At her age getting a job had been difficult, so she was proud as
well as grateful to be the housekeeper of a celebrated artist. She ran his
household efficiently. She planned his meals, balanced meals with the right
amount of greens and proteins; she crushed his sweet tooth with enthusiasm. The
house spotless, sadly she was not allowed in the Master’s atelier.
But
what she really was good at was fending off those unwelcome visitors. Whenever
she opened the door, she put on an icy mask of hauteur; she always peeked into
the mirror before she opened the door. Yes, hair in place, white collar
straight, her apron stiff with starch and in place, only then did she open the
door.
Her
surprise was great; there in front of her stood a man, was he a vagrant? Was he
a vagabond? His hair hacked out in clumps, the scalp showing deep cuts,
coagulated blood in them, his face battered and bruised, patches of bristle
here and there. It was the face of someone who had been slapped around.
She
sniffed carefully and delicately, was there a trace of alcohol on his breath?
No, in fact for a vagrant he smelt rather clean, no smell of alcohol, no smell
of piss.
Then
she looked into his deep set eyes, there was something deeply unsettling there.
‘Yes, what is it you want?
Haughtiness replaced her curiosity, ‘the entrance is on the other side, the
service staircase’.
But
the Man did not move he had the stubbornness of the very poor, not-moving -what
are-you –going-to-do attitude.
‘I need to speak to the
Master...He has sent for me...’
‘Sent for you? For you?’ There
was a tone of utter dismissal in her voice, such disdain. ‘Oh the Master? He
sends for people... does not entertain them... dismisses them.’ ‘You will be
surprised at the number of people who come here... multitudes.’
For a moment she was silent, looking at him. Goddamit, his eyes
had that strange quality, they looked down into her very being, they probed her
secrets, but with such tenderness, such sweet compassion. Goddamit, for
Christ’s sake this man, with his torn suit, patched under the armpits, patches
on his knees, torn sandals on his calloused feet, this man shivering with cold,
this man was looking at her with compassion, with pity, why?
She
was shocked; it was not supposed to be this way. This was not going the way it
was supposed to be. For a moment a spasm of shame shook her.
‘Have you come in response to
the advertisement? That’s it; you have come in response to the advertisement’
‘Yes, an advertisement
requesting me to come here...I never read it...I do not know to read or write...
Somebody showed it to me...
‘And who should I tell you are?’
‘Just say it is Jesus Christ.’
The
housekeeper moved away hastily, she left the door partially open, which was
really strange for her; she was an extremely careful person.
The
man could hear her retreating footsteps, a knock on an inner door.
‘Sir, there’s a man who wants to
talk to you?’
‘Who is it?’
‘He says he is Jesus Christ.’
‘I do not know him?’
There
was a moment of silence, and then a shout from somewhere inside;
‘Oh, just a minute.....wait a second....let him in’
‘This way...’
She
led him up to a door at the end of the corridor.
‘He is here ...’
‘Come in ...’
The
painter glanced at the man who had entered the door and burst out laughing’
‘That’s a good one...that’s
really a good joke...So you believe that...’
The artist always dressed trendily, much like those artists of
Montmartre – a velvet coat, a pipe at the corner of his mouth, a palette in one
of his hands, and a brush in the other.
Light filtered in through the glass cupola of the atelier and fell
directly on the model posing below. She was nude, only a delicate shawl draped
her waist; her deep black hair cascaded down her front, covering the tips of
her breasts. It was no doubt an artificial pose.
With
a sneer, the artist introduced the two.
‘Jesus Christ....Mary Magdalene...’
‘Hey man, cut it out...For Christ’s sake shut the door, I am
freezing my arse off here’
She smiled cheekily
‘Hey can I wear some clothes now?’
‘Yes you can’
With
a languid gesture, an affected one, the artist shut the door.
‘Surely you have come in response to my advertisement? The ad
which said I needed a model for Jesus Christ, for my painting ‘Has Jesus Christ
returned to our World?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘And you think you would suit then? With your hair hacked out in
clumps? With hardly a beard? Or do you think it is just enough to be hungry,
just enough to have sunken cheeks, just enough to have dreamy eyes? The artist
came closer and peered at the man curiously but angrily. I guess it is hunger
that drove you to this atelier? If I would have placed an ad to walk my dog you
would have come too, isn’t it?
The
artist’s tone softened a little.
‘Hey come on, I know how hunger drives people to do anything. In
any case... Just a minute... Zulmira come here...’
The
girl peered out from the behind a screen
‘Just a minute...’
She
approached carefully; she was just a common girl from the city, a girl of no
consequence. But she seemed a little ashamed.
‘Come
here, he called out to her impatiently. Have you ever seen such eyes?...
He
felt so impressed.
