فصل 22

XXII

Beneath the poplar trees the paschal dance was at its height. It was led by a tall, handsome, dark youth of about twenty, whose cheeks were covered with a thick down which had never known a razor. In the opening of his shirt his chest made a splash of dark colour—it was covered with curly hair. His head was thrown back, his feet beating against the earth like wings; from time to time he cast a glance at some girl, and the whites of his eyes gleamed steadily, disturbingly from a visage blackened by the sun.

I was enchanted and at the same time frightened. I was returning from Dame Hortense’s house; I had called a woman in to look after her. This relieved me, and I had come to watch the Cretans dance. So I went up to uncle Anagnosti and sat down on a bench next to him.

“Who is that young man leading the dance?” I asked.

Uncle Anagnosti laughed:

“He’s like the archangel who bears your soul away, the rascal,” he said with admiration. “It’s Sifakas, the shepherd. All the year round he keeps his flock on the mountains, then comes down at Easter to see people and to dance.” He sighed.

“Ah, if only I had his youth!” he muttered. “If I had his youth, by God! I’d take Constantinople by storm!” The young man shook his head and gave a cry, bleating inhumanly, like a rutting ram.

“Play, play, Fanurio!” he shouted. “Play until Charon himself is dead.” Every minute death was dying and being reborn, just like life. For thousands of years young girls and boys have danced beneath the tender foliage of the trees in spring—beneath the poplars, firs, oaks, planes and slender palms—and they will go on dancing for thousands more years, their faces consumed with desire. Faces change, crumble, return to earth; but others rise to take their place. There is only one dancer, but he has a thousand masks. He is always twenty. He is immortal.

The young man raised his hand to stroke his moustache, but he had none.

“Play!” he cried again. “Play, Fanurio, or I shall burst!”

The lyre-player shook his hand, the lyre responded, the bells began to tinkle in rhythm and the young man took one leap, striking his feet together three times on the air, as high as a man stands, and with his boots caught the white kerchief from round the head of his neighbour, Manolakas, the constable.

“Bravo, Sifakas!” they cried. And the young girls trembled and lowered their eyes.

But the young man was silent and not looking at anyone at all. Wild and yet self- disciplined, he rested his left hand, palm outwards, on his slim and powerful thighs, as he danced with his eyes fixed timidly on the ground. The dance ceased abruptly as the old verger, Androulio, came rushing into the square, his arms raised to heaven.

“The widow! The widow!” he shouted breathlessly.

Manolakas, the constable, was the first to run to him, breaking off the dance. From the square you could see the church, which was still adorned with myrtle and laurel branches. The dancers stopped, the blood coursing through their heads, and the old men rose from their seats. Fanurio put the lyre down on his lap, took the April rose from behind his ear and smelled it.

“Where, Androulio?” they cried, boiling with rage. “Where is she?”

“In the church; the wretch has just gone in; she was carrying an armful of lemon- blossom!” “Come on! At her!” cried the constable, rushing ahead.

At that moment the widow appeared on the doorstep of the church, a black kerchief over her head. She crossed herself.

“Wretch! Slut! Murderess!” the voices cried. “And she’s got the cheek to show herself here! After her! She’s disgraced the village!” Some followed the constable who was running towards the church, others, from above, threw stones at her. One stone hit her on the shoulder; she screamed, covered her face with her hands, and rushed forward. But the young men had already reached the church door and Manolakas had pulled out his knife.

The widow drew back uttering little cries of terror, bent herself double to protect her face and ran back stumbling to shelter in the church. But on the threshold was planted old Mavrandoni. With a hand on each side of the door he blocked the way.

The widow jumped to the left and clung to the big cypress tree in the courtyard. A stone whistled through the air, hit her head and tore off her kerchief. Her hair came undone and tumbled down over her shoulders.

“In Christ’s name! In Christ’s name!” the widow screamed, clinging tightly to the cypress tree.

