فصل 3

III

Dame Hortense’s hotel consisted of a row of old bathing-huts joined together. The first was the shop where you could buy sweets, cigarettes, peanuts, lamp-wicks, alphabets, candles and benjamin. Four adjoining huts formed the dormitory. Behind, in the yard, were the kitchen, the wash-house, the hen-house and the rabbit hutches. Thick bamboos and prickly pears were planted in the fine sand all round. The whole place smelled of the sea, excrement and urine. But, from time to time, Dame Hortense passed by and the air changed its odour—as if someone had emptied a hairdresser’s bowl under your nose.

As soon as the beds were ready we retired and slept without a break till the morning. I do not remember the dream I had, but I rose lightly and as fit as if I had come fresh from a dip in the sea.

It was Sunday, the workmen were to come on Monday from neighbouring villages and begin work at the mine, so I had time this day to take a turn round the shores on which fate had cast me. Dawn was hardly peeping through when I started out. I went past the gardens, followed the edge of the sea, hurriedly made my acquaintance with the water, earth and air of the spot, picked wild plants, and the palms of my hands became redolent with savory, sage and mint.

I climbed a hill and looked round. An austere countryside of granite and very hard limestone. Dark carob and silvery olive trees, figs and vines. In the sheltered hollows, orange groves, lemon and medlar trees; near the shore, kitchen gardens. To the south, an expanse of sea, still angry and roaring as it came rushing from Africa to bite into the coast of Crete. Nearby, a low, sandy islet flushing rosy pink under the first rays of the sun.

To my mind, this Cretan countryside resembled good prose, carefully ordered, sober, free from superfluous ornament, powerful and restrained. It expressed all that was necessary with the greatest economy. It had no flippancy, nor artifice about it. It said what it had to say with a manly austerity. But between the severe lines one could discern an unexpected sensitiveness and tenderness; in the sheltered hollows the lemon and orange trees perfumed the air, and from the vastness of the sea emanated an inexhaustible poetry.

“Crete,” I murmured. “Crete…” and my heart beat fast.

I came down from the little hill to the edge of the water. Chattering girls appeared with fichus as white as snow, long yellow boots, and skirts rucked up; they were going to mass in the convent over there, gleaming a dazzling white by the sea.

I stopped. As soon as they noticed me, the girls’ laughter ceased. At the sight of a strange man their expression became one of wild distrust. Their whole bearing from head to foot was suddenly on the defensive, their fingers clutched nervously at their tightly buttoned blouses. Fear surged in their blood. For centuries the Corsairs had made sudden incursions on to the whole of the Cretan coast facing Africa, ravishing ewes, women and children. They bound them with their red belts, threw them into the bottoms of their ships and set sail to sell them in Algiers, Alexandria, Beirut. For centuries the waters round these shores, festooned with black tresses, have resounded with lamentations. I watched these frightened girls advance, clinging together as if to form an impassable barrier. It was an instinctive reaction, indispensable in earlier times and today repeated without reason. A bygone necessity dictated the rhythm of their movements.

As the girls passed in front of me, I quietly stepped aside, smiling. And immediately, as if they suddenly felt that the danger they feared had passed centuries ago, and that they had awakened in our age of security, their faces lit up, the serried line of battle spread out and, all together, they bade me good-day in clear and light-hearted tones. At the same time the merry, sportive bells of the distant convent filled the air with sounds of rejoicing.

The sun had risen, the sky was clear. I crouched among the rocks, perched like a seagull on a ledge, and contemplated the sea. My body felt powerful, fresh and obedient. And my mind, following the waves, became itself a wave, unresisting, submissive to the rhythm of the sea.

Then my heart began to swell. Obscure, pleading and imperious voices rose within me. I knew who was calling to me. Whenever I was alone for a moment, this being cried out, in an anguish of horrible presentiments, transports and mad fears—waiting to be delivered by me.

I hurriedly opened Dante, my travelling companion, in order not to hear and to exorcise the fearful demon. I turned over the pages, reading a line here and there, or a tercet, and committing to memory the entire canto. Out of those fiery pages the damned rose howling. Half-way up the rocks, wounded souls sought to scale a precipitous mountainside. Higher still, the souls of the blessed moved among the emerald fields, like brilliant fireflies. I wandered from the highest to the lowest regions of the terrible house of destiny; I went freely about hell, purgatory and paradise, as if in my own dwelling. I suffered, I awaited or tasted beatitude, carried away as I was by those superb verses.

