Finally, the serpent agreed, but on one condition: that she share the fruit with her husband. And Eve—a woman to the end—could not resist the urge . . . to make another promise.

Then and only then did the serpent relent. He offered her the desired fruit. In passing, let me say that it was not an apple but a citrus. There are also those who say it was a bunch of grapes, while others maintain it was a fig. In any case, Eve took the fruit and held it in her hand, admiring its beauty, reluctant to swallow too quickly that which had cost her so dear. First she bit into the skin, careful not to eat the inside. Then she nibbled on a small piece—the effect was instantaneous: she discovered that she was mortal. For the first time she genuinely, deeply understood that there was a direct, inescapable relationship between her person and death. The game was up: God would keep His promise and strike. Instinctively she knew: He keeps His pledges, especially when it comes to punishment.

And yet, instead of desisting and repenting, she chose to use the serpent’s stratagems on her husband and draw him into the same deadly trap. She already knew the price of disobeying God and yet she tricked Adam into becoming her accomplice. Since she would have to pay, she owed it to herself to drag Adam along. The Midrash stresses that Eve behaved like a jealous woman; the idea that her husband might survive—and possibly marry another—seemed intolerable to her. Since she had to die, she would not die alone.

But . . . where was Adam all that time? What was he doing while his wife arranged and rearranged his universe and changed his destiny? One text says he was asleep. Another, more charitable, assures us he was walking with God, who was showing him the world and teaching him to tame nature. The fact was that while Eve and the serpent were acting out their scene, Adam was elsewhere. Perhaps this was not unusual, perhaps his wife’s constant chatter had finally irritated him. He must have yearned for a measure of peace and silence.

We said it earlier: Adam was a weakling. He remained passive while the world simmered around him. Unlike most mythological figures, he does not strike the reader as a leader of man, a giant who dictates his law. He demanded nothing, sought no glory. He built no empires, nor did he erect any temples. His modesty was such that he accepted to play a secondary role in his own tragedy.

Significantly, the tale of that tragedy is told by Eve—not Adam—in the apocryphal book named after them: Sefer Adam ve Hava. The tale, told in the first person, is as poignant as it is convincing. Toward the end of her life Eve gathered her children and her children’s children around her: When I was young I met Satan in paradise. His face was shining and he sang the praises of the Almighty; I thought he was an angel, he seemed so pure. Then he seduced me into committing the one act I should not have committed . . .