Standing in a row on the square the young girls of the village were biting their white kerchiefs, eagerly watching the scene. The old women, leaning on the walls, were yelping: “Kill her! Kill her!” Two young men threw themselves at her, caught her. Her black blouse was torn open and her breasts gleamed, white as marble. The blood was running from the top of her head down her forehead, cheeks and neck.

“In Christ’s name! In Christ’s name!” she panted.

The flowing blood and the gleaming breasts had excited the young men. Knives appeared from their belts.

“Stop!” shouted Mavrandoni. “She’s mine!”

Mavrandoni, still standing on the threshold of the church, raised his hand. They all stopped.

“Manolakas,” he said in a deep voice, “your cousin’s blood is crying out to you. Give him peace.” I leaped from the wall on which I had climbed and ran towards the church; my foot hit a stone and I fell to the ground.

Just at that moment Sifakas was passing. He bent down, picked me up by the scruff of the neck like a cat and put me on my feet.

“This is no place for the likes of you!” he said. “Clear off!”

“Have you no feeling for her, Sifakas?” I asked. “Have pity on her!”

The savage mountaineer laughed in my face.

“D’you take me for a woman? Asking me to have pity! I’m a man!”

And in a second he was in the churchyard.

I followed him closely but was out of breath. They were all round the widow now. There was a heavy silence. You could hear only the victim’s strangled breathing.

Manolakas crossed himself, stepped forward, raised the knife; the old women, up on the walls, yelped with joy. The young girls pulled down their kerchiefs and hid their faces.

The widow raised her eyes, saw the knife above her, and bellowed like a heifer. She collapsed at the foot of the cypress and her head sank between her shoulders. Her hair covered the ground, her throbbing neck glistened in the half-light.

“I call on God’s justice!” cried old Mavrandoni, and he also crossed himself.

But just at that second a loud voice was heard behind us:

“Lower your knife, you murderer!”

Everyone turned round in stupefaction. Manolakas raised his head: Zorba was standing before him, swinging his arms with rage. He shouted: “Aren’t you ashamed? Fine lot of men you are! A whole village to kill a single woman! Take care or you’ll disgrace the whole of Crete!” “Mind your own business, Zorba! And keep your nose out of ours!” roared Mavrandoni.

Then he turned to his nephew.

“Manolakas,” he said, “in the name of Christ and the Holy Virgin, strike!” Manolakas leaped up. He seized the widow, threw her to the ground, placed his knee on her stomach and raised his knife. But in a flash Zorba had seized his arm and, with his big handkerchief wrapped round his hand, strained to pull the knife from the constable’s hand.

The widow got onto her knees and looked about her for a way of escape, but the villagers had barred the way. They were in a circle round the churchyard and standing on the benches; when they saw her looking for an opening they stepped forward and closed the circle.

Meanwhile Zorba, agile, resolute and calm, was struggling silently. From my place near the church door, I watched anxiously. Manolakas’s face had gone purple with fury. Sifakas and another giant of a man came up to help him. But Manolakas indignantly rolled his eyes: “Keep away! Keep away! Nobody’s to come near!” he shouted. He attacked Zorba again fiercely. He charged him with his head like a bull.

Zorba bit his lips without saying a word. He got a hold like a vice on the constable’s right arm, and dodged to right and left to avoid the blows from the constable’s head. Mad with rage, Manolakas lunged forward and seized Zorba’s ear between his teeth, and tore at it with all his might. The blood spurted. “Zorba!” I cried, terrified, rushing forward to save him.

“Get away, boss!” he cried. “Keep out of it!”

He clenched his fist and hit Manolakas a terrible blow in the lower part of the abdomen. The wild beast let go immediately. His teeth parted and set free the half-torn ear. His purple face turned ghastly white. Zorba thrust him to the ground, snatched away his knife and threw it over the church wall.

He stemmed the flow of blood from his ear with his handkerchief. He then wiped his face, which was streaming with sweat and his face became all smeared with blood. He straightened up, glanced around him. His eyes were swollen and red. He shouted to the widow: “Get up! Come with me!”

