فصل 5

V

“Uncle Anagnosti, the grandfather, greets you and asks if you would care to come to his house for a meal. The gelder will be coming to the village today to castrate the pigs. It’s an occasion, and the ‘parts’ are a real delicacy. Kyria Maroulia, the gaffer’s wife, will cook them specially for you. It’s also their grandson Minas’s birthday today, and you’ll be able to wish him many happy returns.” It is a great pleasure to enter a Cretan peasant’s home. Everything about you is patriarchal: the hearth, the oil-lamp, the earthenware jars lining the wall, a few chairs, a table and, on the left as you enter, in a hole in the wall, a pitcher of fresh water. From the beams hang strings of quinces, pomegranates and aromatic plants: sage, mint, red-peppers, rosemary and savory.

At the far end of the room a ladder or a few wooden steps lead up to the raised platform, where there is a trestle-bed and, above it, the holy icons with their lamps. The house appears empty, but it contains everything needful, so few in reality are the true necessities of man.

It was a magnificent day, rendered very mild by the autumn sun. We sat in front of the house in the little peasant garden, under an olive tree laden with fruit. Between the silvery leaves the sea could be seen gleaming in the distance, perfectly calm and still. Vaporous clouds were continually passing in front of the sun and making the earth appear now sad, now gay, as if it were breathing.

At the end of the tiny garden, in an enclosure, the castrated pig was squealing with pain and deafening us. The smell of Kyria Maroulia’s cooking on the embers in the hearth reached our nostrils.

Our conversation was confined to the everlasting topics: the corn crops, the vines, the rain. We were obliged to shout because the old gaffer was hard of hearing. He said he had “a proud ear.” This old Cretan’s life had been straightforward and peaceful, like that of a tree in a sheltered ravine. He had been born, had grown up and had married. He had had children and had had time to see his grandchildren. Several had died, but others were living: the continuation of the family was assured.

This old Cretan could recall the old days, Turkish rule, the sayings of his father, the miracles which happened in those days because the women-folk feared God and had faith.

“Why, look at me here, old uncle Anagnosti who’s speaking to you! My own birth was a miracle. Aye, upon my soul, a miracle! And when I tell you how it happened, you’ll be amazed. ‘The Lord have mercy on us,’ you’ll say, and go to the monastery of the Virgin Mary and burn a candle to her.” He crossed himself and, in a soft voice and gentle manner, began to tell his tale.

“In those days, then, a rich Turkish woman lived in our village -damn her soul! One fine day the wretch became big with child and the time came for her to give birth. They laid her on the trestle-bed and she stayed there bellowing like a heifer for three days and nights. But the child wouldn’t come. So a friend of hers—damn her soul, too! gave her some advice. ‘Tzafer Hanum, you should call Mother Mary for help!’ That’s how the Turks call the Virgin. Great be her power! ‘What for?’ that Tzafer bitch bellowed. ‘Call her! I’d sooner die!’ But her pains became more acute. Another day and night went by. She was still bellowing, and still she couldn’t deliver the child. What could be done? She couldn’t bear the pains any longer. So she started to shout for all she was worth: ‘Mother Mary! Mother Mary!’ But it was no use, the pains wouldn’t stop and the child wouldn’t come. And her friend said: ‘Perhaps she can’t understand Turkish!’ So that bitch yelled: ‘Virgin of the Roumis! Virgin of the Roumis!’ [11] [11] Muslim name for Christians or Infidels, from Roman.

“Roumis be damned! The pains increased. ‘You’re not calling her the proper way,’ said the friend. ‘You’re not calling her the proper way, and that’s why she won’t come.’ So that heathen bitch, seeing her peril, cries out fit to burst her lungs: ‘Holy Virgin!’ And straight away the child slipped out of her womb like an eel out of the mud.

