Zorba the Greek

  "I am. Cover me up."

  I covered her up as well as I could, so that she was indistinguishable from the earth, then I went off.

  I came up to the headland and now clearly heard the songs of lamentation. Mimiko came running past me.

  "What is it, Mimiko?" I asked.

  "He's drowned himself! Drowned himself!" he shouted without stopping.

  "Who?"

  "Pavli, Mavrandoni's son."

  "Why?"

  "The widow…"

  The word hung in the evening air and conjured up the dangerous, supple body of that woman.

  I reached the rocks and there found the whole village assembled. The men were silent, bare-headed; the women, with their kerchiefs thrown back over their shoulders, were tearing their hair and uttering piercing cries. A swollen, livíd corpse lay on the pebbled beach. Old Mavrandoni was standing motionless over it, gazing at it. With his right hand he was leaning on his staff. With hís left he was holding his curly grey beard.

  "A curse on you, widow!" a shrill voice said suddenly. "God shall make you pay for this!"

  A woman leaped up and turned to the men.

  "Isn't there a single man in the village to throw her across his knees and cut her throat like a sheep? Bah! you cowards!"

  And she spat at the men, who looked at her without a word.

  Kondomanolio, the café proprietor, answered her:

  "Don't humiliate us, crazy Katerina," he shouted, "don't humiliate us, there are still some men, some Palikaria, in our village, you'll see!"

  I could not contain myself.

  "Shame on you all!" I cried. "In what way is that woman responsible? It was fated. Don't you fear God?"

  But no one replied.

  Manolakas, the drowned man's cousin, bent his huge body, lifted the corpse in his arms and took the first path back to the village.

  The women were screaming, scratching their faces and tearing their hair. When they saw the body was being carried away, they ran to clasp it. But old Mavrandoni, brandishing his staff, drove them off and took the head of the procession, followed by the women singing dirges. Lastly, in silence, came the men.

  They disappeared into the twilight. You could hear the peaceful breathing of the sea once more. I looked around me. I was alone.

  "I'll go back home," I said. "Another day, O God, which has had its measure of sorrow!"

  Deep in thought, I followed the pathway. I admired these people, so closely and warmly involved in human sufferings: Dame Hortense, Zorba, the widow, and the pale Pavli who had so bravely thrown himself in the sea to drown his sorrow, and Deli-Katerina shouting for them to cut the widow's throat like a sheep, and Mavrandoni refusing to weep or even to speak in front of the others. I alone was impotent and rational, my blood did not boil, nor did I love or hate with passion. I still wanted to put things right, in cowardly fashion, by laying everything at destiny's door.

  In the twilight I could just see uncle Anagnosti still sitting there on a stone. He had propped his chin on his long stick and was gazing at the sea.

  I called to him, but he did not hear. I went up to him; he saw me and shook his head.

  "Poor humanity!" he murmured. "The waste of a young life! The poor boy couldn't bear his sorrow, so he threw himself in the sea and was drowned. Now he's saved."

  "Saved?"

  "Saved, my son, yes, saved. What could he have done with his life? If he'd married the widow, there would very soon have been quarrels, perhaps even dishonor. She's just like a brood mare, that shameless woman! As soon as she sees a man, she starts to whinny. And if he hadn't married her, it would have been the torment of his life, because the idea would have been fixed in his head that he'd missed a great happiness! A yawning abyss in front, a precipice behind!"

  "Don't talk like that, uncle Anagnosti; you'd bring despair to anyone who heard you!"

  "Come on, don't be so frightened. No one can hear me, except you. And even if they could, would they believe me? Look, has there ever been a luckier man than me? I've had fields, vineyards olive groves, and a two-storied house. I've been rich and a víllage elder. I lighted on a good, docile woman who gave me only sons. I've never seen her raise her eyes to me in defiance, and all my children are good fathers. I've nothing to complain about. I've had grandchildren, too. What more could I want? My roots go deep. And yet if I had to start my life all over again I'd put a stone round my neck, like Pavli, and throw myself in the sea. Life is hard, my God it is; even the luckiest life is hard, a curse on it!"

