فصل 23

XXIII

As dawn broke Zorba sat up in bed and spoke to me, waking me.

“Are you asleep, boss?”

“What is it, Zorba?”

“I’ve been dreaming. A funny dream. I think we shan’t be long before we go on some journey or other. Listen, this’ll make you laugh. There was a ship as big as a town here in the harbour. Its siren was going, it was preparing to leave. Then I came running up from the village to catch it, and I was carrying a parrot in my hands. I reached the ship and went aboard. The captain came running up. ‘Ticket!’ he shouted. ‘How much is it?’ I asked, pulling a roll of notes out of my pocket. ‘A thousand drachmas.’ ‘Look here, take it easy, won’t eight hundred do?’ I said. ‘No, a thousand.’ ‘I’ve only got eight hundred; you can take them!’ ‘A thousand,’ he said, ‘nothing less! If you haven’t got them, get off the boat quick!’ I was annoyed. ‘Listen, captain,’ I said, ‘for your own sake take the eight hundred I’m offering you, because if you don’t I’ll wake up and then, my friend, you’ll lose the lot!’” Zorba burst out laughing.

“What a strange machine man is!” he said, with astonishment. “You fill him with bread, wine, fish, radishes, and out of him come sighs, laughter and dreams. Like a factory. I’m sure there’s a sort of talking-film cinema in our heads.” He suddenly leaped out of bed.

“But why the parrot?” he cried anxiously. “What does that mean, taking a parrot off with me? Ha! I’m afraid…” He had no time to finish his sentence. In rushed a stumpy, red-haired messenger, looking like the devil in person. He was gasping for breath.

“For God’s sake! the poor woman’s screaming her head off for the doctor! She says she’s dying, for sure… and you’ll have it on your conscience, she says!” I felt ashamed. In the distress the widow had caused us, we had completely forgotten our old friend.

“She’s going through it, poor woman,” the red-haired man went on talkatively. “She coughs so, her whole hotel’s shaking with it. Yes, it’s a proper ass’s cough! Whoof! Whoof! It shakes the whole village!” “Be quiet!” I said. “Don’t joke about it!”

I took a piece of paper and wrote a message.

“Go and take this letter to the doctor and don’t come away till you’ve seen him, with your own eyes, ride off on his mare! Do you understand? Now, go!” He seized the letter, stuck it in his belt and ran off.

Zorba was up already. He dressed hurriedly without a word.

“Wait a moment, I’ll come with you,” I said.

“I’m in a hurry,” he replied, and started out.

A little later I also set out for the village. The widow’s deserted garden perfumed the air. Mimiko was sitting huddled up before the house and glowering like a beaten dog. He looked very thin; his eyes were red and sunken in their sockets. He turned round, saw me and picked up a stone.

“What are you doing here, Mimiko?” I asked, glancing regretfully at the garden. I could feel two warm, all-powerful arms twined round my neck… a scent of lemon-blossom and laurel-oil. We said nothing. I could see in the dusk her burning, black eyes and her gleaming, pointed, white teeth which she had rubbed with walnut-leaf.

“Why d’ you ask me that?” he growled. “Go away. Go about your business.” “Like a cigarette?”

“I’m not smoking any more. You’re all a lot of swine! All of you! All of you!” He stopped, panting, seeming to search for a word he could not find.

“Swine… scoundrels… liars… murderers…”

He seemed at last to have found the word he wanted and be relieved. He clapped his hands.

“Murderers! murderers! murderers!” he shouted in a shrill voice. He started laughing. It wrung my heart to see him.

“You’re quite right, Mimiko,” I said. “You’re right.” And I hurried away.

As I entered the village I saw old Anagnosti, leaning on his stick, smiling as he watched two yellow butterflies chasing each other over the spring grass. Now that he was old and no longer worried about his fields and his wife and children, he had time to look disinterestedly on the world around him. He noticed my shadow on the ground and looked up.

“What lucky chance brings you here so early in the morning?” he asked.

But he must have read my anxious face, and went on without waiting for an answer.

