Zorba the Greek Read online

  He had taken to the work. He no longer even consulted me. From the very first days all the care and responsibility had passed from my hands to his. His job was to make decísions and put them into execution. Mine was to pay the piper. This arrangement, moreover, suited me fairly well. For I sensed that these months would be the happiest in my life. Also, everything considered, I felt I was buying my happiness cheaply.

  My maternal grandfather, who had lived in a fair-sized Cretan village, used to take his lantern every evening and go round the streets to see if, by chance, any stranger had arrived. He would take him to his house and give him an abundance of food and drink, after which he would sit on his divan, light his long Turkish pipe, his chibouk, and turn to his guest—for whom the time had come to repay the hospitality—and say in a peremptory tone:

  "Talk!"

  "Talk about what, Father Moustoyorgi?"

  "What you are, who you are, where you come from, what towns and villages you have seen—everything, tell me everything. Now, speak!"

  And the guest would begin to talk at random, uttering truths and falsehoods, whilst my grandfather, sitting calmly on his divan, smoked his chibouk, listening intently and following the stranger in his travels. And if he liked the guest, he would say:

  "You shall stay tomorrow too. You're not going. You've still things to tell."

  My grandfather had never left his village. He had never been even to Candia or Canea. "Why go there'?" he would say. "There are Candians and Caneans, peace be with them, who pass here—Candia and Canea come to me, so why need I go to them?"

  On this Cretan coast today I am perpetuating my grandfather's mania. I have also found a guest by the light of my lantern. I do not let him depart. He costs me far more than a dinner, but he is worth it. Every evening I wait for him after work, I make him sit opposite me and we eat. The time comes when he must pay, and I say to him: "Talk!" I smoke my pipe and I listen. This guest has thoroughly explored the earth and the human soul. I never tire of listening to him.

  "Talk, Zorba, talk!"

  When he speaks, the whole of Macedonia is immediately spread before my gaze, laid out in the little space between Zorba and myself, with its mountains, its forests, its torrents, its comitadjis, its hard-working women and great, heavily-built men. And also Mount Athos with its twenty-one monasteries, its arsenals and its broad-bottomed idlers. Zorba would shake his head as he finished his tales of monks and say, roaring with laughter: "God preserve you, boss, from the stern of mules and the stem of monks!"

  Every evening Zorba takes me through Greece, Bulgaria and Constantinople. I shut my eyes and I see. He has been all over the racked and chaotic Balkans and observed everything with his little falcon-like eyes, which he constantly opens wide in amazement. Things we are accustomed to, and which we pass by indifferently, suddenly rise up in front of Zorba like fearful enigmas. Seeing a woman pass by, he stops in consternation.

  "What is that mystery?" he asks. "What is a woman, and why does she turn our heads? Just tell me, I ask you, what's the meaning of that?"

  He interrogates himself with the same amazement when he sees a man, a tree in blossom, a glass of cold water. Zorba sees everything every day as if for the first time.

  We were sitting yesterday in front of the hut. When he had drunk a glass of wine, he turned to me in alarm:

  "Now whatever is this red water, boss, just tell me! An old stock grows branches, and at first there's nothing but a sour bunch of beads hanging down. Time passes, the sun ripens them, they become as sweet as honey, and then they're called grapes. We trample on them; we extract the juice and put it into casks; it ferments on its own, we open it on the feast day of St. John the Drinker,[9] it's become wine! It's a miracle! You drink the red juice and, lo and behold, your soul grows big, too big for the old carcass, it challenges God to a fight. Now tell me, boss, how does it happen?"

  I did not answer. I felt, as I listened to Zorba, that the world was recovering its pristine freshness. All the dulled daily things regained the brightness they had in the beginning, when we came out of the hands of God. Water, women, the stars, bread, returned to their mysterious, primitive origin and the divine whirlwind burst once more upon the air.

  That is why, every evening, lying on the pebbles, I impatiently waited for Zorba. I would see him suddenly emerge out of the bowels of the earth and approach with his loose-knit body and long striding step. From afar I could see how the work had fared that day, by his bearing, by the way he held his head high or low, by the swíng of his arms.

