Nikos Kazantzakis - Zorba The Greek

One day I rose and washed, and the earth, it seemed, had also just risen and finished its ablutions. It shone as if it were a new creation. I went down to the village. On my left the indigo-blue sea was motionless, on my right in the distance glistened the fields of wheat, like an army flourishing a host of golden lances. I passed the Fig Tree of Our Young Lady, covered with green leaves and tiny little figs, hastened by the widow's garden without so much as turning my head, and entered the village. The small hotel was deserted now, abandoned. Doors and windows were missing, dogs walked in and out of the yard as they pleased, the rooms were empty. In the death chamber, the bed, trunk and chairs had all gone; there remained only a tattered slipper with a worn heel and red pompon, in one corner of the room. It still faithfully preserved the shape of its owner's foot. That wretched slipper, more compassionate than the human mind, had not yet forgotten the beloved but maltreated foot.

I was late returning. Zorba had already lit the fire and was preparing to cook. As he raised his eyes to greet me, he knew immediately where I had been. He frowned. After so many days of silence he unlocked his heart that evening and spoke.

"Every time I suffer, boss," he said, as though to justify himself, "it just cracks my heart in two. But it's all scarred and riddled with wounds already, and it sticks itself together again in a trice and the wound can't be seen. I'm covered with healed wounds, that's why I can stand so much."

"You've soon forgotten poor Bouboulina, Zorba," I said, in a tone which was somewhat brutal for me.

Zorba was piqued and raísed his voice.

"A fresh road, and fresh plans!" he cried. "I've stopped thinking all the time of what happened yesterday. And stopped asking myself what's going to happen tomorrow. What's happening today, this minute, that's what I care about. I say: 'What are you doing at this moment, Zorba?' 'I'm sleeping.' 'Well, sleep well.' 'What are you doíng at this moment, Zorba?' 'I'm working.' 'Well, work well.' 'What are you doing at this moment, Zorba?' 'I'm kissing a woman.' 'Well, kiss her well, Zorba! And forget all the rest while you're doing it; there's nothing else on earth, only you and her! Get on withit!'"

A few moments later he continued.

"When she, Bouboulina, was alive, you know, no kind of Canavaro had ever given her so much pleasure as I did-old rag-and-bone Zorba. Do you want to know why? Because all the Canavaros in the world, while they were kissing her, kept thinking about their fleets, or the king, or Crete, or their stripes and decorations, or their wives. But I used to forget everything else, and she knew that, the old trollop. And let me tell you this, my learned friend-there's no greater pleasure for a woman than that. A real woman-now listen to this and I hope it helps you-gets more out of the pleasure she gives than the pleasure she takes from a man."

He bent down to put some wood on the fire and was silent.

I looked at him and was very happy. I felt these minutes on that deserted shore to be simple but rich in deep human value. And our meal every evening was like the stews that sailors make when they land on some deserted beach-with fish, oysters, onions, and plenty of pepper; they are more tasty than any other dish and have no equal for nourishing a man's spirit. There, at the edge of the world, we were like two shipwrecked men.

"The day after tomorrow we get our line started," said Zorba, pursuing his train of thought. "I'm not walking on the ground any more; I'm a creature of the air. I can feel the pulleys on my shoulders!"

"Do you remember the bait you threw me in the Piraeus Restaurant to land me on the hook?" I asked. "You said you could cook wonderful soups-and it happens to be the dish I like best. How did you know?"

Zorba shook his head with slight scorn.

"I can't say, boss. It just came into my head like that. The way you were sitting there in the corner of the café, quiet, reserved, bent over that little gilt-edged book-I don't know, I just felt you liked soup, that's all. It just came to me like that; there's no understanding it!"

He suddenly stopped and leaned forward, listening.

"Quiet!" he said. "There's someone coming!"

We heard rapid footsteps and the heavy breathing of someone running. Suddenly there appeared in the flickering light of the flames a monk in a torn habit, bare headed, red bearded and with a small moustache. He brought with him a strong smell of paraffin.

"Ha! welcome, Father Zaharia!" cried Zorba. "What's put you in such a state?"

The monk sank to the floor near the fire. His chin was trembling.

Zorba leaned towards him and winked.

"Yes," said the monk.

"Bravo, monk!" cried Zorba. "Now you're sure to go to Paradise; you can't miss it! And you'll have a can of paraffin in your hand as you enter!"

"Amen!" murmured the monk, crossing himself.

"How did it work out? When? Come on, tell us!"

"I saw the archangel Michael, brother Canavaro. He gave me an order. Listen how it came: I was in the kitchen stringing some beans. I was all alone. The door was closed, the monks were at vespers; it was absolutely quiet, I could hear the birds singing outside, and it sounded like angels. I had prepared everything, and I was waiting. I'd bought a can of paraffin and hidden it in the chapel in the cemetery, beneath the holy table itself, so that the archangel Michael would bless it.

"So yesterday afternoon I was stringing beans and Paradise was running in my head. I was saying to myself: 'Lord Jesus, I deserve the Kingdom of Heaven, too, and I'm quite prepared to string beans for all eternity in the kitchens of Paradise!' That's what I was thinking, and the tears were running down my face. Suddenly I heard the beating of wings above me. I understood, and bent my head, trembling with fear. Then I heard a voice: 'Zaharia, look up and be not afraid.' But I was quaking so much I fell to the floor. 'Look up, Zaharia!' said the voice again. I looked up and saw. The door was open and on the threshold stood the archangel Michael, just as he is depicted on the doors of the sanctuary of the monastery, just the same; with black wings, red sandals and a golden halo; only instead of a sword he was holding a lighted torch. 'Hail, Zaharia!' he said. 'I'm the servant of God,' I answered. 'What do you command?' 'Take the flaming torch, and may the Lord be with you.' I held out my hand and felt my palms burn. But the archangel had disappeared. All I saw was a line of fire in the sky, like a shooting star."

The monk wiped the sweat off his face. He had gone quite white. His teeth were chattering as if he were feverish.

"Well?" said Zorba. "Bear up, Zaharia! What next?"

"Just at that moment the monks were coming away from vespers and going into the refectory. As he went by, the abbot kicked me like a dog, and all the monks laughed. I didn't say anythíng. After the visit of the archangel there was still a smell of sulphur in the air, but no one noticed it. 'Zaharia!' said the perceptor. 'Aren't you going to eat?' I kept my mouth shut.

"'Angels' food is enough for him!' said Demetrios, the Sodomite. The monks all laughed again. So I got up and walked away to the cemetery. I prostrated myself before the archangel… for hours I felt his foot heavy on my neck. The time passed like lightning. That is how the hours and the centuries will pass in Paradise. Midnight came. Everything was quiet. The monks had gone to bed. I stood up, crossed myself and kissed the archangel's foot. 'Thy will be done,' I said. I took the can of paraffin, opened it and went. I had stuffed my robe with rags.

"The night was as black as ink. The moon had not risen. The monastery was dark, as dark as hell. I went into the courtyard, climbed the steps and came to the abbot's quarters. I threw paraffin on the door, windows and walls. I ran to Demetrios's cell. There I started pouring paraffin all over the cells and along the big wooden gallery-just as you told me. Then I went into the chapel, lit a candle from the lamp before the statue of Christ and started the fire."