فصل 4

IV

At daybreak I opened my eyes and saw Zorba sitting opposite me at the end of his bed with his legs tucked up; he was smoking and absorbed in deep meditation. His little round eyes were fixed on the fanlight in front of him, which the first gleam of day tinted milky white. His eyes were swollen and his unusually long, bare, scraggy neck was stretched out like the neck of a bird of prey.

The previous evening I had retired early, leaving him alone with the old siren.

“I’m going,” I said. ‘Enjoy yourself, Zorba, and good luck to you!’

‘Good night, boss,” Zorba replied. ‘Let us settle our little affair. Good night, boss. Sleep tight.’

Apparently they did settle their little affair, for in my sleep I seemed to hear muffled cooings, and for a time the neighbouring room shook and trembled. Then sleep overcame me again. A long while after midnight, Zorba entered barefoot and stretched himself on his bed, very gently, so as not to wake me.

In the first light, there he was, gazing into the distance with his lack-lustre eyes. You could see he was still sunk in a sort of torpor, his temples were not yet freed from sleep. Calmly, fondly, he was letting himself drift on a shady current as thick as honey. The whole universe of earth, water, thoughts and men was slowly drifting towards a distant sea, and Zorba was drifting away with it, unresistingly, unquestioningly, and happy.

The village began to be roused—there was a confused murmur of cocks, pigs, asses and men. I wanted to leap from my bed and cry: ‘Heigh! Zorba! We’ve work to do today!’ But I too felt a great happiness in delivering myself up, silently, to the rosy transformation of sunrise. In those magic minutes the whole of life seems as light as down. The earth constantly changes shape in the wind, like a soft and billowy cloud.

I stretched out my arm; I, too, felt like having a smoke. I took my pipe. I looked at it with emotion. It was a big and precious one, ‘Made in England’. It was a present from my friend—the one who had greyish-green eyes and slender fingers. That was abroad, years ago. He had finished his studies and was leaving that evening for Greece. “Give up cigarettes,” he said. “You light one, you smoke half of it and throw the rest away. Your love only lasts a minute. It’s disgraceful. You’d better take up a pipe. It’s like a faithful spouse. When you go home, it’ll be there, quietly waiting for you. You’ll light it, you’ll watch the smoke rising in the air—and you’ll think of me!” It was noon. We were leaving the Berlin museum, where he had been to have one last look at his favourite painting—Rembrandt’s Warrior, with his bronze helmet, emaciated cheeks and his dolorous and strong-willed expression. “If ever in my life I perform an action worthy of a man,” he murmured, as he gazed at the implacable and desperate warrior, “It will be to him I shall owe it.” We were in the museum courtyard, leaning against a pillar. In front of us was a bronze statue of a naked Amazon, riding a wild horse with indescribable grace. A little grey bird, a wagtail, perched for a moment on the Amazon’s head, turned towards us, jerking up its tail, uttered two or three times a mocking cry, and flew away.

I shuddered, looked at my friend and asked:

“Did you hear that bird? It seemed to say something to us, then it flew away.” My friend smiled. “’It’s a bird, let it sing; it’s a bird let it speak,’” he said, quoting a line from one of our popular ballads.

How was it that at this moment, at daybreak on this Cretan coast, such a memory should come into my head, together with that faithful verse, and fill my mind with bitterness?

I slowly worked some tobacco into my pipe and lit it. Everything in this world has a hidden meaning, I thought. Men, animals, trees, stars, they are all hieroglyphics; woe to any one who begins to decipher them and guess what they mean… When you see them, you do not understand them. You think they are really men, animals, trees, stars. It is only years later, too late, that you understand… The bronze-helmeted warrior, my friend leaning against the pillar, the wagtail and what it chirped to us, the verse from that melancholy ballad, all this, I thought today, may have a hidden meaning, but what can it be?

My eyes followed the smoke which curled and uncurled in the dappled light. And my mind mingled with the smoke and slowly vanished in blue wreaths. After a long interval, without having any recourse to logic, I could see with utter certainty the origin, the growth and the disappearance of the world. It was as if I had once more plunged into Buddha, but this time without the delusive words and insolent acrobatic tricks of the mind. This smoke is the essence of his teaching, these vanishing spirals are life coming impatiently to a happy end in blue nirvana… I sighed softly.

As if this sigh had brought me back to the present minute, I looked round and saw the miserable wooden hut, and hanging on the wall a little mirror from which the first rays of the sun had just struck sparks. Opposite me, Zorba sat on his mattress, smoking, with his back to me.