  "But what is there you lack, uncle Anagnosti? What are you complaining of?"

  "I lack nothing, I tell you! But you go and question men's hearts!"

  He was silent a moment, and looked again at the darkening sea.

  "Well, Pavlí, you did the right thing!" he cried, waving his stick. "Let the women scream; they're women and have no brains. You're saved now, Pavli—your father knows it and that's why he didn't make a sound!"

  He scanned the sky and the mountains which were already growing indistinct.

  "Here's the night," he said. "Better get back."

  He stopped all of a sudden, seeming to regret the words he had let drop, as if he had betrayed a great secret and now wanted to recover it.

  He placed his shrivelled hand on my shoulder.

  "You're young," he said, smiling at me; "don't listen to the old. If the world did heed them, it would rush headlong to its destruction. If a widow crosses your path, get hold of her! Get married, have children, don't hesitate! Troubles were made for young men!"

  I reached my beach, lit the fire and made my evening tea. I was tired and hungry, and I ate ravenously, giving myself up entirely to animal pleasure.

  Suddenly Mimiko pushed his little flattened head through the window, looked at me crouching by the fire and eating. He smiled cunningly.

  "What have you come for, Mimiko?"

  "I've brought you something, boss ... from the widow… A basket of oranges. She says they're the last from her garden…"

  "From the widow?" I said with a start. "Why did she send me them?"

  "Because of the good word you put in for her to the villagers this afternoon, so she says." ?

  "What good word?"

  "How do I know? I'm just telling you what she said, that's all!"

  He emptied the oranges on the bed. The whole hut became redolent with their smell.

  "Tell her I thank her very much for her present, and I advise her to be careful. She must watch her step and not show herself in the village on any account, do you hear? She must stay indoors for a time, until this unhappy business has been forgotten. Do you understand, Mimiko?"

  "Is that all, boss?"

  "That's all. You can go now."

  Mimiko winked at me.

  "Is that all?"

  "Get away!"

  He went. I peeled one of the juicy oranges; it was as sweet as honey. I lay down, fell asleep, and the whole night through I wandered in orange groves. A warm wind was blowing; I had bared my chest to the wind and had a sprig of sweet basil behind my ear. I was a young peasant of twenty, and I roamed about the orange grove whistling and waiting. For whom was I waiting?—I do not know. But my heart was ready to burst for joy. I twirled up my moustache and listened, the whole night through, to the sea sighing like a woman behind the orange trees.

  15

  THAT DAY there was a strong south wind, which came burning from the sands of Africa across the Mediterranean. Clouds of fine sand twisted and turned in the air and got into throat and lungs. Teeth were gritty and eyes inflamed; doors and windows had to be locked tight if one wanted to make sure of eating a single piece of bread that was not sprinkled with sand.

  It was close. During those oppressive days when the sap was rising I was myself a prey to the prevailing springtime unrest. A feeling of lassitude, an emotional tension in the breast, a tingling sensation throughout my body, a desire—or was it memory—of a vast and simple happiness.

  I took the pebbly
mountain track. I had a sudden impulse to visit the small Minoan city which had risen from the ground after three or four thousand years and was warming itself once more under its beloved Cretan sun. I thought that perhaps after three or four hours' walk fatigue would calm the unrest that spring had brought.

  Bare grey stones, a luminous nakedness, the harsh and deserted mountain that I love. An owl, its round yellow eyes staring, blinded by the bright light, had perched on a stone. It was grave, beautiful, full of mystery. I was walking lightly, but its hearing was keen; it took fright, flew up silently among the stones and disappeared. There was a scent of thyme in the air. The first tender flowers of the yellow gorse were already showing amongst its thorns.

  When I came in sight of the small ruined city I stood spellbound. It must have been about noon, the sun's rays were falling perpendicularly and drenching the stones with light. In old ruined cities this is a dangerous time of day, for the air is filled with cries and the noise of spirits. If a branch cracks, if a lizard darts, if a cloud throws a shadow as it passes overhead, panic seizes you. Every inch of ground you tread is a grave, and you hear the dead groaning.