“Do something quickly, my son,” he said. “I’m not sure whether you’ll still find her alive or not… Ah, the poor wretch!” The large bed which had seen so much use, her most faithful companion, had been put in the middle of her little room and nearly filled it. Above her head there bent over the singer her devoted privy councillor, the parrot—with his green crown, yellow bonnet and round, evil eye. He was gazing down at his mistress as she lay groaning. And he leaned his almost human head to one side to listen.

No, these were not the choking sighs of joy he knew so well, that she would utter in the act of love-making, nor the tender cooing of the dove, nor the little shrieks of laughter. The beads of ice-cold sweat running down his mistress’s face, her hair like tow—unwashed, uncombed—sticking to her temples, the convulsive movements in the bed, these the parrot saw for the first time, and he was uneasy. He wanted to shout: “Canavaro! Canavaro!” but his voice stuck in his throat.

His poor mistress was groaning; she kept lifting up the sheets with her wilting, flabby arms; she was suffocating. She had no make-up on her face and her cheeks were swollen; she smelled of stale sweat and of flesh which is beginning to decompose. Her down-at-heel, out-of-shape court-shoes were poking out from under the bed. It wrung your heart to see them. Those shoes were more moving than the sight of their owner herself.

Zorba sat at her bedside, looking at the shoes. He could not take his eyes off them. He was biting his lip to keep back the tears. I went in and sat behind Zorba, but he did not hear me.

The poor woman was finding it difficult to breathe; she was choking. Zorba took down a hat decorated with artificial roses and fanned her with it. He waved his big hand up and down very quickly and clumsily as though he were trying to light some damp coal.

She opened her eyes in terror and looked round her. It was dark and she could see no one, not even Zorba fanning her with the flowered hat.

Everything was dark and disturbing about her; blue vapours were rising from the ground and changing shape. They formed sneering mouths, claw-like feet, black wings.

She dug her nails into her pillow, which was stained with tears, saliva and sweat, and she cried out.

“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to!”

But the two mourners from the village had heard of the condition she was in and had just arrived. They slipped into the room, sat on the floor and leaned against the wall.

The parrot saw them, with his round staring eyes, and was angry. He stretched out his head and cried: “Canav…” but Zorba savagely shot his hand out at the cage and silenced the bird.

Again the cry of despair rang out.

“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to.”

Two beardless youths, tanned by the sun, poked their heads round the door, looked carefully at the sick woman. Satisfied, they winked at each other and disappeared.

Soon afterwards we heard a terrified clucking and beating of wings coming from the yard; someone was chasing the hens.

The first dirge-singer, old Malamatenia, turned to her companion.

“Did you see them, auntie Lenio, did you see them? They’re in a hurry, the hungry wretches; they’re going to wring the hens’ necks and eat them. All the good-for-nothings of the village have collected in the yard; it’ll not be long before they plunder the place!” Then, turning to the dying woman’s bed:

“Hurry up and die, my friend,” she muttered impatiently; “give up the ghost as quick as you can so that we get a chance as well as the others.” To tell you God’s own truth,” said aunt Lenio, creasing her little toothless mouth, “mother Malamatenia, they’re doing right, those boys. ‘If you want to eat something, pilfer; if you want to own something, steal…’ that’s what my old mother used to say to me. We’ve only got to rattle off our mirologues as fast as we can, lay our hands on a couple of handfuls of rice, some sugar, and a saucepan, and then we can bless her memory. She had neither parents nor children, did she, so who’s going to eat her hens and her rabbits? Who’ll drink her wine? Who’ll inherit all those cottons and combs and sweets and things? Ha, what d’you expect, mother Malamatenia? God forgive me, but that’s the way the world is… and I’d like to pick up a few things myself!” “Wait a bit, dear, don’t be in too much of a hurry,” said mother Malamatenia, seizing her arm. “I had the same idea myself, I don’t mind admitting, but just wait till she’s given up the ghost.” Meanwhile the dying woman was fumbling frantically beneath her pillow. As soon as she thought she was in danger she had taken out of her trunk a crucifix in gleaming white bone and thrust it under her pillow. For years she had entirely forgotten it and it had lain among her tattered chemises and bits of velvet and rags at the bottom of the trunk. As if Christ were a medicine to be taken only when gravely ill, and of no use so long as you can have a good time, eat, drink and make love.

