Someone ran up to Zorba. In the acetylene light I could just make out Mimiko's thin face.
"Zorba," he said in his mumbling voice, "Zorba ..."
Zorba turned round, and saw at a glance what it was about. He lifted his big hand:
"Beat it!" he shouted. "Clear out!"
"I've come for her ..." faltered the simpleton.
"Clear out, I tell you! We've got work to do!"
Mimiko made off as fast as his legs would carry him. Zorba spat in exasperation.
"The day's for working," he said. "Daytime is a man. The night-time's for enjoying yourself. Night is a woman. You mustn't mix them up!"
I came up at that moment
"It's twelve o'clock," I said. "Time you stopped work and had a meal."
Zorba turned round, saw me and scowled.
"Don't wait for us, boss, d'you mind. You go and have your lunch. We've lost twelve days, remember, and we've got to catch up. I hope you eat well."
I left the gallery and walked down towards the sea. I opened the book I was carrying. I was hungry, but I forgot my hunger. Meditation is also a mine, I thought, so go ahead! And I plunged into the great galleries of the mind.
A disturbing book: it described the snow-covered mountains of Tibet, the mysterious monasteries, the silent monks in their safFron robes who concentrate their will and oblige the ether to take what shape they desire.
High mountain tops, the air full of spirits. The vain murmur of human life never reaches so high. The great ascetic takes his pupils, boys of sixteen to eighteen, and leads them at midnight up to an icy lake in the mountain. They undress, break the ice, plunge their clothes into the freezing water, put them on again and leave them to dry on their backs. Then they plunge them in afresh, and leave them to dry once more on their bodies. They do this seven times in succession. Then they return to the monastery for morning service.
They climb a mountain peak, fifteen to eighteen thousand feet high. They sit down quietly, breathe deeply and regularly. They are naked to the waist but feel no cold. They hold a goblet of icy water in their hands, look at it, concentrate with all their power on it, and the water boils. Then they make their tea.
The great ascetic collects his students round him and says:
"Woe to him who has not within himself the source of happiness!
"Woe to him who wants to please others!
"Woe to him who does not feel that this life and the next are but one!"
Night had fallen and I could not see to read. I closed the book and looked at the sea. I must free myself of all these phantoms, I thought, Buddhas, Gods, Motherlands, Ideas… Woe to him who cannot free himself from Buddhas, Gods, Motherlands and Ideas.
The sea had suddenly turned black. The young moon was rapidly setting. In the gardens in the distance, dogs were howling sadly, and the whole ravine howled back.
Zorba appeared, covered with dirt; his shírt was hanging in shreds.
He crouched by me.
"It went very well today," he said happily; "plenty of good work done."
I heard Zorba's words without grasping their meaning. My mind was still far away on distant and dangerous slopes.
"What are you thinking of, boss?" he asked me. "Is your mind out at sea?"
I brought my mind back, looked round at Zorba and shook my head.
"Zorba," I said, "you think you're a wonderful Sinbad the Sailor, and you talk big because you've knocked about the world a bit. But you've seen nothing, nothing at all. Not a thing, you poor fool! Nor have I, mind you. The world's much vaster than we think. We travel, crossing whole countries and seas and yet we've never pushed our noses past the doorstep of our own home."
Zorba pursed hís lips and said nothíng. He just grunted like a faithful dog when he is hit.
"There are mountains in the world," I said, "which are huge, immense and dotted all over with monasteries. And in those monasteries live monks in saffron robes. They stay seated, with crossed legs, for one, two, six months at a time, thinking of one thing and one thing only. One thing, do you hear? Not two—one! They don't think of women and lignite or books and lignite, as we do; they concentrate their minds on one and the same thing, and they achieve miracles. You have seen what happens when you hold a glass out to the sun and concentrate all the rays onto one spot, Zorba? That spot soon catches fire, doesn't it? Why? Because the sun's power has not been dispersed but concentrated on that one spot. It is the same with men's minds. You do miracles, if you concentrate your mind on one thing and only one. Do you understand, Zorba?"
