فصل 10

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“What then created this labyrinth of hesitation, this temple of presumption, this pitcher of sin, this field sown with a thousand deceptions, this gateway to Hell, this basket overflowing with artfulness, this poison which tastes like honey, this bond which chains mortals to the earth: woman?” I was slowly, silently copying this Buddhist song, sitting on the ground near the brazier. I was trying exorcism upon exorcism, bent on casting out from my mind the image of a woman’s body soaked by the rain, which every night that winter passed in the humid air to and fro before my eyes with swaying hips. Ever since the collapse of the gallery, when my life had nearly been cut short, I sensed the widow in my blood. She called to me like a wild animal, pressingly and reproachfully.

“Come! Come!” she cried. “Life passes in a flash. Come quickly, come, come, before it is too late!” I was well aware that it was Mara, the spirit of the Evil One, in the shape of a woman with powerful thighs and buttocks. I fought against him. I applied myself to writing Buddha in the same way that savages in their caves engraved with a pointed stone or painted in red and white the famished and ferocious beasts who prowled around them. They, too, endeavoured, by engraving and painting these beasts, to fix them fast on the rock. If they had not done so, the beasts would have leapt upon them.

From the day I had just missed being crushed to death, the widow passed ceaselessly in the fiery air of my solitude, beckoning to me and voluptuously swaying her hips. During the day I was strong, my mind was alert and I managed to cast her out. I wrote in what guise the Tempter appeared to Buddha, how he took on the shape of a woman, how he pressed his firm breasts against the knees of the ascetic, how Buddha saw the danger, mobilised all his powers and routed the Evil One.

Each sentence I wrote brought me fresh relief, I took courage, I felt the Evil One was withdrawing, cast out by the all-powerful exorcism of the word. I fought during the daytime with all my strength, but at night my mind laid down its arms, the inner doors opened and the widow entered.

In the morning I awoke exhausted and vanquished, and the struggle began afresh. When I raised my head from my paper, it was the end of the afternoon; the light was being chased away; darkness suddenly fell upon me. The days were shortening, Christmas was approaching. I threw myself with all my might into the struggle. I said to myself: I am not alone. A great force, the light of day, is also fighting. It, too, is sometimes vanquished, sometimes victorious. But it does not despair. I struggle and hope together with the light!

It seemed to me, and this thought gave me courage, that in fighting against the widow I, too, was obeying a great universal rhythm. Guileful matter has chosen this body, I thought, slowly to dampen and extinguish the free flame which flickers within me. I said to myself: The imperishable force which transforms matter into spirit is divine. Each man has within him an element of the divine whirlwind and that is how he can convert bread, water and meat into thought and action. Zorba was right: “Tell me what you do with what you eat and I will tell you who you are!” And so I was painfully endeavouring to transform that violent desire of the flesh into Buddha.

“What are you thinking about, boss? You don’t seem to be quite yourself,” Zorba said to me on Christmas Eve. He had a shrewd idea as to what demon I was fighting.

I pretended not to hear. But Zorba did not give up so easily.

“You’re young, boss,” he said. And suddenly his voice assumed a bitter and angry tone. “You’re young and pretty tough, eating well, drinking well, breathing exhilarating sea air, and storing up energy—but what are you doing with it all? You sleep alone, and it’s just too bad for the energy! You get along there tonight—yes, lose no time! Boss, everything’s simple in this world. How many times must I tell you? So don’t go and complicate things!” The manuscript of Buddha was open in front of me and I turned over its leaves as I listened to Zorba’s words and realised that they showed me a sure, attractive and very human path to tread. It was again the spirit of Mara, the crafty pander, who was calling.

I listened without saying a word and continued slowly to turn the pages of the manuscript. I whistled to conceal my emotion. But Zorba, seeing I did not speak, suddenly burst out: “This is Christmas Eve, my friend, hurry up, get to her before she goes to church. Christ will be born tonight, boss; you go and perform your miracle, too!” I rose, irritated.

