Zorba the Greek

  "And are you satisfied?"

  "God be praised! I sigh and complain often enough but don't you pay any attention to that. I don't sigh for earthly things; as far as I'm concerned they can go and be ... forgive me ... and I tell them every day to go and be… But I long for heaven! I tell jokes and cut capers about the place and make the monks laugh. They all say I'm possessed by the devil and insult me. But I say to myself: 'It can't be true; God must like fun and laughter. "Come inside, my little buffoon, come inside," he'll say to me one day, I know. "Come and make me laugh!"' That's the way I'll get into Paradise, as a buffoon!"

  "You've got your head screwed on the right way, old fellow!" said Zorba, standing up. "Come on, we must make a move, so that we don't get caught by the dark."

  The monk went ahead again. As we climbed the mountain I felt we were clambering over ranges of the mind within me, passing from base and petty cares to nobler ones, from the comfortable truths of the plains to precipitous conceptions.

  Suddenly the monk stopped.

  "Our Lady of Revenge!" he cried, pointing to a small chapel with a graceful dome. He sank to his knees and made the sign of the cross. I dismounted and entered the cool oratory. In one corner was an old icon, black with smoke and covered with votive offerings: thin sheets of silver on which had been crudely engraved figures of feet, hands, eyes, hearts… A silver candlestick stood before the icon holding an ever-burning light.

  I approached in silence: a fierce, warlike madonna with a strong neck and the austere, uneasy look of a virgin, held in her hand, not the holy babe, but a long straight spear.

  "Woe to him who attacks the monastery!" said the monk in terror. "She hurls herself at him and sticks him through with her spear. In ancient times the Algerians came here and burnt the monastery. But see what it cost these heathens: as they passed this chapel the Holy Virgin, all of a sudden, threw herself from the icon, rushed outside and started thrusting with her spear, thís way and that, in all directions… And she killed them all to a man. My grandfather remembered seeing their bones; they littered the whole of the forest. Since then, we call her Our Lady of Revenge. Before that she was called Our Lady of Mercy."

  "Why didn't she perform her miracle before they burnt the monastery, Father Zaharia?" asked Zorba.

  "That was the will of the All-High!" answered the monk, crossing himself three times.

  "Good for the All-High!" muttered Zorba, climbing back into the saddle. "On we gö!"

  Soon a plateau appeared on which we could see the outline of the Holy Virgin's monastery surrounded by rocks and pine trees. Serene, smiling, cut off from the rest of the world in the hollow of this high green gorge, uniting in deep harmony the nobility of the peak and the gentleness of the plain, this monastery appeared to me a marvellously chosen retreat for human meditation.

  "Here," I thought, "a gentle, sober spirit could cultivate a religious exaltation that would match the stature of men. Neither a precipitous, superhuman peak, nor a lazy, voluptuous plain, but what is needed, and no more, for the soul to be elevated without losing its human tenderness. A site like this will fashion neither heroes nor swine. It will fashion men."

  Here a graceful ancient Greek temple or a gay Mohammedan mosque would be in keeping. God must come down here in simple human form, walk barefoot across the spring grass, and converse quietly with men.

  "What a marvel! What solitude! What felicity!" I murmured.

  We dismounted, went through the central door, climbed to the visiting room, where we were offered the traditional tray of raki, jam and coffee. The guest master, or hospitaller, came to see us, and in a moment we were surrounded by monks who began to talk. Cunning eyes, insatiable lips, beards, moustaches, and the odor of so many he-goats.

  "Haven't you brought a newspaper?" one monk asked anxiously.

  "A newspaper?" I said in astonishment. "What would you do with a newspaper here?"

  "A newspaper, brother, would tell us what is happening in the world below!" cried two or three indignant voices.

  Leaning on the rails of the balcony, they croaked like a lot of ravens. They were talking excitedly of England, Russia, Venizelos, the king. The world had banished them, but they had not banished the world. Their eyes were full of the great cities, shops, women, newspapers…

  A big, fat hairy monk stood up and sniffed.

  "I have something to show you," he said to me. "You can tell me what you think of it. I'll go and fetch it."

