Zorba the Greek

  The old man crossed himself and looked round at the women.

  "Come on, you women! We're nearly there!" he cried.

  He lowered his voice.

  "I wasn't married then. I prostrated myself to Her Holiness, and decided to leave this world of lies and be a monk…"

  He laughed.

  "Why are you laughing, grandad?"

  "Isn't it enough to make you laugh, my son? The very same day, during the festival, the devil, dressed up as a woman, stood before me. It was she!"

  Without turning his head, he jerked his thumb backwards and indicated the old woman behind him, who was following us in silence.

  "She doesn't bear looking at now," he said; "the thought of touching her disgusts you. But in those days she was a regular flirt; she quivered with life like a fish. 'The long-lashed beauty,' they used to call her, and she well deserved the name, the little minx! But now ... God rest my soul, where are her lashes now? Gone to blazes! Not a single one left!"

  At that moment, just behind us, the old woman made a muffled growl like a churlish dog on a chain. But she did not say a word.

  "There, that's the convent," said the old man.

  At the edge of the sea, wedged between two great rocks, was the white, sparkling convent. In the middle the chapel dome, freshly whitewashed, small and round like a woman's breast. About the chapel were half a dozen cells with blue doors, three large cypress trees in the courtyard, and along the wall some sturdy prickly pears in flower.

  We went faster. Melodious chanting floated down from the open door of the sanctuary, the salt air was perfumed with benjamin. The entrance door in the middle of the arch stood wide open and gave on to the clean, scented courtyard strewn with black and white pebbles. Along the walls, to the right and to the left, were rows of pots, with rosemary, marjoram and basil.

  What serenity! What sweetness! The sun was going down now and the whitewashed walls were turning pink.

  The little chapel, warm and rather dark inside, smelled of wax. Men and women were moving in clouds of incense, and five or six nuns, tighdy wrapped in their long black dresses, were singing: "O, Almighty God ..." in their sweet, high-pitched voices. They were constantly kneeling as they sang and the rustling of their dresses sounded like birds on the wing.

  I had not heard hymns sung to the Virgin Mary for many years past. During the revolt of my early youth I had passed by every church with anger and contempt in my heart. As time went on I grew less violent. Now and again, in fact, I went to religious festivals—Christmas, the Vigils, the Resurrection—and I was happy to see the child in me come to life again. The mystic fervor of my early years had degenerated into an aesthetic pleasure. Savages believe that when a musical instrument is no longer used for religious rites it loses its divine power and begins to give out harmonious sounds. Religion, in the same way, had become degraded in me: it had become art.

  I went into a corner, leaned on the gleaming stall that the hands of the faithful had polished as smooth as ivory, and listened in enchantment as the Byzantine hymns came from the distant past: "Hail! heights inaccessible to the human mind! Hail! depths impenetrable even to the eyes of angels! Hail! immaculate bride, O never-fading Rose ..."

  The nuns once more dropped on their knees with head bowed and their dresses rustled like wings.

  Mínutes went by—angels with benjamin-scented wings, bearing closed lilies in their hands and singing the beauties of Mary. The sun went down, leaving us in a downy blue twilight. I do not remember how we came to be in the courtyard, but I was alone there with the old Mother Superior and two young nuns, beneath the largest of the cypress trees. A young novice came out to offer me a spoonful of jam, fresh water and coffee, and a peaceful conversation began.

  We talked of the miracles wrought by the Virgin Mary, of lignite, of the hens beginning to lay now that it was spring, of sister Eudoxia who was epileptic and continually falling down on the floor of the chapel and quivering like a fish, foaming at the mouth and tearing her clothes.

  "She is thirty-five," added the Mother Superior with a sigh. "An unhappy age—very difficult! May the Holy Martyred Virgin come to her aid and cure her! In ten or fifteen years she will be cured."

  "Ten or fifteen years," I murmured, aghast.

  "What are ten or fifteen years?" asked the Mother Superior severely. "Think of eternity!"

  I made no answer. I knew that eternity is each minute that passes. I kissed the Mother Superior's hand—a plump, white hand, smelling of incense—and departed.