Zorba was breathing heavily. For a moment he shook himself as though he wanted to run away, but he controlled himself.
"Go on," he grunted, in a strangled voice.
Then he straightway leaped up.
"Shut up! Shut up!" he shouted. "Why are you saying this to me, boss? Why are you poisoning my mind? I was all right here, why äre you upsetting me? I was hungry, and God and the devil (I'm damned if I can see the difference) threw me a bone and I was licking it. I was wagging my tail and shouting: 'Thank you! Thank you!' And now ..."
He stamped his foot, turned his back, made a move as if he were going over to the hut, but he was still boiling inside. He stopped.
"Pff! A fine bone it was he threw me, that god-devil!" he roared. "A dirty old cabaret tart! An old tub that isn't even seaworthy!"
He seized a handful of pebbles and threw them into the sea.
"But who is he? Who is it who throws these bones to us? Eh?"
He waited a little, then when he felt no reply was coming he became excited.
"Can't you say anything, boss?" he cried. "If you know, tell me, so that I know his name. Then, don't you worry, I'll look after him! But if it's just on the off-chance, like that, which way must I go? I'll come to grief."
"I'm hungry," I said. "Go and get some food. Let's eat first!"
"Can't we last an evening without eating, boss? One of my uncles was a monk, and weekdays he took nothing but salt and water. On Sundays and feast days he added a bit of bran. He lived to be a hundred and twenty."
"He lived to be a hundred and twenty, Zorba, because he had faith. He had found his God and he had no worries. But we have no God to nourish us, Zorba, so light the fire, will you, and we'll cook those chads. Make a thick, hot soup with plenty of onions and pepper, the sort we like. Then we'll see."
"See what?" asked Zorba in a rage. "As soon as our bellies are full we shall forget all that!"
"Exactly! That's what food's really for, Zorba. Now then, off you go and make a good fish soup so that our heads don't burst!"
But Zorba didn't budge. He stayed where he was, motionless, looking at me.
"Listen, boss, I want to tell you something. I know what you're up to. Just now when you were talking to me I suddenly had an inkling; I saw it all in a flash."
"What am I up to, Zorba?" I asked, intrigued.
"You want to build a monastery. That's it! Instead of monks you'd stick a few quill drivers like your honored self ínside and they'd pass the time scribbling day and night. Then, like the saints in the old pictures, printed ribbons would come rolling out of your mouths. I've guessed right, haven't I?"
I hung my head, saddened. Old dreams of my youth, huge wings that have lost their feathers, naïve, noble, generous impulses… Build an intellectual community and bury ourselves there; a dozen friends—musicians, poets, painters… Work all day, meet only at night, eat, sing, read together, discuss the great problems of humanity, demolish the traditional answers. I had worked out the rules of the community already. I had even found the building in one of the passes of Mount Hymettus, at St. John the Hunter.
"I've guessed it right enough," said Zorba happily, when he saw I remained silent.
"Well, I'm going to ask you a favor, holy abbot: I want you to appoint me doorkeeper to your monastery so that I can do some smuggling and, now and then, let some very strange things through into the holy precincts: women, mandolins, demijohns of raki, roast su
cking pigs… All so that you don't fritter away your life with a lot of nonsense!"
He laughed and went quickly towards the hut. I ran after him. He cleaned the fish, without opening his mouth, while I fetched wood and lit the fire. As soon as the soup was ready, we took our spoons and began eating straight out of the pot.
Neither of us spoke. We had not had a bite all day and we both ate ravenously. We drank some wine and our spirits improved. Zorba opened his mouth at last.
"It would be fun to see Dame Bouboulina turn up now, boss. It would be a good moment for her to come, but God preserve us! She'd be the last straw. And yet you know, boss, I've missed her, devil take her!"
"You aren't asking me who threw you that particular little bone, are you?"
