Zorba the Greek
Zorba turned this over and over in his head.
"Why, I think you're right, boss! I think I must have five or six demons inside me!"
"We've all got some, Zorba, don't you worry. And the more we have, the better. The main thing is that they should all aim at the same end, even if they do go different ways about it."
These words seemed to move Zorba deeply. He lodged his big head between his knees and thought.
"What end?" he asked at last, raising his eyes to me.
"How should I know, Zorba? You ask difficult questions. How can I explain that?"
"Just say it simply, so that I understand. Up till now I've always let my demons do just what they liked, and go any way they liked about it—and that's why some people call me dishonest and others honest, and some think I'm crazy and others say I'm as wise as Solomon. I'm all those things and a lot more—a real Russian salad. So help me to get it clearer, will you, boss ... what end?"
"I think, Zorba—but I may be wrong—that there are three kinds of men: those who make it their aim, as they say, to live their lives, eat, drink, make love, grow rich, and famous; then come those who make it their aim not to live their own lives but to concern themselves with the lives of all men—they feel that all men are one and they try to enlighten them, to love them as much as they can and do good to them; finally there are those who aim at living the life of the entire universe—everything, men, animals, trees, stars, we are all one, we are all one substance involved in the same terrible struggle. What struggle?... Turning matter into spirit."
Zorba scratched his head.
"I've got a thick skull, boss, I don't grasp these things easily… Ah, if only you could dance all that you've just said, then I'd understand."
I bit my lip in consternation. All those desperate thoughts, if only I could have danced them! But I was incapable of it; my life was wasted.
"Or if you could tell me all that in a story, boss. Like Hussein Aga did. He was an old Turk, a neighbor of ours. Very old, very poor, no wife, no children, completely alone. His clothes were worn, but shining with cleanliness. He washed them himself, did his own cooking, scrubbed and polished the floor, and at night used to come in to see us. He used to sit in the yard with my grandmother and a few other old women and knit socks.
"Well, as I was saying, this Hussein Aga was a saintly man. One day he took me on his knee and placed his hand on my head as though he were giving me his blessing. 'Alexis,' he said, 'I'm going to tell you a secret. You're too small to understand now, but you'll understand when you are bigger. Listen, little one: neither the seven stories of heaven nor the seven stories of the earth are enough to contain God; but a man's heart can contain him. So be very careful, Alexis—and may my blessing go with you—never to wound a man's heart!'"
I listened to Zorba in silence. If only I could never open my mouth, I thought, until the abstract idea had reached its highest point—and had become a story! But only the great poets reach a point like that, or a people, after centuries of silent effort.
Zorba stood up.
"I'm going to see what our firebrand's up to, and spread a blanket over him so that he doesn't catch cold. I'll take some scissors, too; it won't be a very first-class job."
He went off laughing along the edge of the sea, carrying the scissors and blanket. The moon had just come up and was spreading a livid, sickly light over the earth.
Alone by the dying fïre, I weighed Zorba's words—they were rich in meaning and had a warm earthy smell. You felt they came up from the depths of his being and that they still had a human warmth. My words were made of paper. They came down from my head, scarcely splashed by a spot of blood. If they had any value at all it was to that mere spot of blood they owed it.
Lying on my stomach, I was rummaging about in the warm cinders when Zorba returned, his arms hanging loosely by his side, and a look of amazement on his face.
"Boss, don't take it too hard…"
I leaped up.
"The monk is dead," he said.
"Dead?"
"I found him lying on a rock. He was in the full light of the moon. I went down on my knees and began cutting his beard off and the remains of his moustache. I kept cutting and cutting, and he didn't budge. I got excited and started cutting his thatch clean off; I must have taken at least a pound of hair off his face. Then when I saw him like that, shorn like a sheep, I just laughed, hysterically! 'I say, Signor Zaharia!' I cried, shaking him as I laughed. 'Wake up and see the miracle the Holy Virgin's performed!' Wake be damned! He didn't budge! I shook him again. Nothing happened! 'He can't have packed it in, poor fellow!' I said to myself. I opened his robe, bared his chest and put my hand over his heart. Tick-tick-tick? Nothing at all! The engine had stopped!"
