فصل 16

XVI

As soon as I came within sight of the lignite beach I stopped abruptly: there was a light in the hut.

“Zorba must be back!” I thought happily.

I felt like running, but restrained myself. I must hide my joy, I thought. I must look annoyed and first give him a good talking-to. I sent him there on urgent business, and he’d just gone through my money, lived with some cabaret tart, and now comes back twelve days late. I must look as if I’m in a furious temper… I must!

I walked slower to give me time to work up a temper. I tried hard to be angry—frowned and clenched my fists, did everything an angry man usually does—but could not manage it. On the contrary, the nearer I came the happier I grew.

I crept up to the hut and looked through the small lighted window. Zorba was on his knees by the tiny stove which he had lit and was making coffee.

My heart melted and I shouted: “Zorba!”

In a trice the door swung open and Zorba, barefoot, rushed out. He craned his neck, peering in the dark, discovered me, opened his arms to embrace me, then stopped and let them fall to his sides.

“Glad to see you again, boss,” he said hesitantly, standing long-faced and motionless before me.

I tried to raise my voice angrily:

“Glad to see you’ve taken the trouble to come back,” I mocked. “Don’t come any nearer—you reek of toilet soap.” “Ah, if only you knew what a scrubbing I’ve given myself, boss,” he said. “Have I cleaned myself up! I scraped my blasted skin to bits before seeing you, boss! I’ve sandstoned myself for an hour. But this hellish smell… Anyway, what of it? It’ll pass off sooner or later. It isn’t the first time—it’s bound to go.” “Let’s get inside,” I said, nearly bursting with laughter.

We went in. The hut smelt of perfume, powder, soap and women.

“What in God’s name is all that, may I ask?” I said, pointing to a case filled with handbags, bars of toilet soap, stockings, a small red parasol and two minute bottles of scent.

“Presents…” muttered Zorba, hanging his head.

“Presents?” I said, trying to sound furious. “Presents?”

“Presents, boss… for little Bouboulina. Don’t be angry, boss. Easter’s coming soon, and she’s a human being too, you know.” I managed to restrain my laughter once again.

“You haven’t brought her the most important thing,” I said.

“What?”

“The marriage wreaths, of course.”

“What? What d’you mean? I don’t understand.”

I then told him the way I had pulled the lovesick siren’s leg.

Zorba scratched his head a second, reflected and then said:

“You shouldn’t do things like that, boss, if you don’t mind my saying so. That sort of joke, you know, is… women are weak, delicate creatures—how many times have I got to tell you that? Like porcelain vases, they are, and you have to handle them very carefully, boss.” I felt ashamed. I had regretted it, too, but it was too late. I changed the subject.

“And the cable?” I asked. “And the tools?”

“I’ve brought everything; don’t get worked up! ‘You can’t have your cake and eat it!’ as they say! The cable railway, Lola, Bouboulina—everything’s well in hand.” He took the briki[22] off the flame, filled my cup, gave me some jumbals[23] with sesame which he had brought and honey halva[24] which he knew was my favourite sweet.

[22] A small pyramidal vessel for making coffee.

[23] Pastries or sweets made of fruit-paste, in a ring.

[24] A sweet containing sesame oil and sugar.

“I’ve brought you a present of a large box of halva!” he said fondly. “I didn’t forget you, you see.” “Look, I’ve brought a little bag of peanuts for the parrot. I’ve forgotten no one. You know, my brain’s overweight.” Zorba was sipping his coffee, smoking and watching me. His eyes fascinated me like those of a serpent.

“Have you solved the problem which was tormenting you, you old rogue?” I asked him, my voice gentler now.

“What problem, boss?”

“If women are human beings or not?”

“Oh! That’s settled!” answered Zorba, waving his hand. “A woman’s human, too, a human like us—only worse! The minute she sees your purse she loses her head. She clings to you, gives up her freedom and is glad to give it up because, at the back of her mind, the purse is glittering. But she soon… Ah, to hell with all that, boss!” He stood up and threw his cigarette out of the window.

“Now, man to man,” he went on. “Holy Week’s coming, we’ve got the cable, it’s high time we went up to the monastery and got those fat pigs to sign the documents for that forest-land… before they see the line and become excited—see what I mean? Time’s going by, boss, and we’ll never get anywhere being so lackadaisical; we must get down to it; we’ve got to start raking in… we must start loading the ships to make up for what we’ve spent… That trip to Candia cost a packet. You see, the devil…” He stopped. I was sorry for him. He was just like a child who has done something silly and, not knowing how he can put things right again, just trembles all over.