Suddenly I closed my Dante and looked out over the sea. A gull, its breast resting on the water, rose and fell with the waves, abandoning itself to them and enjoying the pleasures of abandonment. A youth, sunburnt and bare-foot, appeared at the water’s edge singing love-songs. Maybe he understood the pain they expressed, for his voice had begun to grow hoarse, like that of a cockerel.

For hundreds of years, Dante’s verses have been sung in the poet’s country. And just as love songs prepare boys and girls for love, so the ardent Florentine verses prepared Italian youths for the day of deliverance. From generation to generation, all communed with the soul of the poet and so transformed their slavery into freedom.

I heard a laugh behind me and at once fell from the Dantesque heights. I looked round and saw Zorba behind me, his whole face creased with laughter.

“Well, boss, this is a fine way of going on!” he cried. “Here I’ve been looking for you for hours, but how could I know where to get hold of you?” Seeing I remained silent, he continued:

“It’s gone midday, the hen is cooked; the poor thing’ll be dropping to bits, you know!” “Yes, I know, but I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry!” Zorba exclaimed, slapping his thighs. “But you’ve not had a bite since morning. The body’s got a soul, too, have pity on it. Give it something to eat, boss, give it something; it’s our beast of burden, you know. If you don’t feed it, it’ll leave you stranded in the middle o’ the road.” I had despised the pleasures of the flesh for years, and, if possible, I would have eaten secretly, as if committing a shameful act. But so that Zorba would not grumble I said: “All right, I’m coming.”

We started off in the direction of the village. The hours amongst the rocks had passed as time passes between lovers, like lightning.

“Were you thinking of the lignite?” Zorba asked with some hesitation.

“And what else d’you expect me to be thinking about?” I replied, laughing. Tomorrow we’ll start work. I had to make some calculations.” “What’s the result of the calculations?” he asked, as he made his way carefully.

“After three months we must extract ten tons of lignite a day to cover expenses.” Zorba looked at me again, this time anxiously. A little later he said: “And why the devil d’you have to go down to the sea to make calculations? Pardon me, boss, for asking this question, but I don’t understand. When I have to wrestle with figures, I feel I’d like to stuff myself into a hole in the ground, so I can’t see anything. If I raise my eyes and see the sea, or a tree, or a woman—even if she’s an old ‘un—damme if all the sums and figures don’t go to blazes. They grow wings and I have to chase ‘em…” “But that’s your fault, Zorba,” I said to tease him. “You don’t concentrate.” “Maybe you’re right, boss. It all depends on the way you look at it. There are cases even wise old Solomon… Look, one day I had gone to a little village. An old grandfather of ninety was busy planting an almond tree. ‘What, grandad!’ I exclaimed. ‘Planting an almond tree?’ And he, bent as he was, turned round and said: ‘My son, I carry on as if I should never die.’ I replied: ‘And I carry on as if I was going to die any minute.’ Which of us was right, boss?” He looked at me triumphantly and said: “That’s where I’ve got you!”

I kept silent. Two equally steep and bold paths may lead to the same peak. To act as if death did not exist, or to act thinking every minute of death, is perhaps the same thing. But when Zorba asked me the question, I did not know.

“Well?” Zorba said mockingly. “Don’t worry, boss, you can’t argue that out. Let’s talk of something else. Just now I’m thinking of the chicken and the pilaff sprinkled with cinnamon. My brain’s steaming like the pilaff, Let’s eat first, ballast up first, then we’ll see. Everything in good time. In front of us now is the pilaff; let our minds become pilaff. Tomorrow the lignite will be in front of us; our minds must become lignite! No half-measures, you know.” We entered the village. The women were sitting in their doorways gossiping. The old men, leaning on their sticks, were silent. Under a pomegranate tree laden with fruit a little shrivelled old woman was delousing her grandson.

In front of the cafe an old man with a grave, concentrated expression and an aquiline nose was standing erect. He had a distinguished air. He was Mavrandoni, the village elder who had rented the lignite mine to us. He had called the previous evening at Dame Hortense’s to take us to his house. He said: “It’s a scandal for you to be staying at her hotel as if there were no men in the village.” He was grave, he weighed his words carefully as one of the leading villagers. We had refused. This had offended him, but he had not insisted.

“I have done my duty.” he said as he departed. “You are free.”