And he walked towards the churchyard door.

The widow stood up; she gathered all her strength together in order to rush forward. But she did not have the time. Like a falcon, old Mavrandoni threw himself on her, knocked her over, wound her long black hair three times round his arm and with a single blow of his knife cut off her head.

“I take the responsibility for this sin!” he cried, and threw the victim’s head on the doorstep of the church. Then he crossed himself.

Zorba looked round and saw the terrible sight. He gripped his moustache and pulled out a number of hairs in horror. I went up to him and took his arm. He leaned forward and looked at me. Two big tears were hanging on his lashes.

“Let’s get away, boss,” he said in a choking voice.

That evening Zorba would have nothing to eat or drink. “My throat’s too tight,” he said; “nothing will go down.” He washed his ear in cold water, dipped a piece of cotton wool in some arack and made a bandage. Seated on his mattress, his head between his hands, he remained pensive.

I too was leaning on my elbows as I lay on the floor along by the wall, and I felt warm tears run slowly down my cheeks. My brain was not working at all, I was thinking of nothing. I wept, like a child overcome by deep sorrow.

Suddenly Zorba raised his head and gave vent to his feelings. Pursuing his savage thoughts, he began to shout aloud: “I tell you, boss, everything that happens in this world is unjust, unjust, unjust! I won’t be a party to it! I, Zorba, the worm, the slug! Why must the young die and the old wrecks go on living? Why do little children die? I had a boy once—Dimitri he was called—and I lost him when he was three years old. Well… I shall never, never forgive God for that, do you hear? I tell you, the day I die, if He has the cheek to appear in front of me, and if He is really and truly a God, He’ll be ashamed! Yes, yes, He’ll be ashamed to show himself to Zorba, the slug!” He grimaced as though he was in pain. The blood started flowing again from his wound. He bit his lip so that he should not cry out.

“Wait, Zorba!” I said. “I’ll change your dressing!” I washed his ear once again in arack, then I took the orange-water which the widow had sent me and which I had found on my bed, and I dipped the cotton wool in it.

“Orange water?” said Zorba, eagerly sniffing at it. “Orange water? Put some on my hair, like that, will you? That’s it! And on my hands, pour it all out, go on!” He had come back to life. I looked at him astounded.

“I feel as though I’m entering the widow’s garden,” he said.

And he began his lamentations again.

“How many years it’s taken,” he muttered, “how many long years for the earth to succeed in making a body like that! You looked at her and said: Ah! if only I were twenty and the whole race of men disappeared from the earth and only that woman remained, and I gave her children! No, not children, real gods they’d be… Whereas now…” He leaped to his feet. His eyes filled with tears.

“I can’t stand it, boss,” he said. “I’ve got to walk, I shall have to go up and down the mountainside two or three times tonight to tire myself, calm myself a bit… Ah! that widow! I feel I must chant a mirologue[29] for you!” [29] A mourning song, or dirge, chanted by modern Greeks.

He rushed out, went towards the mountain and disappeared into the darkness.

I lay down on my bed, turned out the lamp and once more began, in my wretched, inhuman way, to transpose reality, removing blood, flesh and bones and reduce it to the abstract, link it with universal laws, until I came to the awful conclusion that what had happened was necessary. And, what is more, that it contributed to the universal harmony. I arrived at this final and abominable consolation: it was right that all that had happened should have happened.

The widow’s murder entered my brain—the hive in which for years all poisons had been changed into honey—and threw it into confusion. But my philosophy immediately seized upon the dreadful warning, surrounded it with images and artifice and quickly made it harmless. In the same way, bees encase the starving drone in wax when it comes to steal their honey.

A few hours later the widow was at rest in my memory, calm and serene, changed into a symbol. She was encased in wax in my heart; she could no longer spread panic inside me and paralyse my brain. The terrible events of that one day broadened, extended into time and space, and became one with great past civilisations; the civilisations became one with the earth’s destiny; the earth with the destiny of the universe—and thus, returning to the widow, I found her subject to the great laws of existence, reconciled with her murderers, immobile and serene.

