The Gospel According to Lazarus Read online

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  THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO LAZARUS

  From the internationally best-selling author of The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon comes a dazzling new work of historical fiction, retelling the story of the Passion from the point of view of Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead.

  But for what practical or mystical purpose was Lazarus revived? And what happened to him after he was caught up in the plot to arrest and execute Jesus?

  Restored to physical health, Lazarus has difficulty picking up his former existence; his experience of death has left him fragile and disorientated, and he has sensed nothing of an afterlife. In compelling flashbacks, we learn how Lazarus met Jesus during their boyhood in Nazareth and discover how he came to earn his friend’s trust and gratitude. Back in the present Jesus tells Lazarus that their boyhood meeting was no accident and provides an astonishing explanation for why he brought them together. When Jesus is arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane, Lazarus believes there may still be one way left to save his friend, although it will involve a fatal sacrifice …

  Impeccably researched, the novel’s moving and affecting exploration of Jesus’ final week from the perspective of his childhood friend brings the familiar tale vividly to life, finding fresh meaning in the Passion and Crucifixion and adding a level of poignancy to the story that is certain to disturb some readers and greatly touch others.

  RICHARD ZIMLER grew up in New York and has a bachelor’s degree in comparative religion from Duke University (1977). He is the author of ten novels – including The Warsaw Anagrams, The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon, Hunting Midnight and The Seventh Gate – and his works have been published in twenty-three languages. He has won numerous prizes for his writing and has lectured on Sephardic Jewish culture all over the world. He lives in Porto, Portugal.

  PRAISE FOR THE PORTUGUESE EDITION

  Number 1 International Bestseller Best Novel of 2016 – FNAC Bookstores (22 shops in Portugal) Third Most Popular Novel of 2016 – Bertrand Bookstores (51 shops in Portugal)

  ‘The most exquisitely told and profound novel Zimler has published. Masterfully written, with a glorious exploration of redemption … and fascinating focus on early Jewish mysticism.’

  – O Público

  ‘Unsurpassable in literary quality – an absolute must-read!’

  – Casal das Letras

  ‘By challenging prejudices and canons, Richard Zimler gives us a reinterpretation of the Bible and the ancient history of the Holy Land that is both brave and powerful.’

  – Jornal das Letras

  ‘A powerful testament to friendship and love and one of the best novels of 2016 … The descriptions of the Holy Land find their perfect counterpoint in the extraordinarily moving relationship between the two biblical figures.’

  – Jornal de Notícias

  ‘An absolutely unique novel in which Zimler masterfully creates a world influenced by dreams and myths, alternating scenes of darkness with others of wondrous luminosity.’

  – Acção Socialista

  ‘Provocative and daring, with the pace of a thriller … Skilfully narrated and very impressive.’

  – Sábado

  ‘While exploring the mysteries contained in the gospels, Zimler has rediscovered the historical and spiritual significance of Jesus and Lazarus. His sophisticated narrative is profoundly human and invested with astonishing poetical force.’

  – Correio Brasiliense (Brazil)

  PRAISE FOR THE LAST KABBALIST OF LISBON

  ‘I loved The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon.’

  John le Carré

  ‘Gripping, richly written and overflowing with historic detail, this novel vividly recreates the world of ancient Lisbon. Zimler’s portrait of the city (and the New Christians’ uneasy place within it) enriches his many-layered narrative, in which a suitably complex cast of characters plays a dangerous game with fate.’

  – New York Times

  ‘An international bestseller and a riveting literary murder mystery’

  – Independent on Sunday

  ‘It has historical accuracy, the structures of a mystery, the pace of a thriller … A fascinating novel with a spellbinding subject matter.’

  – Elle

  ‘The novel is vividly rendered … drenched in atmosphere and period detail.’

  – Wall Street Journal

  PRAISE FOR HUNTING MIDNIGHT

  ‘There is an echo of Bruce Chatwin’s Songlines in the creation of this novel; the dignity and stature that come from spiritual integration with nature and the deep wordless language of the desert and the rains … Zimler’s writing is pacey and accessible and deeply moving. Not content to write the great Sephardic Jewish novel, he has also attempted to pull off the great American novel and the great novel of colonialism at the same time. If he falls short, it is still hugely enjoyable watching him try.’ – Guardian

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am greatly indebted to Andrew Hayward for his unwavering support. I also want to thank Alexandre Quintanilha, Isabel Silva and Jacob Staub for reading the manuscript of this novel and giving me their valuable comments. Special thanks to Nick, Antonia, Simon, Sam and everyone else at Peter Owen Publishers. I also send a big hug to Richard Bates for helping me at exactly the right moment.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Proper names are generally written in the forms that were current during the Roman colonization of the Holy Land and not in their modern equivalents. For instance, the narrator is called by both his ancient Hebrew name, Eliezer, and his Greek name, Lazarus. His two sisters are Maryam – known as Mia – and Marta, and his dearest friend is Yeshua. These are the names that the Jews of that time would have used.