As he talked Zorba regaíned his spirits. Death had made him speechless for an instant, but he had soon put it in its proper place.
"Now, what shall we do, boss? I think we ought to burn hím. He who kills others by paraffin shall perish by paraffin himself. Isn't there something like that in the Gospel? And with his clothes stiff with dirt and paraffin already, he'd flame up like Judas himself on Maundy Thursday!"
"Do what you like," I said, ill at ease.
Zorba became absorbed in profound meditation.
"It is a nuisance," he said at last, "a hell of a nuisance. If I set light to him, his clothes will flame like a torch, but he's all skin and bone himself, poor chap! Thin like he is, he'll take a devil of a time to burn to ashes. There's not an ounce of fat on him to help the fire."
Shaking his head, he added:
"If God existed, don't you think he would have known all this in advance and made him fat and fleshy to help us out? What do you think?"
"Don't mix me up with this business at all. You do just what you like, but do it quickly."
"The best thing would be if some sort of miracle occurred! The monks would have to believe that God himself had turned barber, shaved him and then did him in to punish him for the damage he did to the monastery."
He scratched his head.
"But what miracle? What miracle? This is where we've got you, Zorba!"
The crescent of the moon was on the point of disappearing below the horizon and was the color of burnished copper.
Tired, I went to bed. When I awoke at dawn, I saw Zorba making coffee close to me. He was white-faced and his eyes were all red and swollen from not sleeping. But his big goat-like lips wore a malicious smile.
"I haven't been to sleep, boss, I had some work to do."
"What work, you rascal?"
"I was doing the miracle."
He laughed and placed his finger across his lips. "I'm not going to tell you! Tomorrow is the inauguration ceremony for our cable railway. All those fat hogs will be here to give their blessing; then they'll learn about the new miracle performed by the Virgin of Revenge—great is her power!"
He served the coffee.
"You know, I'd make a good abbot, I think," he said. "If I started a monastery, I bet you I'd close all the others down and pinch all their customers. How would you like some tears? A tiny wet sponge behind the icons and the saints would weep at will. Thunder claps? I'd have a machine under the holy table which would make a deafening row. Ghosts? Two of the most trusty monks would roam about at night on the roof of the monastery wrapped in sheets. And every year I'd gather a crowd of cripples and blind and paralytics for her feast day and see that they all saw the líght of day again and stood up straight on their legs to dance to her glory!
"What is there to laugh at, boss? I had an uncle once who found an old mule on the point of death. He'd been left in the mountains to die. My uncle took him home. Every morning he took him out to pasture and at night back home. 'You there, Haralambos!' the people from the village shouted at him as he went past, 'what do you think you're doing wíth that old crock?' 'He's my dung factory!' answered my uncle. Well, boss, in my hands the monastery would be a miracle factory!"
25
T
HE EVE of that first of May I shall never forget as long as I live. The cable railway was ready; the pylons, cable and pulleys gleamed in the morning sun. Huge pine trunks lay heaped at the top of the mountain, and workmen stood there waiting for the signal to attach them to the cable and send them down to the sea.
A large Greek flag was flapping at the top of the pole up at the point of departure on the mountainside and a similar one down below by the sea. In front of the but Zorba had set up a small barrel of wine. Next to it was a workman roasting a good fat sheep on a spit. After the benediction ceremony and the inauguration, the guests were to have wine and wish us success.
Zorba had taken the parrot's cage, too, and placed it on a high rock near the first pylon.
"It's as if I could see his mistress," he murmured, looking fondly at the bird. He took a handful of peanuts from his pocket and gave them to the parrot.
Zorba was wearing his best clothes: unbuttoned white shirt, green jacket, grey trousers and good elastic-sided shoes. Moreover, he had waxed his moustache, which was beginning to lose its dye.
