Freedom or Death Page 2

  “Look, children, here comes Nuri Beys’ horse!” somebody shouted outside the barbershop kept by Paraskevas the Syran. Five or six unshaved men and one man covered with lather rushed to the door. With open mouths and craning necks they stood there and gazed at it.

  “By my soul,” shouted a lanky youth with a sparse goats-beard. “By my soul, if someone asked me, ‘Which would you rather, Nuri Beys’ horse or his hanum?’ I’d choose the horse.”

  “You’ve got as much sense as my paintbrush,” said Janaros the master painter, whom they also called Pitchfork because he had a bushy, bristling mustache. “You silly idiot, Hanum Emine’ is beautiful, twenty years old and wild. Choose her, you poor thing, and give your thighs a bit of fun!”

  “I like the horse, I tell you,” answered the goat-beard. “I don’t go in for dirt.”

  “Not the horse, my good countryman, and not the hanum,” Signor Paraskevas ventured to break in, in his high voice. He too had rushed out, scissors in hand. “Neither the horse, nor the hanum! They’re all more trouble than they’re worth!”

  The goat-beard wheeled around. “Hey, you Syran titbit,” he said, “the whole of life is trouble. Only death brings repose. I mean well toward you don’t talk like that to Cretans. We might misunderstand you and bury you alive… .”

  The poor Syran shuddered. The friendly, decent chap could himself no longer understand why he had got to Crete to shave these wild beasts here. Every time a Cretan from the mountains came over the threshold of his shop, the Syran would jump up and examine him with dread. Where was one to begin on him? For months he had not shaved or washed, for years had not had his hair cut. He would arrange the towel, grasp the scissors and bustle around the chair, on which the Cretan sat wondering at his grotesque face in the glass. He looked to him like a wether, that monster did, or like Saint Mamas, the enormous herdsman, whom Signor Paraskevas had once seen in a holy picture. Altogether overgrown as he was with the rankest beard, whiskers and locks, ten barbers could not have made a job of him.

  Signor Paraskevas’ scissors suddenly became small. Where was he to set to work with them in this undergrowth of hog’s bristles? Then the Syran would sigh, make up his mind at last and begin in God’s name with the lathering.

  “Alive?” he now asked, and drew back in alarm. “Why, my good friend, would you bury me alive?”

  “Because do you know what we call people who talk like you? Dead!”

  The Syran swallowed, pretended he had heard nothing, and went in.

  At that moment Stefanes, the aged captain of the Dardcma, which the Turks had sunk in the ‘78 rising, came hobbling by. A grenade from the Turkish ship that had holed her had smashed his knee. And since then all he had been good for had been to thump the dry land with his stick and to limp about the harbor. He had two sticks: one, straight as a dart, he used when things were going well in Crete, and the other, a crooked staff, when things went crooked and the air reeked of powder. Today he had the crooked staff. He listened to what was being said, and stood still.

  “Don’t quarrel, young fellows,” he said. “That’s easy to decide.”

  “Tell us, Captain Stefanes, which you’d choose for yourself.”

  “You idiots, Nun’s horse to ride, and Hanum Ermine to make sit behind on the rump like Saint George!”

  “Me too, me too, me too. Captain Stefanes!” bawled the Cretans, shaven and unshaven. “May God hear what you say!”

  Captain Michales had raised his eyes. The horse was now close to him, graceful yet fiery, like a black swan with its neck arched high. It turned toward him and its eyes gleamed as if it recognized Captain Michales. It checked for a moment and neighed. Captain Michales took a step toward the beast. He could not restrain himself; he took another. He was near it now. His hand itched to touch it, to feel the heat of its body. The Turkish boy saw him and stood still.

  Captain Michales’ hand strayed over the broad, moist chest, with its necklace of light-blue stones clasped by an ivory crescent. He eagerly stroked the neck, the nostrils, the head, patted the damp mane. His hand traveled longingly over the back and rump, went down and along the steaming belly and was still not satisfied. The hand seemed as if it wanted to engulf the whole horse.

