Nikos Kazantzakis: Zorba The Greek

The child burst out laughing. The sounds of the village could be heard. Dogs began to bark, women to talk shrilly, cocks to announce the change in the weather. In the air floated the odor of grapes which came from the vats where raki was being distilled.

"There's the village!" shouted the two boys, and rushed off.

As soon as we had rounded the sandy hill the little village came into sight. It seemed to be clambering up the side of the ravine. Whitewashed, terraced houses huddled together. Their open windows made dark patches, and they resembled whitened skulls jammed between the rocks.

I caught up with Zorba.

"Mind you behave, now we're entering the village," I told him. "They mustn't get wind of us, Zorba. We'll act like serious businessmen. I'm the manager and you're the foreman. Cretans don't take things lightly. As soon as they've set eyes on you, they pick on anything queer, and give you a nickname. After that, you can't get rid of it. You run about like a dog with a saucepan tied to its tail."

Zorba seized his moustache in his fist and plunged into meditation. Finally he said:

"Listen, boss, if there's a widow in the place, you've no need to fear. If there isn't…"

Just then, as we entered the village, a beggar-woman clothed in rags rushed towards us with outstretched hand. She was swarthy, filthy, and had a stiff little black moustache.

"Hi, brother!" she called familiarly to Zorba. "Hi, brother, got a soul, have you?"

Zorba stopped.

"I have," he replied gravely.

"Then give me five drachmas!"

Zorba pulled out of his pocket a dilapidated leather purse.

"There," he said, and his lips, which still had a bitter expression, softened into a smile. He looked round and said:

"Looks as if souls are cheap in these parts, boss! Five drachmas a soul!"

The village dogs bounded towards us, the women leaned over the terraces to gaze at us, the children followed us, yelling. Some of them yelped, others made sounds like Klaxons, still others ran in front of us and looked at us with their big eyes full of amazement.

We arrived at the village square, where we found two huge white poplars surrounded by crudely carved trunks which served as seats. Opposite was the café, over which hung an enormous, faded sign: The Modesty Café-and-Butcher's-Shop.

"Why are you laughing?" Zorba asked.

But I did not have time to reply. From the door of the café and butcher's shop ran óut five or six giants wearing dark-blue breeches with red waistbands. They shouted: "Welcome, friends! Come in and have a raki. It's still warm from the vat."

Zorba clicked his tongue and said: "What about it, boss?" He turned round and winked at me. "Shall we have one?"

We drank a glass and it burned our insides. The proprietor of the café-butchery, who was a brisk, tough, well-preserved old man, brought out chairs for us.

I asked where we might lodge.

"Go to Madame Hortense's," someone shouted.

"A Frenchwoman here!" I exclaimed in surprise.

"From the devil knows where; she's been all over the place. She's managed to avoid going on all the rocks you can think of, and now she's clung on to the last one here and has opened an inn."

"She sells sweets, too!" cried a child.

"She powders and paints herself up," someone else said. "She puts a ribbon round her neck… And she's got a parrot."

"A widow?" Zorba asked. "Is she a widow?"

The café proprietor seized his thick grey beard.

"How many whiskers can you count here, friend? How many? Well, she's widow of as many husbands. Get the idea?"

"Got it," Zorba replied, licking his lips.

"She might make you a widower, too!"

"Mind your step, friend!" shouted an old man, and all burst out laughing.

We were treated to a new round and the café proprietor brought it to us on a tray, together with barley loaf, goat cheese and pears.

"Now leave these people alone. They mustn't dream of going to madame's! They're going to spend the night right here!"

"I'm going to have them, Kondomanolio!" said the old man. "I've got no children. My house is big and there's plenty of room."

"Sorry, uncle Anagnosti," the café proprietor shouted in the old man's ear. "I spoke first."

"You take one," said old Anagnosti; "I'll take t'other, the old 'un."

"Which old 'un?" said Zorba, stung to the quick. "We'll stick together," I said, and made a sign to Zorba not to get annoyed. "We'll stick together and we'll go to Madame Hortense's…"

"Welcome! Welcome to you!"

A dumpy, plump little woman, with bleached flax-colored hair, appeared beneath the poplars, waddling along on her bandy legs. A beauty spot, from which sprang sow-bristles, adorned her chin. She was wearing a red-velvet ribbon round her neck, and her withered cheeks were plastered with mauve powder. A gay little lock of hair danced on her brow and made her look somewhat like Sarah Bernhardt in her old age playing L'Aiglon.

"Delighted to meet you, Madame Hortense!" I replied, preparing to kiss her hand, carried away as I was by a sudden good humor.

Life appeared all at once like a fairy-tale or the opening scene of The Tempest. We had just set foot on the island, soaked to the skín after an imaginary shipwreck. We were exploring the marvellous coasts, and ceremoniously greeting the inhabitants of the place. This woman, Hortense, seemed to me to be the queen of the island, a sort of blonde and glistening walrus who had been cast up, half-rotting, on this sandy shore. Behind her appeared the numerous dirty, hairy faces radiating the general good humor of the people-or of Caliban-who gazed at the queen with pride and scorn.

Zorba, the prince in disguise, also stared at her, as if she were an old comrade, an old frigate who had fought on distant seas, who had known victory and defeat, her hatches battered in, her masts broken, her sails torn-and who now, scored with furrows which she had caulked with powder and cream, had retired to this coast and was waiting. Surely she was waiting for Zorba, the captain of the thousand scars. And I was delighted to see these two actors meet at last in a Cretan setting which had been very simply produced and painted in a few broad strokes of the brush.

"Two beds, Madame Hortense," I said, bowing before this old specialist in the art of acting love scenes. "Two beds, and no bugs."

"No bugs! I should think not!" she cried, throwing me a provocative glance.

"Oh, no!" shouted the mocking mouths of Caliban.

"There aren't! There aren't!" she retorted, stamping on the stones with her plump foot. She was wearing thick sky-blue stockings and a pair of battered court-shoes with dainty silk bows.

"Off with you, prima donna! The devil take you!" Caliban roared once more.

But, with great dignity, Dame Hortense was already going and opening up the way for us. She smelt of powder and cheap soap.

Zorba followed her, devouring her with his eyes.

"Take an eyeful of that, boss," he confided. "The way the trollop swings her hips, plaf! plaf! like an ewe with a tailful of fat!"

Two or three big drops of rain fell, the sky clouded over. Blue lightning flickered over the mountain. Young girls, wrapped in their little white goat-skin capes, were hurriedly bringing back from pasture the family goats and sheep. The women, squatting in front of their hearths, were kindling the evening fire.

Zorba bit his moustache impatiently, without taking his eyes off the rolling buttocks of the woman.

"Hm!" he suddenly muttered with a sigh. "To hell with life! The jade's never done playing us tricks!"

Dame Hortense's hotel consisted of a row of old bathing-huts joined together. The first was the shop where you could buy sweets, cigarettes, peanuts, lamp-wicks, alphabets, candles and benjamin. Four adjoining huts formed the dormitory. Behind, in the yard, were the kitchen, the washhouse, the henhouse and the rabbit hutches. Thick bamboos and prickly pears were planted in the fine sand all round. The whole place smelled of the sea, excrement and urine. But, from time to time, Dame Hortense passed by and the air changed its odor-as if someone had emptied a hairdresser's bowl under your nose.