At last her groping hand found the crucifix and she pressed it to her bosom, which was damp with sweat.

“Dear Jesus, my dear Jesus…” she uttered passionately, clasping her last lover to her breast.

Her words, which were half-French half-Greek but full of tenderness and passion, were very confused. The parrot heard her. He sensed that the tone of voice had changed, remembered the former long sleepless nights and livened up immediately.

“Canavaro! Canavaro!” he shouted hoarsely, like a cock crowing at the sun.

Zorba this time did not try to silence him. He looked at the woman as she wept and kissed the crucified image whilst an unexpected sweetness spread over her ravaged face.

The door opened, old Anagnosti came in quietly, cap in hand. He came up to the sick woman, bowed and knelt down.

“Forgive me, dear lady,” he said to her, “forgive me, and may God forgive you. If sometimes I spoke a harsh word, we’re only men… Forgive me.” But the dear soul was now lying quietly, sunk in an unspeakable felicity, and she did not hear what old Anagnosti said. All her torments were gone—unhappy old age, all the sneers and hard words she had endured, the sad evenings she had spent alone in her doorway knitting thick woollen socks. This elegant Parisienne, this tantalising woman men could not resist and who, in her time, had bounced the four great Powers on her knee, and had been saluted by four naval squadrons!

The sea was azure blue, the waves were flecked with foam, the sea-going fortresses were dancing in the harbour, and flags of many colours were flapping from every mast. You could smell the partridges roasting and the red mullet on the grill, glace fruits were carried to the table in bowls of cut crystal and the champagne corks flew up to the ceiling.

Black and fair beards, red and grey beards, four sorts of perfume—violet, eau-de- Cologne, musk, patchouli; the doors of the metal cabin were closed, the heavy curtains drawn to, the lights were lit. Madame Hortense closed her eyes. All her life of love, all her life of torment—ah, almighty God! It had lasted no more than a second… She goes from knee to knee, clasps in her arms gold-braided uniforms, buries her fingers in thick-scented beards. She cannot remember their names, any more than her parrot can. She can only remember Canavaro, because he was the youngest of them all and his name was the only one the parrot could pronounce. The others were complicated and difficult to pronounce, and so were forgotten.

Madame Hortense sighed deeply and hugged the crucifix passionately to her.

“My Canavaro, my little Canavaro…” she murmured in her delirium, pressing it to her flabby breasts.

“She’s beginning not to know what she’s saying,” murmured aunt Lenio. “She must have seen her guardian angel and had a scare… We’ll loosen our kerchiefs and go nearer.” “What! Haven’t you any fear of God, then?” said mother Malamatenia. “D’you want us to begin singing while she’s still alive?” “Ha, mother Malamatenia,” grumbled aunt Lenio under her breath, “instead of thinking about her trunk and her clothes and all the things she has outside in the shop, and the hens and rabbits in the yard, there are you telling me we ought to wait till she’s breathed her last! No! First come first served, I say!” And as she spoke she stood up, and the other followed her angrily. They undid their black kerchiefs, let down their thin white hair and gripped the edges of the bed.

Aunt Lenio gave the signal by letting out a long piercing cry enough to make a cold shiver go down your spine.

“Eeeee!”

Zorba leaped up, seized the two old women by the hair and dragged them back.

“Shut your traps, you old magpies!” he shouted. “Can’t you see she’s still alive? Go to hell!” “Doddering old idiot!” grumbled mother Malamatenia, fastening her kerchief again. “Where’s he sprung from, I’d like to know, the interfering fool!” Dame Hortense, the sorely tried old siren, heard the strident cry beside her bed. Her sweet vision faded; the admiral’s vessel sank, the roast pheasants, champagne and perfumed beards disappeared and she fell back on to that stinking death-bed, at the end of the world. She made an effort to raise herself, as though trying to escape, but she fell back again and cried softly and plaintively.