  In a few cases, and especially with place names, I have maintained the modern equivalents so as not to cause confusion. For instance, Lazarus’ homeland remains the Galilee and does not change to HaGalil.

  A glossary follows the text.

  In death, we never much resemble who we were in life, for all the mystery is gone.

  Lazarus ben Natan

  A FAIR WARNING

  Anyone who steals this scroll or sells it, disfigures it or burns it will suffer under the ban that Yehoshua, son of Nun, imposed on Yeriho, and he shall be cursed with the ninety-eight admonitions, and even his shadow will be erased, so that he will be forgotten by one and all, even his mother and father and children, and no devil, demon, spirit or shade will be able to rescue him, and no amulet, talisman, conjuration or counter-spell will be of any use to him, and it will be as if he had never existed.

  In the name of Ariel, who guards the spheres of the sun, and Mikael, who protects each phase of the moon, I hereby declare that this ban and these admonitions can never be lifted, eased or diminished.

  ‘You will become a horror to all the kingdoms on earth.’

  A history made of ifs – such is the life of mortal men.

  Lazarus ben Natan

  1

  Perhaps what Yeshua meant was simply that he wrote himself into my dream as a way of joining our paths together. After all, he was burdened at too vulnerable an age by all that he dared not reveal about his inner world, and he needed a companion who would listen to his confessions without judging him or betraying his secrets – and who would be willing to wade with him into the murkiest and most treacherous waters of Torah.

  Given his knowledge of all that remains hidden to the rest of us, however, he may have been implying that he created my dream and placed it in the sleeping mind of the eigh
t-year-old I’d been. I suppose it is even possible that he wanted me to believe that he had travelled back in time, across a span of twenty-eight years, and planted it inside me so that it would seem as if I – as a young boy – had been able to prophesy the most traumatic events of my adulthood.

  If I were to believe that he could foresee the entire scope and shape not just of his life but of mine as well, then I would also have to accept the disquieting notion that he had known for some time where our journey would end. He had been aware that I would be forced to flee my blood-drenched home with my children, pursued by both Pharaoh and Zadok, holding his final gift to me inside my trembling embrace.

  ‘Where you die, I, too, shall die, and there shall I be buried.’ Such was the pledge that Rut the Moabite gave to her mother-in-law Naomi, and though the young woman’s fidelity always moved me, it was only when I whispered her words to myself on a barren hillside, while gazing past Yeshua’s crossbeam towards all that would never now come to pass, that I realized that she may very well have regarded it as an act of kindness for the Lord to end her life.

  I would not wish to believe he embroidered me skilfully, and over the course of decades, into the intricate weave of his plans, only to pull out every last thread and stand naked and broken before his executioners. And not just because of the decades of hope that I had placed in him. In truth, I resist that possibility because I have discovered that it is no comfort at all to know that there are men who can accomplish what seems impossible to the rest of us – feats that defy all our attempts at understanding.

  Beware of men who see no mystery when they look at their reflection.

  It was my father who told me that. He was speaking of a tyrannical Roman prefect at the time, but he believed that all of us are changed for the better – become more humble, at the very least – when we recognize that our identity tends to slide away from us every time we strive to catch it. And if the ‘I’ who directs our actions is not fixed and permanent, then how can we ever be certain of who we are and what God has asked us to do?

  If only I had glimpsed the possibility that the Romans would arrest him. Then I’d have pressured him to flee with me to our homeland – and refused to take no for an answer.

  But in the end, dearest grandson, there was no time left for pleas or arguments – which is yet one more indication that we are never truly at home in this world. Though perhaps the Lord, too, wishes that He had more time on occasion. Would it be a heresy to suppose He might? If so, then I no longer care; three decades of longing and regret have earned me the right to speak to you honestly.

  Dear Yaphiel, in order to begin writing this scroll that you now have in your hands, I purchased ink this morning from a stall at your favourite marketplace – the one favoured by our island’s flower-sellers that comes to life each dawn beside the Temple of Athena. On reaching home, I locked myself away in my hidden prayer room. Can you see me there? At this very moment, I am seated on my mosaic of Yeshua, underneath the terebinth tree that grows at the centre of my world.

  Picture the tip of my calamus as it designs these words.

  Picture me endeavouring to tell you of matters that will never be able to fit easily or comfortably on a roll of papyrus.

  Picture yourself standing at the endpoint of every sentence.

  I am determined to leave nothing unsaid, for you deserve a full explanation from me of why I was so very rude to you the other day. Also, I have realized that the time has finally come for me to tell you of your long-secret place in my life – which means, in turn, that I need to tell you of the man you asked to meet when we were last together.

  Of Yeshua.

  He is our aleph and our taw and every letter in between, for he is the gift-giver who brought us together.

  If I find the courage, I shall also ask you a favour that I cannot ask of anyone else.

  A warning: your grandfather is not the man you thought he was. Does that mean that you are not entirely the boy you have always believed yourself to be? Perhaps. Only you, my child, can say for sure.

  ‘Ask and it shall be given to you. Seek and you shall find. Knock and the door shall be opened to you.’