The previous day, with its tragi-comic fortunes, suddenly flashed into my mind. The smell of stale violet perfume—violet, eau-de-Cologne, musk and patchouli; a parrot, an almost human being transformed into a parrot and who beat his wings against the iron bars of his cage, calling the name of a former lover; and an old Mahone, [8] only survivor of a whole fleet, who recounted ancient naval battles… [8] Here a coasting vessel with sails. This name is also used for barges and formerly galleys. It comes from the Arabic, Ma’on.

Zorba heard my sigh, shook his head and looked around.

“We’ve behaved badly,” he murmured. “We’ve behaved badly, boss. You laughed, so did I, and she saw us. And the way you left, without any fine words, as if she was an old bag of a hundred. What a damn shame! It’s not polite, boss. That’s not the way for a man to behave, let me tell you. She’s a woman, after all, isn’t she? A weak, fretful creature. A good job I stayed behind to console her.” “But what do you mean, Zorba?” I replied. “Do you seriously think all women have nothing else but that in mind?” “Yes, boss, they’ve nothing else in mind. Listen to me, now… I’ve seen all sorts, and I’ve done all kinds of things… A woman has nothing else in view. She’s a sickly creature, I tell you, and fretful. If you don’t tell her you love and want her, she starts crying. Maybe she doesn’t want you at all, maybe you disgust her, maybe she says no. That’s another story. But all men who see her must desire her. That’s what she wants, the poor creature, so you might try and please her!

“I had a grandmother, she must have been eighty. What a tale that old soul’s life would make! Never mind, that’s another story, too… Well, she must have been eighty in the shade, and opposite our house lived a young girl as fresh as a flower… Krystallo she was called. Every Saturday evening, raw young bloods of the village would meet for a drink, and the wine made us lively. We stuck a sprig of basil behind our ears, one of my cousins took his guitar, and we went serenading. What love! What passion! We bellowed like bulls! We all wanted her, and every Saturday we went in a herd for her to make her choice.

“Well, would you believe it, boss? It’s a mystery! Women have a wound which never heals. Every wound heals but that one—don’t you take any notice of your books—that one never heals. What, just because a woman’s eighty? The wound’s still open.

“So every Saturday the old girl pulled her mattress up to the window, took out her little mirror and combed away at the little bits of thatch she had left, and carefully made a parting. She’d look round slyly, for fear someone saw her. If anyone came near, she’d snuggle back and look as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, pretending she was dozing. But how could she sleep? She was waiting for the serenade. At eighty! You see what a mystery woman is, boss! Just now it makes me want to cry. But at that time I was just harum-scarum, I didn’t understand and it made me laugh. One day I got annoyed with her. She was hauling me over the coals because I was running after the girls, so I told her straight out where to get off: ‘Why do you rub walnut leaves over your lips every Saturday, and part your hair? I s’pose you think we come to serenade you? It’s Krystallo we’re after. You’re just a stinking old corpse!’

“Would you believe it, boss! That day was the first time I knew what a woman was. Two tears sprang into my grandma’s eyes. She curled up like a dog, and her chin trembled. ‘Krystallo!’ I shouted, going nearer so as she’d hear better. ‘Krystallo!’ Young people are cruel beasts, they’re inhuman, they don’t understand. My grandma raised her skinny arms to heaven. ‘Curse you from the bottom of my heart!’ she cried. That very day she started to go into a decline. She wasted away and two months later, her days were numbered. Then when she was at her last gasp she saw me. She hissed like a turtle and tried to grab me with her withered fingers. ‘It was you who finished me off. May you be damned, Alexis, and suffer all I have!’” Zorba smiled.

“Ah, the old witch’s curse has hit home!” he said, stroking his moustache. “I’m in my sixty-fifth year, I think, but even if I live to a hundred I’ll never lay off. I’ll still have a little mirror in my pocket, and I’ll still be running after the female of the species.” He smiled once more, threw his cigarette through the fanlight, stretched his arms and said: “I’ve plenty of other faults, but that is the one that’ll kill me.”

He leapt from his bed.

“Enough of all that. Cut the cackle. Today we work!”

He dressed in a twinkling, put on his shoes and went out.

With my head bowed, I ruminated on Zorba’s words, and suddenly a distant snowbound town came to my mind. I was at an exhibition of Rodin’s works, and I had stopped to look at an enormous bronze hand, “The Hand of God.” This hand was half closed, and in the palm an ecstatic man and woman were embracing and struggling.