“Shame on you!” I said to myself. “How can you let a soul like that tremble with fright? Where will you ever find another Zorba? Come on, sponge it all out!” “Zorba!” I cried. “Leave the devil alone; we have no use for him! What’s done is done… and forgotten! Take down your santuri!” He opened his arms again as if he wanted to embrace me. But he closed them slowly, still hesitant.

In one bound he was at the wall. He stood up on his toes and took down the santuri. As he came back into the light of the lamp I saw his hair: it was as black as pitch.

“You old dog,” I shouted, “what on earth have you done to your hair? Where did you get that?” Zorba began to laugh.

“I’ve dyed it, boss. Don’t get upset… I dyed it because I had no luck with it…” “What for?”

“Vanity, by God! One day I was out walking with Lola, holding her arm. Not even holding… look, like that, just the end of my fingers! And some bloody little urchin, no bigger than this hand, started shouting after us: ‘I say, old ‘un!’ the whoreson kid shouted. ‘You there! Where are you taking her, baby-snatcher?’

“Lola was ashamed, you can imagine, and so was I. So I went the same night to the barber’s and had my wig dyed black.” I began to laugh. Zorba watched me gravely.

“Does that sound comic to you, boss? Well, just wait and see what a strange animal man is, though! From the day I had it done, I’ve been another man altogether. You’d think I had black hair for good; I’ve begun to believe it myself—a man easily forgets what doesn’t suit him, you know—and I swear I’ve got stronger. Lola’s noticed it, too. D’you remember that pain I used to have in my back here? Well, it’s gone! Haven’t had it since! You don’t believe me, of course, your books don’t tell you things like that.” He laughed ironically, then repented.

“If I may say so, boss… the only book I’ve ever read in my life is Sinbad the Sailor, and for all the good that did me…” He undid the santuri slowly and affectionately.

“Come outside,” he said. “The santuri isn’t at home between four walls. It’s wild and needs the open spaces.” We went out. The stars sparkled. The Milky Way flowed from one side of the sky to the other. The sea was frothing. We sat down on the pebbles and the waves licked our feet.

“When you’re broke, you have to have a good time,” said Zorba. “What, us give up? Come here, santuri!” “A Macedonian song of your own country, Zorba,” I said.

“A Cretan song of your country!” said Zorba. “I’ll sing you something I was taught at Candia; it changed my life.” He reflected for a moment.

“No, it hasn’t changed really,” he said, “only now I know I was right.” He placed his big fingers on the santuri and craned his neck. He sang in a wild, harsh, dolorous voice: “When you’re made up your mind, no use lagging behind, go ahead and no relenting. Let your youth have free reign, it won’t come again, so be bold and no repenting.” Our cares were scattered, petty troubles vanished, the soul reached its peak.

Lola, lignite, the line, “eternity,” big and small worries, all became blue smoke that faded into the air, and there remained only a bird of steel, the human soul which sang.

“I make you a present of everything, Zorba!” I cried, when the proud song was done. “All you’ve done—the woman, your dyed hair, the money you blew—all of it’s yours! Just go on singing!” He craned out his scraggy neck once more:

“Courage! In God’s name! Venture, come what may! If you don’t lose, you’re bound to win the day!” A number of workmen sleeping near the mine heard the songs; they got up, crept down to us and squatted round. They listened to their favourite songs and felt their legs tingling. At last, unable to restrain themselves longer, they loomed out of the darkness, half naked, their hair ruffled and their breeches baggy. They made a circle round Zorba and the santuri and began dancing on the pebbled shore.

Thrilled, I watched them in silence.

This is, I thought, the real vein I have been looking for! I want no other.

The next day, before dawn, the galleries of the mine were echoing with Zorba’s cries and the sounds of the picks. The men were working frenziedly. Zorba alone could lead them on like that. With him work became wine, women and song, and the men were intoxicated. The earth came to life in his hands, the stones, coal, wood and workers adopted his rhythm, a sort of war was declared in the galleries in the white light of the acetylene lamps and Zorba was in the forefront, fighting hand to hand. He gave a name to each gallery and seam, and a face to all invisible forces, and after that it became difficult for them to escape him.

“When I know that that is the ‘Canavaro’ gallery,” he used to say about the first gallery he had christened, “where the hell do you think it can hide? I know its name, it wouldn’t have the cheek to do the dirty on me. No more than ‘Mother Superior,’ or ‘Knockknees,’ or ‘The Fiddler.’ I know them all, I tell you, each one by its own name.” That day I slipped into the gallery without his noticing me.