“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to…”

Zorba leaned forward and touched her forehead with his great horny hand, and brushed away the hair which was sticking to her face; his bird-like eyes filled with tears.

“Quiet, my dear, quiet,” he murmured. “I’m here; this is Zorba. Don’t be afraid.” And suddenly the vision returned, like an enormous sea-green butterfly and spread its wings over the whole bed. The dying woman seized Zorba’s big hand, slowly stretched out her arm and put it round his neck as he bent over her. Her lips moved… “My Canavaro, my little Canavaro…”

The crucifix slipped off the pillow, fell to the floor and broke into little pieces. A man’s voice rang out in the yard: “Come on! Pop the hen in now, the water’s boiling!”

I was sitting in a corner of the room and from time to time my eyes filled with tears. That is life, I thought—chequered, incoherent, indifferent, perverse… pitiless. These primitive Cretan peasants surround this old cabaret singer come from the other end of the earth and with inhuman joy watch her die, as if she were not also a human being. As though a huge exotic bird had fallen from the sky, its wings broken, and they had gathered on the sea-shore by their village to watch it die. An old pea-fowl, an old angora cat, a sick old seal… Zorba gently removed Dame Hortense’s arm from round his neck and stood up, white-faced. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, looked at the sick woman but could see nothing. He wiped his eyes again and could just see her moving her swollen helpless feet in the bed and twisting her mouth in terror. She shook herself once, twice, the bedclothes slipped to the floor and she appeared, half-naked, covered with sweat, swollen, a greenish-yellow colour. She uttered a strident, piercing cry like a fowl when its throat is cut, then she remained motionless, her eyes wide open, terrified, glassy.

The parrot jumped down to the bottom of its cage, clutched the bars and watched as Zorba reached out his huge hand and, with indescribable tenderness, closed his mistress’s eyelids.

“Quick, all of you! She’s gone!” yelped the dirge-singers, rushing to the bed. They uttered a prolonged cry, rocking backwards and forwards, clenching their fists and beating their breasts. Little by little the monotony of this lugubrious oscillation produced in them a slight state of hypnosis, old griefs of their own invaded their minds like poison, their hearts were opened and the mirologue burst forth.

“It was not meet for thee, to lie beneath the earth…”

Zorba went out into the yard. He wanted to weep, but he was ashamed to do so in front of the women. I remember he said to me once: “I’m not ashamed to cry, if it’s in front of men. Between men there’s some unity, isn’t there? It’s no disgrace. But in front of women a man always has to prove that he’s courageous. Because if we started crying our eyes out, too, what’d happen to these poor creatures? It would be the end!” They washed her with wine; the old woman who was laying her out opened the trunk, took out clean clothes and changed her, pouring over her a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. From the nearby gardens came the blow-flies and laid their eggs in her nostrils, round her eyes and in the corners of her lips.

Night was falling. The sky to the west was beautifully serene. Small, fleecy red clouds edged with gold were sailing slowly across the dark purple evening sky, looking one moment like ships, the next like swans, then like fantastic monsters made of cotton wool and frayed silk. Between the reeds in the yard could be seen the gleaming waves of the choppy sea.

Two well-fed crows flew from a fig-tree close by and walked up and down the yard. Zorba angrily picked up a pebble and made them fly away.

In the other corner of the yard the village marauders had prepared a tremendous feast. They had brought out the large kitchen table, searched out bread, plates, knives and forks. They had brought from the cellar a demijohn of wine, and cooked a few hens in the pot. Now, hungry and happy, they were eating and drinking with a fine relish and clinking glasses.

“God save her soul! And for all she’s done let her off the forfeits!”

“May all her lovers turn into angels and carry her soul to heaven!”