A girl came up and stopped beside me. She also looked and was moved at the disquieting, eternal embrace of man and woman. She was slim, well-dressed, she had a wealth of fair hair, a powerful chin and thin lips. There was something determined and virile about her. I normally hate inviting a conversation, and I do not know what urged me to turn to her and ask: “What are you thinking about?”

“’If only we could escape!” she murmured resentfully.

“’And go where? The hand of God is everywhere. There is no salvation. Are you sorry?” “No. Love may be the most intense joy on earth. It may be. But, now I see that bronze hand, I want to escape.” “You prefer freedom.”

“Yes.”

“But, supposing it’s only when we obey that bronze hand we are free? Supposing the word ‘God’ didn’t have that convenient meaning the masses give it?” She looked anxiously at me. Her eyes were of a metallic grey, her lips dry and bitter.

“I don’t understand,” she said, and moved away.

She disappeared. Since then I had never thought any more of her. Nevertheless, she must have continued to live deep down in my heart, and today, on this empty coast, she reappeared, pale and plaintive, from the depths of my being.

Yes, I had behaved badly. Zorba was right. That bronze hand was a good pretext. The first contact had succeeded, the first gentle words had been exchanged, and we might gradually, imperceptibly, have embraced and been united, undisturbed, in the hand of God. But I had suddenly darted from earth to heaven, and the woman had been startled and had fled.

The old cock was crowing in Dame Hortense’s yard. The white light of day was now peeping in through the little window. I leapt out of bed.

The workmen had begun to arrive with their pickaxes, their crowbars and their mattocks. I heard Zorba giving his orders. He had thrown himself into the work straight away. One felt he was a man who knew how to command men, who loved responsibility.

I put my head out of the fanlight and saw him standing, like a great gawk in the middle of thirty-odd lean, narrow-waisted, rough and weather-beaten men. His arm was stretched out authoritatively, his words were brief and to the point. Once he caught hold of a youngish fellow by the scruff of the neck because he was muttering and coming forward hesitatingly.

“Got something to say, have you?” Zorba cried. “Well, say it out aloud! I don’t like mumblings. You’ve got to be in the mood to work. If you’re not, get back to the tavern!” At that moment Dame Hortense appeared with tousled hair and swollen cheeks. She was not made up, and she was dressed in a full, dirty gown and was shuffling along in a pair of long, down-at-heel slippers. She coughed the raucous cough of old singers, like a donkey’s braying. She stopped and looked with pride at Zorba. Her eyes became misty. She coughed again, so that he would notice her, and passed close to him, swaying and wriggling her hips. Her broad sleeve almost brushed him. But he did not even turn round to look at her. He took a piece of barley cake and a handful of olives from a workman and shouted: “Now, men, in God’s name, make the sign of the cross!” And, striding away, he led the gang in a beeline towards the mountain.

I shall not describe here the work on the mine. It would need patience to do that, and I have none. Near the sea, we built a hut out of bamboo, osier and petrol-cans. Zorba used to awake at dawn, seize his pick, go to the mine before the men, open a gallery, abandon it, find a gleaming lignite seam and dance for joy. But after a few days he would lose the seam and he would fling himself down on the ground with his legs in the air and, with his feet and hands, make a mocking gesture at the sky.

He had taken to the work. He no longer even consulted me. From the very first days all the care and responsibility had passed from my hands to his. His job was to make decisions and put them into execution. Mine was to pay the piper. This arrangement, moreover, suited me fairly well. For I sensed that these months would be the happiest in my life. Also, everything considered, I felt I was buying my happiness cheaply.

My maternal grandfather, who lived in a fair-sized Cretan village, used to take his lantern every evening and go round the streets to see if, by chance, any stranger had arrived. He would take him to his house and give him an abundance of food and drink, after which he would sit on his divan, light his long Turkish pipe, his chibouk, and turn to his guest -for whom the time had come to repay the hospitality - and say in a peremptory tone: “Talk!”

“Talk about what, Father Moustoyorgi?”

“What you are, who you are, where you come from, what towns and villages you have seen—everything, tell me everything. Now, speak!” And the guest would begin to talk at random, uttering truths and falsehoods, whilst my grandfather, sitting calmly on his divan, smoked his chibouk, listening intently and following the stranger in his travels. And if he liked the guest, he would say: “You shall stay tomorrow too. You’re not going. You’ve still things to tell.” My grandfather had never left his village. He had never been even to Candia or Canea. “Why go there?” he would say. “There are Candians and Caneans, peace be with them, who pass here—Candia and Canea come to me, so why need I go to them?” On this Cretan coast today I am perpetuating my grandfather’s mania. I have also found a guest by the light of my lantern. I do not let him depart. He costs me far more than a dinner, but he is worth it. Every evening I wait for him after work, I make him sit opposite me and we eat. The time comes when he must pay, and I say to him: “Talk!” I smoke my pipe and I listen. This guest has thoroughly explored the earth and the human soul. I never tire of listening to him.

