فصل 19

XIX

The first person we met as we dismounted on our beach that night was Bouboulina, who was sitting huddled up in front of the hut. When the lamp was lit and I saw her face I was alarmed.

“What’s wrong, Madame Hortense? Are you ill?”

From the moment the great hope marriage—had gleamed in her mind, our old siren had lost all her indefinable and dubious charms. She tried to wipe out the past and cast off the gaudy feathers with which she had adorned herself out of the spoils from her pashas, beys and admirals. She had no aspiration beyond that of becoming a serious and respectable commoner, a good, virtuous woman. She no longer made up, nor decked herself out, she showed herself just as she was: a poor creature who wanted to get married.

Zorba did not open his mouth. He kept nervously pulling at his newly dyed moustache. He bent down, lit the stove and put on some water for making coffee.

“You’re cruel!” the old cabaret singer said all of a sudden in a hoarse voice.

Zorba raised his head and looked at her. His eyes softened. He could never hear a woman say anything to him in a harrowing tone without being completely overwhelmed. One tear from a woman could drown him.

He said nothing, put the coffee and sugar in the pot, and stirred.

“Why do you keep me pining so long before marrying me?” said the old siren. “I daren’t show myself in the village any more. I’m disgraced! Disgraced! I shall kill myself.” I was resting on the bed. Leaning with my elbow on the pillow, I enjoyed this comically moving scene.

“Why didn’t you bring the marriage wreaths?”

Zorba felt Bouboulina’s plump little hand trembling on his knee. That knee was the last inch of solid ground to which this poor creature of a thousand and one shipwrecks could cling.

Zorba seemed to understand this and his heart relented. But once more he said nothing. He poured the coffee into three cups.

“Why didn’t you bring the marriage wreaths, darling?” she repeated in a quavering voice.

“They haven’t got any good ones in Candia,” Zorba replied curtly.

He handed the cups round and squatted in a corner.

“I’ve written to Athens for them to send some,” he went on. “I’ve ordered some white candles, too, and sugared almonds with chocolate flavour.” As he spoke his imagination kindled. His eyes sparkled, and like a poet in the burning second of creation, Zorba soared to heights where fiction and truth mingle and resemble each other, like sisters. He was squatting, and, resting thus, noisily drank his coffee. He lit a second cigarette; it had been a good day—he had the forest settlement in his pocket, he had paid off his debts, he was happy. He let himself go.

“Our marriage, my sweet Bouboulina,” he said, “must make a stir. You wait till you see the bridal gown I’ve ordered for you. That’s why I stayed so long in Candia, my love. I sent for two big fashion-designers from Athens and I told them: ‘Look! The woman I’m going to marry has no equal in the East or West! She was the acknowledged queen of four great Powers; now she’s a widow, the great Powers are dead and she’s consented to take me as her husband. So I want her bridal gown to have no equal either: it must be all in silk, pearls and gold stars!’ The two designers protested: ‘But that will be too beautiful!’ they said. ‘All the guests will be blinded by such magnificence!’ ‘Never mind about that!’ I said. ‘What does it matter? As long as my beloved is satisfied!’” Dame Hortense listened to him, leaning against the wall. A wide, fleshy smile spread across her creased and flabby face, and the red ribbon round her neck was well nigh splitting.

“I want to whisper in your ear,” she said to Zorba, making great sheep’s eyes at him.

Zorba winked at me and leaned forward.

“I’ve brought you something tonight,” whispered his future wife, almost poking her little tongue into his big hairy ear.

She pulled out of her bodice a handkerchief with one corner knotted, and proffered it to Zorba.

He took the little handkerchief between two fingers and placed it on his right knee, then, turning to the door, looked out at the sea.

“Aren’t you going to undo the knot, Zorba?” she asked. “You don’t seem to be in a hurry!” “Let me drink my coffee and smoke my cigarette first,” he answered. “I don’t have to undo it, I know what there is inside.” “Undo it, undo it!” the old siren begged him.

“I’m going to finish my smoke first, I tell you!”

And he cast a glance of accusation at me, as if to say; “This is your fault!” He was smoking slowly, expelling the smoke from his nostrils as he looked at the sea.