"What do you care, boss? It's like a flea in a haystack… Take the bone and don't worry about who threw it down to you. Is it tasty? Is there any flesh on it? Those are the questions to ask. All the rest is…"
"Food has worked its wondrous miracle!" I said, slapping him on the back. "The famished body is calmed ... and so the soul that was asking questions has calmed down, too. Get your santuri!"
But just as Zorba stood up we heard quick, heavy steps on the pebbles. Zorba's hairy nostrils quivered.
"Speak of the devil…" he said in a low voice, slapping his thighs. "Here she is! The bitch has scented a Zorba smell in the air, and here she comes."
"I'm off," I said, rising. "I don't want anything to do with this. I'll go out for a bit. I leave this to you."
"Good night, boss."
"And don't forget, Zorba. You promised to marry her… Don't make me a liar."
Zorba sighed.
"Marry again, boss? I've had my bellyful!"
The scent of toilet soap was coming nearer.
"Courage, Zorba!"
I left quickly. Outside, I could already hear the panting breath of the old siren.
17
THE NEXT DAY at dawn Zorba's voice woke me from sleep.
"What's got into you so early in the morning? Why all thís shouting?"
"We have to take things seriously, boss," he answered, filling his haversack with food. "I've brought two mules; get up and we'll go to the monastery and have the papers signed for the cable railway. There's only one thing makes a lion afraid and that's a louse. The lice will eat us all up, boss."
"Why call that poor Bouboulina a louse?" I asked him with a laugh.
But Zorba pretended he had not heard.
"Come on," he said, "before the sun is too high."
I was really very glad to go up into the mountains and enjoy the smell of the pine trees. We mounted our beasts and began the ascent, halting for a moment at the mine where Zorba gave some instructions to the workmen. He told them to work at the "Mother Superior," to dig out the trench in "The Piddler" and clean out the "Canavaro."
The day shone like a diamond of the first water. The higher we went, the more our spirits seemed to become purged and exalted. Once again I felt the influence on the soul of pure air, easy breathing and a vast horizon. Anyone would think the soul, too, was an animal with lungs and nostrils, and that it needed oxygen, was stifled in the dust or in the midst of too much stale breath.
The sun was already high when we entered the pine forest. The air there smelled of honey, the wind was blowing above us and soughed like the sea.
During the trek Zorba studied the slope of the mountainside. In his imagination he was driving in piles every so many yards, and when he raised his eyes he could already see the cable shining in the sun and running right down to the shore. Attached to the cable the felled tree trunks descended, whistling along like arrows from a bow.
He rubbed his hands together:
"Capital!" he said. "This'll be a gold mine! We'll soon be rolling in money, and we can do all we said."
I looked at him in astonishment.
"Hm! Don't tell me you've forgotten already! Before we built your monastery, we were going up the great mountain. What's its name?"
"Tibet, Zorba, Tibet. But only the two of us. You can't take women there."
"Who mentioned taking women? The poor creatures are very useful, anyway, so don't say anything against them; very useful, when a man hasn't got any man's'Work to do, such as cutting coal, taking towns by assault or talking to God. What else is there for him to do, then, if he isn't going to burst? He drinks wine, plays dice, or puts his arms round a woman ... and he waits ... waits for his hour to come—if it is coming."
He was silent for a moment.
"If it is coming," he repeated, in an irritated tone, "because it might never come at all."
And a moment later:
"It can't just go on like this, boss; either the world will have to get smaller or I shall have to get bigger. Otherwise I'm done for!"
A monk appeared between the pines, redhaired and yellow complexioned, his sleeves rolled up, a round homespun cap on his head. He was carrying an iron rod with which he struck the ground as he strode along. When he saw us he stopped and raised his stick in the air.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To the monastery," Zorba replied; "we're going to say our prayers."
"Turn back, Christians!" cried the monk, his clear blue eyes growing inflamed as he spoke. "Turn back, if you'll take my advice! It is not the Virgin's orchard you'll find there, but the garden of Satan! Poverty, humility, chastity ... the monk's crown, as they say! Very likely. Go back, I tell you. Money, pride, and young boys! That's their Holy Trinity!"
"He's a comic, this chap," whispered Zorba, enchanted. He leaned towards him.