“Come on! Put some life into it!” he was shouting to the workmen, as he always did when he was in good form. “Come on! We’ll eat up the whole mountain, yet! We’re men, aren’t we? Creatures to be reckoned with! God himself must tremble when he sees us! You Cretans and me, a Macedonian, we’ll have this mountain; it takes more than a mountain to beat us! We beat the Turks didn’t we? So why should a little mountain like this put us off? Come on, then!” Someone ran up to Zorba. In the acetylene light I could just make out Mimiko’s thin face.

“Zorba,” he said in his mumbling voice, “Zorba…”

Zorba turned round, and saw at a glance what it was about. He lifted his big hand: “Beat it!” he shouted. “Clear out!”

“I’ve come for her…” faltered the simpleton.

“Clear out, I tell you! We’ve got work to do!”

Mimiko made off as fast as his legs would carry him. Zorba spat in exasperation.

“The day’s for working,” he said. “Daytime is a man. The night-time’s for enjoying yourself. Night is a woman. You mustn’t mix them up!” I came up at that moment.

“It’s twelve o’clock,” I said. “Time you stopped work and had a meal.” Zorba turned round, saw me and scowled.

“Don’t wait for us, boss, d’you mind. You go and have your lunch. We’ve lost twelve days, remember, and we’ve got to catch up. I hope you eat well.” I left the gallery and walked down towards the sea. I opened the book I was carrying. I was hungry, but I forgot my hunger. Meditation is also a mine, I thought, so go ahead! And I plunged into the great galleries of the mind.

A disturbing book: it described the snow-covered mountains of Tibet, the mysterious monasteries, the silent monks in their saffron robes, who concentrate their will and oblige the ether to take what shape they desire.

High mountain-tops, the air full of spirits. The vain murmur of human life never reaches so high. The great ascetic takes his pupils, boys of sixteen to eighteen, and leads them at midnight up to an icy lake in the mountain. They undress, break the ice, plunge their clothes into the freezing water, put them on again and leave them to dry on their backs. Then they plunge them in afresh, and leave them to dry once more on their bodies. They do this seven times in succession. Then they return to the monastery for morning service.

They climb a mountain peak, fifteen to eighteen thousand feet high. They sit down quietly, breathe deeply and regularly. They are naked to the waist but feel no cold. They hold a goblet of icy water in their hands, look at it, concentrate with all their power on it, and the water boils. Then they make their tea.

The great ascetic collects his students round him and says:

“Woe to him who has not within himself the source of happiness!

“Woe to him who wants to please others!

“Woe to him who does not feel that this life and the next are but one!” Night had fallen and I could not see to read. I closed the book and looked at the sea. I must free myself of all these phantoms, I thought, Buddhas, Gods, Motherlands, Ideas… Woe to him who cannot free himself from Buddhas, Gods, Motherlands and Ideas.

The sea had suddenly turned black. The young moon was rapidly setting. In the gardens in the distance, dogs were howling sadly, and the whole ravine howled back.

Zorba appeared, covered with dirt; his shirt was hanging in shreds.

He crouched by me.

“It went very well today,” he said happily; “plenty of good work done.” I heard Zorba’s words without grasping their meaning. My mind was still far away on distant and dangerous slopes.

“What are you thinking of, boss?” he asked me, “Is your mind out at sea?” I brought my mind back, looked round at Zorba and shook my head.

“Zorba,” I said, “you think you’re a wonderful Sinbad-the-Sailor, and you talk big because you’ve knocked about the world a bit. But you’ve seen nothing, nothing at all. Not a thing, you poor fool! Nor have I, mind you. The world’s much vaster than we think. We travel, crossing whole countries and seas and yet we’ve never pushed our noses past the doorstep of our own home.” Zorba pursed his lips and said nothing. He just grunted like a faithful dog when he is hit.

“There are mountains in the world,” I said, “which are huge, immense and dotted all over with monasteries. And in those monasteries live monks in saffron robes. They stay seated, with crossed legs, for one, two, six months at a time, thinking of one thing and one thing only. One thing, do you hear? Not two—one! They don’t think of women and lignite or books and lignite, as we do; they concentrate their minds on one and the same thing, and they achieve miracles. You have seen what happens when you hold a glass out to the sun and concentrate all the rays onto one spot, Zorba? That spot soon catches fire, doesn’t it? Why? Because the sun’s power has not been dispersed but concentrated on that one spot. It is the same with men’s minds. You do miracles, if you concentrate your mind on one thing and only one. Do you understand, Zorba?” Zorba was breathing heavily. For a moment he shook himself as though he wanted to run away, but he controlled himself.

“Go on,” he grunted, in a strangled voice.

Then he straightway leaped up.