“Just take a look at old Zorba,” said Manolakas. “He’s throwing stones at the crows! He’s a widower now; let’s ask him to drink to the memory of his woman! Hullo, Zorba! Come and join us, countryman.” Zorba turned round. He saw the full table, the steaming hens in the dishes, the wine glistening in the glasses, the stout sun-tanned fellows sitting jauntily with their scarves tied round their heads, all instinct with youth.

“Zorba, Zorba!” he murmured. “Hold on! This is where you’ll have to show what you’re made of!” He went over to them, drank a glass at one gulp, then a second, then a third, and ate a leg of chicken. They spoke to him, but he made no reply. He ate and drank fast, greedily, in huge mouthfuls, lengthy draughts, and in silence. He kept looking towards the room where Bouboulina was lying and listening to the mirologues coming through the open window. From time to time the funereal chants broke off and they could hear some shouts, as though a quarrel had started, and the sounds of cupboards and trunks being opened and shut, and heavy, rapid tramplings as if people were fighting. Then, the mirologue would begin again, monotonous, despairing, a soft murmur like that of a bee.

The two women were running to and fro in the death-chamber, chanting their mirologues while they feverishly rummaged in every little corner. They opened a cupboard and found several little spoons, some sugar, a tin of coffee and a box of loukoums.[30] Aunt Lenio pounced on them and seized the coffee and loukoums. Old mother Malamatenia seized the sugar and spoons. She picked up two loukoums as well, thrust them into her mouth, and for a while the mirologue came out in muffled and choking fashion through the sugary paste.

[30] A variety of Turkish Delight.

“May flowers rain on thee and apples fall into thy lap…”

Two other old women crept into the room, rushed to the trunk, plunged their hands inside, picked up a few little handkerchiefs, two or three towels, three pairs of silk stockings, a garter, and thrust them down their bodices, then turned to the dead woman on the bed and crossed themselves.

Mother Malamatenia saw the old women rob the trunk and that put her into a fury. “You go on; keep going, dear, I shan’t be a second!” she cried to aunt Lenio, and dived head-first into the trunk herself.

Bits of old satin, an old-fashioned mauve dress, antique red sandals, a broken fan, a new scarlet sunshade, and, right at the bottom, an admiral’s three-cornered hat. A present someone had made Bouboulina long ago. When she was alone in the house sometimes she used to put it on and sadly and gravely admire herself in the mirror.

Someone approached the door. The old women went out, while aunt Lenio gripped the death-bed once more and started beating her breast as she chanted: “… and crimson carnations round thy neck…”

Zorba entered, looked at the dead woman, still and peaceful now, quite yellow and covered with flies, as she lay with her arms folded, and a tiny velvet ribbon round her neck.

“A bit of earth,” he thought, “a bit of earth that was hungry… and laughed, and kissed. A lump of mud that wept human tears. And now?… Who the devil brings us onto this earth and who the devil takes us away?” He spat and sat down.

Outside in the yard the young people were taking their places for the dance. The clever lyre-player, Fanurio, came at last and they pulled the tables aside, and cleared away the paraffin cans, the washtub and the clothes-basket, to make room for the dance.

The village worthies appeared: uncle Anagnosti, with his long crooked stick and full, white shirt; Kondomanolio, plump and dirty; the schoolmaster, with a large brass inkhorn in his belt and a green penholder stuck behind his ear. Old Mavrandoni was not there; he had gone into the mountains as an outlaw.

“Glad to see you!” said uncle Anagnosti, raising his hand in greeting. “Glad to see you’re enjoying yourselves! God bless you all! But don’t shout… you mustn’t. The dead can hear, remember, the dead can hear.” Kondomanolio explained:

“We’ve come to make an inventory of the dead woman’s belongings, so that they can be divided among the poor. You’ve all eaten and drunk your fill, now that’s enough. Don’t strip the whole place! Look!” he waved his stick threateningly in the air.

Behind the three elders appeared a dozen ragged women, with untidy hair and bare feet. Each one carried an empty sack under her arm and a basket on her back. They came in furtively, step by step, without a word.

