I had no more need of this image of my torment; I had gone beyond it, I had completed my service with Buddha—I, too, raised my hand, and ordered the Buddha within me to dissolve.
In great haste, with the help of words and their great exorcising power, I devastated his body, mind and spirit. Pitilessly I scratched the final words onto the paper, uttered the ultimate cry and wrote my name with a big red pencil. It was finished.
I took a thick piece of string and tied up the manuscript. I felt a strange sort of pleasure, as though I were tying up the hands and feet of a redoubtable enemy, or as savages must feel as they bind the bodies of their loved ones when they die, so that they shall not climb out of their graves and turn into ghosts.
A little girl suddenly ran up to me, barefoot. She was wearing a yellow dress and clasping a red egg tightly in her hand. She stopped and looked at me, terror-stricken.
"Well," I asked her, smíling to encourage her, "díd you want something?"
She sniffed and answered in a small, breathless voice.
"The lady has sent me to ask you to come. She is in bed. Are you the one they call Zorba?"
"All right. I'll come."
I slipped another red egg ínto her other tiny hand and she ran off.
I rose and started along the road. The village noises grew louder: the sweet sounds of the lyre, shouts, gunshots, joyous songs. When I came to the square, youths and girls had gathered beneath the fresh foliage of the poplars and were about to begin dancing. Sitting on the benches round the trees, the old men were watching, with their chins resting on their sticks. The old women were standing. behind. The brilliant lyre player, Fanurio, an April rose stuck behind his ear, was lording it amidst the dancers. With his left hand he held the lyre upright on his knee and with the right he was trying his bow with its noisy bells.
"Christ is reborn!" I shouted as I passed.
"He is, indeed!" came the answer in a joyful murmur from them all.
I looked round quickly. Well-built youths, with slim waists, wearing puffed-out breeches and, on their heads, kerchiefs with fringes which fell over their foreheads and temples like curly locks. And young girls, with sequins round their necks, embroidered white fichus, and lowered eyes, were trembling with expectation.
"Wouldn't you care to stay with us, sir?" asked a few voices.
But I had already passed.
Madame Hortense was lying in her big bed, the only piece of furniture she had always managed to hold on to. Her cheeks were burning with fever, and she was coughing.
As soon as she saw me she sighed complainingly.
"And Zorba? Where is Zorba?"
"He's not very well. Since the day you fell ill, he's been sick, too. He keeps holding your photograph in his hand and sighing as he gazes at it."
"Tell me more, tell me more ..." murmured the poor old siren, closing her eyes in happiness.
"He's sent me to ask you if you want anything. He'll come himself this evening, he said, although he can't get about very well himself. He can't bear being away from you any longer…"
"Go on, please, go on…"
"He's had a telegram from Athens. The wedding clothes are ready, and the wreaths. They are on the boat and should be here soon ... with the white candles and their pink ribbons…"
"Go on, go on…"
Sleep had won, her breathing changed; she began to talk deliriously. The room smelled of eau-de-Cologne, ammonia and sweat. Through the open window came the pungent odor of the excrement from the hens and rabbits in the yard.
I rose and slipped out of the room. At the door I ran across Mimiko. He was wearing new breeches and boots, and he had pushed a sprig of sweet basil behind his ear.
"Mimiko," I said to him, "run to Kalo village, will you, and bring the doctor!"
Mimiko had his boots off before I had finished speaking—he did not mean to spoil them on the way. He tucked them under his arm.
"Find the doctor, give him my respects and tell him to mount his old mare and come over here without fail. Tell him the lady's dangerously ill. She's caught cold, poor thing, she's feverish and she's dying, say. Don't forget to tell him that. Now be off!"
"Right away!"
He spat into his hands, clapped them joyously against one another, but didn't move. He looked at me with a gay twinkle in his eye.
"Get going! Didn't I say?"
He still did not budge. He winked at me and smiled satanically.
"Sir," he said, "I've taken a bottle of orange water up to your place as a present."
He stopped for a second. He was waiting for me to ask him who had sent it, but I did not do so.