Like a great noble doing the honors to his peers, he hastened to welcome the village worthies as they arrived, and explained to them what a cable railway was, and what a benefit it would be to the countryside, and that the Holy Virgin—in her infinite grace—had helped him with her wisdom in the perfect execution of this project.
"It is a great piece of engineering," he said. "You've got to find the exact slope, and that takes some working out! I racked my brains for months, but to no purpose. It's obvious that for great works like this the mind of man is inadequate; we need God's aid… Well, the Holy Virgin saw me hard at it, and she had pity on me: 'Poor Zorba,' she said, 'he's not a bad fellow, he's doing all that for the good of the village, I think I'll go and give him a hand.' And then, O miracle of God!..."
Zorba stopped to cross himself three times in succession.
"O miracle! One night in my sleep a woman in black came to me—it was the Holy Virgin. In her hand she held a small model line, no bigger than that. 'Zorba,' she said, 'I've brought you your plans; they come from heaven. Here is the slope you need, and here is my blessing!' And she disappeared! I woke up with a start, ran to the place where I was testing at the time and what did I see? The wire was set at the right angle, all by itself. And it smelled of benjamin, too, which proved that the hand of the Holy Virgin had touched it!"
Kondomanolio was opening his mouth to ask a question when five monks mounted on mules appeared along the stony mountain pathway. A sixth, carrying a large wooden cross on his shoulders, ran shouting in front of them. We strained to know what he was shouting but we could not make it out.
We could hear chanting. The monks were waving their arms in the air, crossing themselves, and the hooves of their mules struck sparks from the stones.
The monk who was on foot came up to us, his face streaming with sweat. He raised the cross on high.
"Christians! A miracle!" he cried. "Christians! A miracle! The fathers are bringing the Most Holy Virgin herself! On your knees and worship her!"
The villagers, notables and workmen ran up excitedly, surrounded the monk and crossed themselves. I stood apart. Zorba glanced at me, his eyes twinkling.
"You go closer, too, boss," he said. "Go and hear about the Most Holy Virgin's miracle!"
The monk, breathless and in haste, began his story.
"Down on your knees, Christians, and listen to the divine miracle! Listen, Christians! The devil had seized upon the soul of the accursed Zaharia and two days ago led him to sprinkle the holy monastery with paraffin. We noticed the fire at midnight. We got out of bed in all haste; the priory, the galleries and the cells were all in flames. We rang the monastery bell and cried: 'Help! Help! Holy Virgin of Revenge!' And we rushed to the fire with pitchers and buckets of water! By early morning the flames were out, praise be to her Holy Grace!
"We went to the chapel and sank to our knees before her miraculous icon, crying: 'Holy Virgin of Revenge! Take up your lance and strike the culprit!' Then we gathered together in the courtyard and noticed that Zaharia, our Judas, was absent. 'He is the one who set us on fire! He must be the one!' we cried and rushed after him. We searched the whole day long but found nothing; then the whole night, but still nothing. But today at dawn, we went once more to the chapel and what did we see, brothers? A terrible miracle! Zaharia was lying dead at the foot of the sacred icon and the virgin's lance had a large spot of blood on its point!"
"Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!" murmured the villagers in terror.
"That's not all," added the monk, swallowing his spittle. "When we bent down to lift up the accursed Zaharia we stood aghast: for the Virgin had shaved off his hair, moustache and beard—like a Catholic priest!"
Controlling my laughter with the greatest difficulty, I turned to Zorba.
"Scoundrel!" I said in a low voice.
But he was watching the monk, his eyes wide open in surprise, and was crossing himself with deep emotion all the time, to show his utter amazement.
"You are great, O Lord! You are great, O Lord! And your works are wonderful!" he murmured.
At this moment the other monks arrived and dismounted. The hospitaller held the icon in his arms; he climbed up a rock, and all rushed and scrambled to prostrate themselves before the miraculous Virgin. Last came the fat Demetrios, carrying a plate, making the collection and sprinkling the peasants' hard heads with rose water. Three monks stood round him chanting hymns, with their hands folded together over their stomachs, their faces covered with great beads of sweat.