Uncle Anagnosti turned round, saw them and burst out: “You get back, there, you pack of gipsies! What? Come to rush the place? We’re going to write everything down, item by item, and then it’ll all be divided properly and fairly between the poor. Get back, will you!” The schoolmaster took the long ink-horn from his belt, opened a large sheet of paper and went to the little shop to begin the inventory.

But at that very moment a deafening noise was heard—as if someone were banging on tins, as if cases of cotton-reels were falling, and cups were knocking together and breaking. And in the kitchen was heard a tremendous din among saucepans, plates and cutlery.

Old Kondomanolio rushed there, brandishing his stick. But what could he do? Old women, men, children went rushing through the doors, jumped through the open windows, over the fences and off the balcony, each carrying whatever he had been able to snatch—saucepans, fryingpans, mattresses, rabbits… Some of them had taken doors or windows off their hinges and had put them on their backs. Mimiko had seized the two court shoes, tied them on a piece of string and hung them round his neck—it looked as though Dame Hortense was going off astraddle on his shoulders and only her shoes were visible… The schoolmaster frowned, put the ink-horn back in his belt, folded up the virgin white sheet of paper, then, without a word and with an air of deeply offended dignity, crossed the threshold and walked away.

Poor old uncle Anagnosti went about shouting, begging the people to stop, waving his stick at them.

“It’s a disgrace! It’s a disgrace! The dead can hear you, remember!”

“Shall I go and call the priest?” said Mimiko.

“What priest, you fool?” said Kondomanolio furiously. “She was a Frank; didn’t you ever notice how she crossed herself? With four fingers—like that—the infidel! Come on, let’s get her underground, so that she doesn’t stink us all out and infect the whole village!” “She’s beginning to fill with worms, by the Holy Cross itself!” said Mimiko, crossing himself.

Uncle Anagnosti, the grand old man of the village, shook his fine head.

“What’s strange in that, you idiot? The truth is that man is full of worms from the day he’s born, but you can’t see them. When they find that you’re beginning to stink they come out of their holes—white they are, all white like cheese maggots!” The first stars appeared and hung in the air, trembling, like little silver bells. All the darkness was filled with tinkling bells.

Zorba took down the parrot and his cage from over the dead woman’s head. The orphan bird was crouching in one corner, terrified; he was gazing with staring eyes but could understand nothing. He pushed his head under his wings and crumpled up with fear.

When Zorba took down the cage the parrot raised himself. He was going to speak but Zorba held out his hand to stop him.

“Quiet,” he murmured in a soothing tone, “quiet! Come with me.”

Zorba leaned forward and looked at the dead woman’s face. He looked a long time, his throat tight and dry.

He stooped, as if to kiss her, but refrained.

“Let’s go, for God’s sake!” he muttered. He picked up the cage and went out into the yard. There he saw me and came over to me.

“Let’s leave now…” he said in a low voice, taking my arm.

He seemed calm, but his lips were trembling.

“We all have to go the same way…” I said to him.

“That’s a great consolation!” he said sarcastically. “Let’s be off.”

“One moment,” I said. “They’re just going to take her away. We ought to wait and see that… Can’t you stick it one more minute?” “All right…” he answered in a choking voice. He put the cage down and folded his arms.

From the death-chamber uncle Anagnosti and Kondomanolio came bareheaded and crossed themselves. Behind them came four of the dancers, with April roses still stuck behind their ears. They were gay, half-drunk. Each was holding a corner of the door on which they had placed the dead woman’s body. There followed the lyre-player with his instrument, a dozen more men who were rather tipsy, still munching, and five or six women, each carrying a saucepan or chair. Mimiko came last, with the down-at-heel court shoes tied round his neck.

“Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!” he shouted gaily.

A warm, humid wind was blowing and the sea was choppy. The lyre-player raised his bow—his fresh voice rang out merrily and sarcastically in the warm night: “O sun, how hurriedly hast thou set in the west…”

“Come on,” said Zorba, “it’s over now…”