"Yes," he repeated persistently, "Mary is the widow!"
"Now, let's get along!" I said. "Don't shout!"
We strode along at a good pace in the winter night. The sky was perfectly clear, the stars looked big and hung low in the sky like balls of fire. The night, as we made our way along the shore, resembled a great black beast lying along the water's edge.
"From tonight," I said to myself, "the light which winter has forced back will begin to fight victoríously. As if it were born this night together with the infant god."
All the villagers had crowded into the warm and scented hive of the church. The men stood in front and the women, with clasped hands, behind. The tall priest, Stephanos, was in an exasperated state after his forty-days' fast. Clad in his heavy gold chasuble, he was running hither and thither in great strides, swinging his censer, singing at the top of his voice and in a great hurry to see Christ born and get home to a thick soup, savory sausages and smoked meats…
If the scriptures had said: "Today, light is born," man's heart would not have leapt. The idea would not have become a legend and would not have conquered the world. They would merely have described a normal physical phenomenon and would not have fired our imagination—I mean our soul. But the light which is born in the dead of winter has become a child and the child has become God, and for twenty centuries our soul has suckled it…
The mystic ceremony came to an end shortly after midnight. Christ had been born. The famished and happy villagers ran home, to have a feast and feel in the depths of their bowels the mystery of incarnation. The belly is the firm foundation; bread, wine and meat are the first essentials; it is only with bread, wine and meat that one can create God.
The stars were shining as large as angels above the white dome of the church. The milky way was flowing like a stream from one side of the heavens to the other. A green star was twinkling above us like an emerald. I sighed, a prey to my emotions.
Zorba turned to me.
"Boss, d'you believe that? That God became man and was born in a stable? Do you believe it, or are you just pulling our legs?"
"It's difficult to say, Zorba," I replied. "I can't say I belíeve it, nor that I don't. What about you?"
"I can't'say I do either. I can't for the life of me. You see, when I was a kíd and my grandma told me tales, I didn't believe a word of them. And yet I trembled with emotion, I laughed and I cried, just as if I did believe them. When I grew a beard on my chin, I just dropped them, and I even used to laugh at them; but now, in my old age—I suppose I'm getting soft, eh, boss?—in a kind of way I believe in them again… Man's a mystery!"
We had taken the path leading to Dame Hortense's and we started galloping along like two hungry horses who can smell the stable.
"The holy fathers are pretty crafty, you know!" Zorba said. "They get at you through your belly, so how can you escape them? For forty days, they say, you shan't eat meat, you shan't drink wine; just fast. Why? So that you'll pine for meat and wine. Ah, the fat hogs, they know all the tricks of the game!"
He started going even faster.
"Let's get moving, boss," he said. "The turkey must be done to a turn!"
When we arrived in our good lady's room, with its great tempting bed, we found the table covered with a white cloth, and on it the steaming turkey lying on its back with its legs apart. The brazier was giving off a gentle heat.
Dame Hortense had curled her hair and was wearing a long dressing gown of faded pink color with enormous sleeves and frayed lacework. Round her Wrinkled neck was a tight, canary-yellow ribbon, about the width of two fingers. She had sprayed herself generously with orange-blossom water.
How perfectly everything is matched on this earth, I thought. How well the earth is matched to the human heart! Here is this old cabaret singer who has led a thoroughly fast life, and now, cast up on this lonely coast, she concentrates in this miserable room all the sacred solicitude and warmth of womanhood.
The copious and carefully prepared repast, the burning brazier, the painted and pennanted body, the orange-blossom scent—with what rapidity and what simplicity all these very human, little, corporeal pleasures are transformed into a great spiritual joy!
My heart suddenly leaped in my breast. I felt, on that solemn evening, that I was not quite alone here on this deserted seashore. A creature full of feminine devotion, tenderness and patience was coming toward me: she was the mother, the sister, the wife. And I, who thought I needed nothing, suddenly felt I needed everything.
Zorba must have felt a like emotion, for scarcely had we entered the room than he rushed to the bedecked cabaret-singer and hugged her.
"Christ is born!" he cried. "Greetings to you, female of the species!"
He turned to me, laughing.
"See, boss, what a cunning creature is woman! She can even twist God round her little finger!"
We sat down at table; we hungrily devoured the dishes and drank the wine. Our bodies were satisfied and our souls thrilled with pleasure. Zorba became lively once more.
"Eat and drink," he continually shouted. "Eat and drink, boss, and get warmed up! You sing too, my boy, sing like the shepherds: 'Glory to the highest!... Glory to the lowest ...' Christ is born, that's a terrific thing, you know. Pipe up with your song and let God hear you and rejoice."
He had quite recovered his spirits, and there was no stopping him.
"Christ is born, my wise Solomon, my wretched pen-pusher! Don't go picking things over with a needle! Is He born or isn't He? Of course He's born, don't be daft. If you take a magnifying-glass and look at your drinking water—an engineer told me this, one day—you'll see, he said, the water's full of little worms you couldn't see with your naked eye. You'll see the worms and you won't drink. You won't drink and you'll curl up with thirst. Smash your glass, boss, and the little worms'll vanish and you can drink and be refreshed!"