  At first I also went with him. I watched the men. I endeavored to lead a different type of life, to interest myself in practical work, to know and love the human material which had fallen into my hands, to feel the long-wished-for joy of no longer having to deal with words but with living men. And I made romantic plans—if the extraction of lignite was successful—to organize a sort of community in which everything should be shared, where we should eat the same food together and wear the same clothes, like brothers. I created in my mind a new religious order, the leaven of a new life…

  But I had not yet made up my mind to acquaint Zorba with my project. He was irritated by my comings and goings amongst the workmen, questioning, interfering and always taking the workman's part.

  Zorba would purse his lips and say:

  "Boss, aren't you going for a stroll outside? The sun and the sea, you know!"

  At first I insisted, and would not go. I asked questions, gossiped, and got to know every man's history—how many children they had to feed, sisters to be married, helpless old relations; their cares, illnesses and worries.

  "Don't delve like that into their histories, boss," Zorba would say, scowling. "You'll be taken in, with your soft heart, and you'll like them more than's good for them or for our work. Whatever they do, you'll find excuses for them. Then, heaven help us, they'll scamp their work, do it any old how. Heaven help them, too, you'd better realize that. When the boss is hard, the men respect him, they work. When the boss is soft, they leave it all to him, and have an easy time. Get me?"

  Another evening, after work, he threw his pick down in the shed and shouted, out of all patience:

  "Look here, boss, do stop meddling. As fast as I build, you destroy. Now what are all those things you were telling them today? Socialism and rubbish! Are you a preacher or a capitalist? You must make up your mind!"

  But how could I choose? I was consumed by the ingenuous desire of uniting these two things, of finding a synthesis in which the irreducible opposites would fraternize, and of winning both the earthly life and the kingdom of the skies. This had been going on for years, ever since my early childhood. When I was still at school, I had organized with my closest friends a secret Friendly Society[10]—that was the name we gave it—and, locked in my bedroom, we swore that, all our life, we would devote ourselves to the fighting of injustice. Great tears ran down our faces when, with hand on heart, we took the oath.

  Puerile ideals! But woe betide whoever laughs when he hears them! When I see what the members of the Friendly Society have become—quack doctors, small-time lawyers, grocers, double-dealing politicians, hack journalists—it rends my heart. The climate of this world seems to be harsh and raw. The most precious seeds do not germinate or are choked by undergrowth and nettles. I can see quite clearly today, as regards myself, that I am not stifled by reason, God be praised! I still feel ready to set out on Quixotic expeditions.

  On Sundays we both performed our toilet with care, as if we were marriageable young people. We shaved, we put on clean white shirts, and went, towards the end of the afternoon, to see Dame Hortense. Every Sunday she killed a fowl for us; we once more sat down all three together; we ate and we drank; Zorba's long hands would reach out to the hospitable bosom of the kind woman and take possession of it. When at nightfall we returned to our part of the shore, life appeared simple and full of good intentions, old, but very agreeable and hospitable—like Dame Hortense.

  On one of these
Sundays, as we were returning from the copious feast, I decided to speak and tell Zorba of my plans. He listened, gaping and forcing himself to be patient. But from time to time he shook his great head with anger. My very first words had sobered him, the fumes left his brain. When I had finished, he nervously plucked two or three hairs from his moustache.

  "I hope you don't mind my saying so, boss, but I don't think your brain is quite formed yet. How old are you?"

  "Thirty-five."

  "Then it never will be."

  Thereupon he burst out laughing. I was stung to the quick.

  "You don't believe in man, do you?" I retorted.

  "Now, don't get angry, boss. No, I don't believe in anything. If I believed in man, I'd believe in God, and I'd believe in the devil, too. And that's a whole business. Things get all muddled then, boss, and cause me a lot of complications."

  He became silent, took off his beret, scratched his head frantically and tugged again at his moustache, as if he meant to tear it off. He wanted to say something, but he restrained himself. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye; looked at me again and decided to speak.