“That happened one Sunday, and the next Sunday my mother had her pains. She went through it, too, the poor wretch. She was really going through it, my poor mother was, and she screamed: ‘Holy Virgin! Holy Virgin!’ But she wasn’t delivered. My father was sitting on the ground in the middle of the yard. He couldn’t eat or drink because of her sufferings. He wasn’t at all pleased with the Holy Virgin. You see, the last time when that Tzafer bitch had called her, the Virgin had broken her neck to come and deliver her. But now… When the fourth day came, my father couldn’t contain himself any longer. Without a moment’s hesitation he takes his pitchfork and goes to the monastery of the Martyred Virgin. May she succour us! He gets there, goes in the church without even crossing himself, so great was his rage, he shuts and bolts the door behind him, and marches straight up to the icon. ‘Look here, Holy Virgin,’ he shouts, ‘here’s my wife, Krinio—you know her, don’t you—you ought to, she brings you oil every Saturday, and she lights your lamps—here’s my wife been having her pains for three days and nights and she’s been calling you. Can’t you hear her? You must be deaf if you can’t! Of course if she were some Tzafer bitch, one of those Turkish sluts, you’d go and break your neck for her. But my wife, Krinio, she’s only a Christian, so you’ve become deaf and can’t hear her! You know, if you weren’t the Holy Virgin, I’d teach you a lesson with the handle of this pitchfork here!’

“And, without more ado, without so much as bowing his head to her, he turned his back on her and was about to leave. But, great is the Lord, just then the icon made a loud grating noise as if it were splitting. Let me tell you if you don’t know it already, icons make a noise like that when they’re doing miracles. My father understood at once. He wheeled round again, knelt down and crossed himself. ‘I’ve sinned against you, Holy Virgin,’ he cried. ‘I’ve said a lot of things I shouldn’t, but let’s forget it!’

“He had hardly got back to the village when he heard the good news.

“’Long life to him, Kostandi. Your wife has given birth to a son!’ It was me, old Anagnosti here. But I was born with a weak ear. You see, my father had blasphemed, he’d called the Virgin deaf.

“’Oh, that’s how it is, is it?’ the Virgin must have said. ‘Well, just you wait, I’ll make your son deaf, that’ll teach you to blaspheme!’” And uncle Anagnosti crossed himself.

“But that’s nothing,” he said. “God be praised! She might have made me blind or an idiot, or hunchbacked, or even—God Almighty preserve us!—she might have made me a girl. This is just nothing at all, I bow to her holiness!” He filled the glasses.

“Long may she help us!” he said, raising his glass.

“To your health, uncle Anagnosti. I hope you live to a hundred and see your great-great-grandchildren!” The old man tossed off his wine in one go and wiped his moustache.

“No, my son,” he said. “That’s too much to ask. I’ve seen my grandchildren. That’s enough. Mustn’t ask too much. My hour has come. I am old, my friends, my loins are empty, I can’t—much as I’d like to—I can’t sow the seed for any more children. So what’d I be doing with life?” He filled the glasses again, pulled out from his waistband some walnuts and dried figs wrapped in laurel leaves and shared them with us.

“I have given everything I had to my children,” he said. ‘We’ve become poverty- stricken, yes, poverty-stricken, but I don’t complain. God has all that is needful!” “God may have all that’s needful, uncle Anagnosti,” Zorba shouted in the old man’s ear. “God may have, but not us. The old skinflint gives us nothing!” But the old villager frowned.

“Don’t say that!” he chided severely. “Don’t upbraid him! The poor fellow counts on us, too, you know!” At this moment grandmother Anagnosti entered silently and submissively carrying the celebrated delicacy on an earthenware dish, and also a large jug full of wine. She set them on the table and remained standing with hands clasped and lowered eyes.

I felt some repugnance at having to taste these hors-d’oeuvre, but, on the other hand, I did not have the courage to refuse. Zorba was watching me out of the corner of his eye and enjoying my discomfiture.

“It’s the most tasty dish you could wish for, boss,” he affirmed. “Don’t be squeamish.” Old Anagnosti gave a little laugh.

“That’s the truth, indeed it is, you try them and see. They melt in the mouth! When Prince George—may the hour be blessed for him!—visited our monastery up there in the mountains, the monks prepared a royal feast in his honour, and they served meat to every one save to the prince, who was given a plateful of soup. The prince took his spoon and began to stir his soup. ‘What are these? Beans?’ he asked in surprise. ‘White haricot beans, are they?’ ‘Try them, Your Highness,’ said the old abbot. ‘Try them and we’ll talk about them afterwards.’ The prince took a spoonful, two, three, he emptied his plate and licked his lips. ‘What is this wonderful dish?’ he said, ‘What tasty beans! They’re as nice as brains!’ ‘They’re no beans, your Highness, ‘ replied the abbot, laughing. ‘They’re no beans! We’ve had all the cocks of the neighbourhood castrated!’” Roaring with laughter, the old man stuck his fork into another morsel.

