Nikos Kazantzakis - Zorba The Greek

"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.

"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.

At last her groping hand found the crucifix and she pressed it to her bosom, which was damp with sweat.

"Dear Jesus, my dear Jesus…" she uttered passionately, clasping her last lover to her breast.

Her words, which were half-French, half-Greek, but full of tenderness and passion, were very confused. The parrot heard her. He sensed that the tone of voice had changed, remembered the former long sleepless nights and livened up immediately.

"Canavaro! Canavaro!" he shouted hoarsely, like a cock crowing at the sun.

Zorba this time did not try to silence him. He looked at the woman as she wept and kissed the crucified image whilst an unexpected sweetness spread over her ravaged face.

The door opened, old Anagnosti came in quietly, cap in hand. He came up to the sick woman, bowed and knelt down.

"Forgive me, dear lady," he said to her, "forgive me, and may God forgive you. If sometimes I spoke a harsh word, we're only men… Forgive me."

But the dear soul was now lying quietly, sunk in an unspeakable felicity, and she did not hear what old Anagnosti said. All her torments were gone-unhappy old age, all the sneers and hard words she had endured, the sad evenings she had spent alone in her doorway, knitting thick woollen socks. This elegant Parisienne, this tantalizing woman men could not resist and who, in her time, had bounced the four great Powers on her knee, and had been saluted by four naval squadrons!

The sea was azure blue, the waves were flecked with foam, the sea-going fortresses were dancing in the harbor, and flags of many colors were flapping from every mast. You could smell the partridges roasting and the red mullet on the grill, glacé fruits were carried to the table in bowls of cut crystal and the champagne corks flew up to the ceiling.