“We’ll have a sirocco tomorrow,” he said. “The weather’s changed. The trees’ll swell, and so will young girls’ breasts—they’ll be bursting out of their bodices! Ah! spring’s a rogue! An invention of the devil!” He stopped speaking. A few moments later he added:

“Have you noticed, boss, everything good in this world is an invention of the devil? Pretty women, spring, roast suckling, wine—the devil made them all! God made monks, fasting, camomile-tea and ugly women… pooh!” As he said that he threw a fierce glance at poor Dame Hortense, who was curled up in a corner, listening to him.

“Zorba! Zorba!” she implored him every second.

But he lit another cigarette and started contemplating the sea afresh.

“In the spring,” he said, “Satan reigns supreme. Belts are slackened, blouses unbuttoned, old ladies sigh… Hands off, Bouboulina!” “Zorba! Zorba!” the poor old creature implored. She stooped to pick up the handkerchief and thrust it into his hand.

He threw away his cigarette, took hold of the knot and undid it. He held his hand open and looked.

“Whatever’s this, Dame Bouboulina?” he asked with disgust.

“Rings, little rings, my treasure. Wedding rings,” muttered the old siren, all of a tremble. “Here is a witness, God bless him, the night is beautiful, it’s sirocco weather, God is watching, let’s get engaged, Zorba!” Zorba looked now at me, now at Dame Hortense, now at the rings. A host of demons were fighting inside him and for the moment none was on top. The wretched woman looked at him in terror.

“Zorba!… My Zorba!” she cooed.

I had sat up on my bed and was watching. Of all courses open to him, which was Zorba going to choose?

Suddenly he shook his head. He had made his decision. His face cleared, he clapped his hands and leaped up.

“Let’s go outside!” he cried. “Beneath the stars, so that God himself can see us! You carry the rings, boss; can you chant?” “No,” I replied, amused. “But that doesn’t matter!” I had already jumped down from the bed and was helping the good lady to get up.

“Well, I can. I forgot to tell you I was once a choirboy; I used to follow the priest at weddings, baptisms, funerals and so on; I learned all the church songs by heart. Come, my Bouboulina, come, hoist your sail, my little French frigate, and come on my right!” Of all Zorba’s demons it was the kind-hearted clown who had won. Zorba had been sorry for the old siren, his heart had been torn when he saw her faded eyes fixed on him so anxiously.

“Devil take me,” he muttered as he made his decision, “I can still give some joy to the female of the species! Come on!” He rushed out onto the beach, took Dame Hortense’s arm, gave me the rings, turned to the sea and began to chant: “Blessed be our Lord in the world without end, amen!”

He turned to me and said:

“Do your stuff, boss!”

“There is no such thing as ‘boss’ tonight,” I said. “I’m your best man.” “Well, keep your wits about you, then. When I cry out: ‘Bravo!’ you put the rings on.” He started chanting again in his deep ass’s bray:

“For the servant of God, Alexis, and the servant of God, Hortense, now affianced to each other, we beg salvation, O Lord.” “Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!” I quavered, with difficulty controlling laughter and tears.

“There’s a lot more business, yet,” said Zorba, “damned if I can remember it all! Anyway, let’s get the ticklish part over!” He leaped in the air like a carp and cried:

“Bravo! Bravo!” holding out his big hands towards me.

“Now you hold out your little hand,” he said to his fiancee.

The fat hand, lined with washing and housework, was held out trembling towards me.

I put their rings on while Zorba, quite beside himself, roared out like a Dervish: “The servant of God, Alexis is affianced to the servant of God, Hortense, in the name of God the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen! The servant of God, Hortense is affianced to the servant of God, Alexis!” “Good. Now, that’s done till next year! Come here, my sweet, let me give you the first respectable and legitimate kiss you’ve ever had!” But Dame Hortense had collapsed to the ground; she was clasping Zorba’s legs and weeping. Zorba shook his head with compassion.

“Poor women! What fools they are!” he murmured.

Dame Hortense stood up, shook her skirt and opened her arms.

“Eh, now!” shouted Zorba. “It’s Shrove Tuesday today, keep your hands off! It’s Lent!” “My Zorba…” she faltered faintly.

“Patience, my dear. Wait till Easter; we’ll eat some meat then, and crack red eggs together. Now it’s time you were getting home. What will folks say if they see you hanging about here till this time of night?” Bouboulina’s look was imploring.