For me time had found its real meaning: the widow had died thousands of years before, in the epoch of the Aegean civilisation, and the young girls of Cnossos with their curly hair had died that very morning on the shores of this pleasant sea.

Sleep took possession of me, just as one day—nothing is more certain—death will do, and I slipped gently into darkness. I did not hear when Zorba returned, or even if he returned. The next morning I found him on the mountainside shouting and cursing at the workers.

Nothing they did was to his liking. He dismissed three workers who were obstinate, took the pick himself and began clearing through the rocks and brushing the path which he had marked out for the posts. He climbed the mountain, met some woodcutters who were cutting down the pines and began to thunder abuse. One of them laughed and muttered, Zorba hurled himself at him.

That evening he came down to the hut worn out and in rags. He sat beside me on the beach. He could hardly open his mouth; when he did speak at last, it was about timber, cables and lignite; he was like a grasping contractor, in a hurry to devastate the place, make as much profit out of it as he could and leave.

In the stage of self-consolation which I had reached, I was once on the point of speaking about the widow; Zorba stretched out his long arm and put his big hand over my mouth.

“Shut up!” he said in a muffled voice.

I stopped, ashamed. That is what a real man is like, I thought, envying Zorba’s sorrow. A man with warm blood and solid bones, who lets real tears run down his cheeks when he is suffering; and when he is happy he does not spoil the freshness of his joy by running it through the fine sieve of metaphysics.

Three or four days went by in this way. Zorba worked steadily, not stopping to eat, or drink, or rest. He was laying the foundations.

One evening I mentioned that Dame Bouboulina was still in bed, that the doctor had not come and that she was continually calling for him in her delirium.

He clenched his fists.

“All right,” he answered.

The next morning at dawn he went to the village and almost immediately afterwards returned to the hut.

“Did you see her?” I asked. “How is she?”

“Nothing wrong with her,” he answered, “she’s going to die.”

And he strode off to his work.

That evening, without eating, he took his thick stick and went out.

“Where are you going?” I asked. To the village?”

“No. I’m going for a walk. I’ll soon be back.”

He strode towards the village with fast determined steps.

I was tired and went to bed. My mind again set itself to passing the whole world in review; memories came, and sorrows; my thoughts flitted around the most remote ideas but came back and settled on Zorba.

If ever he runs across Manolakas while he’s out, I thought, that Cretan giant will hurl himself on him in a savage fury. They say that for these last few days he has been staying indoors. He is ashamed to show himself in the village and keeps saying that if he catches Zorba he will “tear him to bits with his teeth, like a sardine.” One of the workmen said he had seen him in the middle of the night prowling about the hut fully armed. If they meet tonight there will be murder.

I leaped up, dressed and hurried down the road to the village. The calm, humid night air smelled of wild violets. After a time I saw Zorba walking slowly, as if very tired, towards the village. From time to time he stopped, stared at the stars, listened; then he started off again, a little faster, and I could hear his stick on the stones.

He was approaching the widow’s garden. The air was full of the scent of lemon blossom and honeysuckle. At that moment, from the orange-trees in the garden, the nightingale began to pour out its heart-rending song in notes as clear as spring water. It sang and sang in the darkness with breathtaking beauty. Zorba stopped, gasping at the sweetness of the song.

Suddenly the reeds of the hedge moved; their sharp leaves clashed like blades of steel.

“You, there!” shouted a loud and furious voice. “You doting old fool! So I’ve found you at last!” My blood ran cold. I recognised the voice.

Zorba stepped forward, raised his stick and stopped. I could see every one of his movements by the light of the stars.

A huge man leaped out from the reed-hedge.

“Who is it?” cried Zorba, craning his neck.

“Me, Manolakas.”