"Don't you want to know who sent it, sir?" he chuckled. "It's for you to put in your hair, she said, to make you smell good."
"Get along! Quick! And keep your mouth shut!"
He laughed, spitting on his hands once more.
"Right away!" he cried again. "Christ is reborn!"
And he dísappeared.
22
BENEATH THE POPLAR TREES the paschal dance was at its height. It was led by a tall, handsome, dark youth of about twenty, whose cheeks were covered with a thick down which had never known a razor. In the opening of his shirt his chest made a splash of dark color—it was covered with curly hair. His head was thrown back, his feet beating against the earth like wings; from time to time he cast a glance at some 'girl, and the whites of his eyes gleamed steadily, disturbingly from a visage blackened by the sun.
I was enchanted and at the same time frightened. I was returning from Dame Hortense's house; I had called a woman in to look after her. This relieved me, and I had come to watch the Cretans dance. So I went up to uncle Anagnosti and sat down on a bench next to him.
"Who is that young man leading the dance?" I asked.
Uncle Anagnosti laughed:
"He's like the archangel who bears your soul away, the rascal," he said with admiration. "It's Sifakas, the shepherd. All the year round he keeps his flock on the mountains, then comes down at Easter to see people and to dance."
He sighed.
"Ah, if only I had his youth!" he muttered. "If I had his youth, by God! I'd take Constantinople by storm!"
The young man shook his head and gave a cry, bleating inhumanly, like a rutting ram.
"Play, play, Fanurio!" he shouted. "Play until Charon himself is dead."
Every minute death was dying and being reborn, just like life. For thousands of years young girls and boys have danced beneath the tender foliage of the trees in spring—beneath the poplars, firs, oaks, planes and slender palms—and they will go on dancing for thousands more years, their faces consumed with desire. Faces change, crumble, return to earth; but others rise to take their place. There is only one dancer, but he has a thousand masks. He is always twenty. He is immortal.
The young man raised his hand to stroke his moustache, but he had none.
"Play!" he cried again. "Play, Fanurio, or I shall burst!"
The lyre player shook his hand, the lyre responded, the bells began to tinkle in rhythm and the young man took one leap, striking his feet together three times on the air, as high as a man stands, and with his boots caught the white kerchief from round the head of his neighbor, Manolakas, the constable.
"Bravo, Sifakas!" they cried, and the young girls trembled and lowered their eyes.
But the young man was silent and not looking at anyone at all. Wild and yet self-disciplined, he rested his left hand, palm outwards on his slim and powerful thighs, as he danced with his eyes fixed timidly on the ground. The dance ceased abruptly as the old verger, Androulio, came rushing into the square, his arms raised to heaven.
"The widow! The widow!" he shouted breathlessly.
Manolakas, the constable, was the first to run to him, breaking off the dance. From the square you could see the church, which was still adorned with myrtle and laurel branches. The dancers stopped, the blood coursing through their heads, and the old men rose from their seats. Fanurio put the lyre down
on his lap, took the April rose from behind his ear and smelled it.
"Where, Androulio?" they cried, boiling with rage. "Where is she?"
"In the church; the wretch has just gone in; she was carrying an armful of lemon blossom!"
"Come on! At her!" cried the constable, rushing ahead.
At that moment the widow appeared on the doorstep of the church, a black kerchief over her head. She crossed herself.
"Wretch! Slut! Murderess!" the voices cried. "And she's got the cheek to show herself here! After her! She's disgraced the village!"
Some followed the constable who was running towards the church, others, from above, threw stones at her. One stone hit her on the shoulder; she screamed, covered her face with her hands, and rushed forward. But the young men had already reached the church door and Manolakas had pulled out his knife.
The widow drew back uttering little cries of terror, bent herself double to protect her face and ran back stumbling to shelter in the church. But on the threshold was planted old Mavrandoni. With a hand on each side of the door he blocked the way.
The widow jumped to the left and clung to the big cypress tree in the courtyard. A stone whistled through the air, hit her head and tore off her kerchief. Her hair came undone and tumbled down over her shoulders.
