shelter in a caravansary, for it would soon be dusk. At Jerusalem, the group that set out from Nazareth will also separate, most of them heading for Beersheba, which they should reach in two days, while the carpenter and his wife will go to nearby Bethlehem. Amid the confusion of embraces and farewells, Joseph called Simeon aside and, with all humility, asked him if he could remember anything more about his vision. I've already told you, it wasn't a vision. Whatever it was, I must know the destiny that awaits my child. If you don't even know your own destiny as you stand here before me asking questions, how can you expect to know the destiny of an unborn child. The eyes of the soul see further, and since yours have been opened by the Lord to certain manifestations reserved for the chosen, I thought you might have seen something where I see only darkness. You may never live to learn your son's destiny, you may, who knows, meet your own fate very shortly, but no more questions, please, stop all this probing and live for the present. And with these words Simeon placed his right hand on Joseph's head, murmured a blessing no one could hear, and rejoined his relatives and friends, who were waiting for him. In single file they made their way down a winding path to the valley, where Simeon's village nestled at the foot of the opposite slope, the houses almost merging with the boulders that stuck out of the ground like bones. Much later, Joseph would learn that the old man died before he could register.
After spending two nights under the stars, exposed to the cold on the barren plain, with no camp fire, for that might betray their presence, the expedition from Nazareth decided to take refuge once more under the archways of a caravansary. The women helped Mary dismount from the donkey, reassuring her, Come, it'll soon be over, and the poor girl whispered back, I know, I can't have long to wait now, and what clearer proof than that great swollen belly. They made her as comfortable as possible in a quiet corner and set about preparing supper, for it was growing late and the travelers planned to eat together. That night there was no conversation, no prayers or stories around the fire, as if the proximity of Jerusalem demanded respectful silence, each man searching his heart and asking, Who is this person who resembles me yet whom I fail to recognize. This is not what they actually said, for people do not start talking to themselves like that, nor was this even in their conscious thoughts, but there can be no doubt that as we sit staring into the flames of a camp fire, our silence can be expressed only with words like these, which say everything. From where he sat, Joseph could see Mary in profile against the light of the fire. Its reddish reflection softly lit one side of her face, tracing her features in chiaroscuro, and he began to realize, with surprise, that Mary was an attractive woman, if one could say this of a person with such a childlike expression. Of course her body was swollen now, yet he could see the agile, graceful figure she would soon regain once their child was born. Without warning, as if his flesh was rebelling after all these months of enforced chastity, a wave of desire surged through his blood and left him dizzy. Mary called out in pain, but he did not go to her assistance. As if someone had doused him with cold water, the sudden memory of the man who two days ago had walked beside his wife dampened Joseph's ardor. The image of that beggar had been haunting both of them ever since Mary discovered she was pregnant, for Joseph did not doubt that the stranger had been in her thoughts throughout the nine months. He could not bring himself to ask his wife what kind of man he was or where he went when he suddenly left. The last thing he wanted was to hear her say in bewilderment, A man, what man. And were Joseph to insist, no doubt Mary would ask the other women to testify, Did any of you see a man in our group, and they would deny seeing him and shake their heads at any such suggestion, and one of them might even answer in jest, Any man who hangs around women all the time is after only one thing. But Joseph would not believe Mary's surprise and that she had not seen the beggar, whether it was man or ghost. I saw him with my own eyes as he walked beside you, he would insist, but Mary, not faltering, would say, As is written in holy law, a wife must obey her husband, so if you insist you saw a beggar walking beside me, I will not contradict you, but believe me I didn't see him. It was the same beggar. But how can you tell, if you didn't see him the first time he appeared. It could only have been him. Much more likely to have been some traveler who was walking so slowly that we all overtook him, first the men, then the women, and he was probably alongside our group when you chanced to look back. Ah, so you admit he was there. Not at all, I'm simply trying as a dutiful wife to find some explanation that will satisfy you. Drowsy, Joseph watches Mary through half-closed eyes in the hope that he will find the truth in her face, but her face is now cast in shadow like the waning moon, her profile a vague outline in the light of the dying embers. Joseph nods, overcome by the effort of trying to understand, taking with him, as he falls asleep, the absurd idea that the beggar might be the image of his own son emerging from the future to tell him, This is what I'll look like one day, but you won't live to see it. Joseph slept with a resigned smile on his lips, a sad smile. He thought he heard Mary saying, God forbid that this beggar has nowhere to rest his head. For verily I say unto you that many things in this world could be known before it is too late, if husbands and wives would only confide in each other as husbands and wives.