“Go your way! Beat it!”

“Why did you disgrace me?”

“I didn’t disgrace you, Manolakas! Beat it, I say. You’re a big, strong fellow, yes, but luck was against you… and luck is blind, didn’t you know that?” “Luck or no luck, blind or not,” said Manolakas, and I heard his teeth grinding, “I’m going to wipe out the disgrace. And tonight, too. Got a knife?” “No,” answered Zorba. “Just a stick.”

“Go and fetch your knife. I’ll wait here. Go on!”

Zorba did not move.

“Afraid?” hissed Manolakas, in a sneer. “Go on, I tell you!”

“And what would I do with a knife?” asked Zorba, who was beginning to get excited. “What would I do with it? What happened at the church? I seem to remember you had a knife then, and I didn’t… but I came out on top, didn’t I?” Manolakas roared in fury.

“Trying to take a rise out of me as well, eh? You’ve picked the wrong moment to sneer; don’t forget I’m armed and you’re not! Fetch your knife, you lousy Macedonian, then we’ll see who’s best.” Zorba raised his arm, threw away his stick; I heard it fall among the reeds.

“Throw your knife away!” he cried.

I had gone up to them on tiptoe, and in the light of the stars I could just see the glitter of the knife as it too fell among the reeds.

Zorba spat upon his hands.

“Come on!” he shouted, making a preliminary leap into the air.

But before they had time to come to grips I ran in between them.

“Stop!” I cried. “Here, Manolakas! And you, Zorba! Come here! Shame on you!” The two adversaries came slowly towards me. I took each by the right hand.

“Shake hands!” I said. “You are both good, stout fellows, you must patch up this quarrel.” “He’s dishonoured me!” said Manolakas, trying to withdraw his hand.

“No one can dishonour you as easily as that,” I said. “The whole village knows you’re a brave man. Forget what happened at the church the other day. It was an unlucky hour! What’s happened is over and done with! And don’t forget, Zorba is a foreigner, a Macedonian, and it’s the greatest disgrace we Cretans can bring on ourselves to raise a hand against a guest in our country… Come now, give him your hand, that’s real gallantry—and come to the hut, Manolakas. We’ll drink together and roast a yard of sausage to seal our friendship!” I took Manolakas by the waist and led him a little apart.

“The poor fellow’s old, remember,” I whispered. “A strong, young fellow like you shouldn’t attack a man of his age.” Manolakas softened a little.

“All right,” he said. “Just to please you.”

He stepped towards Zorba and held out his huge hand.

“Come, friend Zorba,” he said. “It’s all over and forgotten; give me your hand.” “You chewed my ear,” said Zorba, “much good may it do you! Here’s my hand!” They shook hands forcefully, more and more vigorously, looking each other in the eyes. I was afraid they were going to start fighting again.

“You’ve got a strong grip, Manolakas,” said Zorba. “You’re a stout fellow and pretty tough!” “You’ve a strong hand, too; see if you can grip me tighter still.”

“That’s enough!” I cried. “Let’s go and seal our friendship with a drink!” On the way back to the beach I walked in between them, Zorba on my right and Manolakas on my left.

“There’ll be a very good harvest this year…” I said, to change the subject. “There’s been a lot of rain.” Neither of them answered. They were still tight about the chest. My hope lay in the wine. We reached the hut.

“Welcome to our humble home,” I said. “Zorba, roast the sausage and find something to drink.” Manolakas sat down on a stone in front of the hut. Zorba took a handful of twigs, roasted the sausage and filled three glasses. “Good health!” I said, raising my glass.

“Good health, Manolakas! Good health, Zorba! Clink glasses!”

They clinked glasses, and Manolakas spilled a few drops on the ground.

“May my blood run like this wine,” he said in a solemn voice, “if ever I raise my hand against you, Zorba.” “May my blood, too, run like this wine,” said Zorba, following suit and pouring a few spots on the ground, “if I haven’t already forgotten the way you chewed my ear!”