"We are going to take her in procession round the villages of Crete," said the fat Demetrios, "so that the believers can kneel to Her Holiness and bring their offerings. We need money, lots of money, to restore the holy monastery…"
"The fat hogs!" grumbled Zorba. "They're even going to make something out of this!"
He went up to the abbot.
"Holy father, everything is ready for the ceremony. May the Holy Virgin bless our work!"
The sun was already high, it was very hot, and there was not a breath of wind. The monks placed themselves round the pylon bearing the flag. They wiped their foreheads with their broad sleeves and began chanting the prayer for "the foundations of buildings."
"Lord, O Lord, found this contrivance on solid rock that neither wind nor water may shake it…" They dipped the aspergillum in the copper bowl and sprinkled objects and people—the pylon, the cable, the pulleys, Zorba and me, and, finally, the peasants, workmen and the sea itself.
Then, with great care, as if they were handling a sick woman, they lifted the icon, set it close to the parrot, and surrounded it. On the other side were the elders, in the center Zorba. I myself had withdrawn slightly towards the sea and was waiting.
The line was to be given a trial with three trees: a holy trinity. Nevertheless a fourth was added as a sign of recognition towards the Holy Virgin of Revenge.
Monks, villagers, and workmen crossed themselves.
"In the name of the Holy Trinity and the Holy Virgin!" they murmured.
In a single bound Zorba was at the first pylon, pulled the cord and down came the flag. It was the signal for which the men at the top of the mountain had been waiting. All the spectators stepped back and looked towards the summit.
"In the name of the Father!" cried the abbot.
Impossible to describe what happened then. The catastrophe burst upon us like a thunderbolt. We had scarcely time to run away. The entire structure swayed. The pine tree, which the workmen had attached to the cable, assumed a demoniac impetus. Sparks flew, large splinters of wood shot through the air, and when the tree arrived at the bottom a few seconds later it was no more than a charred log.
Zorba gave me a hang-dog look. The monks and villagers retreated prudently and the tethered mules began rearing. Big Demetrios collapsed, panting.
"Lord have mercy on me!" he murmured, terror-stricken.
Zorba raised his hand.
&
nbsp; "It's nothing," he said with assurance. "It's always the same with the first trunk. Now the machine will be run in ... Look!"
He sent the flag up, gave the signal again, and then ran away.
"And the Son!" cried the abbot in a rather trembling voice.
The second tree trunk was released. The pylons shivered, the trunk gained speed, leaping about like a porpoise, and rushed headlong towards us. But it did not get far, it was pulverized half-way down the slope.
"The devil take it!" muttered Zorba, biting into his moustache. "The blasted slope isn't right yet!"
He leaped to the pylon and signalled with the flag once more, furiously, for the third attempt. The monks were by now standing behind their mules, and they crossed themselves. The village worthies waited with one foot raised, ready to take flight.
"And the Holy Ghost!" the abbot stammered, holding up his robe in readiness.
The third tree trunk was enormous. It had hardly been released from the summit when a tremendous noise was heard.
"Lie flat, for God's sake!" shouted Zorba, as he scurried away.
The monks threw themselves to the ground and the villagers ran away as fast as their legs would carry them.
The trunk made one leap, fell back on the cable, threw out a shower of sparks and, before we could see what was happening, sped down the mountainside, over the beach and dived far into the sea, throwing up a great spout of foam.
The pylons were vibrating in a most terrifying fashion, several of them were leaning over already. The mules broke their tethers and ran off.
"That's nothing! Nothing to worry about!" cried Zorba, beside himself. "Now the machine's really run in, so we can make a proper start!"
He sent the flag up once again. We felt how desperate he was, and anxious to see the end of it all.
"And the Holy Virgin of Revenge!" stammered out the abbot as he raced towards the rocks.
The fourth trunk was released. A tremendous splintering noise resounded twice through the air and all the pylons fell down, one after the other, like a pack of cards.