“Talk, Zorba, talk!”

When he speaks, the whole of Macedonia is immediately spread before my gaze, laid out in the little space between Zorba and myself, with its mountains, its forests, its torrents, its comitadjis, its hard-working women and great, heavily-built men. And also Mount Athos with its twenty-one monasteries, its arsenals and its broad-bottomed idlers. Zorba would shake his head as he finished his tales of monks and say, roaring with laughter: “God preserve you, boss, from the stern of mules and the stem of monks!” Every evening Zorba takes me through Greece, Bulgaria and Constantinople. I shut my eyes and I see. He has been all over the racked and chaotic Balkans and observed everything with his little falcon-like eyes, which he constantly opens wide in amazement. Things we are accustomed to, and which we pass by indifferently, suddenly rise up in front of Zorba like fearful enigmas. Seeing a woman pass by, he stops in consternation.

“What is that mystery?” he asks. “What is a woman, and why does she turn our heads? Just tell me, I ask you, what’s the meaning of that?” He interrogates himself with the same amazement when he sees a man, a tree in blossom, a glass of cold water. Zorba sees everything every day as if for the first time.

We were sitting yesterday in front of the hut. When he had drunk a glass of wine, he turned to me in alarm: “Now whatever is this red water, boss, just tell me! An old stock grows branches, and at first there’s nothing but a sour bunch of beads hanging down. Time passes, the sun ripens them, they become as sweet as honey, and then they’re called grapes. We trample on them; we extract the juice and put it into casks; it ferments on its own, we open it on the feast-day of St. John-the-Drinker, [9] it’s become wine! It’s a miracle! You drink the red juice and, lo and behold, your soul grows big, too big for the old carcass, it challenges God to a fight. Now tell me, boss, how does it happen?” [9] The feast of Klydonas, held on the 15th August. It can be compared to Hallowe’en.

I did not answer. I felt, as I listened to Zorba, that the world was recovering its pristine freshness. All the dulled daily things regained the brightness they had in the beginning, when we came out of the hands of God. Water, women, the stars, bread, returned to their mysterious, primitive origin and the divine whirlwind burst once more upon the air.

That is why, every evening, lying on the pebbles, I impatiently waited for Zorba. I would see him suddenly emerge out of the bowels of the earth and approach with his loose-knit body and long striding step. From afar I could see how the work had fared that day, by his bearing, by the way he held his head high or low, by the swing of his arms.

At first I also went with him. I watched the men. I endeavoured to lead a different type of life, to interest myself in practical work, to know and love the human material which had fallen into my hands, to feel the long-wished-for joy of no longer having to deal with words but with living men. And I made romantic plans—if the extraction of lignite was successful—to organise a sort of community in which everything should be shared, where we should eat the same food together and wear the same clothes, like brothers. I created in my mind a new religious order, the leaven of a new life… But I had not yet made up my mind to acquaint Zorba with my project. He was irritated by my comings and goings amongst the workmen, questioning, interfering and always taking the workman’s part.

Zorba would purse his lips and say:

“Boss, aren’t you going for a stroll outside? The sun and the sea, you know!” At first I insisted, and would not go. I asked questions, gossiped, and got to know every man’s history—how many children they had to feed, sisters to be married, helpless old relations; their cares, illnesses and worries.

“Don’t delve like that into their histories, boss,” Zorba would say, scowling. “You’ll be taken in, with your soft heart, and you’ll like them more than’s good for them or for our work. Whatever they do, you’ll find excuses for them. Then, heaven help us, they’ll scamp their work, do it any old how. Heaven help them, too, you’d better realise that. When the boss is hard, the men respect him, they work. When the boss is soft, they leave it all to him, and have an easy time, Get me?” Another evening, after work, he threw his pick down in the shed and shouted, out of all patience: “Look here, boss, do stop meddling. As fast as I build, you destroy. Now what are all those things you were telling them to day? Socialism and rubbish! Are you a preacher or a capitalist? You must make up your mind!” But how could I choose? If I was consumed by the ingenuous desire of uniting two things, of finding a synthesis in which the irreduciable opposites would fraternize, and of winning both the earthly life and the kingdom of the skies. This had been going on for years, ever since my early childhood. When I was still in school, I had organized with my closest friends a secret Friendly Society[10]—that was the name we gave it—and, locked in my bedroom, we swore that, all our life, we would devote ourselves to the fighting of injustice. Great tears ran down our faces when, with hand on heart, we took the oath.