‘It
is bizarre... look at those eyes... they have a life of their own...they are
the eyes of the prophets... Look at that mouth, goddamit just look at his
mouth... What energy, what innocence...Observe the lines of the jaw? Observe
the contour...Suddenly his enthusiasm fell away, fizzled away. But look at this
hacked out hair, this shaven beard. I say vehemently I will not have artificial
hair, I will not have a false beard...I am a realist, you know that, got it a
realist...I need to see, I need to touch... I need to feel, I only know how to
paint realistic stuff, with hair, with flesh, with blood...
He
was furious.
‘You imbecile, you cretin...why the hell did you decide to chop
away your hair and shave off your beard?’
‘It was not me, it was they...’
‘They? Who they?
‘They the guards...’
He
spoke in a clear voice, an amiable voice, a voice more suitable for speaking of
biblical parables.
‘They arrested me...they said it was prohibited to just amble down
the roads, prohibited to walk the streets without doing anything. They mocked
me, they hacked off my hair, they shaved my beard. Then they said that I was a
vagabond, a wastrel and that if they ever caught me again they would just get
rid of me. It was then that you, Sir, wanted to speak to Jesus Christ. I came
because you called...
‘Why would you come then especially?’
‘It is because...you know...I am He.’
‘What...You are Jesus Christ in person?
‘I am He, although you may not believe me...But I am not angry
that you do not believe in me. I already knew this would happen...This has
already happened once before. Nobody believed me in Judea. It was because of
this that they arrested me...crucified me. But I have forgiven them. It was
precisely for this reason that I requested my Father to permit me to return...’
‘As though I care...Can you believe this load of garbage Zulmira?’
The
girl had approached without uttering a word. There was a strange intensity in
her eyes; she had folded her hands in a respectful attitude of prayer.
The
painter had contemptuous smile.
‘Oh Magdalene, don’t tell you are tempted to wash his feet with
oils and unguents, then rub his feet with your luxuriant hair, hmm. I really do
not recommend it.’
She
glared at him with an angry glance, did not reply. Then in a voice of
supplication she urged:
‘Go on...Do not listen to him. He is a soul that is lost...And
then?’
‘My Father did not want me to return.
‘No, no My Son’ he said, it is of no use, it will be much as it was
before...And this time, believe Me it is going to be worse. Instead of
crucifying you, they will make you drag a Cross all your life. There will be
misery. There will be ridicule. You will suffer unimaginable hunger. You will
know the torture of being jailed. There will be beatings. You will be admitted
in a Mental Asylum, they will insist you are mad.
But
worst of all My Son, they will never believe you. No, no said my Father, I will
not allow it.’
But I pleaded, ‘Father, Father, but the fault is not theirs, it is
ours, particularly Yours...’
‘Mine?’
There
is nothing I fear more than my Father’s anger, but I was determined to put my
point across.
‘Yes, my Father...’
Surprisingly
He spoke to me most calmly with a degree of resignation, ‘My fault, why is it
my fault my Son’
‘Yes your fault Father because You saw to it that I would be born
without sin... because you did not allow me to feel what it is to be a man, besides
you gave me the power to do miracles. These are not the qualities that any
human being has, were it not for these qualities I would be like any other man.’
‘If that is the case, if that is how you feel, he spoke to me
sternly, Go’. ‘But after this, do not invoke My Name.’
‘No my Father, come what may. I will not invoke your name...’
And
the girl asked anxiously
‘And Your Mother...the Blessed Mother? Did she not try to stop
you?
‘My Mother wept without a stop, she could not calm, nor contain
herself, as all mothers are when they see their sons go on a dangerous adventure.
But she did not stop me, she did not discourage me.
‘Go my Son, it is your duty. It is a job that you should
complete, complete it till its end. You had just begun it...I will always be
with you.’
Now I feel as though she speaks to me in your
voice...’
The painter could not take his eyes off them, the two in deep
conversation. The brush trembled in his hand, a savage emotion coursed through
his body. Ah, he well understood this emotion...it was the restlessness of inspiration.
Slowly and silently he moved away from the two and began painting.
The
canvas below his brush slowly underwent a change; it was getting filled with
people, as though emanating from deep within him. They were so human, so very
human that he was afraid to touch them, afraid that he would hurt them.
His
was a strange Christ, a very different Christ indeed, bending and curved under a
heavy load, His hands without stigmata but covered in thick hard calluses. His
eyes radiated a mysterious brightness. Sweat poured down His body in torrents, His
rigid and tense muscles strained, His sweat more brilliant and vibrant than any
blood could ever be.
In
front of His Christ, a woman stroked His brow, wiped His sweat, all the while
breathing her tenderness on Him, a promise of kisses to come, more pure than
rain.
The
painter lifted his eyes, saw only the girl.
‘He, where is He?’
‘He went away, He left, left us without disturbing you, His
mission accomplished. He said, Your faith had been restored and more than that you
had believed in Him...
Biography of Domingos Monteiro Pereira
Was
born on 6 November 1903. Died on 17 August 1980
Was
a poet and a writer as well as a lawyer.
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0599198/bio