  "Man is a brute," he said, striking the pebbles with his stick. "A great brute. Your lordship doesn't realize this. It seems everything's been too easy for you, but you ask me! A brute, I tell you! If you're cruel to him, he respects and fears you. If you're kind to him, he plucks your eyes out.

  "Keep your distance, boss! Don't make men too bold, don't go telling them we're all equal, we've got the same rights, or they'll go straight and trample on your rights; they'll steal your bread and leave you to die of hunger. Keep your distance, boss, by all the good things I wish you!"

  "But don't you believe in anything?" I exclaimed in exasperation.

  "No, I don't believe in anything. How many times must I tell you that? I don't believe in anything or anyone; only in Zorba. Not because Zorba is better than the others; not at all, not a little bit! He's a brute like the rest! But I believe in Zorba because he's the only being I have in my power, the only one I know. All the rest are ghosts. I see with these eyes, I hear with these ears, I digest with these guts. All the rest are ghosts, I tell you. When I die, everything'll die. The whole Zorbatic world will go to the bottom!"

  "What egoism!" I said sarcastically.

  "I can't help it, boss! That's how it is. I eat beans, I talk beans; I am Zorba, I talk like Zorba."

  I said nothing. Zorba's words stung me like whiplashes. I admired him for being so strong, for despising men to that extent, and at the same time wanting to live and work with them. I should either have become an ascetic or else have adorned men with false feathers so that I could put up with them.

  Zorba looked round at me. By the light of the stars I could see he was grinning from ear to ear.

  "Have I offended you, boss?" he said, stopping abruptly. We had arrived at the hut. Zorba looked at me tenderly and uneasily.

  I did not reply. I felt my mínd was in agreement with Zorba, but my heart resisted, wanted to leap out and escape from the brute, to go its own road.

  "I'm not sleepy this evening, Zorba," I said. "You go to bed."

  The stars were shining, the sea was sighing and licking the shells, a glow-worm lit under its belly its little erotic lantern. Night's hair was streaming with dew.

  I lay face downward, plunged in silence, thinking of nothing. I was now one with night and the sea; my mind was like a glowworm that had lit its little lantern and settled on the damp, dark earth, and was waiting.

  The stars were travelling round, the hours were passing—and, when I arose, I had, without knowing how, engraved on my mind the double task I had to accomplish on this shore:

  Escape from Buddha, rid myself by words of all my metaphysical cares and free my mind from vain anxiety;

  Make direct and firm contact with men, starting from this very moment.

  I said to myself: "Perhaps it is not yet too late."

  5

  "UNCLE Anagnosti, the grandfather, greets you and asks if you would care to come to his house for a meal. The gelder will be coming to the village today to castrate the pigs. It's an occasion, and the 'parts' are a real delicacy. Kyria Maroulia, the gaffer's wife, will cook them specially for you. It's also their grandson Minas's birthday today, and you'll be able to wish him many happy returns."

  It is a great pleasure to enter a Cretan peasant's home. Everything about you is patriarchal: the hearth, the oil lamp, the earthen-ware jars lining the wall, a few chairs, a table and, on the left as you enter, in a hole in the wall, a pitcher of fresh water. From the beams hang strings of quinces, pomegranates and aromatic plants: sage, mint, red peppers, rosemary and savory.

  At the far end of the room a ladder or a few wooden steps lead up to the raised platform, where there is a trestle bed and, above it, the holy icons with their lamps. The house appears empty, but it contains everything needful, so few in reality are the true necessities of man.

  It was a magnificent day, rendered very mild by the autumn sun. We sat in front of the house in the little peasant garden, under an olive tree laden with fruit. Between the silvery leaves the sea could be seen gleaming in the distance, perfectly calm and still. Vaporous clouds were continually passing in front of the sun and making the earth appear now sad, now gay, as if it were breathing.

  At the end of the tiny garden, in an enclosure, the castrated pig was squealing with pain and deafening us. The smell of Kyria Maroulia's cooking on the embers in the hearth reached our nostrils.