A little later he sent us two cheeses, a basket of pomegranates, a jar of raisins and figs, and a demijohn of raki. His servant said, as he unloaded his tiny ass: “With the compliments of Captain Mavrandoni. It’s nothing much, he asked me to tell you, but it’s meant well.” We now greeted the head of the village volubly and cordially.

“Long life to you!” he said, placing his hand on his breast. Then he fell silent.

“He doesn’t like to talk much,” Zorba murmured. “He’s an old stick.”

“He’s proud,” I said. “I like him.”

We were arriving. Zorba’s nostrils were quivering joyously. As soon as Dame Hortense saw us from the threshold she uttered a cry and ran into the kitchen.

Zorba put the table in the yard under the leafless vine-arbour. He cut thick slices of bread, brought the wine and set the table. He looked round at me wickedly and pointed to the table. He had set for three people!

“D’you see, boss?” he whispered.

“Yes, I see, you old rip!” I replied.

“It’s the old birds who make the best stew,” he said, licking his lips. “You take it from me.” He moved nimbly, his eyes sparkling. He hummed old love songs.

“That’s the way to live, boss. Have a good time and the bird into the bargain. You see, I’m doing things now as if I was going to die next minute. And I’m making it snappy, so I don’t kick the bucket before I’ve had the bird!” “To table!” Dame Hortense ordered.

She lifted the pot and set it down in front of us. But she stood gaping. She had seen the three plates. Crimson with pleasure, she looked at Zorba and blinked her sharp little periwinkle-blue eyes.

“She’s got hot pants, all right,” Zorba whispered.

Then, with extreme politeness, he turned to the lady and said:

“Beautiful nymph of the waves, we are shipwrecked and the sea has cast up us in your realm. Do us the honour, my siren, of sharing our meal!” The old cabaret singer opened her arms wide and closed them again as if she would have liked to embrace the two of us. She swayed gracefully, brushed against Zorba, then me, and ran, chuckling, to her room. Soon after she reappeared, twittering, flaunting her charms and dressed in her very best: an old shiny velvet dress, decorated with worn yellow braid. Her bodice remained hospitably open and on it she had pinned a full-blown artificial rose. In her hand she held the parrot’s cage which she hung in the vine-arbour.

We made her sit between us, with Zorba to her right and me to her left.

We all three set to ravenously. For a long time we did not utter a word. We were feeding the beast and slaking its thirst with wine. The food was soon changed into blood, the world became more beautiful, the woman at our sides became younger every minute, the lines in her face were disappearing. The parrot, hanging in front of us in his green jacket and yellow waistcoat, leaned forward to watch us. He looked like some odd little fellow under a spell, or else the spirit of the old cabaret singer wearing a green-and-yellow dress. And above our heads the vine-arbour was suddenly covered with large bunches of black grapes.

Zorba’s eyes were rolling, he flung open his arms as if he wanted to embrace the whole world.

“What’s happening, boss?” he cried, in astonishment. “We drink one little glass of wine and the world goes haywire. Ah, boss, life’s a rum thing. On your honour, are those grapes hanging there above our heads, or are they angels? I don’t know. Or else they’re nothing at all, and nothing exists, neither chicken, nor siren, nor Crete! Speak, boss, speak, so I don’t go right off my head!” Zorba was beginning to get lively. He had finished with the chicken and was beginning to look at Dame Hortense gluttonously. His eyes were ravishing her; they looked her up and down, slipped into her swelling bosom as if they touched her. Our lady’s little eyes were shining too; she liked the wine and had emptied several glasses of it. The mischievous demon in the wine had carried her back to the good old days. She became once more tender, merry and expansive. She rose and bolted the outside door so that the villagers could not see her—’the barbarians’, as she called them. She lit a cigarette, and from her little French retrousse nose began to issue wreaths of smoke.

At such times all the doors of a woman’s being are opened. The sentinels relax and a kind word is as powerful as gold or love. So I lit my pipe and pronounced the kind word.