“No! No! It’s Lent!” said Zorba. “Not before Easter! Come along with us.” He leaned over and said in my ear:

“Don’t leave us alone, for God’s sake! I’m not in the mood!”

We took the road to the village. The sky was bright, the tang of the sea enveloped us, the birds of night hooted about us. The old siren, hanging on to Zorba’s arm, dragged along happy but disappointed.

She had at last entered the harbour she had yearned for so much. All her life she had sung and danced, had a high old time, made fun of decent women… but her heart had been torn to shreds. When she went by, perfumed and heavily plastered with paint, wearing loud and garish clothes, in the streets of Alexandria, Beirut, Constantinople, and saw women giving the breast to their babies, her own breast tingled and swelled, her nipples stood out, asking for a tiny childlike mouth as well. “Get a husband, get a husband have a child…” that had been her dream throughout her long life. But she never revealed these painful longings to a living soul. Now, God be praised, a little late but better than never, she was entering the longed-for haven, though crippled and buffeted by the waves.

From time to time she raised her eyes and peeped sideways at the great gawk of a fellow who was striding beside her. “He isn’t a rich pasha with a gold-tasselled fez,” she was thinking, “and he’s not the handsome son of a bey, but, God be praised, he’s better than nothing! He will be my husband! My husband for ever, God be praised!” Zorba felt her weighing on his arm and dragged her on eager to reach the village and be rid of her. And the poor woman kept tripping over the stones in the road; her toenails were almost torn out, her corns were hurting, but she said not a word. Why speak? Why complain? Everything was splendid, praise be to God!

We passed the Fig Tree of Our Young Lady and the widow’s garden, and when the first village houses appeared we stopped.

“Good night, my treasure,” said the old siren fondly, standing up on tiptoe to reach her fiance’s lips.

But Zorba did not bend.

“Let me kiss your feet, my love!” said Bouboulina, making ready to drop to the ground.

“No! No!” protested Zorba. He was moved and took her in his arms. “I ought to kiss your feet, my love! I ought to… but I don’t feel up to it! Good night!” We left her and went in silence along the road, breathing in the scented air. Zorba suddenly turned to me.

“What ought we to do, boss? Laugh? Or cry? Give me some advice.”

I made no answer. I was tight about the throat, too, and could not say why: was it from laughing or crying?

“Boss,” said Zorba suddenly, “who was that rascally god who would never let a single woman have room for complaint? I’ve heard something about him, I know. It seems he used to dye his beard, too, and tattooed hearts and arrows and sirens on his arms; he used to disguise himself, they say: turned into a bull, a swan, a ram, and, saving his reverence, an ass; in fact, whatever the jades desired. What was his name?” “You must be talking about Zeus. What made you think of him?”

“God preserve his soul!” said Zorba, raising his arms to heaven. “He had some rough times, he did! What he must have gone through! A great martyr, believe me, boss! You swallow every thing your books say, but just think a moment what the people who write books are like! Pff! a lot of schoolmasters. What do they know about women, or men who run after women? Not the first thing!” “Why don’t you write a book yourself, Zorba? And explain all the mysteries of the world to us?” I sneered.

“Why not? For the simple reason that I live all those mysteries, as you call them, and I haven’t the time to write. Sometimes it’s war, sometimes women, sometimes wine, sometimes the santuri: where would I find time to drive a miserable pen? That’s how the business falls into the hands of the pen-pushers! All those who actually live the mysteries of life haven’t the time to write, and all those who have the time don’t live them! D’you see?” “Let’s get back to our subject! What about Zeus?”

“Ah! the poor chap!” sighed Zorba. “I’m the only one to know what he suffered. He loved women, of course, but not the way you think, you pen-pushers! Not at all! He was sorry for them! He understood what they all suffered and he sacrificed himself for their sakes! When, in some god-forsaken country hole, he saw an old maid wasting away with desire and regret, or a pretty young wife—or even if she wasn’t at all pretty, even if she was a monster—and her husband away and she couldn’t get to sleep, he used to cross himself, this good fellow, changed his clothes, take on whatever shape the woman had in mind and go to her room.

