Zorba the Greek

  For me time had found its real meaning: the widow had died thousands of years before, in the epoch of the Aegean civilization, and the young girls of Cnossos with their curly hair had died that very morning on the shores of this pleasant sea.

  Sleep took possession of me, just as one day—nothíng is more certain—death will do, and I slipped gently into darkness. I did not hear when Zorba returned, or even if he returned. The next morning I found him on the mountainside shouting and cursing at the workers.

  Nothíng they did was to his liking. He dismissed three workers who were obstinate, took the pick himself and began clearíng through the rocks and brush the path which he had marked out for the posts. He climbed the mountain, met some woodcutters who were cutting down the pines and began to thunder abuse. One of them laughed and muttered; Zorba hurled himself at hím.

  That evening he came down to the hut worn out and in rags. He sat beside me on the beach. He could hardly open his mouth; when he did speak at last, it was about timber, cables and lignite; he was like a grasping contractor, in a hurry to devastate the place, make as much profit out of it as he could and leave.

  In the stage of self-consolation which I had reached, I was once on the point of speaking about the widow; Zorba stretched out his long arm and put his big hand over my mouth.

  "Shut up!" he said in a muffled voice.

  I stopped, ashamed. That is what a real man is like, I thought, envying Zorba's sorrow. A man with warm blood and solid bones, who lets real tears run down his cheeks when he is suffering; and when he is happy he does not spoil the freshness of his joy by running it through the fine sieve of metaphysics.

  Three or four days went by in this way. Zorba worked steadily, not stopping to eat, or drink, or rest. He was laying the foundations.

  One evening I mentioned that Dame Bouboulina was still in bed, that the doctor had not come and that she was continually calling for him in her delirium.

  He clenched his fists.

  "All right," he answered.

  The next morning at dawn he went to the village and almost immediately afterwards returned to the hut.

  "Did you see her?" I asked. "How is she?"

  "Nothing wrong with her," he answered, "she's going to die."

  And he strode off to his work.

  That evening, without eating, he took his thick stick and went out.

  "Where are you going?" I asked. "To the village?"

  "No. I'm going for a walk. I'll soon be back."

  He strode towards the village with fast determined steps.

  I was tired and went to bed. My mind again set itself to passing the whole world in review; memories came, and sorrows; my thoughts flitted around the most remote ideas but came back and settled on Zorba.

  If he ever runs across Manolakas while he's out, I thought, that Cretan giant will hurl himself on him in a savage fury. They say that for these last few days he has been staying indoors. He is ashamed to show himself in the village and keeps saying that if he catches Zorba he will "tear him to bits with his teeth, like a sardine." One of the workmen said he had seen him in the middle of the night prowling about the hut fully armed. If they meet tonight there will be murder.

  I leaped up, dressed and hurried down the road to the village. The calm, humid night air smelled of wild violets. After a time I saw Zorba walking slowly, as if very tired, towards the village. From time to time he stopped, stared at the stars, listened; then he started off again, a little faster, and I could hear his stick on the stones.

  He was approaching the widow's garden. The air was full of the scent of lemon blossom and honeysuckle. At that moment, from the orange trees in the garden, the nightingale began to pour out its heart-rending song in notes as clear as spring water. It sang and sang in the darkness with breath-taking beauty. Zorba stopped, gasping at the sweetness of the song.

  Suddenly the reeds of the hedge moved; their sharp leaves clashed like blades of steel.

  "You, there!" shouted a loud and furious voice. "You doting old fool! So I've found you at last!"

  My blood ran cold. I recognized the voice.

  Zorba stepped forward, raised his stick and stopped. I could see every one of his movements by the light of the stars.

  A huge man leaped out from the reed hedge.

  "Who is it?" cried Zorba, craning his neck.

  "Me, Manolakas."

  "Go your way! Beat it!"

  "Why did you disgrace me?"

  "I didn't disgrace you, Manolakas! Beat it, I say. You're a big, strong fellow, yes, but luck was against you ... and luck is blind, didn't you know that?"