He turned towards our gaudy companion, raised his full glass and said:
"My very dear Bouboulina, my old comrade-in-arms, I'm going to drink to your health! I've seen many figureheads in my life; they're nailed to the ship's prow, they hold their breasts in their hands, and the cheeks and lips are painted a fiery red. They've sailed over all the seas, they've entered every port, and when the ship falls to bits they come on dry land and, till the end of their days, stay leaning against the wall of a fisherman's tavern where the captains go to drink. My Bouboulina, tonight, as I see you on this shore, now my belly's full of good things and my eyes are wide open, you look to me like the figurehead of a great ship. And I am your last port, I am the tavern where the sea captains come to drink. Come, lean on me, strike your sails! I drink this glass of Cretan wine to your health, my siren!"
Touched and overcome, Dame Hortense started to cry, and leaned on Zorba's shoulder.
"You just see, boss," Zorba whispered in my ear, "my fine speech is going to land me into some trouble. The jade won't want to let me go tonight. But, there you are, I'm sorry for the poor creatures, yes, I pity them!
"Christ is born!" he shouted loudly to his siren. "To our health!"
He slipped his arm under that of our lady and they quaffed their glasses together, arms entwined, and looking enraptured at each other.
Dawn could not have been far off when I left the two of them in the warm little bedroom with its great bed and took the road home. The villagers had eaten and drunk well, and now the village was sleeping with doors and windows closed, under the great winter stars.
It was cold, the sea was booming, Venus was dancing roguishly in the east. I walked along the water's edge playing a game with the waves. They ran up to try and wet me and I ran away. I was happy and said to myself: "This is true happiness: to have no ambition and to work like a horse as if you had every ambition. To live far from men, not to need them and yet to love them. To take part in the Christmas festivities and, after eating and drinking well, to escape on your own far from all the snares, to have the stars above, the land to your left and the sea t
o your right: and to realize of a sudden that, in your heart, life has accomplished its final miracle: it has become a fairy tale."
The days were passing by. I tried to put a brave face on it, I shouted and played the fool, but in my heart of hearts I knew I was sad. During all this week of festivities, memories had been aroused and filled my breast with distant music and loved ones. I was once more struck by the truth of the ancient saying: Man's heart is a ditch full of blood. The loved ones who have died throw themselves down on the bank of this ditch to drink the blood and so come to life again; the dearer they are to you, the more of your blood they drink.
New Year's Eve. A band of village children carrying a large paper boat came to our hut and started to sing kalanda[16] in their shrill and merry voices:
Saint Basil the Great arrived from Caesarea, his native city ...
He was standing here on this little Cretan beach by the indigo-blue sea. He leaned on his staff and his staff was suddenly covered with leaves and flowers. The New Year's carol rang out:
A ha-ppy new year to you, Christians! Master, may your house be filled with corn, olive-oil and wine; May your wife be a marble pillar to the roof of your house; May your daughter marry and beget nine sons and one daughter; May these sons liberate Constantinople, the city of our kings!
Zorba listened, entranced. He had seized the children's tambourine and was banging it frenziedly.
I watched and listened without saying anything. I could feel another leaf falling from my heart, the passing of another year. I was taking another step toward the black pit.
"What's come over you, boss?" Zorba asked, in between singing at the top of his voice, together with the children, and striking the tambourine. "What's come over you, man? You look years older, and your face is grey. This is when I turn into a little boy again; I'm reborn, like Christ. Isn't he born every year? So am I!"
I lay down on my bed and shut my eyes. My heart was in a wild mood that night; I did not wish to speak.
I could not sleep. I felt I had to account for my acts that very night. I went over my whole life, which appeared vapid, incoherent and hesitating, dreamlike. I contemplated it despairingly. Like a fleecy cloud attacked by the winds from the heights, my life constantly changed shape. It came to pieces, reformed, was metamorphosed—it was, by turns, a swan, a dog, a demon, a scorpion. a monkey—and the cloud was forever being frayed and torn. It was driven by the winds of heaven and shot with the rainbow.
Day broke. I did not open my eyes. I was trying to concentrate all my strength on my ardent desire to break through the crust of the mind and penetrate to the dark and dangerous channel down which each human drop is carried to mingle with the ocean. I was eager to tear the veil and see what the New Year would bring me…
"Morning, boss. Happy New Year!"
Zorba's voice brought me back brutally to earth. I opened my eyes just in time to see Zorba throw into the doorway of the hut a big pomegranate. Its seeds, like clear rubies, shot as far as my bed. I picked up a few and ate them, and my throat was refreshed.
"I hope we make a pile and are ravished by beautiful maidens!" Zorba cried good-humoredly. He washed, shaved and put on his best clothes—green cloth trousers and rough home-spun jacket, over which he threw a half-lined, goat-skin coatee. He put on his Russian astrakhan cap and twirled his moustaches.
"Boss," he said, "I'm going to put in an appearance at church as a representative of the Company. It wouldn't be in the interest of the mine for them to think we're freemasons. It'll cost me nothing and it'll pass the time."
He bent over and winked.