“That’s enough, Zorba,” I said. “Every one follows his own bent. Man is like a tree. You’ve never quarrelled with a fig tree because it doesn’t bear cherries, have you? Well then, that’ll do! It’s nearly midnight. Let us go to the church and see Christ born ourselves.” Zorba pulled his thick winter cap over his head.

“All right, then!” he said unhappily. “Let’s go! But I want you to know that God would have been much more pleased if you’d gone to the widow’s tonight, like Archangel Gabriel. If God had followed the same path as you, boss, he’d never have gone to Mary’s and Christ would never have been born. If you asked me what path God follows, I’d say: the one leading to Mary’s. Mary is the widow.” He waited in silence and in vain for my reply. He thrust the door open, and he went out. He angrily struck at the pebbles with the end of his stick.

“Yes,” he repeated persistently, “Mary is the widow!”

“Now, let’s get along!” I said. “Don’t shout!”

We strode along at a good pace in the winter night. The sky was perfectly clear, the stars looked big and hung low in the sky like balls of fire. The night, as we made our way along the shore, resembled a great black beast lying along the water’s edge.

“From tonight,” I said to myself, “the light which winter has forced back will begin to fight victoriously. As if it were born this night together with the infant god.” All the villagers had crowded into the warm and scented hive of the church. The men stood in front and the women, with clasped hands, behind. The tall priest, Stephanos, was in an exasperated state after his forty days’ fast. Clad in his heavy gold chasuble, he was running hither and thither in great strides, swinging his censer, singing at the top of his voice and in a great hurry to see Christ born and get home to a thick soup, savoury sausages and smoked meats… If the scriptures had said: “Today, light is born,” man’s heart would not have leapt. The idea would not have become a legend and would not have conquered the world. They would merely have described a normal physical phenomenon and would not have fired our imagination—I mean our soul. But the light which is born in the dead of winter has become a child and the child has become God, and for twenty centuries our soul has suckled it… The mystic ceremony came to an end shortly after midnight. Christ had been born. The famished and happy villagers ran home, to have a feast and feel in the depths of their bowels the mystery of incarnation. The belly is the firm foundation; bread, wine and meat are the first essentials; it is only with bread, wine and meat that one can create God.

The stars were shining as large as angels above the white dome of the church. The milky way was flowing like a stream from one side of the heavens to the other. A green star was twinkling above us like an emerald. I sighed, a prey to my emotions.

Zorba turned to me.

“Boss, d’you believe that? That God became man and was born in a stable? Do you believe it, or are you just pulling our legs?” “It’s difficult to say, Zorba,” I replied. “I can’t say I believe it, nor that I don’t. What about you?” “I can’t say I do either. I can’t for the life of me. You see, when I was a kid and my grandma told me tales, I didn’t believe a word of them. And yet I trembled with emotion, I laughed and I cried, just as if I did believe them. When I grew a beard on my chin. I just dropped them, and I even used to laugh at them; but now, in my old age—I suppose I’m getting soft, eh, boss?—in a kind of way I believe in them again… Man’s a mystery!” We had taken the path leading to Dame Hortense’s and we started galloping along like two hungry horses who can smell the stable.

“The holy fathers are pretty crafty, you know!” Zorba said. “They get at you through your belly, so how can you escape them? For forty days, they say, you shan’t eat meat, you shan’t drink wine; just fast. Why? So that you’ll pine for meat and wine. Ah, the fat hogs, they know all the tricks of the game!” He started going even faster.

“Let’s get moving, boss,” he said. “The turkey must be done to a turn!” When we arrived in our good lady’s room, with its great tempting bed, we found the table covered with a white cloth, and on it the steaming turkey lying on its back with its legs apart. The brazier was giving off a gentle heat.

Dame Hortense had curled her hair and was wearing a long dressing-gown of faded pink colour with enormous sleeves and frayed lacework. Round her wrinkled neck was a tight, canary-yellow ribbon, about the width of two fingers. She had sprayed herself generously with orange-blossom water.

How perfectly everything is matched on this earth, I thought. How well the earth is matched to the human heart! Here is this old cabaret-singer who has led a thoroughly fast life, and now, cast upon this lonely coast, she concentrates in this miserable room all the sacred solicitude and warmth of womanhood.