  Night had fallen. Two or three crows were hurrying back to their nests; owls were coming out of the hollow trees to hunt. Snails, caterpillars, worms, field-mice were coming out of the earth to be eaten by the owls.

  The mysterious snake that devours its own tail enclosed me in its circle: the earth brings to life and devours her own children, then bears more and devours them in their turn.

  I looked about me. It was quite dark. The last of the villagers had gone, no one could see me, I was absolutely alone. I bared my feet and dipped them in the sea. I rolled on the sand. I felt an urge to touch the stones, the water, and the air with my bare body. The Mother Superior had exasperated me with her "eternity," and I felt the word fall about me, like a lasso catching a wild horse. I made a leap to try to escape. I felt a desire to press my naked body against the earth and the sea, to feel with certainty that these beloved ephemeral things really existed.

  "You exist, and you alone!" I cried in my innermost self. "O Earth! I am your last-born, I am sucking at your breast and will not let go. You do not let me live for more than one minute, but that minute turns into a breast and I suck."

  I shuddered as if I felt I was running the risk of being hurled in to that anthropophagous word "eternity." I remembered how formerly—when? only a year ago—I had eagerly pondered it with closed eyes and arms apart, wanting to throw myself into it.

  When I was in the first form at the state school there was a story in the reading book we used for the second half of the alphabet:

  A little child had fallen into a well, said the story. There it found a marvellous city, flower gardens, a lake of pure honey, a mountain of rice pudding and multi-colored toys. As I spelled it out, each syllable seemed to take me further into that magic city. Once, at midday, when I had come home from school, I ran into the garden, rushed to the rim of the well beneath the vine arbor and stood fascinated, staring at the smooth black surface of the water. I soon thought I could see the marvellous city, houses and streets, the children and the vine arbor loaded with grapes. I could hold out no longer; I hung my head down, held out my arms and kicked against the ground to push myself over the edge. But at that moment my mother noticed me. She screamed, rushed out and caught me by my waistband, just in time…

  As a child, then, I had almost fallen into the well. When grown up, I nearly fell into the word "eternity," and into quite a number of other words too—"love," "hope," "country," "God." As each word was conquered and left behind, I had the feeling that I had escaped a danger and made some progress. But no, I was only changing words and calling it deliverance. And there I had been, for the last two years, hanging over the edge of the word "Buddha."

  But I now feel sure—Zorba be praised—that Buddha will be the last well of all, the last word precípice, and then I shall be delivered forever. Forever? That is what we say each time.

  I jumped up. I was happy from head to foot. I undressed and plunged into the sea; the joyful waves were frolicking and I frolicked with them. Tired at last, I came out of the water, let the night wind dry me, and set out again with long easy strides, feeling I had escaped a great danger and that I had a still tighter grip on the Great Mother's breast.

  16

  AS SOON as I came within sight of the lignite beach I stopped abruptly: there was a light in the hut.

  "Zorba must be back!" I thought happily.

  I felt like running, but restrained myself. I must hide my joy, I thought. I must look annoyed and first
give him a good talking-to. I sent him there on urgent business, and he'd just gone through my money, lived with some cabaret tart, and now comes back twelve days late. I must look as if I'm in a furious temper ... I must!

  I walked slower to give me time to work up a temper. I tried hard to be angry—frowned and clenched my fists, did everything an angry man usually does—but could not manage it. On the contrary, the nearer I came the happier I grew.

  I crept up to the hut and looked through the small lighted window. Zorba was on his knees by the tiny stove which he had lit and was making coffee.

  My heart melted and I shouted: "Zorba!"

  In a trice the door swung open and Zorba, barefoot, rushed out. He craned his neck, peering in the dark, discovered me, opened his arms to embrace me, then stopped and let them fall to his sides.

  "Glad to see you again, boss," he said hesitantly, standing long-faced and motionless before me.

  I tried to raise my voice angrily:

  "Glad to see you've taken the trouble to come back," I mocked. "Don't come any nearer—you reek of toilet soap."