"Maybe I'll see the widow there, too," he whispered.
God, the interests of the Company and the widow blended harmoniously in Zorba's mind. I heard his light footsteps departing. I leaped up. The spell was broken, my soul was shut in the prison of the flesh anew.
I dressed and went down to the water's edge. I walked quickly. I was gay, as if I had escaped from a danger or a sin. My indiscreet desire of that morning to pry into and know the future before it was born suddenly appeared to me a sacrilege.
I remembered one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the bark of a tree, just as the butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out. I waited a while, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient. I bent over it and breathed on it to warm ít. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened, the butterfly started slowly crawling out and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled; the wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath. In vain. It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings should be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had forced the butterfly to appear, all crumpled, before its time. It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.
That little body is, I do believe, the greatest weight I have on my conscience. For I realize today that it is a mortal sin to violate the great laws of nature. We should not hurry, we should not be impatient, but we should confidently obey the eternal rhythm.
I sat on a rock to absorb this New Year's thought. Ah, if only that little butterfly could always flutter before me to show me the way.
11
I ROSE as happy as if I had received my New Year presents. The wind wás cold, the sky clear, the sea gleaming.
I took the path to the village. Mass would have ended by now. As I walked along, I wondered, with an absurd emotion, who would be the first person—lucky or unlucky—I should meet this new year. If only, I said to myself, it could be a small child with its arms loaded with its New Year toys; or an active old man in a white shirt with full, embroidered sleeves, content and proud that he had fulfilled his duty on earth with courage. The further I went and the closer I came to the village the more troubled I became.
Suddenly my knees gave way beneath me. Under the olive trees, walking with a springing step along the village road, appeared in red, with a black kerchief over her head, the graceful, slender-waisted figure of the widow!
Her sinuous gait was really that of a black panther, and it seemed to me that an acrid scent of musk was distilled in the air. If only I could escape! I felt that when angry this beast would have no mercy and that the only thing to do was to run away. But how? The widow was steadily approaching. The gravel seemed to be crunching as if an army were marching over it. She saw me, shook her head, her kerchief slipped down and her hair appeared, black as jet and shining. She cast me a languorous look and smiled. Her eyes had a wild sweetness. Hastily she adjusted her kerchief, as though she were ashamed at having let me see one of woman's deepest secrets: her hair.
I wanted to speak to her, wish her a happy New Year, but my throat was too tight, as on the day when the gallery fell in and my life had been in danger. The reeds surrounding her garden stirred in the wind, the winter sun fell on the golden lemons and the oranges with their dark foliage. The entire garden was resplendent like a paradise.
The widow stopped, stretched out her arm and thrust the gate open. I was passing her just at that moment. She looked round and, raísing her eyebrows, turned her gaze on me.
She left the gate open and I saw her disappear behind the orange trees, swaying her hips as she went.
To enter that gate and bolt it, to run after her, take her by the waist and, without a word, drag her to her large widow's bed, that was what you would call being a man! That was what my grandfather would have done, and what I hope my grandson will do! But I stood there like a post, weighing things up and reflecting…
"In another life," I murmured, smiling bitterly, "in some other life I'll behave better than this!"
I plunged into the green defile, feeling a weight on my soul as if I had committed a mortal sin. I wandered up and down. It was cold and I was shivering. It was no use my chasing from my thoughts the widow's swaying hips,
her smile, her eyes, her breasts, they always returned—I was suffocating.
The trees had no leaves as yet, but the buds were full of sap and already swelling and bursting. In every bud you could feel the concentrated presence of young shoots, flowers, fruits-to-be, lying in wait and ready to burst out to the light. Day and night in the middle of winter, the great miracle of spring was silently, secretly being prepared beneath the dry bark.
Suddenly I gave a cry of joy. A bold almond tree opposite me in a sheltered hollow had burst into flower in midwinter, leading the way to all the other trees and heralding the spring.
The oppression I felt left me. I took a deep breath of its somewhat peppery scent. I left the road and sat down beneath its flowering branches.
I stayed there a long time, thinking of nothing, care-free and happy. This was eternity and I was sitting beneath a tree in Paradise.
Suddenly a loud rough voice ejected me from this paradise.
"Now what might you be doing tucked away in there, boss? I've been looking high and low for you. It's close on twelve, come on!"
"Where?"
"Where? You ask me where? To old mother Sucking Pig, of course! Aren't you hungry? The sucking pig's out of the oven! What a smell ... makes your mouth water! Come on!"
I rose, stroked the hard trunk of the almond tree containing so many mysteries and which had produced this miracle of blossom. Zorba went on ahead, light-footed, full of zest and hunger. The fundamental needs of man—food, drink, women and dance—were never exhausted or dulled in his robust and eager body.
He was holding in his hand a flat parcel wrapped in pink paper and tied with golden-colored string.
"A New Year's gift?" I asked with a smile.
Zorba laughed, trying to hide his emotion.
"Well, just so she's no room for complaint, poor woman!" he said, without turning róund. "So she'll remember her past grandeur… She's a woman—haven't we said so often enough?—and therefore a creature always mourning over her lot…"