Nikos Kazantzakis - Zorba The Greek

"He is in danger! He is in danger!" I murmured. "He is going to die! Perhaps he doesn't realize it yet himself, but I know it, I'm sure of it…"

I ran down the mountain path, stumbled over a pile of stones and fell to the ground, scattering the stones. I jumped up again With grazed and bleeding hands and legs.

"He is going to die! He is going to die!" I said, and felt a lump rise in my throat.

Luckless man has raised what he thinks is an impassable barrier round his poor little existence. He takes refuge there and tries to bring a little order and security into his life. A little happiness. Everything must follow the beaten track, the sacrosanct routine, and comply with safe and simple rules. Inside this enclosure, fortified against the fierce attacks of the unknown, his petty certainties, crawling about like centipedes, go unchallenged. There is only one formidable enemy, mortally feared and hated: the Great Certainty. Now, this Great Certainty had penetrated the outer walls of my existence and was ready to pounce upon my soul.

When I reached our beach, I stopped to take breath for a moment. It was as though I had reached the second line of my defences and I pulled myself together. All these messages, I thought, are born of our own inner anxiety, and in our sleep assume the brilliant garb of a symbol. But we ourselves are the ones who create them… I grew calmer. Reason was calling my heart to order, clipping the wings of that strange palpitating bat, and clipping and clipping until it could fly no more.

When I arrived at the hut, I was smiling at my own simplicity. I was ashamed that my mind had been so quickly overcome by panic. I dropped back into everyday reality. I was hungry and thirsty, I felt exhausted, and the cuts made by the stones on my limbs were smarting. My heart felt reassured: the terrible enemy who had penetrated the outer walls had been held in check by the second line of defence round my soul.

IT WAS ALL OVER. Zorba collected the cable, tools, trucks, iron scrap and timber, and made a heap of it on the beach, ready for the caique which was to load it.

"I'll make you a present of that, Zorba," I said. "It's all yours. Good luck!"

Zorba swallowed as íf trying to hold back a sob.

"Are we separating?" he murmured. "Where are you going, boss?"

"I'm leaving for abroad, Zorba. The old goat within me has still got a lot of papers to chew over."

"Haven't you learned any better yet, boss?"

"Yes, Zorba, thanks to you. But í'm going to adopt your system; I'm going to do with my books what you did with the cherries. I'm going to eat so much paper, it'll make me sick. I shall spew it all up and then be rid of it forever."

"And what's going to become of me without your company, boss?"

"Don't fret, Zorba, we shall meet again, and, who knows, man's strength is tremendous! One day we'll put our great plan into effect: we'll build a monastery of our own, without a god, without a devil, but with free men; and you shall be the gatekeeper, Zorba, and hold the great keys to open and close the gate-like Saint Peter…"

Zorba, seated on the ground with his back against the side of the hut, continually filled and refilled his glass, drinking and saying nothing.

Night had fallen, we had finished our meal. We were sipping wine and having our last talk. Early the following morning we were to separate.

"Yes, yes…" said Zorba, pulling at his moustache and taking a drink. "Yes, yes…"

Above us, the night was starlit; within us, our hearts longed for relief but still held back.

Say goodbye to him forever, I thought to myself. Take a good look at him; never, never again will you set eyes on Zorba!

I could have thrown myself upon his old bosom and wept, but I was ashamed. I tried to laugh to hide my emotion, but I could not. I had a lump in my throat.

I looked at Zorba as he craned his neck like a bird of prey and drank in silence. I watched him and I reflected what a truly baffling mystery is this life of ours. Men meet and drift apart again like leaves blown by the wind; your eyes try in vain to preserve an image of the face, body or gestures of the person you have loved; in a few years you do not even remember whether his eyes were blue or black.

The human soul should be made of brass; it should be made of steel! I cried within me. Not just of air!

Zorba was drinking, holding his big head erect, motionless. He seemed to be listening to steps approaching in the night or retreating into the innermost depths of his being.

"What are you thinking about, Zorba?"

"What am I thinking about, boss? Nothing. Nothing, I tell you! I wasn't thinking of anything."

After a moment or two, filling up his glass again, he saíd:

"Good health, boss!"

We clinked glasses. We both knew that so bitter a feelíng of sadness could not last much longer. We would have to burst into tears or get drunk, or begin to dance like lunatics.

"Play, Zorba!" I suggested.

"Haven't I already told you, boss? The santuri needs a happy heart. I'll play in a month's, perhaps two months' time-how can I tell? Then I'll sing about how two people separate forever."

"Forever!" I cried terrified. I had been saying that irremediable word to myself, but had not expected to hear it said out loud. I was frightened.

"Forever!" Zorba repeated, swallowing his saliva with some difficulty. "That's it-forever. What you've just said about meeting again, and building our monastery, all that is what you tell a sick man to put him on his feet. I don't accept it. I don't want it. Are we weak like women to need cheering up like that? Of course we aren't. Yet, it's forever!"

"Perhaps I'll stay here with you…" I said, appalled by Zorba's desperate affection for me. "Perhaps I shall come away with you. I'm free."

Zorba shook his head.

"No, you're not free," he said. "The string you're tied to is perhaps no longer than other people's. That's all. You're on a long piece of string, boss; you come and go, and think you're free, but you never cut the string in two. And when people don't cut that…"

"I'll cut it some day!" I said defiantly, because Zorba's words had touched an open wound in me and hurt.

"It's difficult, boss, very difficult. You need a touch of folly to do that; folly, d'you see? You have to risk everything! But you've got such a strong head, it'll always get the better of you. A man's head is like a grocer; it keeps accounts: I've paid so much and earned so much and that means a profit of this much or a loss of that much! The head's a careful little shopkeeper; it never risks all it has, always keeps something in reserve. It never breaks the string. Ah no! It hangs on tight to it, the bastard! If the string slips out of its grasp, the head, poor devil, is lost, finished! But if a man doesn't break the string, tell me, what flavor is left in life? The flavor of camomile, weak camomile tea! Nothing like rum-that makes you see life inside out!"

He was silent, helped himself to some more wine, but started to speak again.

"You must forgive me, boss," he said. "I'm just a clodhopper. Words stick between my teeth like mud to my boots. I can't turn out beautiful sentences and compliments. I just can't. But you understand, I know."

He emptied his glass and looked at me.

"You understand!" he cried, as if suddenly filled with anger. "You understand, and that's why you'll never have any peace. If you didn't understand, you'd be happy! What d'you lack? You're young, you have money, health, you're a good fellow, you lack nothing. Nothing, by thunder! Except just one thing-folly! And when that's missing, boss, well…"

He shook his big head and was silent again.

I nearly wept. All that Zorba said was true. As a child I had been full of mad ímpulses, superhuman desires, I was not content with the world. Gradually, as time went by, I grew calmer. I set limits, separated the possible from the impossible, the human from the divine, I held my kite tightly, so that it should not escape.