  "Luck or no luck, blind or not," said Manolakas, and I heard his teeth grinding, "I'm going to wipe out the disgrace. And tonight, too. Got a knife?"

  "No," answered Zorba. "Just a stick."

  "Go and fetch your knife. I'll wait here. Go on!"

  Zorba did not move.

  "Afraid?" hissed Manolakas, in a sneer. "Go on, I tell you!"

  "And what would I do with a knife?" asked Zorba, who was beginning to get excited. "What would I do with it? What happened at the church? I seem to remember you had a knife then, and I didn't ... but I came out on top, didn't I?"

  Manolakas roared in fury.

  "Trying to get a rise out of me as well, eh? You've picked the wrong moment to sneer; don't forget I'm armed and you're not! Fetch your knife, you lousy Macedonian, then we'll see who's best."

  Zorba raised his arm, threw away his stick; I heard it fall among the reeds.

  "Throw your knife away!" he cried.

  I had gone up to them on tiptoe, and in the light of the stars I could just see the glitter of the knife as it too fell among the reeds.

  Zorba spat upon his hands.

  "Come on!" he shouted, making a preliminary leap into the air.

  But before they had time to come to grips I ran in between them.

  "Stop!" I cried. "Here, Manolakas! And you, Zorba! Come here! Shame on you!"

  The two adversaries came slowly towards me. I took each by the right hand.

  "Shake hands!" I said. "You are both good, stout fellows, you must patch up this quarrel."

  "He's dishonored me!" said Manolakas, trying to withdraw his hand.

  "No one can dishonor you as easily as that," I said. "The whole village knows you're a brave man. Forget what happened at the church the other day. It was an unlucky hour! What's happened is over and done with! And don't forget, Zorba is a foreigner, a Macedonian, and it's the greatest disgrace we Cretans can bring on ourselves to raise a hand against a guest in our country… Come now, give him your hand, that's real gallantry—and come to the hut, Manolakas. We'll drink together and roast a yard of sausage to seal our friendship!"

  I took Manolakas by the waist and led him a little apart.

  "The poor fellow's old, remember," I whispered. "A strong, young fellow like you shouldn't attack a man of his age."

  Manolakas softened a little.

  "All right," he said. "Just to please you."

  He stepped towards Zorba and held out his huge hand.

  "Come, friend Zorba," he said. "It's all over and forgotten; give me your hand."

  "You chewed my ear," said Zorba, "much good may it do you! Here's my hand!"

  They shook hands forcefully, more and more vigorously, looking each other in the eyes. I was afraid they were going to start fighting again.

  "You've got a strong grip, Manolakas," said Zorba. "You're a stout fellow and pretty tough!"

  "You've a strong hand, too; see if you can grip me tighter still."

  "That's enough!" I cried. "Let's go and seal our friendship with a drink!"

  On the way back to the beach I walked in between them, Zorba on my right and Manolakas on my left.

  "There'll be a very good harvest this year ..." I said, to change the subject. "There's been a lot of rain."

  Neither of them answered. They were still tight about the chest. My hope lay in the wine. We reached the hut.

/>   "Welcome to our humble home," I said. "Zorba, roast the sausage and find something to drink."

  Manolakas sat down on a stone in front of the hut. Zorba took a handful of twigs, roasted the sausage and filled three glasses.

  "Good health!" I said, raising my glass. "Good health, Manolakas! Good health, Zorba! Clink glasses!"

  They clinked glasses, and Manolakas spilled a few drops on the ground.

  "May my blood run like this wine," he said in a solemn voice, "if ever I raise my hand against you, Zorba."

  "May my blood, too, run like this wine," said Zorba, following suit and pouring a few spots on the ground, "if I haven't already forgotten the way you chewed my ear!"

  23

  AS DAWN BROKE Zorba sat up in bed and spoke to me, waking me.

  "Are you asleep, boss?"

  "What is it, Zorba?"