“Dame Hortense, you remind me of Sarah Bernhardt… when she was young. I didn’t expect to find such elegance, such grace and courtesy, such beauty, in this wild place. What Shakespeare was it sent you here amongst the barbarians?” “Shakespeare?” she queried, opening wide her pale little eyes. “What Shakespeare?” Her mind flew back rapidly to the theatres she had been to. In the twinkling of an eye, she made a tour of the cafes, concerts, cabarets and taverns, from Paris to Beirut, and from there along the coast of Anatolia. Suddenly she remembered. It was in Alexandria, a great theatre with chandeliers, plush seats, men and women, bare backs, perfumes, flowers. All at once the curtain rose and a fearful black man appeared… “What Shakespeare?” she asked again proudly, having remembered. “The one they also call Othello?” “The same. What Shakespeare, my white lily, cast you on these savage rocks?” She looked around her. The doors were closed, the parrot was asleep, the rabbits were mating, we were alone. She was touched and began to open her heart to us. It was like opening an old chest, full of spices, yellowed love-letters and ancient dresses.

She spoke Greek after a fashion, murdering the words and mixing up the syllables. However, we understood her perfectly. Sometimes we had great difficulty in suppressing our laughter, sometimes—we had drunk a good deal—we burst into tears.

“Well”—this is roughly what the old siren told us in her perfumed yard—“well, the person you’re looking at now was never a tavern-singer, oh no! I was a famous artist and wore silk underclothes with real lace. But love…” She sighed deeply and lit another cigarette from Zorba’s.

“I loved an admiral. Crete was once more in a state of revolution and the fleets of the great powers had anchored in the port of Suda. A few days later I also anchored there. Ah, what splendour! You should have seen the four admirals: the English, the French, the Italian and the Russian. All gold braid, patent-leather shoes and plumed hats. Like cocks. Great cocks weighing from twelve to fifteen stone each. And what beards! They were curly, silky, dark, fair, grey, red—and how nice they smelt! Each one had his own particular perfume—that’s how I could distinguish between them in the dark. England smelled of eau-de-Cologne, France of violets, Russia of musk, and Italy, ah, Italy doted on patchouli. My God, what beards, what beards!

“Many times, when we were gathered on board the flagship, we talked about the revolution. Their uniforms were unclasped and my silk chemise was sticking to my skin, because they poured champagne over it. It was summer, you know. We were speaking about the revolution, having a serious conversation, and I caught hold of their beards and begged them not to bombard the poor dear Cretans. We could see them through the binoculars on a rock near Canea. They looked tiny, quite tiny, like ants with blue breeches and yellow boots. And they shouted and shouted, and they had a flag.” There was a movement in the bamboos which surrounded the yard. The old female warrior stopped, terrified. Between the leaves, wicked little eyes were gleaming. The village children had sensed we were junketing and were spying on us.

The cabaret singer tried to rise to her feet, but she could not. She had eaten and drunk too much, she sat back in a sweat. Zorba picked up a stone. The children scattered, screaming.

“Go on, my beauty! Go on, my treasure!” Zorba said, and pushed his chair still closer to her.

“So I said to the Italian admiral—I was more familiar with him—I seized his beard and said to him: ‘My Canavaro’—that was his name—’please, my little Canavaro, no boom-boom! No boom-boom!’

“How many times the woman you see here has saved the Cretans from death! How many times the guns were ready loaded and I seized the admiral’s beard and wouldn’t let him ‘boom-boom!’ But what thanks have I ever had for that? Look what I get in the way of decorations…” Dame Hortense was angry at the ingratitude of men. She struck the table with her soft and wrinkled fist. Zorba stretched out his practised hands over her parted knees and seized them, carried away by a feigned emotion, and he cried: “My Bouboulina! [7] For pity’s sake, no boom-boom!” [7] Bouboulina was a heroine of the war of independence (1821-8). She fought valiantly on the sea like Canaris and Miaoulis.

“Hands off!” our good lady said, chuckling, “Who d’you take me for?” And she gave him a languorous glance.

“There’s a God in heaven,” said the crafty debauchee. “Don’t upset yourself, my Bouboulina. We’re here, sweetheart, don’t be afraid.” The old siren raised her acid-blue eyes to heaven. She saw her green parrot asleep in his cage.

“My Canavaro, my little Canavaro!” she cooed amorously.

The parrot, recognising her voice, opened his eyes, clutched hold of the bars of his cage and started to cry in the hoarse voice of a drowning man: “Canavaro! Canavaro!” “Present!” cried Zorba, once more applying his hands to those old knees which had seen so much service, this time as if he wanted to take possession of them. The old cabaret singer wriggled in her chair and again opened her little puckered lips.

