Prevod

At the dying man’s bedside stood Preciosa and Conrado, tending him in his final moments, trembling like a criminal mounting the scaffold steps. And criminals they were—though triumphant criminals, crowned by blind destiny—Conrado and Preciosa. The man who, after long suffering, was breathing his last in that room steeped in the smell of medicinal drugs, saddened by the yellowish light of the little lamp fading with his life, was Preciosa’s husband, Conrado’s protector and benefactor; and for those who had conspired to deceive him and dishonor his gray hairs, that most upright old man, generous and trusting as a child, had never had anything but gentle words and deeds of kindness and love. His purse and his house were always open to Conrado; his arms and his heart were always open to Preciosa, whose youth he had never wished to sadden with an old man’s sternness or an invalid’s melancholy. The unhappy man had a right to gratitude and the tenderest, most solemn respect... since old age cannot inspire other, more ardent feelings. And now he was dying, dying slowly... after telling Preciosa that he had named her his sole heir, and that, if she felt no aversion to Conrado, whom he regarded as a son, he wished them both to promise to marry once the period of mourning was over.

When he expressed his wishes in this way, in a faint, feeble voice, resting his already cold hands on the feverish hands of Conrado and Preciosa, both shuddered, and their eyes, like criminals seeking a hiding place and not knowing where to turn, wandered over the floor, weighed down with shame. Preciosa, however, a woman and unrestrained in her passion, was the first to recover her courage; rallying fiercely, she tried to catch Conrado’s eye and reward his glance with a faint smile. But Conrado, as though he had felt a viper’s sting, withdrew to the back of the bedchamber and, dropping onto the chaise longue, buried his face in his hands. The dying man’s barely audible syllables called him back to the bedside. “Conrado, listen, it is I who beg this of you at this solemn moment... Do not leave Preciosa unprotected... Let her be your wife, and love her and treat her... as I have loved her... If only for the sake of this day... give me your word.” And Conrado, stammering, could only blurt out: “I give it, I give it...” A spark of contentment shone in the dying man’s dim eyes; but, as though the effort had exhausted what little strength remained to him, he sank into a stupor that heralded the end. Such was the doctor’s opinion, and he advised that Extreme Unction be administered without delay; but when the priest arrived with the holy oils, no warmth of life remained in the body. Preciosa knelt weeping, and Conrado, greatly agitated, paced desperately up and down the sitting room adjoining the chamber of death... On his way out, the priest touched him gently on the shoulder.

“Do not grieve,” he said affectionately, mistaking that fit of piercing remorse for profound sorrow. “This gentleman’s virtues will have earned him a place in heaven. And then there is God’s mercy, especially on such a day as this!...”

It was the second time those words had sounded in Conrado’s ears; but now they echoed less in his ears than in his soul. The very words the dying man had spoken! “Such a day as this...” And what day was it? Conrado had to search his memory, to reflect... Suddenly he remembered; a lightning flash struck his imagination. It was Good Friday.

A few moments after the priest had discreetly withdrawn, promising to return to keep vigil over the body, Preciosa approached Conrado on tiptoe and was appalled by his bearing, by the movement he made on seeing her so close. What a calamity! Conrado no longer loved her; she had filled him with horror ever since death had entered that house... She guessed her accomplice’s state of mind and, looking ahead, sought to dispel that cloud of sorrow, that disturbance of his guilty conscience. “If he keeps vigil over the body tonight, he will brood all the more; this terrible impression will be stamped twice as deeply on his mind...” An idea came to Preciosa, resourceful and daring as a passionate woman determined to have her way. She entered the chamber of death and, among the bottles on the inlaid cabinet opposite the bed, sought the one containing a powerful narcotic. One drop soothed and made one drowsy; two brought sleep; three or four induced a long, irresistible, lasting slumber, almost deathlike... A little later Preciosa approached Conrado again and served him a cup of linden tea with her own hands. “Drink, your nerves are on edge.” Conrado drank mechanically, draining the soothing infusion... When he began to feel an overpowering heaviness, Preciosa led him to her own room, laid him on the broad divan upholstered in satin and cushioned with lace, covered him with a rich Manila shawl, tucked a light eiderdown about his feet, and slipped fine pillows beneath his head. “Sleep, sleep,” she thought, “and do not wake until the other one is out of the house...”