“A dish fit for princes!” he said. “Open your mouth.”

I opened my mouth and he popped in the morsel.

He filled the glasses again and we drank to the health of his grandson. Old Anagnosti’s eyes shone.

“What would you like your grandson to be, uncle Anagnosti?” I asked. “Tell us, so that we can wish.” “What could I wish, my son? Well, that he takes the right road; that he becomes a good man, head of a family; that he, too, gets married and has children and grandchildren. And may one of his children be like me, so that old folk exclaim: ‘I say, doesn’t he look like old Anagnosti—God sanctify his soul!—he was a good man!’

“Maroulia!’ he called, without looking at his wife. “Maroulia, more wine, fill up the jug again!” Just then the wicket-gate to the enclosure yielded to a powerful thrust from the pig and the pig rushed grunting into the garden.

“It hurts him, poor beast,” Zorba said pityingly.

“Of course it hurts him!” the old Cretan said, laughing. “Supposing they did that to you, wouldn’t it hurt you?” Zorba fidgeted on his chair.

“May your tongue be cut out, you old deaf-post!” Zorba muttered in horror.

The pig ran about in front of us, looking at us furiously.

“I do believe he knows we’re eating them!” said uncle Anagnosti, who had been put in high spirits by the drop of wine he had drunk.

But we, like cannibals, went on quietly and contentedly eating the delicacy and drinking the red wine, as we gazed between the silvery branches of the olive tree towards the sea, which the sunset had turned pink.

At dusk we left the old man’s house. Zorba, who was now also in high spirits, wanted to talk.

“What were we saying the day before yesterday, boss? You were saying you wanted to open the people’s eyes. All right, you just go and open old uncle Anagnosti’s eyes for him! You saw how his wife had to behave before him, waiting for his orders, like a dog begging. Just go now and teach them that women have equal rights with men, and that it’s cruel to eat a piece of the pig while the pig’s still raw and groaning in front of you, and that it’s simple lunacy to give thanks to God because he’s got everything while you’re starving to death! What good’ll that poor devil Anagnosti get out of all your explanatory humbug? You’d only cause him a lot of bother. And what’d old mother Anagnosti get out of it? The fat would be in the fire: family rows would start, the hen would want to be cock, the couple would just have a good set-to and make their feathers fly…! Let people be, boss; don’t open their eyes. And supposing you did, what’d they see? Their misery! Leave their eyes closed, boss, and let them go on dreaming!” He was silent a moment and scratched his head. He was thinking.

“Unless,” he said at last, “unless…”

“Unless what? Let’s have it!”

“Unless when they open their eyes you can show them a better world than the darkness in which they’re gallivanting at present… Can you?” I did not know. I was fully aware of what would be destroyed. I did not know what would be built out of the ruins. No one can know that with any degree of certainty, I thought. The old world is tangible, solid, we live in it and are struggling with it every moment—it exists. The world of the future is not yet born, it is elusive, fluid, made of the light from which dreams are woven; it is a cloud buffeted by violent winds—love, hate, imagination, luck, God… The greatest prophet on earth can give men no more than a watchword, and the vaguer the watchword the greater the prophet.

Zorba looked at me with a mocking smile which vexed me.

“I can show them a better world!” I replied.

“Can you? Well, let’s hear about it!”

“I can’t explain it; you wouldn’t understand.”

“That means you haven’t got one to show!” Zorba rejoined, shaking his head. “Don’t take me for a simpleton, boss. If anyone’s told you I’m a moon-calf, they’re wrong. I may have no more education than old uncle Anagnosti, but I’m nowhere near so stupid! Well, if I can’t understand, what d’you expect of that poor fellow and his blockheaded mate? And what about all the other Anagnostides in the world? Have you only got more darkness to show them? They’ve managed pretty well up to now; they have children, and even grandchildren. God makes them deaf or blind, and they say: ‘God be praised!’ They feel at home in their misery. So let them be and say nothing.” I was silent. We were passing the widow’s garden. Zorba stopped a moment and sighed, but said nothing. A shower must have fallen. There was a fresh earthy smell in the air. The first stars appeared. The new moon was shining, it was a tender shade of greenish-yellow. The sky was overflowing with sweetness.