  "I've been dreaming. A funny dream. I think we shan't be long before we go on some journey or other. Listen, this'll make you laugh. There was a ship as big as a town here in the harbor. Its siren was going, it was preparing to leave. Then I came running up from the village to catch it, and I was carrying a parrot in my hands. I reached the ship and went aboard. The captain came running up. 'Ticket!' he shouted. 'How much is it?' I asked, pulling a roll of notes out of my pocket. 'A thousand drachmas.' 'Look here, take it easy, won't eight hundred do?' I said. 'No, a thousand.' 'We only got eight hundred; you can take them!' 'A thousand,' he said, 'nothing less! If you haven't got them, get off the boat quick!' I was annoyed. 'Listen, captain,' I said, 'for your own sake take the eight hundred I'm offering you, because if you don't I'll wake up and then, my friend, you'll lose the lot!'"

  Zorba burst out laughing.

  "What a strange machine man is!" he said, with astonishment. "You fill him with bread, wine, fish, radishes, and out of him come sighs, laughter and dreams. Like a factory. I'm sure there's a sort of talking-film cinema in our heads."

  He suddenly leaped out of bed.

  "But why the parrot?" he cried anxiously. "What does that mean, taking a parrot off with me? Ha! I'm afraid…"

  He had no time to finish his sentence. In rushed a stumpy, red-haired messenger, looking like the devil in person. He was gasping for breath.

  "For God's sake! the poor woman's screaming her head off for the doctor! She says she's dying, for sure ... and you'll have it on your conscience, she says!"

  I felt ashamed. In the distress the widow had caused us, we had completely forgotten our old friend.

  "She's going through it, poor woman," the red haired man went on talkatively. "She coughs so, her whole hotel's shaking with it. Yes, it's a proper ass's cough! Whoof! Whoof! It shakes the whole village!"

  "Be quiet!" I said. "Don't joke about it!"

  I took a piece of paper and wrote a message.

  "Go and take this letter to the doctor and don't come away till you've seen him, with your own eyes, ride off on his mare! Do you understand? Now, go!"

  He seized the letter, stuck it in his belt and ran off.

  Zorba was up already. He dressed hurriedly without a word.

  "Wait a moment, I'll come with you," I said.

  "I'm in a hurry," he replied, and started out.

  A little later I also set out for the village. The widow's deserted garden perfumed the air. Mimiko was sitting huddled up before the house and glowering like a beaten dog. He looked very thin; his eyes were red and sunken in their sockets. He turned round, saw me and picked up a stone.

  "What are you doing here, Mimiko?" I asked, glancing regretfully at the garden. I could feel two warm, all-powerful arms twined round my neck ... a scent of lemon blossom and laurel oil. We said nothing. I could see in the dusk her burning, black eyes and her gleaming, pointed, white teeth which she had rubbed with walnut leaf.

  "Why d'you ask me that?" he growled. "Go away. Go about your business."

  "Like a cigarette?"

  "I'm not smoking any more. You're all a lot of swine! All of you! All of you!"

  He stopped, panting, seeming to search for a word he could not find.

  "Swine ... scoundrels ... liars ... murderers ..."

  He seemed at last to have found the word he wanted and be relieved. He clapped his hands.

  "Murderers! murderers! murderers!" he shouted in a shrill voice. He started laughing. It wrung my heart to see him.

  "You're quite right, Mimiko," I said. "You're right." And I hurried away.

  As I entered the village I saw old Anagnosti, leaning on his stick, smiling as he watched two yellow butterflies chasing each other over the spring grass. Now that he was old and no longer worried about his fields and his wife and children, he had time to look disinterestedly on the world around him. He noticed my shadow on the ground and looked up.

  "What lucky chance brings you here so early in the morning?" he asked.

  But he must have read my anxious face, and went on without waiting for an answer.

  "Do something quickly, my son," he said. "I'm not sure whether you'll find her alive or not… Ah, the poor wretch!"

  The large bed which had seen so much use, her most faithful companion, had been put in the middle of her little room and nearly filled it. Above her head there bent over the singer her devoted privy councillor, the parrot—with his green crown, yellow bonnet and round, evil eye. He was gazing down at his mistress as she lay groaning. And he leaned his almost human head to one side to listen.