Conrado, meanwhile, opened his eyes, shook off the leaden sleep that had overcome him, and rubbed his eyelids, finding that he was not in the elegant bedroom of his temptress Preciosa, but on a sloping road paved with broad, rough slabs, upon which a burning, radiant sun beat straight down, like spring sunshine in a hot country. He looked around. At his feet lay a city he seemed to know well: where had he seen those pointed towers, those vast ramparts, that fortified enclosure, those conical houses, that monumental temple, those narrow, shadowy gateways beneath which dromedaries and oxen passed, led by dark-skinned men? Strange though it was, these men’s clothing also seemed familiar to Conrado, something he had seen before, not in life but in sculptures or paintings: for it was the Hebrew dress of humble folk in the time of Augustus—the chituna, or belted tunic, the tallith, or cloak, the sudaz wound about the temples, the girdle gathering the garments, and feet bare or shod in worn leather sandals. Conrado thought he heard a persuasive voice, perhaps rising from the depths of his own being, murmuring mysteriously:

“That city is Jerusalem.” Jerusalem! Conrado was scarcely surprised. Jerusalem was no foreign place to him. How often he had thought of Jerusalem! Ever since childhood, through the Nativity scene his mother used to arrange, he had grown familiar with Jerusalem... In Jerusalem his spirit had a home, his faith a house of its own. All he felt was immense joy... He imagined himself returning from a long exile.

A group of people crowding through the gate caught Conrado’s attention. Instinctively he followed them. Along a road guarded on either side by prickly-pear hedges and bordered with palms and vines, roses of Jericho and fig trees already in leaf, the group made its way toward a rugged hill whose harsh outlines stood out against the violet horizon. A multitude seethed on the hillside; those on foot swarmed about, while the legionaries sat motionless on their sturdy chargers, their breastplates and shields flashing. Above the crowd, crowning the scene and bristling on the hilltop, rose three black crosses, upon which the bodies of the three condemned men looked from a distance like statues of pink porphyry...

Even then Conrado felt no surprise, nor did he believe himself the plaything of a delirium. On the contrary, he knew with all his being that he was witnessing not a drama but the revelation of truth itself. That scene, that triple crucifixion, and above all one of those crosses, he had carried within him since his earliest childhood. If he had suffered, it was when, though it was within him, he could neither see nor contemplate it; when it faded from him as the face of someone beloved fades when we close our eyes and try to summon it... What joy to possess once more the vision—clear, distinct, steadfast, beyond all doubt—of the Cross; not a cross of gold or silver or bronze, but the living Cross, the wood at the very moment when the warmth of the divine Body heats it and the redeeming Blood soaks it! Breathless with haste, Conrado followed the group, climbing the steep slope, treading the dry dust and thorny burrs of sinister Golgotha, strewn with white human bones bleached by the sun... His longing was to stand close to the Cross, to see the Savior’s face in that supreme hour.

It was no easy task. The crowd seethed ever more densely. As happens in dreams, for every obstacle Conrado managed to overcome, greater, insurmountable ones arose. No one would make way for him. Shepherds from the hills, dealers and petty shopkeepers from the city, ragged women carrying starving children, haughty Pharisees, pale and compassionate Essenes, daughters of Jerusalem, modest towns-women who lowered their tear-filled eyes at the sight of the Master’s torments, and finally the mounted soldiers with upright lances—all barred the way, preventing anyone from crossing the circle of rope and stakes surrounding the instruments of execution. Conrado pleaded, clenched his fists, tried to slip through, to reach the central cross, taller than the others, where Jesus hung; he wanted to see him alive, before the moment when, bowing his head, he would cry: “It is finished.” A profound anguish seized Conrado. Would he reach him only after the Savior was dead? Bathed in sweat, panting and desperate, he ran and ran toward the summit of the hill, which always seemed farther away.

Then his eyes made out a woman clasping the very wood of the Cross; and, heedless that she was almost fainting with grief, mindful only that he knew this woman too, he cried with all his strength:

“Mary, Mary of Nazareth! Reach out your hand to me, for I want to come to your son.” And Mary of Nazareth, trembling, her eyes swollen with weeping, her bearing tragic, stepped forward and held out her hand, covered by a fold of her mantle; and at once Conrado found himself at the foot of the Cross, so close that the dying man’s labored breathing sounded to him like a hurricane. Yet he thought joyfully:

“He lives! He lives! He can still hear me!” And lifting his face, bending his knees, pressing his mouth to the bloodstained wood near the sacred feet, Conrado sighed:

“Jesus, Jesus, do not forsake me!...” And, wonder of wonders, a gentle voice, steeped in tears, answered from above: “It is you who forsook me years ago, Conrado. Do you not remember?”

A profound shudder ran through Conrado. A sharp knife of sorrow, of contrition, pierced his breast. He looked up in anguish: Jesus had already bowed his head; the sun was veiled behind a pitch-black cloud; the earth shook in convulsions; at Conrado’s feet a dreadful fissure opened, almost an abyss... and the stunned sinner fell face down upon the dust and bare rocks...

When Conrado awoke from his long, drugged sleep, Preciosa was there, dressed in black but lovely, fresh, and rested, watching for the moment when she could clasp the sleeper in her arms. He sat up, still dazed, not understanding what was happening to him... Smiling, Preciosa tried to caress him, to be for him the life that is reborn at the edge of a grave. Conrado gently pushed her away; and with measured, steady steps, no longer faltering, his mind clear, he went out into the anteroom, opened the door, slammed it behind him, and ran into the street... A soft breeze caressed his temples. It was Easter Sunday morning.