  Yeshua ben Yosef

  2

  How great is the distance between the sunken-cheeked, leaky-eyed old man writing to you now and the swallow-quick eight-year-old he once was? According to the calendar, it is fifty-seven years. Yet, according to my winged heart, it is the nearly-nothing time it takes for me to close my eyes and alight in Natzeret …

  I am perched on the mat in my bedroom. It is the twelfth of the month of Tevet, long past the second watch of night, and in my window is a watchful moon.

  It is the sixty-seventh year since Rome’s conquest of Zion, and Augustus is our emperor.

  When I finally fall back to sleep, I dream that the Lord is a blood-red eagle with a purple crest and jet-black eyes. Standing at the corner of our roof, He gazes out towards the spray of sunrise on the horizon with a stern and wary expression, as if all the world depends on His vigilance.

  I want to touch him, but fear of His sharp, powerful beak forms a fist at my throat. Still, I venture a first, tentative step, and, when He – the Eagle-God – shows no anger, I ease closer. On coming to His side, I kneel down and reach out with the cautiousness of a boy who has already witnessed a number of executions. I make the movement of my hand into a whisper of greeting – the proof of my goodwill and righteous intent.

  With a graceful bow of His head, the Lord leans towards me, granting me permission. I trace the tips of my fingers across the cool, firm, silken plumage of His back. The feel of him – so compact and forceful – makes me shiver. Tilting His head, the Lord’s dark eyes catch mine and ask a question.

  ‘Eliezer,’ I tell him. ‘Though my father calls me Lazarus.’

  He blinks to show me He has understood.

  At that moment do He and I pass through an invisible gate? We seem to reside now inside our own time and place. Only a decade later will I find myself able to shape my feelings into words, and they will be these: our silent complicity has created an island for the two of us, and around that island is all that I once was – and all that I shall never be again.

  Then, a shift … I am standing on the defensive wall around Natzeret. The Lord is perched on my right shoulder, His gnarled, rust-coloured talons gripping me tightly.

  Invaders will come from across the Jordan River, and we must all be ready to fight. That is the meaning I take from the urgency of His gaze towards the bronze-coloured dawn spreading over the Galilee. As I scan the silhouette of hills around our town, searching out the archers and spearmen of a foreign army, a tendril of flame unfurls on the horizon. Soon it is joined by others, which makes me understand that I have erred in my judgement – the still-hidden sun has not yet announced its return; the enemy is setting fire to our orchards.

  With a cry of battle, the Lord takes wing. A few moments later, while soaring above the flames, He is transformed by their heat, growing tenfold in size and tenfold yet again.

  All too soon, however, He disappears over a ridge of flaming hills in the distance. Around me now is a sea of fire and smoke.

  ‘Come back!’ I cry out in desperation. ‘I don’t want to die here!’

  A man’s voice behind me calls out my name. ‘Eliezer, I am the gate you seek!’ He shouts.

  The voice is familiar, though I shall be unable to identify it for many years. Before I can turn to see who it is, hands push me forward. Falling, I am engulfed by the flames.

  And yet I am not burned. And I do not die. I tumble through the conflagration until I find myself flying through a bruised red sky. I am clothed in silver feathers.

  Yerushalayim rises up before me.

  The Phasael Tower … I decide to perch at its rim to assess the enemy’s strength, but as I alight there …

  Through that metamorphosis of emotion that marks us for ever as the children of Havvah and Adam, my powerful wingbeats become the leaping hear
t of a Galilean boy who awakens to find himself in his bedroom, naked, bathed in moonlight, wondering how – and why – he became a God with wings.

  3

  I must speak to you now of the week that changed my life and sent me into exile here on Rodos – and that brought you into our family. Try if you can to imagine me as the widower and father of two young children that I was then – a man who had celebrated thirty-six birthdays with his family and friends.

  One afternoon, I awaken to a confusion of faces unknown to me, lit by the harsh saffron-coloured light of a dozen night-lamps. My heart recoils from so many strangers, and my first thought is that I must quickly make an appeal for mercy. But I do not utter a word; I remain a pair of blinking, terrified eyes waiting for clues that will reveal to me the nature of my predicament.

  Out of habit, I speak the Lord’s words to the prophet Yirmiyahu inside my head, Be not afraid of them, for I am with you and shall deliver you. And yet, raucous shouts from somewhere unseen make me flinch – and wish to run. Rushed whispers soon reach me as well, but I am unable to comprehend them. The tense, insistent beating in my chest sways me from side to side, and my throat is as dry as sand.

  Deep underground – that is where my scattering thoughts seem to have sought refuge.

  A long-haired youth holds up a torch and leans towards me, studying me with moist and troubled eyes. His tunic is ripped along the neckline.

  When I gaze past him, I find butterflies of shadow fluttering on a ceiling of pale stone. The heavy, sweet, humid scent of myrrh fills me with each of my laboured breaths.

  They’ve taken me to a cavern, I think. I must try to discover what they want of me before I speak.