength that overwhelms worshippers; it is a beautiful, wedge-shaped word that I had somehow forgotten.

  Lucius nibbles on a small roundel of cheese as we converse. He explains that he has an important business deal with a mining developer pending and that he has been told by his personal augur to eat only that one food until it is concluded, since the Latin word for cheese – caseus – has a similar sound to the word golden, aureus.

  The four of us talk more of the marvels of the Greek world, but our conversation soon reaches the impasse of those whose differing social positions will always prevent them from embarking on true friendship. Paullus puts us at ease, however, with his generous-hearted smile and tells me he has two questions for me. ‘If you will permit me, that is.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply.

  ‘Why are the flames black in your menorah?’

  To encourage my son to participate in our conversation, I ask him to reply for me.

  ‘Because they symbolize the letters of the Torah,’ he says, gazing down as if I might reprimand him for not giving the reply that I would have given; to be thirteen years old is truly to be a prisoner of all one’s misgivings.

  ‘Tell me more, young man!’ Paullus says, bemused twinkling in his eyes.

  Yirmi turns to me and gives me a pleading look, so I say, ‘The letters of the Torah are generally written in black against the white background of vellum or papyrus.’

  ‘But why do you symbolize them as flames?’

  ‘Under the right circumstances, each letter of the Torah may catch fire.’

  ‘What circumstances are those?’

  ‘When the person chanting scripture seeks the hidden life of the God who dwells deep below the letters. And when the Holy One wishes to be found. The flames serve as torches, lighting the way of those who receive His grace.’

  ‘Are these flames real?’ he asks.

  I have been asked that question before and offer Paullus my practised reply. ‘Are the numbers that you use to do calculations in your head – one, two, three and so on … Are they real?’

  He takes a sharp inhale of breath. ‘I … I’ve never considered that question.’

  ‘If they were merely an illusion, would you be able to add them together?’ I continue.

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ he says, though his voice is unsure. He furrows his brow, then laughs, amused by his own confusion – a sure sign of a curious and intelligent mind. ‘And have you ever found any of your gods this way?’ he asks.

  ‘We only have one God,’ I remind him. ‘And I have never seen Him. But I have a close companion from childhood who has been so blessed.’

  ‘I would very much like to meet this man.’

  ‘I will tell him of your desire,’ I say.

  At the time, I am certain that I am merely being polite and that I shall never try to bring Paullus together with Yeshua, but I am wrong.

  ‘And now my second question,’ he continues. ‘Who are the two figures in the great bird’s eyes?’

  ‘Ah, that is just a bit of silliness,’ I say with a dismissive laugh, in order to hide my true sentiments.

  ‘What kind of silliness?’

  ‘A visual pun.’

  What I tell him is true enough, but I do not mention the deeper meaning in my design, since I would never reveal any of the greater mysteries to any man or woman who has not been initiated.

  ‘You see,’ I continue, ‘the name of the bird is Ziz, who is mentioned in the Psalms. He is the king of the birds, just as Leviathan is king of the fish. In his right eye, I have placed a woman because Greek word kore means both beloved daughter and pupil of the eye.’

  ‘So who is the kore in the bird’s kore?’ he asks.

  ‘All girls and women,’ I tell him. ‘Symbolically speaking, of course.’

  ‘And in Ziz’s left eye?’

  ‘That would be you and all other men.’

  His eyes brighten as though I have performed an astounding magic trick just for him. When he and Lucius look at each other, they smile with fond complicity. Paullus takes his friend’s hand and holds it over his heart. Looking closely at their locked eyes, I understand that the old gentleman once played an important role in Lucius’ life. And perhaps still does.

  ‘I’d like all your guests to see themselves in the mosaic,’ I say to Paullus when he turns to me again. ‘If they look closely enough, that is.’

  ‘And if they don’t look closely?’

  ‘This may sound rude, but I don’t make my mosaics for those who refuse to observe the world and themselves closely. And I try to surround myself with people who do not run from riddles and paradoxes. “And their eyes were opened, and they knew that they were naked,”’ I quote from the Torah.

  ‘Eliezer has given us some wisdom from our holy book, which was written by an ancient prophet named Mosheh,’ Lucius tells his friend.