  He went off, his short hairy hands clasped together over his stomach, his cloth slippers dragging along the floor. He disappeared through the door.

  The monks all grinned nastily.

  "Father Demetrios is going to fetch his clay nun again," said the hospitaller. "The devil buried it in the ground especially for him and one day Demetrios found it when he was digging in the garden. He took it to his cell and has lost his sleep ever since. He's nearly lost his senses, too."

  Zorba stood up. He was suffocating.

  "We came to see the Abbot and to sign some papers," he said.

  "The holy abbot isn't here," said the hospitaller. "He went to the village this morning. Have patience."

  Father Demetrios reappeared, his two clasped hands outstretched as though he were carrying the holy chalice.

  "There!" he said, opening his hands cautiously.

  I went up to him. A tiny Tanagra figurine, half-naked and coy, smiled up at me from the monk's fat fingers. She was holding her head with the one hand that still remained to her.

  "For her to show her head like that," said Demetrios, "means that she has a precious stone inside it, maybe a diamond or a pearl. What do you think?"

  "I think," came one monk's acid comment, "that she's got a headache."

  But big Demetrios, his lips hanging down like a goat's, watched me and waited impatiently.

  "I think I ought to break her and see," he said. "I can't get any sleep at night for it… If there were a diamond inside…"

  I looked at the graceful young girl wíth her tiny, firm breasts, exiled here in the smell of incense and among crucified gods that lay their curse on the flesh, on laughter and kisses.

  Ah! if only I could save her!

  Zorba took the terra-cotta figurine, felt the thin womanly body, and his fingers stayed, trembling on the firm, pointed breasts.

  "But can't you see, my good monk," he said, "that this is the devil? It's the devil himself, and no mistake. Don't you worry, I know him well enough, accursed as he is. Look at her breasts here, Father Demetrios—cool, round and firm. That's just what the devil's breast is like, and I know plenty about that!"

  A young monk appeared in the doorway. The sun shone on his golden hair and round, downy face.

  The venomous-tongued monk who had spoken before winked to the hospitaller. They both smiled cunningly.

  "Father Demetrios," they said. "Here is your novice, Gavrili."

  The monk seized his tiny clay woman immediately and went rolling like a barrel towards the door. The handsome novice walked silently in front of him with a swinging step. They disappeared down the long, dilapidated corridor.

  I signed to Zorba and we went out into the courtyard. It was agreeably hot outside. In the middle of the courtyard an orange tree ín blossom scented the air. Close by, water ran murmuring from an ancíent ram's head in marble. I put my head underneath and felt refreshed.

  "What in God's name are these people?" Zorba asked with some dísgust. "They're neither men nor women; they're mules. Pooh! let them go hang!"

  He too plunged his head beneath the fresh water and began to laugh.

  "Pooh! let them go hang!" he said again. "They've all got a devil of some sort in them. One wants a woman, another salt cod, another money, another newspapers ... bunch of noodles! Why don't they come down into the world, stuff themselves full of all that and purge their brains?"

  He lit a cigarette and sat on the bench beneath the blossoming orange tree.

  "When I have a longing for something myself,
" he said, "do you know what I do? I cram myself chockful of it, and so I get rid of it and don't think about it any longer. Or, if I do, it makes me retch. Once when I was a kid—this'll show you—I was mad on cherries. I had no money, so I couldn't buy many at a time, and when I'd eaten all I could buy I still wanted more. Day and night I thought of nothing but cherries. I foamed at the mouth; it was torture! But one day I got mad, or ashamed, I don't know which. Anyway, I just felt cherries were doing what they liked with me and it was ludicrous. So what did I do? I got up one night, searched my father's pockets and found a silver mejidie and pinched it. I was up early the next morning, went to a market gardener and bought a basket o' cherries. I settled down in a ditch and began eating. I stuffed and stuffed till I was all swollen out. My stomach began to ache and I was sick. Yes, boss, I was thoroughly sick, and from that day to this I've never wanted a cherry. I couldn't bear the sight of them. I was saved. I could say to any cherry: I don't need you any more. And I did the same thing later with wine and tobacco. I still drink and smoke, but at any second, if I want to, whoop! I can cut it out. I'm not ruled by passion. It's the same with my country. I thought too much about it, so I stuffed myself up to the neck with it, spewed it up, and it's never troubled me since."