The copious and carefully prepared repast, the burning brazier, the painted and pennanted body, the orange-blossom scent—with what rapidity and what simplicity all these very human little corporeal pleasures are transformed into a great spiritual joy!

My heart suddenly leaped in my breast. I felt, on that solemn evening, that I was not quite alone here on this deserted seashore. A creature full of feminine devotion, tenderness and patience was coming towards me: she was the mother, the sister, the wife. And I, who thought I needed nothing, suddenly felt I needed everything.

Zorba must have felt a like emotion, for scarcely had we entered the room than he rushed to the bedecked cabaret-singer and hugged her.

“Christ is born!” he cried. “Greetings to you, female of the species!” He turned to me, laughing.

“See, boss, what a cunning creature is woman! She can even twist God round her little finger!” We sat down at table; we hungrily devoured the dishes and drank the wine. Our bodies were satisfied and our souls thrilled with pleasure. Zorba became lively once more.

“Eat and drink,” he continually shouted. “Eat and drink, boss, and get warmed up! You sing too, my boy, sing like the shepherds: ‘Glory to the highest!… Glory to the lowest…’ Christ is born, that’s a terrific thing, you know. Pipe up with your song and let God hear you and rejoice.” He had quite recovered his spirits, and there was no stopping him.

“Christ is born, my wise Solomon, my wretched pen-pusher! Don’t go picking things over with a needle! Is He born or isn’t He? Of course He’s born, don’t be daft. If you take a magnifying-glass and look at your drinking water—an engineer told me this, one day—you’ll see, he said, the water’s full of little worms you couldn’t see with your naked eye. You’ll see the worms and you won’t drink. You won’t drink and you’ll curl up with thirst. Smash your glass, boss, and the little worms’ll vanish and you can drink and be refreshed!” He turned towards our gaudy companion, raised his full glass and said: “My very dear Bouboulina, my old comrade-in-arms, I’m going to drink to your health! I’ve seen many figureheads in my life; they’re nailed to the ship’s prow, they hold their breasts in their hands, and their cheeks and lips are painted a fiery red. They’re sailed over all the seas, they’re entered every port, and when the ship falls to bits they come on dry land and, till the end of their days, stay leaning against the wall of a fisherman’s tavern where the captains go to drink. My Bouboulina, tonight, as I see you on this shore, now my belly’s full of good things and my eyes are wide open, you look to me like the figurehead of a great ship. And I am your last port, I am the tavern where the sea-captains come to drink. Come, lean on me, strike your sails! I drink this glass of Cretan wine to your health, my siren!” Touched and overcome, Dame Hortense started to cry, and leaned on Zorba’s shoulder.

“You just see, boss,” Zorba whispered in my ear, “my fine speech is going to land me into some trouble. The jade won’t want to let me go tonight. But, there you are, I’m sorry for the poor creatures, yes, I pity them!

“Christ is born!” he shouted loudly to his siren. “To our health!”

He slipped his arm under that of our lady and they quaffed their glasses together, arms entwined, and looking enraptured at each other.

Dawn could not have been far off when I left the two of them in the warm little bedroom with its great bed and took the road home. The villagers had eaten and drunk well, and now the village was sleeping with doors and windows closed, under the great winter stars.

It was cold, the sea was booming, Venus was dancing roguishly in the east. I walked along the water’s edge playing a game with the waves. They ran up to try and wet me and I ran away. I was happy and said to myself: “This is true happiness: to have no ambition and to work like a horse as if you had every ambition. To live far from men, not to need them and yet to love them. To take part in the Christmas festivities and, after eating and drinking well, to escape on your own far from all the snares, to have the stars above, the land to your left and the sea to your right: and to realise of a sudden that, in your heart, life has accomplished its final miracle: it has become a fairy-tale.” The days were passing by. I tried to put a brave face on it, I shouted and played the fool, but in my heart of hearts I knew I was sad. During all this week of festivities, memories had been aroused and filled my breast with distant music and loved ones. I was once more struck by the truth of the ancient saying: Man’s heart is a ditch full of blood. The loved ones who have died throw themselves down on the bank of this ditch to drink the blood and so come to life again; the dearer they are to you, the more of your blood they drink.