Early next morning, most of the travelers who had spent the night in the caravansary left for Jerusalem, but those on foot stayed together, so that Joseph, without losing sight of his countrymen who were heading for Beersheba, accompanied his wife this time, walking alongside her as he had seen the beggar walk, or whatever he was. Joseph is convinced now that God bestowed a favor by allowing him to see his own son even before he is born, a son not wrapped in swaddling clothes, a tiny, unformed creature, smelly and bawling, but a fully grown man, taller than his father and most of the males of his race. Joseph is pleased to be taking his son's place, he is at once father and child, and this feeling is so strong that his real child, the unborn infant inside his mother's womb and heading for Jerusalem, suddenly becomes unimportant.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the pilgrims call out devoutly as the city comes into sight, rising before them like an apparition on the crest of the hill beyond the valley, a truly celestial city, the center of the universe. Sparkling in all directions under the midday sun, it is a crystal crown which will turn to purest gold at sunset and ivory in moonlight. Jerusalem, O Jerusalem. The Temple appears at that very moment, as if set there by God, and the sudden breeze that caresses the faces, hair, and clothes of the travelers could be a divine gesture, for, looking carefully at the clouds in the sky, we see a huge hand withdrawing, its fingers soiled with clay, its palm marked with the lines of life and death of every man and creature in this world, but the time has also come for us to trace the lines of life and death of God Himself. Trembling with emotion, the travelers raise their arms to heaven and raise their voices in thanksgiving, no longer in chorus, but each one lost in ecstasy, the more sober of them scarcely moving but looking up and praying with great fervor, as if they were being allowed to speak to God on equal terms. The road leads downward, and when the travelers descend into the valley and climb the next slope, which takes them to the city gates, the Temple will tower higher and higher, also the dreaded Antonia fortress, where even at this distance one can make out the shadowy forms of the Roman soldiers who stand watch on the terraces, and see the gleam of their weapons. The group from Nazareth must say good-bye here, for Mary is exhausted and would never survive the bumpy ride downhill at this fast pace, which accelerates to a headlong rush once the city walls loom into view.
And so Joseph and Mary find themselves alone on the road, she trying to recover her strength, he impatient at the delay, now that they are so close to their destination. The sun beats down on the silent travelers. A muffled cry escapes Mary's lips. Worried, Joseph asks her, Is the pain getting worse, and she can barely say, Yes. Then an expression of disbelief creeps into her face, as though she has encountered something beyond her understanding. She certainly felt the pain in her body, but it seemed to belong to someone else. To whom, then. To the child inside her. How can she feel pain that belongs to another, and yet it could be hers, like an echo that by some strange trick of acoustics is louder than the sound that produced it. Joseph cautiously asks, Is the pain still bad, and Mary does not know how to answer. She would be lying if she said no, yet yes is not true either, so she decides to say nothing, the pain is there, she can feel it, but it is so remote that she has the impression she is watching her child suffer in her womb without being able to go to its assistance. No order has been given, Joseph has not used his whip, yet the donkey begins the steep slope leading to Jerusalem, as if looking forward to a full manger and a long rest. It does not know that there is still some way to go before reaching Bethlehem, and that, once there, things will not be so easy. Julius Caesar, for example, proclaims, Veni, vidi, vici, at the height of his glory, only to be assassinated by his own son, whose sole excuse was that he was adopted. Conflicts between fathers and sons, the inheritance of guilt, the disinheritance of kith and kin, and the sacrifice of innocents go far back in time and promise to continue in the future.
As they entered the city gates, Mary could no longer hold back her cries, now as heartrending as if a lance had pierced her. But only Joseph could hear them, such was the noise coming from the crowd, somewhat less from the animals, although between them they created a din reminiscent of a marketplace. Joseph decided, You're in no condition to go any farther, let's find an inn nearby, tomorrow I'll go on to Bethlehem alone and explain that you're giving birth, you can always register later if it's really necessary, because I know nothing about Roman law, and who can tell, perhaps only the head of the family needs to register, especially in our situation. Mary reassured him,