That man has not been to school, I thought, and his brains have not been perverted. He has had all manner of experiences; his mind is open and his heart has grown bigger, without his losing one ounce of his primitive boldness. All the problems which we find so complicated or insoluble he cuts through as if with a sword, like Alexander the Great cutting the Gordian knot. It is difficult for him to miss his aim, because his two feet are held firmly planted on the ground by the weight of his whole body. African savages worship the serpent because its whole body touches the ground and it must, therefore, know all the earth’s secrets. It knows them with its belly, with its tail, with its head. It is always in contact or mingled with the Mother. The same is true of Zorba. We educated people are just empty-headed birds of the air.

The stars were multiplying in the heavens, and they were all hard, fierce, scornful and pitiless towards man.

We no longer spoke. We were both gazing with terror at the sky. Every second new stars lit up in the east and spread the conflagration.

We arrived at our hut. I had not the slightest desire to eat, and sat on a rock by the sea. Zorba lit the fire, ate, was about to come to sit beside me, but changed his mind and lay on his mattress and fell asleep.

The sea was dead calm. Beneath the volley of shooting stars the earth also lay motionless and silent. No dog barked, no nightbird shrieked. It was a stealthy, dangerous, total silence, composed of thousands of cries so distant or from such depths within us that we could not hear them. I could only discern the pulsing of my blood in my temples and in the veins of my neck.

The song of the tiger! I thought, and shuddered.

In India, when night falls, a sad, monotonous song is sung in a low voice, a slow, wild song, like the distant yawn of a beast of prey—the song of the tiger. Man’s heart flutters and seeks an outlet as he waits in tense expectation.

As I thought of this fearful song the void in my breast was gradually filled. My ears came to life, the silence became a shout. It was as if the soul itself were composed out of this song and were escaping from the body to listen.

I stooped, filled my palm with seawater, moistened my brow and temples. I felt refreshed. In the depths of my being, cries were echoing, threateningly, confused, impatient—the tiger was within me and he was roaring.

All at once I heard the voice clearly. It was the voice of Buddha.

I started walking rapidly along the water’s edge, as if I wished to escape. For some time now, when alone at night and silence reigned, I had been hearing his voice—at first sorrowful and plaintive, like a dirge; then, becoming angry, scolding and imperative. It kicked within my breast like a child when the time has come for it to leave the womb.

It must have been midnight. Black clouds had gathered in the sky, large drops of rain fell on to my hands. But I paid no heed. I was plunged into a burning atmosphere; I could feel a flame flickering from both my temples.

The time has come, I thought, with a shudder. The Buddhist wheel is bearing me away; the time has come for me to free myself from this miraculous burden.

I returned swiftly to the hut and lit the lamp. When the light fell on Zorba, his eyelids twitched, he opened his eyes and watched me bending over the paper and writing. He growled something which I did not catch, turned brusquely towards the wall and fell fast asleep once more.

I wrote quickly, I was in a hurry. Buddha was completely ready within me and I could see it issuing from my brain like a blue ribbon covered with symbols. It was coming forth rapidly, and I tried desperately to keep up with it. I wrote; everything had become simple, very simple. I was not writing, I was copying. A whole world was appearing before me, composed of compassion, renunciation and air: Buddha’s mansions, the women in the harem, the golden coach, the three fateful encounters—with the old man, with the sick man, with death; the flight, the ascetic life, the deliverance, the proclaiming of salvation. The earth was covered with yellow flowers; beggars and kings donned saffron robes; the stones, the trees and the flesh became lighter. Souls became vapour, the vapour became spirit, and the spirit became nothing… My fingers were beginning to ache, but I would not, I could not stop. The vision was passing swiftly and vanishing; I had to keep up with it.

In the morning Zorba found me asleep, with my head on the manuscript.