“He never bothered about women who just wanted petting. No! Often enough even he was dead-beat: you can understand that. How could anybody satisfy all those she- goats? Ah! Zeus! the poor old goat, More than once he couldn’t be bothered, he didn’t feel too good. Have you never seen a billy after he’s covered several she-goats? He slobbers at the mouth, his eyes are all misty and rheumy, he coughs a bit and can hardly stand on his feet. Well, poor old Zeus must have been in that sad state quite often.

“At dawn he’d come home, saying: ‘Ah! my God! whenever shall I be able to have a good night’s rest? I’m dropping!’ And he’d keep wiping the saliva from his mouth.

“But suddenly he’d hear a sigh: down there on earth some woman had thrown off her bedclothes, gone out onto the balcony, almost stark naked, and was sighing enough to turn the sails of a mill! And my old Zeus would be quite overcome. ‘Oh, hell! I’ll have to go down again!’ he’d groan. ‘There’s a woman bemoaning her lot! I’ll have to go and console her!’

“And it went on like that to such an extent that the women emptied him completely. He couldn’t move his back, he started vomiting, became paralysed and died. That’s when his heir, Christ, arrived. He saw the wretched state the old man was in: ‘Beware of women!’ he cried.” I admired Zorba’s freshness of mind and rocked with laughter.

“You can laugh, boss! But if the god-devil makes our little venture here successful—it seems impossible to me, but still—do you know what sort of shop I’ll open? A marriage bureau. Yes… that’s right. ‘The Zeus Marriage Agency!’ Then the poor women who haven’t managed to pick up a husband can all have another chance: old maids, plain women, the knock-kneed, the cross-eyed, the hump-backed, the lame, and I shall receive them all in a small lounge with a crowd of photographs on the walls of fine young fellows, and I’ll say to them: ‘Take your pick, ladies, choose the one you want, and I’ll set about making him your husband.’ Then I’ll find any fellow who looks a bit like the photo, dress him up the same, give him some money and tell him: ‘So-and-so Street, such-and-such a number, go and see Miss What’s-it and make violent love to her. Don’t be disgusted; I’ll pay for it. Sleep with her. Tell her all the nice things a man ever tells a woman; she’s never heard any of them, poor creature. Swear you’ll marry her. Give the poor wretch a bit of pleasure, the sort of pleasure nanny-goats have, and even tortoises and centipedes.’

“And if some old nanny turned up on the lines of our old Bouboulina—God bless her! and nobody would agree to console her, no matter how much I paid him, well… I’d cross myself, and I, director of the marriage bureau, would do it in person! Then you’d hear all the old fools of the neighbourhood saying: ‘Look at that! What an old rake! Hasn’t he any eyes to see or nose to smell with?’ ‘Yes, you bunch of donkeys, I have got eyes! Yes, you pack of flint-hearted gossips, I have got a nose! But I’ve got a heart, too, and I’m sorry for her! And if you’ve got a heart, it’s no use having all the eyes and noses in the world. When the time comes, they don’t count a jot!’

“Then, when I’m absolutely impotent myself, through sowing wild oats, and I peg out, Saint Peter the Porter will open the gate of Paradise to me: ‘Come in, Zorba, poor fellow,’ he’ll say; ‘come in, Zorba the martyr. Go and lie down beside your comrade, Zeus! Rest, old chap, you did your bit on earth! My blessing on you!’” Zorba went on talking. His imagination laid traps for him and he fell right into them. He began to believe in his own stories. As we were passing the Fig Tree of Our Young Lady he sighed. Then holding out his arms as though swearing an oath, he said: “Don’t fret, Bouboulina, poor ill-treated rotting old hulk. Don’t fret! I won’t leave you without consolation! You may have been abandoned by the four great Powers, by youth, and even by God himself, but I, Zorba, will not abandon you!” It was after midnight when we got back to the beach, and the wind was rising. From yonder, from Africa, came the Notus, the warm south wind which swells out the trees, the vines, and the breasts of Crete. The whole island, as it lay by the water, came to life beneath the warm breath of this wind which makes the sap begin to rise. Zeus, Zorba and the south wind mingled together, and in the night I distinctly saw a great male face, with black beard and oily hair, bending down and pressing hot red lips on Dame Hortense, the Earth.