“Shut up! Shut up!” he shouted. “Why are you saying this to me, boss? Why are you poisoning my mind? I was all right here, why are you upsetting me? I was hungry, and God and the devil (I’m damned if I can see the difference) threw me a bone and I was licking it. I was wagging my tail and shouting: ‘Thank you! Thank you!’ And now…” He stamped his foot, turned his back, made a move as if he were going over to the hut, but he was still boiling inside. He stopped.

“Pff! A fine bone it was he threw me, that god-devil!” he roared. “A dirty old cabaret-tart! An old tub that isn’t even seaworthy!” He seized a handful of pebbles and threw them into the sea.

“But who is he? Who is it who throws these bones to us? Eh?”

He waited a little, then when he felt no reply was coming he became excited.

“Can’t you say anything, boss?” he cried. “If you know, tell me, so that I know his name. Then, don’t you worry, I’ll look after him! But if it’s just on the off-chance, like that, which way must I go? I’ll come to grief.” “I’m hungry,” I said. “Go and get some food. Let’s eat first!”

“Can’t we last an evening without eating, boss? One of my uncles was a monk, and weekdays he took nothing but salt and water. On Sundays and feast-days he added a bit of bran. He lived to be a hundred and twenty.” “He lived to be a hundred and twenty, Zorba, because he had faith. He had found his God and he had no worries. But we have no God to nourish us, Zorba, so light the fire, will you, and we’ll cook those chads. Make a thick, hot soup with plenty of onions and pepper, the sort we like. Then we’ll see.” “See what?” asked Zorba in a rage. “As soon as our bellies are full we shall forget all that!” “Exactly! That’s what food’s really for, Zorba. Now then, off you go and make a good fish soup so that our heads don’t burst!” But Zorba didn’t budge. He stayed where he was, motionless, looking at me.

“Listen, boss, I want to tell you something. I know what you’re up to. Just now when you were talking to me I suddenly had an inkling, I saw it all in a flash.” “What am I up to, Zorba?” I asked, intrigued.

“You want to build a monastery. That’s it! Instead of monks you’d stick a few quill- drivers like your honoured self inside and they’d pass the time scribbling day and night. Then, like the saints in the old pictures, printed ribbons would come rolling out of your mouths. I’ve guessed right, haven’t I?” I hung my head, saddened. Old dreams of my youth, huge wings that have lost their feathers, naive, noble, generous impulses… Build an intellectual community and bury ourselves there; a dozen friends—musicians, poets, painters… Work all day, meet only at night, eat, sing, read together, discuss the great problems of humanity, demolish the traditional answers. I had worked out the rules of the community already. I had even found the building in one of the passes of Mount Hymetrus, at St-John-the-Hunter.

“I’ve guessed it right enough,” said Zorba happily, when he saw I remained silent.

“Well, I’m going to ask you a favour, holy abbot: I want you to appoint me doorkeeper to your monastery so that I can do some smuggling and, now and then, let some very strange things through into the holy precincts: women, mandolines, demijohns of raki, roast sucking-pigs… All so that you don’t fritter away your life with a lot of nonsense!” He laughed and went quickly towards the hut. I ran after him. He cleaned the fish, without opening his mouth, while I fetched wood and lit the fire. As soon as the soup was ready, we took our spoons and began eating straight out of the pot.

Neither of us spoke. We had not had a bite all day and we both ate ravenously. We drank some wine and our spirits improved. Zorba opened his mouth at last.

“It would be fun to see Dame Bouboulina turn up now, boss. It would be a good moment for her to come, but God preserve us! She’d be the last straw. And yet you know, boss, I’ve missed her, devil take her!” “You aren’t asking me who threw you that particular little bone, are you?” “What do you care, boss? It’s like a flea in a haystack… Take the bone and don’t worry about who threw it down to you. Is it tasty? Is there any flesh on it? Those are the questions to ask. All the rest is…” “Food has worked its wondrous miracle!” I said, slapping him on the back. “The famished body is calmed… and so the soul that was asking questions has calmed down, too. Get your santuri!” But just as Zorba stood up we heard quick, heavy steps on the pebbles. Zorba’s hairy nostrils quivered.

“Speak of the devil…” he said in a low voice, slapping his thighs. “Here she is! The bitch has scented a Zorba-smell in the air, and here she comes.” “I’m off,” I said, rising. “I don’t want anything to do with this. I’ll go out for a bit. I leave this to you.” “Good night, boss.”

“And don’t forget, Zorba. You promised to marry her… Don’t make me a liar.” Zorba sighed.

“Marry again, boss? I’ve had my bellyful!”

The scent of toilet-soap was coming nearer.

“Courage, Zorba!”

I left quickly. Outside, I could already hear the panting breath of the old siren.