"What's your name, brother?" he asked the monk. "And where do you come from?"
"My name is Zaharia. I've packed up my things and I'm off! Right away. I can't bear it any longer! Kindly tell me your name, countryman."
"Canavaro."
"I can't endure it any longer, brother Canavaro. All night long Christ moans and prevents me sleeping. And I moan with him. Then the abbot—may he roast in hell-fire forever—sent for me early this morning."
"'Well, Zaharia,' he said. 'So, you won't let your brother monks sleep. I'm going to throw you out.'
"'I won't let them sleep?' I said. 'I won't? Or Christ won't? He's the one who keeps moaning.'
"Then he raised his cross, that anti-Christ, and, well ... look!"
He took off his monk's cap and revealed a patch of congealed blood in his hair.
"So I shook the dust of the place from my shoes and left."
"Come back to the monastery with us," said Zorba. "I'll get round the abbot. Come on, you can keep us company and show us the way. You've been sent by heaven itself."
The monk thought for a moment. His eyes shone.
"What will you give me?" he asked.
"What do you want?"
"Two pounds of salt cod and a bottle of brandy."
Zorba leaned forward and looked at him.
"You wouldn't by any chance have a sort of devil inside you, would you, Zaharia?"
The monk started.
"How did you guess?" he asked in amazement.
"I come from Mount Athos myself," answered Zorba. "I know something about it."
The monk hung his head. We could scarcely hear his reply.
"Yes, I have a devil inside me."
"And he'd like some salt cod and brandy, would he?"
"Yes, thrice damned as he is!"
"All right! Done! Does he smoke as well?"
Zorba threw him a cigarette and the monk seized it eagerly.
"He smokes, yes, he smokes, plague on him!" he said.
And he took a small flint and a piece of wick from his pocket, lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"In Christ's name!" he said.
He raised his iron rod, turned about face and started off.
"What's your devil's name?" asked Zorba, winking at me.
"Joseph!" answered Zaharia, without turning his head.
This half-crazed monk's company was not at all t
o my taste. A sick mind, like a sick body, makes me feel compassion, and at the same time disgust. But I said nothing; I left it to Zorba to do what he liked.
The clear pure air made us hungry and we sat down beneath a giant pine tree and opened the haversack. The monk leaned forward and hungrily peered into it to see what it contained.
"Not so fast!" cried Zorba. "Don't lick your chops too soon, Zaharia! It's Holy Monday today. We are freemasons, so we shall eat some meat and chicken, God forgive us! But look, there's some halva and a few olives for your own saintly stomach!"
The monk stroked his filthy beard.
"I will have olives and bread and fresh water," he said with contrition. "But Joseph's a devil, he will eat meat with you, brothers; he likes chicken—oh, he's a lost soul—and he'll drink wine from your gourd!"
He made the sign of the cross, swallowed the bread, olives and halva, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, drank the water, and then crossed himself again as if he had finished his meal.
"Now," he said, "it's Joseph's turn, the poor thrice-damned soul."
And he threw himself on the chicken.
"Eat, you lost soul!" he mumbled furiously as he rammed great lumps of chicken into his mouth. "Eat!"
"Hoorah! Good for you, monk!" shouted Zorba enthusiastically. "You've got two strings to your bow, I can see."
He turned to me.
"What do you think of him, boss?"
"He's very like you," I said with a laugh.
Zorba gave the monk the wine gourd.
"Joseph! Have a drink!"
"Drink! You lost soul!" said the monk, seizing the bottle and clapping it to his mouth.
The sun was very hot and we moved further into the shade. The monk reeked of sour sweat and incense. He almost ran liquid in the sun and Zorba dragged him to the shadiest spot to reduce the stench.
"How did you become a monk?" asked Zorba, who had eaten well and wanted to gossip.
The monk grinned.
"I suppose you think it was because I'm so saintly? You bet! It was through poverty, brother, poverty! I had nothing left to eat, so I said to myself: if I go into a monastery, I can't starve!"