  No, these were not the choking sighs of joy he knew so well, that she would utter in the act of love-making, nor the tender cooing of the dove, nor the little shrieks of laughter. The beads of ice-cold sweat running down his mistress's face, her hair like tow—unwashed, uncombed—sticking to her temples, the convulsive movements in the bed, these the parrot saw for the first time, and he was uneasy. He wanted to shout: "Canavaro! Canavaro!" but his voice stuck in his throat.

  His poor mistress was groaning; she képt lifting up the sheets with her wilting, flabby arms; she was suffocating. She had no make-up on her face and her cheeks were swollen; she smelled of stale sweat and of flesh which is beginning to decompose. Her down-at-heel, out-of-shape court shoes were poking out from under the bed. It wrung your heart to see them. Those shoes were more moving than the sight of their owner herself.

  Zorba sat at her bedside, looking at the shoes. He could not take his eyes off them. He was biting his lips to keep back the tears. I went in and sat behind Zorba, but he did not hear me.

  The poor woman was finding it difficult to breathe; she was choking. Zorba took down a hat decorated with artificial roses and fanned her with it. He waved his big hand up and down very quickly and clumsily as though he were trying to light some damp coal.

  She opened her eyes in terror and looked around her. It was dark and she could see no one, not even Zorba fanning her with the flowered hat.

  Everything was dark and disturbing about her; blue vapors were rising from the ground and changing shape. They formed sneering mouths, claw-like feet, black wings.

  She dug her nails into her pillow, which was stained with tears, saliva and sweat, and she cried out.

  "I don't want to die! I don't want to!"

  But the two mourners from the village had heard of the condition she was in and had just arrived. They slipped into the room, sat on the floor and leaned against the wall.

  The parrot saw them, with his round staring eyes, and was angry. He stretched out his head and cried: "Canav..." but Zorba savagely shot his hand out at the cage and silenced the bird.

  Again the cry of despair rang out.

  "I don't want to die! I don't want to!"

  Two beardless youths, tanned by the sun, poked their heads round the door, looked carefully at the sick woman. Satisfied, they winked at each other and disappeared.

  Soon afterwards we heard a terrified clucking and beating of wings coming from the yard; someone was chasing the hens.

  The first dirge singer, old Malamatenia, turned to her companion.

&n
bsp; "Did you see them, auntie Lenio, did you see them? They're in a hurry, the hungry wretches; they're going to wring the hens' necks and eat them. Àll the good-for-nothings of the village have collected in the yard; it'll not be long before they plunder the place!"

  Then, turning to the dying woman's bed:

  "Hurry up and die, my friend," she muttered impatiently; "give up the ghost as quick as you can so that we get a chance as well as the others."

  "To tell you God's own truth," said aunt Lenio, creasing her little toothless mouth, "mother Malamatenia, they're doing right, those boys. 'If you want to eat something, pilfer; if you want to own something, steal…' That's what my old mother used to say to me. We've only got to rattle off our mirologues as fast as we can, lay our hands on a couple of handfuls of rice, some sugar, and a saucepan, and then we can bless her memory. She had neither parents nor children, did she, so who's going to eat her hens and her rabbits? Who'll drink her wine? Who'll inherit all those cottons and combs and sweets and things? Ha, what d'you expect, mother Malamatenia? God forgive me, but that's the way the world is ... and I'd like to pick up a few things myself!"

  "Wait a bit, dear, don't be in too much of a hurry," said mother Malamatenia, seizing her arm. "I had the same idea myself, I don't mind admitting, but just wait till she's given up the ghost."

  Meanwhile the dying woman was fumbling frantically beneath her pillow. As soon as she thought she was in danger she had taken out of her trunk a crucifix in gleaming white bone and thrust it under her pillow. For years she had entirely forgotten it and it had lain among her tattered chemises and bits of velvet and rags at the bottom of the trunk. As if Christ were a medicine to be taken only when gravely ill, and of no use so long as you can have a good time, eat, drink and make love.