  "Ah, if only you knew what a scrubbing I've given myself, boss," he said. "Have I cleaned myself up! I scraped my blasted skin to bits before seeing you, boss! I've sandstoned myself for an hour. But this hellish smell ... Anyway, what of it? It'll pass off sooner or later. It isn't the first time—it's bound to go."

  "Let's get inside," I said, nearly bursting with laughter.

  We went in. The hut smelled of perfume, powder, soap and women.

  "What in God's name is all that, may I ask?" I said, pointing to a case filled with handbags, bars of toilet soap, stockings, a small red parasol and two minute bottles of scent.

  "Presents ..." muttered Zorba, hanging his head.

  "Presents?" I said, trying to sound furious. "Presents?"

  "Presents, boss ... for little Bouboulina. Don't be angry, boss. Easter's coming soon, and she's a human being too, you know."

  I managed to restrain my laughter once again.

  "You haven't brought her the most important thing," I said.

  "What?"

  "The marriage wreaths, of course."

  "What? What d'you mean? I don't understand."

  I then told him the way I had pulled the lovesick siren's leg.

  Zorba scratched his head a second, reflected and then said:

  "You shouldn't do things like that, boss, if you don't mind my saying so. That sort of joke, you know, is ... women are weak, delicate creatures—how many times have I got to tell you that? Like porcelain vases, they are, and you have to handle them very carefully, boss."

  I felt ashamed. I had regretted it, too, but it was too late. I changed the subject.

  "And the cable?" I asked. "And the tools?"

  "I've brought everything; don't get worked up! 'You can't have your cake and eat it!' as they say! The cable railway, Lola, Bouboulina—everything's well in hand."

  He took the briki[22] off the flame, filled my cup, gave me some jumbals[23] with sesame which he had brought and honey halva[24] which he knew was my favorite sweet.

  "I've brought you a present of a large box of halva!" he said fondly. "I didn't forget you, you see."

  "Look, I've brought a little bag of peanuts for the parrot. I've forgotten no one. You know, my brain's overweight." Zorba was sipping his coffee, smoking and watching me. His eyes fascinated me like those of a serpent.

  "Have you solved the problem which was tormenting you, you old rogue?" I asked him, my voice gentler now.

  "What problem, boss?"

  "If women are human beings or not?"

  "Oh! That's settled!" answered Zorba, waving his hand. "A woman's human, too, a human like us—only worse! The minute she sees your purse she loses her head. She clings to you, gives up her freedom and is glad to give it up because, at the back of her mind, the purse is glittering. But she soon ... Ah, to hell with all that, boss!"

  He stood up and threw his cigarette out of the window.

  "Now, man to man," he went on. "Holy Week's coming, we've got the cable, it's high time we went up to the monastery and got those fat pigs to sign the documents for that forest land ... before they see the line and become excited—see what I mean? Time's going by, boss, and we'll never get anywhere being so lackadaisical; we must get down to it; we've got to start raking in ... we must start loading the ships to make up for what we've spent… That trip to Candia cost a packet. You see, the devil ..."

  He stopped. I was sorry for him. He was just like a child who has done something silly and, not knowing how he can put things right again, just trembles all over.

  "Shame on you!" I said to myself. "How can you let a soul like that tremble with fright? Where will you ever find another Zorba? Come on, sponge it all out!"

  "Zorba!" I cried. "Leave the devil alone; we have no use for him! What's done is done ... and forgotten! Take down your santuri!"

  He opened his arms again as if he wanted to embrace me. But he closed them slowly, still hesitant.

  In one bound he was at the wall. He stood up on his toes and took down the santuri. As he came back into the light of the lamp I saw his hair: it was as black as pitch.

  "You old dog," I shouted, "what on earth have you done to your hair? Where did you get that?"

  Zorba began to laugh.

  "I've dyed it, boss. Don't get upset ... I dyed it because I had no luck with it…"

  "What for?"

  "Vanity, by God! One day I was out walking with Lola, holding her arm. Not even holding ... look, like that, just the end of my fingers! And some bloody little urchin, no bigger than this hand, started shouting after us: 'I say, old 'un!' the whoreson kid shouted. 'You there! Where are you taking her, baby-snatcher?'