  Our conversation was confined to the everlasting topics: the corn crops, the vines, the rain. We were obliged to shout because the old gaffer was hard of hearíng. He said he had "a proud ear." This old Cretan's lífe had been straightforward and peaceful, like that of a tree ín a sheltered ravine. He had been born, had grown up and had married. He had had children and had had time to see his grandchildren. Several had died, but others were living: the continuation of the family was assured.

  This old Cretan could recall the old days, Turkish rule, the sayings of his father, the miracles which happened in those days because the women-folk feared God and had faith.

  "Why, look at me here, old uncle Anagnosti who's speakíng to you! My own birth was a miracle. Aye, upon my soul, a miracle! And when I tell you how it happened, you'll be amazed. 'The Lord have mercy on us,' you'll say, and go to the monastery of the Virgin Mary and burn a candle to her."

  He crossed himself and, in a soft voice and gentle manner, began to tell his tale.

  "In those days, then, a rich Turkish woman lived in our village—damn her soul! One fine day the wretch became big with child and the time came for her to give birth. They laid her on the trestle bed and she stayed there bellowing like a heifer for three days and nights. But the child wouldn't come. So a friend of hers—damn her soul, too!—gave her some advice. 'Tzafer Hanum, you should call Mother Mary for help!' That's how the Turks call the Virgin. Great be her power! 'What for?' that Tzafer bitch bellowed. 'Call her? I'd sooner die!' But her pains became more acute. Another day and night went by. She was still bellowing, and still she couldn't deliver the child. What could be done? She couldn't bear the pains any longer. So she started to shout for all she was worth: 'Mother Mary! Mother Mary!' But it was no use, the pains wouldn't stop and the child wouldn't come. And her fríend said: 'Perhaps she can't understand Turkish!' So that bitch yelled: 'Virgin of the Roumis! Virgin of the Roumis!'[11] Roumis be damned! The pains increased. 'You're not calling her the proper way,' said the friend. 'You're not calling her the proper way, and that's why she won't come.' So that heathen bitch, seeing her peril, cries out fit to burst her lungs: 'Holy Virgin!' And straight away the child slipped out of her womb like an eel out of the mud.

  "That happened one Sunday, and the next Sunday my mother had her pains. She went through it, too, the poor wretch. She was really going through it, my poor mother was, and she screamed: 'Holy Virgin! Holy Virgin!' But she wasn't delivered. My father was sitting on the ground in t
he middle of the yard. He couldn't eat or drink because of her sufferings. He wasn't at all pleased with the Holy Virgin. You see, the last time when that Tzafer bitch had called her, the Virgin had broken her neck to come and deliver her. But now ... When the fourth day came, my father couldn't contain himself any longer. Without a moment's hesitation he takes his pitchfork and goes to the monastery of the Martyred Virgin. May she succor us! He gets there, goes in the church without even crossing himself, so great was his rage, he shuts and bolts the door behind him, and marches straight up to the icon. 'Look here, Holy Virgin,' he shouts, 'here's my wife, Krinio—you know her, don't you—you ought to, she brings you oil every Saturday, and she lights your lamps—here's my wife been having her pains for three days and nights and she's been calling you. Can't you hear her? You must be deaf if you can't! Of course if she were some Tzafer bitch, one of those Turkish sluts, you'd go and break your neck for her. But my wife, Krinio, she's only a Christian, so you've become deaf and can't hear her! You know, if you weren't the Holy Virgin, I'd teach you a lesson with the handle of this pitchfork here!'

  "And, without more ado, without so much as bowing his head to her, he turned his back on her and was about to leave. But, great is the Lord, just then the icon made a loud grating noise as if it were splitting. Let me tell you if you don't know it already, icons make a noise like that when they're doing miracles. My father understood at once. He wheeled round again, knelt down and crossed himself. 'I've sinned against you, Holy Virgin,' he cried. 'I've said a lot of things I shouldn't, but let's forget it!'