"In Christ's name! In Christ's name!" the widow screamed, clinging tightly to the cypress tree.
Standing in a row on the squàre the young girls of the village were biting their white kerchiefs, eagerly watching the scene. The old women, leaning on the walls, were yelping: "Kill her! Kill her!"
Two young men threw themselves at her, caught her. Her black blouse was torn open and her breasts gleamed, white as marble. The blood was running from the top of her head down her forehead, cheeks and neck.
"In Christ's name! In Christ's name!" she panted.
The flowing blood and the gleaming breasts had excited the young men. Knives appeared from their belts.
"Stop!" shouted Mavrandoni. "She's mine!"
Mavrandoni, still standing on the threshold of the church, raised his hand. They all stopped.
"Manolakas," he said in a deep voice, "your cousin's blood is crying out to you. Give him peace."
I leaped from the wall on which I had climbed and ran towards the church; my foot hit a stone and I fell to the ground.
Just at that moment Sifakas was passing. He bent down, picked me up by the scruff of the neck like a cat and put me on my feet.
"This is no place for the likes of you!" he saíd. "Clear off!"
"Have you no feeling for her, Sifakas?" I asked. "Have pity on her!"
The savage mountaineer laughed in my face.
"D'you take me for a woman? Asking me to have pity! I'm a man!"
And in a second he was in the churchyard.
I followed him closely but was out of breath. They were all round the widow now. There was a heavy silence. You could hear only the victim's strangled breathing.
Manolakas crossed himself, stepped forward, raised the knife; the old women, up on the walls, yelped with joy. The young girls pulled down their kerchiefs and hid their faces.
The widow raised her eyes, saw the knife above her, and bellowed like a heifer. She collapsed at the foot of the cypress and her head sank between her shoulders. Her hair covered the ground, her throbbing neck glistened in the half-light.
"I call on God's justice!" cried old Mavrandoni, and he also crossed himself.
But just at that second a loud voice was heard behind us:
"Lower your knife, you murderer!"
Everyone turned round in stupefaction. Manolakas raised his head: Zorba was standing before him, swinging his arms with rage. He shouted:
"Aren't you ashamed? Fine lot of men you are! A whole village to kill a single woman! Take care or you'll disgrace the whole of Crete!"
"Mind your own business, Zorba! And keep your nose out of ours!" roared Mavrandoni.
Then he turned to his nephew.
"Manolakas," he said, "in the name of Christ and the Holy Virgin, strike!"
Manolakas leaped up. He seized the widow, threw her to the ground, placed his knee on her stomach and raised his knife. But in a flash Zorba had seized his arm and, with his big handkerchief wrapped round his hand, strained to pull the knife from the constable's hand.
The widow got onto her knees and looked about her for a way of escape, but the villagers had barred the way. They were in a circle round the churchyard and standing on the benches; when they saw her looking for an opening they stepped forward and closed the circle.
Meanwhile Zorba, agile, resolute and calm, was struggling silently. From my place near the church door, I watched anxiously. Manolakas's face had gone purple with fury. Sifakas and another giant of a man came up to help him. But Manolakas indignantly rolled his eyes:
"Keep away! Keep away! Nobody's to come near!" he shouted. He attacked Zorba again fiercely. He charged him with his head like a bull.
Zorba bit his lips without saying a word. He got a hold like a vise on the constable's right arm, and dodged to right and left to avoid the blows from the constable's head. Mad with rage, Manolakas lunged forward and seized Zorba's ear between his teeth, and tore at it with all his might. The blood spurted. "Zorba!" I cried, terrified, rushing forward to save him.
"Get away, boss!" he cried. "Keep out of it!"
He clenched his fist and hit Manolakas a terrible blow in the lower part of the abdomen. The wild beast let go immediately. His teeth parted and set free the half-torn ear. His purple face turned ghastly white. Zorba thrust him to the ground, snatched away his knife and threw it over the church wall.
He stemmed the flow of blood from his ear with his handkerchief. He then wiped his face, which was streaming with sweat and his face became all smeared with blood. He straightened up, glanced around him. His eyes were swollen and red. He shouted to the widow:
"Get up! Come with me!"