  ‘The people whose eyes were opened were the first man and woman,’ I add.

  I point to Adam and Havvah in my mosaic. Paullus kneels down at the rim of the pool for a closer look, and, when he looks back at me, he shows me a mischievous grin. Is he reacting to anatomical accuracy I have given my figures or something greater he has glimpsed in them?

  21

  Is it death that has made me forgetful?

  That evening, it is my niece Yehudit who makes ready to light the Sabbath lamps, so I ask Mia why she has delegated this holy duty to her daughter.

  ‘But, Eli,’ she says, stunned, ‘I touched you while you were in your tomb. I’m ritually unclean.’

  According to the laws of Mosheh, all who come in direct contact with the dead remain tainted for seven days. But what about the dead themselves?

  The panic rising in my chest overflows my limits and spills out – unfairly, I realize – as rage. ‘How many days must the corpse himself wait to regain his purity?’ I demand.

  Mia winces at my use of the word corpse, then stutters an apology.

  Grandfather Shimon – our family elder – pats at the air to indicate our need for calm and asks me to keep anger out of my voice. But no one in the room ventures a reply to my question; none of us can recall any verse from the Torah that might prove of guidance.

  ‘For now, we’ll conduct the ceremony as we always have,’ Marta rushes to say, doing her best to rescue the evening. She asks me with her eyes not to make any trouble, and I would do as she requests, but she then makes a proposal that I consider a veiled attack. ‘If you want,’ she says, ‘Mia and I can go to the Temple tomorrow to ask what to do. Maybe we were wrong to assume we were unclean.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ I shout. ‘I’d never put my life in the hands of Caiaphas and the other priests! What if they tell me I’m forbidden from embracing my children ever again?’

  ‘Eli, don’t raise your voice to me!’ Marta warns.

  ‘I’ll talk to you however I like – this is my life, not yours!’

  My expression must reveal an enmity that goes beyond this time and this place – all the way back to our childhood – because Mia, who is seated on the floor between us, bursts into tears. Nahara is sitting on her lap, and at her age she is a sponge for the emotions of adults, so she starts to cry as well.

  What kind of man does not go to his daughter when she is weeping?

  The kind I am, apparently, since I rush to my front door and go out to the street without another word, and I do not return even when Yirmi calls to me.

  Over the next half-hour, the fury inside me becomes a hyena circling around me. And yet a path to freedom soon presents itself …

  This time, there is no tumult at the door, and I appear to be the only Jew who has slackened in his duties to the Sabbath; a Lydian trader and Egyptian silversmith are the only men sitting in the highly perfumed waiting room when I enter. I choose a slender Etruscan girl who is new to Judaea, and she teaches me t
he words in her language that I most want to learn by touching my tingling fingertips to her breasts and lips and bottom.

  We sip palm wine from the same cup and play our pleasant form of dictionary until we come to the Etruscan word for the moist cleft between her legs, and she tells me the term commonly used in her homeland is vagina, meaning sheath, and it is a word that the Romans have apparently adopted, for I have seen it in graffiti. She asks me – giggling – for its translation into Greek, and, while she is perfecting her pronunciation of myche, I enter her from behind.

  Do I grow unruly from too much drink? All I recall is the girl shoving me away when I ask her to tell me about her childhood and a burly man tugging me out into the street.

  I stumble home and tell the new group of hopeful visitors waiting for me at my door that the blessings of a cadaver will only diminish their chances for a fruitful life. I fall into a drugged sleep in the courtyard. Some time during what must be the third watch of night, I burst awake. Runnels of cold sweat are sliding down my arms and back, and my hair stuck to my neck, as though I have been fleeing desert seraphs. I check on my sleeping children and sit vigil over them, apologizing for the offences I have given them, praying to become the attentive father and pious Jew I was only a few days before.

  Why do so many hopeless tears continue to fall from my eyes?

  I place my head between my legs – as the prophet Eliyahu did on Mount Carmel – and chant the secret names of God I have been entrusted so that He might grant my wish and allow me entrance to the Gate of Mercy. Be gracious to me, I tell Him, for my soul seeks refuge, and in the shadow of your wings I wish to stay until the destruction passes.