  And the proud, graceful animal bowed its neck and seemed to take an insatiable pleasure in the man’s caresses. It turned its huge plum-dark eye and with a snort sucked its hot breath in over the man’s hair. And suddenly it decided to play. It snapped at Captain Michales’ black headband, lifted it high and waved it in the air without letting it go. The horse’s eye coquetted with the black beard in front of it. And the man himself felt his heart go soft. Never had he looked at a human being with such delicate delight. He began to whisper words of endearment, and the horse lowered its neck as though it listened, and rubbed gently against the man’s shoulders. Unexpectedly Captain Michales raised his hand, caught the headband from the horse’s lips and wound it, sprinkled with foam as it was, around his hair.

  Then he turned and made a sign to the Turkish boy that he could go on.

  “I shall go there,” Captain Michales muttered, still following the horse with his eyes as it now approached the main gate. “I shall go there.”

  He had suddenly made up his mind, and he now returned to close the shop and to set out on his way to the konak of Nuri Bey.

  But Captain Stefanes, who had observed him as he stroked the horse with so much feeling, stood before him, leaning on his crooked staff, and wished him good evening. He had no fear of man haters. He was himself a real man, a sturdy sea dog. In each of the risings of 1854, 1866 and 1878, he had run the Turkish blockade in his Dardana countless times to land food and munitions for the Christians in remote natural harbors. And when they shelled him and sank his ship, his blood had flowed from his smashed knee. But he had swum into St. Pelagia’s Bay, holding in his teeth, above the waves, the letters which the Athenian Committee had sent to the famous Captain Rabe, chieftain of the Mesara region. Since then he had indeed come down in the world: he limped, had grown poor, let his clothes go into rags, went on wearing those captain’s boots of his that had been patched again and again, made his daily round of the harbor and admired, though with burning heart, the foreign ships. It did him good to smell tar and to hear the voices and greetings and the noise of anchors on the hard, deep bottom. His body was weak, his pockets empty, but his soul stood upright in his breast, and he gazed out over the sea like the Gorgon figurehead.

  And so he leaned on his crooked staff, stood firm to front of Captain Michales, and spoke. “Hey, Captain Michales, did your ear catch the talk down at the barber’s? If you had to choose, they were saying, between Nuri’s horse and Hanum Ermine, which would you choose?”

  “I don’t care for shameless chatter,” said Captain Michales, and went over to his shop without so much as looking around at the ship’s master.

  But the obstinate sailor did not give up. He behaved as if he had not heard, and overhauled the other.

  “Nuri has brought her from Constantinople, and she’s a Circassian, they say, with beauty for five, and wild a real man-eater. My neighbors the Hags hear from her woman, the dark Christian she brought with her, what goes on behind the cage doors at the Beys’. And they spread it about. Bless their little tongues.”

  “Captain Stefanes,” repeated Captain Michales with irritation, “I tell you I don’t care for shameless chatter.”

  But the tough seaman stood his ground. No, he would not have his mouth shut, tie had shown no fear in face of the powerful Turkish Armada. Was he to show fear in face of this man? He shall hear it all, he said to himself, whether he likes it or not.

  “Nuri Bey,” he held forth, “is your blood brother, Captain Michales, and don’t you forget it. And so it’s right that you should know what goes on in his house. The Bey, that terrible wild beast, sits, so they say, tied to her feet and gazes into her eyes. And she presses her lighted cigarettes against his neck and giggles. And sometimes, they say, her thoughts
stray back to her own country to the tents, to the smell of dung and milk, the neighing of horses and then it takes hold of her, and she smashes the porcelain cups, empties the scent bottles on the floor and whips her black woman. …”

  Captain Michales, growling like a dangerous sheep dog, held the key out in front of him and shoved the old sea wolf from the doorway so as to be able to shut the shop. But the sailor could not hold his tongue. It would have been better not to engage in any conversation with such a wild beast, but now he was well and truly involved. … So hoist sails, whatever comes of it! He therefore made haste to finish his story:

  “The hanum is jealous, so they say, of Nuri’s horse. The evening before last, when the Bey tried to embrace her, she pushed him away. ‘First you must do me a favor,’ she said. ‘Anything you wish, mistress of my heart. Everything is yours.’ ‘Bring your horse into the yard. Light lamps, so that I may see, and slaughter it in my presence.’ The Bey sighed, bent his head and ran out of the room. He shut himself up in his room. And all night long he could be heard pacing up and down and bellowing. I’m telling you so that you may know. He’s sent for you to come to his house. He needs you. Don’t deny it. Ali Aga told me. So it’s as well you should know how the loving couple are at loggerheads.”