And he walked towards the churchyard door.
The widow stood up; she gathered all her strength together in order to rush forward. But she did not have the time. Like a falcon, old Mavrandoni threw himself on her, knocked her over, wound her long black hair three times round his arm and with a single blow of his knife cut off her head.
"I take the responsibility for this sin!" he cried, and threw the victim's head on the doorstep of the church. Then he crossed himself.
Zorba looked round and saw the terrible sight. He gripped his moustache and pulled out a number of hairs in horror. I went up to him and took his arm. He leaned forward and looked at me. Two big tears were hanging on his lashes.
"Let's get away, boss," he said in a choking voice.
That evening Zorba would have nothing to eat or drink. "My throat's too tight," he said; "nothing will go down." He washed his ear in cold water, dipped a piece of cotton wool in some raki and made a bandage. Seated on his mattress, his head between his hands, he remained pensive.
I too was leaning on my elbows as I lay on the floor along by the wall, and I felt warm tears run slowly down my cheeks. My brain was not working at all, I was thinking of nothing. I wept, like a child overcome by deep sorrow.
Suddenly Zorba raised his head and gave vent to his feelings. Pursuing his savage thoughts, he began to shout aloud:
"I tell you, boss, everything that happens in this world is unjust, unjust, unjust! I won't be a party to it! I, Zorba, the worm, the slug! Why must the young die and the old wrecks go on living? Why do little children die? I had a boy once—Dimitri he was called—and I lost him when he was three years old. Well ... I shall never, never forgive God for that, do you hear? I tell you, the day I die, if He has the cheek to appear in front of me, and if He is really and truly a God, He'll be ashamed! Yes, yes, He'll be ashamed to show himself to Zorba, the slug!"
He grimaced as though he was in paín. The blood started flowing again from his wound. He bit his lips so that he should not cry out.
"Wait, Zorba!" I said. "I'll ch
ange your dressing!" I washed his ear once again in raki, then I took the orange-water which the widow had sent me and which I had found on my bed, and I dipped the cotton wool in it.
"Orange water?" said Zorba, eagerly sniffing at it. "Orange water? Put some on my hair, like that, will you? That's it! And on my hands, pour it all out, go on!"
He had come back to life. I looked at him astounded.
"I feel as though I'm entering the widow's garden," he said.
And he began his lamentations again.
"How many years it's taken," he muttered, "how many long years for the earth to succeed in making a body like that! You looked at her and said: Ah! if only I were twenty and the whole race of men disappeared from the earth and only that woman remained, and I gave her children! No, not children, real gods they'd be… Whereas now ..."
He leaped to his feet. His eyes filled with tears.
"I can't stand it, boss," he said. "I've got to walk, I shall have to go up and down the mountainside two or three times tonight to tire myself, calm myself a bit… Ah! that widow! I feel I must chant a mirologue[29] for you'."
He rushed out, went towards the mountain and disappeared into the darkness.
I lay down on my bed, turned out the lamp and once more began, in my wretched, inhuman way, to transpose reality, removing blood, flesh and bones and reduce it to the abstract, link it with universal laws, until I came to the awful conclusion that what had happened was necessary. And, what is more, that it contributed to the universal harmony. I arrived at this final and abominable consolation: it was right that all that had happened should have happened.
The widow's murder entered my brain—the hive in which for years all poisons had been changed into honey—and threw it into confusion. But my philosophy immediately seized upon the dreadful warning, surrounded it with images and artifice and quickly made it harmless. In the same way, bees encase the starving drone in wax when it comes to steal their honey.
A few hours later the widow was at rest in my memory, calm and serene, changed into a symbol. She was encased in wax in my heart; she could no longer spread panic inside me and paralyze my brain. The terrible events of that one day broadened, extended into time and space, and became one with great past civilizations; the civilizatíons became one with the earth's destiny; the earth with the destiny of the universe—and thus, returning to the widow, I found her subject to the great laws of existence, reconciled with her murderers, immobile and serene.