“He’s ten.”

The angel cleared his throat and fidgeted a bit, dropping a few feet toward the ground as he did so. “I’m in a lot of trouble. I stopped to chat with Michael on the way here, he had a deck of cards. I knew some time had passed, but…” To Joshua he said, “Kid, were you born in a stable? Wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger?”

Joshua said nothing.

“That’s the way his mom tells it,” I said.

“Is he retarded?”

“I think you’re his first angel. He’s impressed, I think.”

“What about you?”

“I’m in trouble because I’m going to be an hour late for dinner.”

“I see what you mean. I’d better get back and check on this. If you see some shepherds watching over their flocks by night would you tell them—uh, tell them—that at some point, probably, oh—ten years or so ago, that a Savior was born? Could you do that?”

“Sure.”

“Okey-dokey. Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men.”

“Right back at you.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

And as quickly as he had come, the angel was gone in a shooting star and the olive grove went dark again. I could just make out Joshua’s face as he turned to look at me.

“There you go,” I said. “Next question?”

I suppose that every boy wonders what he will be when he grows up. I suppose that many watch their peers accomplish great things and wonder, “Could I have done that?” For me, to know at ten that my best friend was the Messiah, while I would live and die a stonecutter, seemed too much of a curse for a ten-year-old to bear. The morning after we met the angel, I went to the square and sat with Bartholomew the village idiot, hoping that Maggie would come to the well. If I had to be a stonecutter, at least I might have the love of an enchanting woman. In those days, we started training for our life’s work at ten, then received the prayer shawl and phylacteries at thirteen, signifying our entry into manhood. Soon after we were expected to be betrothed, and by fourteen, married and starting a family. So you see, I was not too young to consider Maggie as a wife (and I might always have the fallback position of marrying Joshua’s mother when Joseph died).

The women would come and go, fetching water, washing clothes, and as the sun rose high and the square cleared, Bartholomew sat in the shade of a tattered date palm and picked his nose. Maggie never appeared. Funny how easy heartbreak can come. I’ve always had a talent for it.

“Why you cry?” said Bartholomew. He was bigger than any man in the village, his hair and beard were wild and tangled, and the yellow dust that covered him from head to toe gave him the appearance of an incredibly stupid lion. His tunic was ragged and he wore no sandals. The only thing he owned was a wooden bowl that he ate from and licked clean. He lived off of the charity of the village, and by gleaning the grain fields (there was always some grain left in the fields for the poor—it was dictated by the Law). I never knew how old he was. He spent his days in the square, playing with the village dogs, giggling to himself, and scratching his crotch. When the women passed he would stick out his tongue and say, “Bleh.” My mother said he had the mind of a child. As usual, she was wrong.

He put his big paw on my shoulder and rubbed, leaving a dusty circle of affection on my shirt. “Why you cry?” he asked again.

“I’m just sad. You wouldn’t understand.”

Bartholomew looked around, and when he saw that we were alone in the square except for his dog pals, he said, “You think too much. Thinking will bring you nothing but suffering. Be simple.”

“What?” It was the most coherent thing I’d ever heard him say.

“Do you ever see me cry? I have nothing, so I am slave to nothing. I have nothing to do, so nothing makes me its slave.”

“What do you know?” I snapped. “You live in the dirt. You are unclean! You do nothing. I have to begin working next week, and work for a lifetime until I die with a broken back. The girl I want is in love with my best friend, and he’s the Messiah. I’m nothing, and you, you—you’re an idiot.”

“No, I’m not, I’m a Greek. A Cynic.”

I turned and really looked at him. His eyes, normally as dull as mud, shone like black jewels in the dusty desert of his face. “What’s a Cynic?”

“A philosopher. I am a student of Diogenes. You know Diogenes?”

“No, but how much could he have taught you? Your only friends are dogs.”

“Diogenes went about Athens with a lamp in broad daylight, holding it in people’s faces, saying he was looking for an honest man.”

“So, he was like the prophet of the idiots?”

“No, no, no.” Bart picked up a small terrier and was gesturing with him to make his point. The dog seemed to enjoy it. “They were all fooled by their culture. Diogenes taught that all affectations of modern life were false, that a man must live simply, outdoors, carry nothing, make no art, no poetry, no religion…”

“Like a dog,” I said.

“Yes!” Bart described a flourish in the air with the rat dog. “Exactly!” The little dog made as if to upchuck from the motion. Bart put him down and he wobbled away.

A life without worry: right then it sounded wonderful. I mean, I didn’t want to live in the dirt and have other people think me mad, like Bartholomew, but a dog’s life really didn’t sound bad. The idiot had been hiding a deep wisdom all these years.

“I’m trying to learn to lick my own balls,” Bart said.

Maybe not. “I have to go find Joshua.”

“You know he is the Messiah, don’t you?”

“Wait a minute, you’re not a Jew—I thought you didn’t believe in any religion.”

“The dogs told me he was the Messiah. I believe them. Tell Joshua I believe them.”

“The dogs told you?”

“They’re Jewish dogs.”

“Right, let me know how the ball licking works out.”

“Shalom.”

Who would have thought that Joshua would find his first apostle among the dirt and dogs of Nazareth. Bleh.

I found Joshua at the synagogue, listening to the Pharisees lecture on the Law. I stepped through the group of boys sitting on the floor and whispered to him.

“Bartholomew says that he knows you are the Messiah.”

“The idiot? Did you ask him how long he’s known?”

“He says the village dogs told him.”

“I never thought to ask the dogs.”

“He says that we should live simply, like dogs, carry nothing, no affectations—whatever that means.”

“Bartholomew said that? Sounds like an Essene. He’s much smarter than he looks.”

“He’s trying to learn to lick his own balls.”

“I’m sure there’s something in the Law that forbids that. I’ll ask the rabbi.”

“I’m not sure you want to bring that up to the Pharisee.”

“Did you tell your father about the angel?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ve spoken to Joseph, he’s going to let me learn to be a stonecutter with you. I don’t want your father to change his mind about teaching me. I think the angel would frighten him.” Joshua looked at me for the first time, turning from the Pharisee, who droned on in Hebrew. “Have you been crying?”

“Me? No, Bart’s stench made my eyes water.”

Joshua put his hand on my forehead and all the sadness and trepidation seemed to drain out of me in an instant. He smiled. “Better?”

“I’m jealous of you and Maggie.”

“That can’t be good for your neck.”

“What?”

“Trying to lick your own balls. It’s got to be hard on your neck.”

“Did you hear me? I’m jealous of you and Maggie.”

“I’m still learning, Biff. There are things I don’t understand yet. The Lord said, ‘I am a jealous God.’ So jealousy should be a good thing.”

“But it makes me feel so bad.”

“You see the puzzle, then? Jealousy makes you feel bad, but God is jealous, so it must be good, yet when a dog licks its balls it seems to enjoy it, but it must be bad under the Law.”