  Gradually my eyes grew accustomed to the bright light. I could now see traces of the hand of man in the ruins: two broad roads paved with shining stones. To the left and right of them, narrow tortuous alleys. In the center the circular agora, or public meeting place, and next to it, with a totally democratic condescension, had been placed the king's palace with its double columns, large stone stairways and numerous outbuildings.

  In the heart of the city the stones were most heavily trodden by the foot of man and that was where the inner shrine must have been: the Great Goddess was there, with her huge breasts, set wide apart, and her arms wreathed in snakes.

  Everywhere were small shops, oil presses, forges, and the workshops of joiners and potters. A cleverly designed anthill, well-built in a sheltered position, and whence the ants had disappeared thousands of years ago. In one place a craftsman had been carving a jar out of veined stone but had not had the time to finish it; the chisel had fallen from his hand, to be discovered thousands of years later, lying next to the unfinished work of art.

  The eternal, vain, stupid questions: why? what for? come to poison your heart. The unfinished jar, where the artist's happy and confident inspiration had suddenly been defeated, fills you with bitterness.

  All at once a little shepherd, tanned by the sun and wearing a fringed handkerchief round his curly hair, stood up on a stone beside the crumbling palace and showed his black knees.

  "You there, brother!" he shouted.

  I wanted to be alone, and made believe I had not heard. But the little shepherd began to laugh mockingly.

  "Ha! Playing deaf, eh? Any cigarettes? Give me one! In this empty hole I get so fed up with life."

  He dragged out the last words and there was such misery in them that I felt sorry for him.

  I had no cigarettes, so I offered him money. But the little shepherd was annoyed:

  "To hell with money!" he shouted. "What would I do with it? I tell you I'm fed up with everything. I want a cigarette!"

  "I haven't any," I said in despair. "I haven't any."

  "No cigarettes?" He was beside himself and struck the ground with his crook. "No cigarettes! Well, what have you got in your pockets? They're bulging with something."

  "A book, a handkerchief, paper, a pencil, a penknife," I answered, pulling out one by one the things in my pocket. "Would you like this penknife?"

  "I've got one. I've got everything I want: bread, cheese, olives, my knife, leather for my boots and an awl, and water in my bottle, everything ... except a cigarette! And it's as though I'd got nothing at all! And what might you be after in the ruins?"

  "I'm studying antiquity."

  "What good do you get out of that?"

  "None."

  "None. Nor do I. This is all dead, and we're alive. You'd do better to go, quick. God be with you!"

  "I'm going," I said obediently.

  I went back along the little track with some anxiety in my mind.

  I turned for a moment and could see the little shepherd who was so tired of his solitude still standing on his stone. His curly hair, escaping from under his black handkerchief, was waving in the south wind. The light streamed over him from head to foot. I felt I was looking at a bronze statue of a youth. He had placed his crook across his shoulders and was whistling.

  I took another track and went down towards the coast. Now and then, warm breezes laden with perfume reached me from nearby gardens. The earth had a rich smell, the sea was rippling with laughter, the sky was blue and gleaming like steel.

  Winter shrivels up the mind and body of man, but then there comes the warmth which swells the breast. As I walked I suddenly heard loud trumpetings in the air. I raised my eyes and saw a marvellous spectacle which had always moved me deeply ever since my childhood: cranes deploying across the sky in battle order, returning from wintering in a warmer country, and, as legend has it, carrying swallows on their wings and in the deep hollows of their bony bodies.

  The unfailing rhythm of the seasons, the ever-turning wheel of life, the four facets of the earth which are lit ín turn by the sun, the passing of life—all these filled me once more with a feeling of oppression. Once more there sounded within me, together with the cranes' cry, the terrible warning that there is only one life for all men, that there is no other, and that all that can be enjoyed must be enjoyed here. In eternity no other chance will be given to us.