  "Lola was ashamed, you can imagine, and so was I. So I went the same night to the barber's and had my wig dyed black."

  I began to laugh. Zorba watched me gravely.

  "Does that sound comic to you, boss? Well, just wait and see what a strange animal man is, though! From the day I had it done, I've been another man altogether. You'd think I had black hair for good; I've begun to believe it myself—a man easily forgets what doesn't suit him, you know—and I swear I've got stronger. Lola's noticed it, too. D'you remember that pain I used to have in my back here? Well, it's gone! Haven't had it since! You don't believe me, of course, your books don't tell you things like that."

  He laughed ironically, then repented.

  "If I may say so, boss ... the only book I've ever read in my life is Sinbad the Sailor, and for all the good that did me ..."

  He undid the santuri slowly and affectionately.

  "Come outside," he said. "The santuri isn't at home between four walls. It's wild and needs the open spaces."

  We went out. The stars sparkled. The Milky Way flowed from one side of the sky to the other. The sea was frothing. We sat down on the pebbles and the waves licked our feet.

  "When you're broke, you have to have a good time," said Zorba. "What, us give up? Come here, santuri!"

  "A Macedonian song of your own country, Zorba," I said.

  "A Cretan song of your country!" said Zorba. "I'll sing you something I was taught at Candia; it changed my life."

  He reflected for a moment.

  "No, it hasn't changed really," he said, "only now I know I was right."

  He placed his big fingers on the santuri and craned his neck. He sang in a wild, harsh, dolorous voice:

  When you've made up your mind, no use lagging behind, go ahead

  and no relenting Let your youth have free reign, it won't come again, so be bóld and

  no repenting.

  Our cares were scattered, petty troubles vanished, the soul reached its peak. Lola, lignite, the line, "eternity," big and small worries, all became blue smoke that faded into the air, and there remained only a bird of steel, the human soul which sang.

  "I make you a present of everything, Zorba!" I cried, when the proud song was done. "All you've done—th
e woman, your dyed hair, the money you spent—all of it's yours! Just go on singing!"

  He craned out his scraggy neck once more:

  Courage! In God's name! Venture, come what may! If you don't lose, you're bound to win the day!

  A number of workmen sleeping near the mine heard the songs; they got up, crept down to us and squatted round. They listened to their favorite songs and felt their legs tingling. At last, unable to restrain themselves longer, they loomed out of the darkness, half-naked, their hair ruffled and their breeches baggy. They made a circle round Zorba and the santuri and began dancing on the pebbled shore.

  Thrilled, I watched them in silence.

  This is, I thought, the real vein I have been looking for! I want no other.

  The next day, before dawn, the galleries of the mine were echoing with Zorba's cries and the sounds of the picks. The men were working frenziedly. Zorba alone could lead them on like that. With him work became wine, women and song, and the men were intoxicated. The earth came to life in his hands, the stones, coal, wood and workers adopted his rhythm, a sort of war was declared in the galleries in the white light of the acetylene lamps and Zorba was in the forefront; fighting hand to hand. He gave a name to each gallery and seam, and a face to all invisible forces, and after that it became difficult for them to escape him.

  "When I know that that is the 'Canavaro' gallery," he used to say about the first gallery he had christened, "where the hell do you think it can hide? I know its name, it wouldn't have the cheek to do the dirty on me. No more than 'Mother Superior,' or 'Knock-knees,' or 'The Piddler.' I know them all, I tell you, each one by its own name."

  That day I slipped into the gallery without his noticing me.

  "Come on! Put some life into it!" he was shouting to the workmen, as he always did when he was in good form. "Come on! We'll eat up the whole mountain, yet! We're men, aren't we? Creatures to be reckoned with! God himself must tremble when he sees us! You Cretans and me, a Macedonian, we'll have this mountain; it takes more than a mountain to beat us! We beat the Turks, didn't we? So why should a little mountain like this put us off? Come on, then!"