  Stefanes rubbed his callused hands, glad that it was over and that he had finished his say without being overcome by fear.

  “Yes, Captain Michales, that’s how it is. Well, if it’s lies, the Hags had better look out!”

  Captain Michales gave a jerk; the door banged and he locked it. He stuck the key hi his belt and turned to the castaway captain. “You sea folk,” he said contemptuously, “have no respect for women!”

  And he went off.

  “You dry-land captains,” Stefanes retorted peevishly, “know all about that! Always paddling in horse dung!” Shouting this, he hobbled quickly around the corner, as if fear had suddenly got hold of him.

  Captain Michales pulled the black headband over his forehead so that the tassels covered his eyes. He wanted to see no one and be seen by no one. Breathing heavily, he stumped through the Turkish quarter.

  The sun had gone down. Trumpets rang out, and the police picked up their keys and double-locked the four city gates. Till sunrise no one might stick his nose outside Megalokastro or come in. Turks and Christians remained fenced hi together all night.

  Darkness broadened out and spread its shield over the alleys. Women no longer appeared hi the streets. The lamps were lighted in the houses, the tables laid. Respectable men hurried home to dinner, the gayer ones lingering in the taverns for another drink or two. Megalokastro, as usk hid it, felt hungry and addressed itself to the evening meal.

  That was the hour when the triplet sisters, known as the Hags, would be standing behind their door, close against one another. They had bored three holes in the door, high up, and pressed their faces to them. They studied the passers-by and commented on each one’s ugliness or good looks. All three old maids had snow-white hair, eyebrows and eyelashes, and red rabbits’ eyes from birth. They never went out all day. It was said that they could not see well in sunlight, and longed for evening when they could stand at the three little holes and gape at the passing world. Nasty, poison tongues. Through the peepholes not a fly escaped them. Their house lay at the corner of a shopping street, at the point where the Turkish quarter left off and the Christian houses began. They saw everyone and gave everyone his nickname, from which hi a lifetime he could not shake free. It was they who had called Captain Michales “the wild boar.” They had christened his brother, the schoolmaster, “Tityros.” For once, when his father brought back a big cheese from the village, his learned son had asked him hi classical Greek nrvpo? l
  All through the day they cooked, sewed and swept hi the half-dark. They had nothing else to worry about. They had no men folk or children to look after, and God had created for them an excellent brother, a man of gold, Mr. Aristoteles the chemist. The poor man, though unmarried, worked from morning till night making up powders and ointments. Sallow, patient, with feet swollen from long standing, and with bad breath, he carried the loaded market basket morning and evening for his sisters. When he was still young a pretty maiden with a dowry and of good family had been found for him, but he had never married. Mr. Aristoteles would have made an ideal son-in-law. His pharmacy was in the heart of Megalokastro, on the main square, full of bottles and phials, scents and soaps, and every evening teachers and doctors gathered there to take to pieces and put together the major world problems. And melancholy, shriveled Mr. Aristoteles listened, said nothing, merely looked at them with his small, blue, tired eyes and wagged his plucked head, as though to say to each one, you are right, you are right. But his one thought was that his life on this planet was going to rack and ruin. He had wanted to marry-not because he cared about women. God forbid! No, he merely wanted to beget a son who would take over the pharmacy. But where was he to put his sisters? They must marry first that was the custom.