  A mind hearing this pitiless warning—a warning which, at the same time, is so compassionate—would decide to conquer its weakness and meanness, its laziness and vain hopes and cling with all its power to every second which flies away forever.

  Great examples come to your mind and you see clearly that you are a lost soul, your life is being frittered away on petty pleasures and pains and trifling talk. "Shame! Shame!" you cry, and bite your lips.

  The cranes had crossed the sky and disappeared to the north, but in my head they continued to fly from one temple to another, uttering their hollow cries.

  I came to the sea. I was walking rapidly along the edge of the water. How disquieting it is to walk alone by the sea! Each wave, each bird in the sky calls to you and reminds you of your duty. When walking with company you laugh and talk, and cannot hear what the waves and birds are saying. It may be, of course, that they are saying nothing. They watch you passing in a cloud of chatter and they stop calling.

  I stretched out on the pebbles and closed my eyes. "What is the soul, then?" I wondered. "And what is this secret connection between the soul, and sea, clouds and perfumes? The soul itself appears to be sea, cloud and perfume…"

  I rose and started walking again, as if I had come to a decision. What decision? I did not know.

  Suddenly I heard a voice behind me.

  "Where are you going, sir, by the grace of God? To the convent?"

  I turned round. A stocky, robust old man, with a handkerchief twisted round his white hair, was waving his hand and smiling at me. An old woman walked behind him, and behind her their daughter, a dark-skinned girl with fierce eyes, wearing a white scarf over her head.

  "The convent?" asked the old man a second time.

  And suddenly I realized that I had decided to go that way. For months I had wanted to go to the little convent built for the nuns near the sea, but I had never managed to make up my mind. My body had abruptly made the decision for me that afternoon.

  "Yes," I answered. "I'm going to the convent to hear the chants to the Holy Virgin."

  "May Her blessing be upon you."

  He quickened his pace and caught me up.

  "Are you what they call the Coal Company?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, may the Blessed Virgin send you good profits! You are doing a lot of good for the village, bringing a means of livelihood to many a poor father with a family to keep. May you be blessed!"

  And a moment o
r two later the cunning old fellow, who must have known that we were not doing very well, added these words of consolation:

  "And even if you get no profit out of it, my son, don't worry. You'll not be the loser. Your soul will go direct to paradise ..."

  "That's what I'm hoping, grandad."

  "I never had any education, but one day at church I heard something Christ had said. It stuck in my head and I never forget it: 'Sell,' he said, 'everything you possess to obtain the Great Pearl.' And what is that Great Pearl? The salvation of your soul. You are well on the way to getting the Great Pearl, sir."

  The Great Pearl! How many times it had gleamed in the darkness of my mind like a huge tear!

  We began walking, the two men in front, the two women behind with clasped hands. From time to time we made a remark. Would the olive blossom last on the trees? Would it rain and swell the barley? We must both have been hungry because we constantly led the conversation round to food.

  "What is your favorite dish, grandad?"

  "All of them, my son. It's a great sin to say this is good and that is bad."

  "Why? Can't we make a choice?"

  "No, of course we can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because there are people who are hungry."

  I was silent, ashamed. My heart had never been able to reach that height of nobility and compassíon.

  The líttle convent bell rang out merrily and playfully, like a woman's laugh.

  The old man made the sign of the cross.

  "May the Martyred Virgin come to our help!" he murmured. "She has a knife wound in the neck and bleeds. In the time of the corsairs ..."

  And the old man began embroidering on the sufferings of the Virgin, as though it were the story of a real woman, a young persecuted refugee who had come in tears with her child from the East and had been stabbed by the unfaithful.

  "Once a year real warm blood runs from her wound," the old man went on. "I remember a long time ago, on her anniversary—I hadn't yet grown a moustache—people had come down from all the villages in the hills to worship the Virgin. It was the fifteenth of August. We men slept outside, in the yard; the women were inside. And in my sleep I heard the Virgin cry out. I got up in a hurry, ran to her icon and put my hand on her throat. And what do you think I saw? My fingers were red with blood…"