New Year’s Eve. A band of village children carrying a large paper boat came to our hut and started to sing kalanda[16] in their shrill and merry voices: [16] New Year carols.

“Saint Basil the Great arrived from Caesarea, his native city…”

He was standing here on this little Cretan beach by the indigo-blue sea. He leaned on his staff and his staff was suddenly covered with leaves and flowers. The New Year’s carol rang out: “A happy new year to you, Christians! Master, may your house be filled with corn, olive-oil and wine; May your wife be a marble pillar to the roof of your house; May your daughter marry and beget nine sons and one daughter; May these sons liberate Constantinople, the city of our kings!” Zorba listened, entranced. He had seized the children’s tambourine and was banging it frenziedly.

I watched and listened without saying anything. I could feel another leaf falling from my heart, the passing of another year. I was taking another step towards the black pit.

“What’s come over you, boss?” Zorba asked, in between singing at the top of his voice, together with the children, and striking the tambourine. “What’s come over you, man? You look years older, and your face is grey. This is when I turn into a little boy again; I’m reborn, like Christ. Isn’t he born every year? So am I!” I lay down on my bed and shut my eyes. My heart was in a wild mood that night; I did not wish to speak.

I could not sleep. I felt I had to account for my acts that very night. I went over my whole life, which appeared vapid, incoherent and hesitating, dream-like. I contemplated it despairingly. Like a fleecy cloud attacked by the winds from the heights, my life constantly changed shape. It came to pieces, reformed, was metamorphosed—it was, by turns, a swan, a dog, a demon, a scorpion, a monkey and the cloud was for ever being frayed and torn. It was driven by the winds of heaven and shot with the rainbow.

Day broke. I did not open my eyes. I was trying to concentrate all my strength on my ardent desire to break through the crust of the mind and penetrate to the dark and dangerous channel down which each human drop is carried to mingle with the ocean. I was eager to tear the veil and see what the New Year would bring me… “Morning, boss. Happy New Year!”

Zorba’s voice brought me back brutally to earth. I opened my eyes just in time to see Zorba throw into the doorway of the hut a big pomegranate. Its seeds, like clear rubies, shot as far as my bed. I picked up a few and ate them, and my throat was refreshed.

“I hope we make a pile and are ravished by beautiful maidens!” Zorba cried goodhumouredly. He washed, shaved and put on his best clothes—green cloth trousers and rough home-spun jacket, over which he threw a half-lined goat-skin coatee. He put on his Russian astrakhan cap and twirled his moustaches.

“Boss,” he said, “I’m going to put in an appearance at church as a representative of the Company. It wouldn’t be in the interest of the mine for them to think we’re freemasons. It’ll cost me nothing and it’ll pass the time.” He bent over and winked.

“Maybe I’ll see the widow there, too,” he whispered.

God, the interests of the Company and the widow blended harmoniously in Zorba’s mind. I heard his light footsteps departing. I leaped up. The spell was broken, my soul was shut in the prison of the flesh anew.

I dressed and went down to the water’s edge. I walked quickly. I was gay, as if I had escaped from a danger or a sin. My indiscreet desire of that morning to pry into and know the future before it was born suddenly appeared to me a sacrilege.

I remembered one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the bark of a tree, just as the butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out. I waited a while, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient. I bent over it and breathed on it to warm it. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened, the butterfly started slowly crawling out and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled; the wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath. In vain. It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings should be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had forced the butterfly to appear, all crumpled, before its time. It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.

That little body is, I do believe, the greatest weight I have on my conscience. For I realise today that it is a mortal sin to violate the great laws of nature. We should not hurry, we should not be impatient, but we should confidently obey the eternal rhythm.

I sat on a rock to absorb this New Year’s thought. Ah, if only that little butterfly could always flutter before me to show me the way.