  "What about women?" I asked.

  "Their turn will come, damn them! It'll come! When I'm about seventy!"

  He thought for a moment, and it seemed too imminent.

  "Eighty," he said, correcting himself. "That makes you laugh, boss, I can see, but you needn't. That's how men free themselves! Listen to me; there's no other way except by stuffing themselves till they burst. Not by turning ascetic. How do you expect to get the better of a devil, boss, if you don't turn into a devil-and-a-half yourself?"

  Demetrios came panting into the courtyard, followed by the fair young monk.

  "Anybody'd think he was an angel in a temper," muttered Zorba, admiring his shyness and youthful grace.

  They went towards the stone staircase leading to the upper cells. Demetrios turned round, looked at the young monk, and said a few words. The monk shook his head as in refusal. But immediately afterwards he nodded in submission, put his arm round the old monk and they mounted the steps together.

  "Get it?" asked Zorba. "D'you see? Sodom and Gomorrah!"

  Two monks peeped out, winked at one another and began to laugh.

  "Spiteful bunch!" grunted Zorba. "Wolves don't tear one another to pieces, but look at these monks! Have you ever seen women go for one another like this?"

  "They're all men," I said, laughing.

  "There's not much difference here, boss, you take it from me! Mules, all of them. You can call them Gavrilis, or Gavrila, Demetrios, or Demetria, according to how you feel. Come on, boss, let's be off. Get the papers signed as quick as we can and let's go. We'll soon get disgusted with men and women altogether if we stay here."

  He lowered his voice.

  "Besides, I've got a scheme…"

  "Another mad idea, I know. Don't you think you've done enough foolish things in your time, you old goat? Tell me what your scheme is."

  Zorba shrugged his shoulders.

  "How can I tell you a thing like that, boss? You're a nice chap, if you'll allow me to say so! You do your utmost for everybody, whoever they are. If you found a flea on your eiderdown in the winter you'd put it underneath so that it wouldn't catch cold. How should you understand an old scoundrel like me? If I find a flea, crack! I crush him. If I find a sheep, swish! I cut its throat, slap it onto the spit and invite my friends to a feast! But you'd say: the sheep isn't yours! No, I admit that. But, boss, let's finish eating it first, afterwards we'll talk it over quietly and discuss what's 'yours' and 'mine' as much as you like. You could talk to your heart's content about it, while I cleaned my teeth with a matchstick."

  The courtyard resounded with his peals of laughter. Zaharia appeared, terrified. He placed a finger on his lips and crept up to us on tiptoe.

  "Sh!" he said. "You mustn't laugh! Look up there, that little window ... that's where the bishop is working; it's the líbrary. He's writing, the holy man is. He writes all day long, so don't make a noise."

  "Ha, you're just the person I wanted to see, Father Joseph!" said Zorba, taking the monk's arm. "Come, take me to your cell, I want a chat with you." Then he turned to me:

  "While we're away, you go and have a look round the chapel and all the old icons," he said. "I'll wait for the abbot, he won't be long. But don't start anything yourself, you'll only make a mess of it. Leave it to me, I've got a scheme." He bent down and spoke in my ear.

  "We'll have that forest at half price… Don't say a word." And he went off quickly, holding the mad monk's arm.

  18

  I CROSSED the threshold of the chapel and plunged into the shadowy interior, which was cool and fragrant.

  The building was deserted. The bronze chandeliers shed a faint light. A finely worked iconostasis filled the far end of the chapel. It represented a golden vine arbor laden with grapes. The walls were covered from top to bottom with half-obliterated frescoes: terrifying pictures of skeleton-like ascetics, the Fathers of the Church, Christ's prolonged Passion, huge fierce-looking angels with their hair tied in broad blue and pink ribbons which had faded with the damp.

  High up in the vault was the Virgin, with arms imploringly outstretched. A heavy silver lamp stood before her and the soft light flickered round her, caressing her long, contorted face. I shall never forget her dolorous eyes, her puckered, rounded mouth and strong wilful chin. Here, I thought, is the completely happy and satisfied Mother, even in the most agonizing pain, because she feels that from her mortal loins has issued something that will not die.