“I, too, have struggled valiantly, breast to breast… But the bad days came. Crete was liberated, the fleets had orders to leave. ‘And what is to become of me?’ I said, seizing the four beards. ‘Where are you going to leave me? I have got used to grandeur, to champagne and roast chicken; I have got used to handsome little sailors saluting me; I shall be four times a widow! What is going to become of me, my lords and admirals?’

“Oh, they just laughed—that’s men for you! They loaded me with English and Italian pounds, roubles and napoleons. I stuffed them in my stockings, in my bodice and in my shoes. On the last evening I wept and sobbed so much the Admirals took pity on me. They filled the bath with champagne, plunged me in it—we were very familiar by then—and they drank the champagne from the bath in my honour. They got drunk and put out the light… “In the morning I could smell all their perfumes on top of each other: the violet, the eau-de-Cologne, the musk and the patchouli. The four great powers—England, France, Russia and Italy—I held them here, here on my knees, and I went like this with them…” Dame Hortense held out her plump little arms and moved them up and down, as if she were bouncing a baby on her lap.

“There, like that! Like that!

“At daybreak they began to fire off their guns. I swear to this on my honour, they fired off their guns, and a white boat with twelve oarsmen came out to fetch me and set me on shore.” She took her little handkerchief out and began to weep, inconsolably.

“My Bouboulina,” Zorba cried rapturously, “shut your eyes… shut your eyes, my treasure. I am Canavaro!” “Hands off, I said!” our good lady simpered. “Just look at your handsome self! Where are the golden epaulettes, the three-cornered hat, the perfumed beard? Ah, well then!…” She squeezed Zorba’s hand gently and started to weep again.

It was becoming cooler. We fell silent a while. The sea, behind the bamboos, was sighing. It had at last become gentle and peaceful. The wind had fallen, the sun sank to rest. Two crows passed over our heads and their wings whistled as if a piece of silk was being torn—the silk chemise of the songstress.

The evening light fell like a spray of golden dust over the yard. Dame Hortense’s fanciful lips caught alight and quivered in the evening breeze as if they wanted to take flight and carry the fire to her neighbours’ heads. The golden light fell on her half-bared bosom, her parted knees which had grown fat with age, the lines in her neck, her worn-out court-shoes.

Our old siren shuddered. Half-closing her little eyes, which were reddened by her tears and the wine, she looked first at me, then at Zorba, whose lips were parched, and who was fascinated by her bosom. She looked at each of us with a questioning air, trying to see which of us was Canavaro.

“My Bouboulina,” Zorba cooed passionately, whilst pressing his knee against hers. “Don’t worry, there’s no God and no devil. Raise your little head, rest your cheek on your hand and give us a song. To hell with death!” Zorba was on fire. With his left hand he twisted his moustache, and his right hand strayed over the intoxicated songstress. His words were breathless, his eyes languid. It was certainly not this mummified and outrageously painted old woman he was seeing before him, but the entire ‘female species’, as it was his custom to call women. The individual disappeared, the features were obliterated, whether young or senile, beautiful or ugly those were mere unimportant variations. Behind each woman rises the austere, sacred and mysterious face of Aphrodite.

That was the face Zorba was seeing and talking to, and desiring. Dame Hortense was only an ephemeral and transparent mask which Zorba tore away to kiss the eternal mouth.

“Lift your snow-white neck, my treasure,” he repeated in his gasping pleading voice. “Lift your snow-white neck and sing us the song!” The old songstress rested her cheek on her plump hand, which was all cracked with washing clothes; her eyes became languorous. She uttered a wild and woeful cry, then began her favourite song, repeating it many times as she gazed at Zorba with swooning, half-closed eyes—she had already made her choice.

Au fil de mes jours Pourquoi t’ai-je rencontre …

Zorba leapt up, went for his santuri, sat on the ground Turkish fashion, undraped his instrument, rested it on his lap and stretched his great hands.

“Oh! Oh!” he bellowed. “Take a knife and cut my throat, Bouboulina!”

When night began to fall, when the evening star revolved in the sky, and the coaxing voice of the santuri rose, abetting Zorba’s aims, Dame Hortense, stuffed with chicken and rice, grilled almonds and wine, reeled heavily on to Zorba’s shoulder and sighed. She rubbed herself gently against his bony sides, yawned and sighed afresh.

Zorba made a sign to me and lowered his voice:

“She’s in the mood, boss,” he whispered. “Be a pal, and leave us.”