[10] Named after the famous Friendly Society which prepared the Greek revolution of 1821.

Puerile ideals! But woe betide whoever laughs when he hears then! When I see what the members of the Friendly Society have become—quack doctors, small-time lawyers, grocers, double-dealing politicians, hack journalists—it rends my heart. The climate of this world seems to be harsh and raw. The most precious seeds do not germinate or are choked by undergrowth and nettles. I can see quite clearly today, as regards myself, than I am not stifled by reason, God be praised! I still feel ready to set out on Quixotic expeditions.

On Sundays, we both performed our toilet with care, as if we were marriageable people. We shaved, we put on clean white shirts, and went, towards the end of the afternoon, to see Dame Hortense. Every Sunday she killed a fowl for us; we once more sat down all three together; we ate and we drank; Zorba’s long hands would reach out to the hospitable bosom of the kind woman and take possession of it. When at nightfall we returned to our part of the shore, life appeared simple and full of good intentions, old, but very agreeable and hospitable—like Dame Hortense.

On one of these Sundays, as we were returning from the copious feast, I decided to speak and tell Zorba of my plans. He listened, gaping and forcing himself to be patient. But from time to time he shook his great head with anger. My very first words had sobered him, the fumes left his brain. When I had finished, he nervously plucked two or three hairs from his moustache.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, boss, but I don’t think your brain is quite formed yet. How old are you?” “Thiry-five.”

“Then it never will be.”

Thereupon he burst out laughing. I was stung to the quick.

“You don’t believe in man, do you?” I retorted.

“Now, don’t get angry, boss. No, I don’t believe in anything. If I believed in man, I’d believe in God, and I’d believe in the devil, too. And that’s a whole business. Things get all muddled then, boss, and cause me a lot of complications.” He became silent, took off his beret, scratched his head frantically and tugged again at his moustache, as if he meant to tear it off. He wanted to say something, but he restrained himself. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye; looked at me again and decided to speak.

“Man is a brute,” he said, striking the pebbles with his stick. “A great brute. Your lordship doesn’t realize this. It seems everything’s been too easy for him, but you ask me! A brute, I tell you! If you’re cruel to him, he respects and fears you. If you’re kind to him, he plucks your eyes out.

“Keep your distance, boss! Don’t make men too bold, don’t go telling them we’re all equal, we’ve got the same rights, or they’ll go straight and trample on your rights; they’ll steal your bread and leave you to die of hunger. Keep your distance, boss, by all the good things I wish you!” “But don’t you believe in anything?” I exclaimed in exasperation.

“No, I don’t believe in anything. How many times must I tell you that? I don’t believe in anything or any one; only in Zorba. Not because Zorba is better than the others; not at all, not a little bit! He’s a brute like the rest! But I believe in Zorba because he’s the only being I have in my power, the only one I know. All the rest are ghosts. I see with these eyes, I hear with these ears, I digest with these guts. All the rest are ghosts, I tell you. When I die, everything’ll die. The whole Zorbatic world will go to the bottom!” “What egoism!” I said sarcastically.

“I can’t help it, boss! That’s how it is. I eat beans, I talk beans; I am Zorba, I talk like Zorba.” I said nothing. Zorba’s words stung me like whiplashes. I admired him for being so strong, for despising men to that extent, and at the same time wanting to live and work with them. I should either have become an ascetic or else have adorned men with false feathers so that I could put up with them.

Zorba looked round at me. By the light of the stars I could see he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Have I offended you, boss?” he said, stopping abruptly. We had arrived at the hut. Zorba looked at me tenderly and uneasily.

I did not reply. I felt my mind was in agreement with Zorba, but my heart resisted, wanted to leap out and escape from the brute, to go its own road.

“I’m not sleepy this evening, Zorba,” I said. “You go to bed.” The stars were shining, the sea was sighing and licking the shells, a glow-worm lit under its belly its little erotic lantern. Night’s hair was streaming with dew.

I lay face downward, plunged in silence, thinking of nothing. I was now one with night and the sea; my mind was like a glowworm that had lit its little lantern and settled on the damp, dark earth, and was waiting.

The stars were travelling round, the hours were passing -and, when I arose, I had, without knowing how, engraved on my mind the double task I had to accomplish on this shore: Escape from Buddha, rid myself by words of all my metaphysical cares and free my mind from vain anxiety; Make direct and firm contact with men, starting from this very moment.

I said to myself: “Perhaps it is not yet too late.”