  The years went by, his hair became white, his teeth became loose, his back became bent and his firm red cheeks sagged and shriveled. Mr. Aristoteles had grown old. His life was drained away. He took to mastic. Not the kind you drink, but the kind you chew. And so the grinder of ointments chewed and chewed all day, and when evening came he listened to teachers and doctors debating about free will and the immortality of the soul, and whether the stars are inhabited. And he himself wagged his bald head and said to himself again and again, Even if I do get married now, I can’t have a son now, I can’t have a son now, I can’t have a son now… . He held the pestle upright on the table, chewed his mastic and ground his medicaments in the mortar till the late hours, deep in care.

  Today the Hags were early at their posts. It was cool. Their hair was untidy, their hands and spindly legs had gone to sleep, but they kept manfully on their feet and waited. They stuck their ruby eyes to the peepholes and kept them firmly aimed at Nuri Bey’s green, arched door way.

  “Keep your eyes fixed on that,” said Aglaja, the middle one. “Something is cooking there. Think what the Moorish woman told us yesterday!”

  “The Bey came in from his village this evening in a rage,” said Thalia. “I saw him. He banged into the door and sent it flying open, and immediately afterward I heard shouts and cries. I’m sure he beat the servants again.”

  “Who else is there for him to beat? The horse? Emine? No fleas on him.” Phrosyne laughed.

  But just as the Three Graces were whispering, the street seemed to them suddenly to grow dark. They drew back and looked at one another.

  “Captain Michales!” they muttered, and pressed their eyes again to the peepholes.

  Breathing hard, but light of foot, the sturdy man with the raven black, curly beard went slowly by, and the tassels of his headband were over his eyebrows. He was keeping close to the wall, and his hand rested on his broad belt, grasping firmly a knife with a black hilt.

  He brushed against the door through which he was being observed, wheeled around for a moment as though he felt the six eyes upon him, and the whites of his eyes flashed in the twilight. The three sisters trembled and held their breath, but the heavy man went slowly on and stopped opposite the big doorway. He took a quick glance around: solitude; not a soul about. Then in one spring he crossed the narrow alley, pushed Nuri Bey’s door open and went in.

  The triplets yelled. “Kyrie eleison,” said Aglaja, and crossed herself. “Did you see the way he went in? Like a robber.”

  “What’s Captain Wildboar after with the Bey? The bean has a maggot in it. I bet he wants to sell him the horse.”

  “Or Emine.” And the Three Graces Aglaja, Thalia and Phrosyne began giggling again.

  Captain Michales, who had stepped over the threshold with his right foot, glanced in all directions. He stared at the Negro who awaited him behind the door. An old, worn-out slave whom Nuri Bey had inher
ited from his father, this Negro lolled like a mangy dog behind the street door every day till midnight. Captain Michales touched him on the shoulder with his fingertip, and the old man sank back and let him pass. He walked slowly forward between huge pots filled with roses. Somewhere there must be a lemon tree in blossom, for the air had a scent of lemon blossoms. The freshly watered earth smelled of dung. In the depth of the garden, where the old residence glimmered in the twilight, a partridge in a cage was still cackling. Light came through the high wooden lattice. Feminine laughter could be heard.

  Captain Michales breathed in the Turkish air against his will, with head bent. What am I after here? he thought. Turks’ stink?

  He stood still and gazed about. There was still time: no one had seen him, except the Negro; he could still leave. Charitos had by now saddled the mare. He would ride, race up and down the big square to quiet himself down. But he was ashamed. “They’ll say I’m afraid,” he muttered. “Forward, Captain Michales!”

  With swift strides he went on. There was the central door. It stood open. A large, burning lamp with green and red glass hung in the door space. Under it stood Nuri Bey, all red and green. He had heard the outer door, recognized the step. He came forward to welcome his guest.

  He was a stately, rather stout man with expansive gestures. From his round face a pair of dark almond eyes peered out, and the light from the lamp brought out a steely glitter in them. His thick mustache was smeared with black pomade. The Bey had a serene Oriental handsomeness: he was like the moon-faced lion which Turkish women of the past used to embroider on costly Persian stuffs. He wore long blue woolen stockings, but his belt was blood-red and the turban that enclosed his hair was snow-white. His shoulders were perfumed with musk, and he smelled like a wild beast in heat in the spring.