  When I recrossed the threshold the sun was sinking. I sat down under the orange tree in a state of happiness. The dome of the chapel was turning pink as though it were dawn. The monks had gone to their cells and were resting. They would not sleep at all; they had to muster all their strength. Christ would begin to climb Golgotha that night, and they had to go with him. Two black sows with pink teats were lying fast asleep beneath a carob tree. Pigeons were strutting on the roofs and cooing.

  How long, I thought, shall I live to enjoy the sweetness of the earth, the air, the silence and the scent of the orange tree in blossom? An icon of Saint Bacchus, which I had looked at in the chapel, had made my heart overflow with happiness. The things that move me most deeply—unity, firmness of purpose and constancy of desire—were once again revealed to me. Blessed be that charming little icon of a Christian youth with curly hair falling over his forehead like bunches of grapes. Díonysus, the handsome god of wine and ecstasy, and Saint Bacchus fused in my mind and took on the same appearance. Under the vine leaves and the monk's habit there quivered with life the same body, burnt by the sun—Greece.

  Zorba returned and hurriedly gave the news:

  "The abbot did come. We had a little talk; he needs a lot of coaxing; he says he's not going to give the forest away for a song; he's asking a lot more than we said, the old rogue, but I haven't finished with him yet."

  "Why does he need coaxing? I thought we were agreed?"

  "Don't you meddle in this, for heaven's sake, boss," Zorba pleaded. "You'd only spoil things. There you are, after all this, talking about the old agreement; that's buried long ago. Don't frown; it's buried, I tell you. We'll have that forest at half price!"

  "What mischief are you up to now, Zorba?"

  "Never you mind. That's my business. I'm going to oil the works and make them turn, do you get it?"

  "But why? I don't get it at all."

  "Because I spent more than I should have done at Candia, that's why! Because Lola swallowed quíte a heap of my—that is to say, your money. You don't think I've forgotten, do you? There is such a thing as self-respect. No blots on my copybook! I've spent so much, so I pay so much. I've reckoned it up; Lola cost me seven thousand drachmas. I'll knock them off the price of the forest. It's the abbot, the monastery and the Holy Virgin
who'll pay for Lola. That's my scheme. How d'you like it?"

  "Not at all. Why should the Holy Virgin be responsible for your excesses?"

  "She is responsible and more than responsible! Look, she had her son: God. God made me, Zorba, and he gave me some instruments—you know what I mean. And these damned instruments, no matter where I meet the female of the species, make me lose my head and open my purse. See? Therefore, Her Holiness is responsiible and more than responsible. Let her pay."

  "I don't like it, Zorba."

  "That's another question altogether. Let's save the seven little banknotes first; we'll discuss it later! 'Make love to me first, darling, I'll be your aunt again afterwards…' You know how the song goes…"

  The fat hospitaller appeared: "Come inside," he said, in a suave ecclesiastical tone; "dinner is served."

  We went down to the refectory, a large hall with benches and long narrow tables. The smell of sour, rancid oil filled the air. At the far end was an old fresco of the Last Supper. The eleven faithful disciples crowded around Christ like a flock of sheep, and on the other side, standing quite alone, was the redhaired Judas, the black sheep. He had a bulging forehead and aquiline nose. And Christ could not take his eyes off him.

  The hospitaller sat down, placing me on his right and Zorba on his left.

  "We are fasting," he said, "so I hope you will excuse us—no oil or wine, even for visitors. But you are welcome!"

  We made the sign of the cross; then we served ourselves in silence to olives, spring onions, fresh beans and halva. We all three munched slowly, like rabbits.

  "Such is life here below," said the hospitaller. "A crucifixion and a fast. But patience, brothers, patience, the Resurrection and the Lamb are coming, and the Kingdom of Heaven."

  I coughed. Zorba trod on my foot as though to say: "Shut up!"

  "I've seen Father Zaharia ..." said Zorba, to change the subject.

  The hospitaller started:

  "What did that madman say to you?" he asked anxiously. "He has all seven demons in him, don't listen to a word he says. His soul is impure and he sees impurity all around him."