“What do you mean by that, Metropolitan Effendi? I don’t understand.”
“You have heard, no doubt, that Christians and Turks in Megalokastro are beginning once more to be stirred up, because, so they say, a drunken horseman forced his way into the Turkish coffeehouse.”
“And does that seem to you a trifle? The giaour has put Turkey to shame!” the pasha exclaimed, his eyes coming to life.
“Turkey is not so easily put to shame. She is a mighty realm, Pasha Effendi!” said the Metropolitan in a studiously mild tone of voice. “Let’s leave the drunkard hero. You were asking me about your dream. I believe that God is enlightening me, and I will interpret it for you. Though if it bores you”
“No, by the Prophet!” said the pasha emphatically and placed his hand entreatingly on the Metropolitan’s knee. “By your faith, go on.”
“The seven heavens opened. God came down to you in your sleep, Pasha Effendi, and showed you the way.” “What way?”
“The way you will choose. There are two: one green and the other red. I can see them clearly marked in your dream. You can choose which you will.”
“No, not as I will,” protested the pasha, “but as it is written by God!”
“But it may be, I tell you, that God has written for you a free choice. You can decide on the red road and start the executions and set Crete in a blaze. Or you can decide on the green road, and then everything turns to milk and honey: Turks and Christians make friends again, and the world blesses your name. Now choose!”
So saving and without giving the pasha time to think, he pulled out of his pocket the precious tobacco box.
“You are a connoisseur, Pasha Effendi,” he said softly, “you know something about treasures. This tobacco box is a masterpiece from Jannina. On one side it has a two-headed eagle, on the other a crescent, engraved with the finest art. Just what you are working for: Mussulmans and Christians living together in brotherhood. Knowing your heart, I have long wanted to give it to you. The time has come. May it bring you luck!”
With that he laid the silver box in the pasha’s open palm.
“By Allah,” said the pasha, admiring the present, “you Greeks are an immortal race. You catch flies, sometimes with honey, sometimes with vinegar.”
He bent forward and stroked the tobacco box delicately with his thick fingers.
“Yes, let me tell you, Metropolitan Effendi, what a rain of sweetness this box from Jannina brings to my heart. My first wifemay she be happy in the underworld, where she now ispossessed five-fold beauty like the Lady Phrosyne; she came from Jannina.” With a sigh he added: “But how can you understand that? for you know no woman.”
They fell silent. The Metropolitan played with his rosary and looked through the window at the great plane tree, which slowly moved its leaves under the blue sky. He brought the conversation back to earth:
“The crops promise well, Pasha Effendi,” he said, and looked out of the window again at the green fields.
The pasha tore himself away from the sweet past and came back to Megalokastro.
The Metropolitan stood up. The pasha also stood up, and held out his hand. “Good-by, Metropolitan Effendi,” be said. “Both of us are Godfearing men. We have deliberated wisely and have divided Crete wisely. You keep a tight hand over the Christians, and I will do the same with the Turks.”
He was silent for a moment. Another sentence was on the tip of his tongue. He coughed, scratched his head and at length decided to say it.
“Noisiness at weddings is commonbut even if, in these coming days, you hear a noise that sounds like a killing, pretend it never reached your ears.”
“A killing, Pasha Effendi?” asked the Metropolitan, glancing uneasily at the gray-headed Turk with the deep-set eyes. “God forbid.”
“Come, come, a drunken Turk might one day kill a Greek palikar. Such things do happen. There’s no lack of fools in the world. But you, Metropolitan, you act deaf, just as we acted blind, when we didn’t see a certain Greek ride into the Turkish coffeehouse and flout us. So you act deaf now, Metropolitan Effendi. My best wishes.”
A snake wound itself about the Metropolitan, but he pretended not to understand.
“God is great,” he said. “He judges even sultans and pashas.”
“And Metropolitans, Effendi,” said the old Anatolian, and his lips smiled cunningly. And on that they parted.
Day came and went. It was the middle of April. The trees were covered with blossoms; some were already bearing fruit. The spring sunshine enveloped Megalokastro. Within its walls men and women suffered. They had separated into two angry bands, each with its God. And men and Gods whetted their knives. They did not notice he cool sea, which smelled like a peach, nor the sun, which blossomed like a heliotrope every morning, nor the stars.
Taciturn and somber, Captain Michales went back to his shop. For the first time a carouse had failed to lighten his heart. The drinking bout had left him angrier, more disconsolate than before. Now he avoided every drop of alcohol and would eat only a piece of bread, then at once leave the table. At home he did not open his mouth all day long. He refused to sleep. He sat on his bed and smoked and looked through the narrow window at the night. He would not close his eyes, because he knew that in sleep dishonoring dreams would overcome him. No. One dream, one demon, which fell upon him every night. Was wine powerless to stifle this demon and his shame?
Nuri Bey also could not sleep. He was gnawed by the thought that he must keep his word to wash Turkey clean of disgrace and avenge his father’s blood. To this was added the anxiety about his wife. Ever since the day when Captain Michales had been to his house, Emine’ had refused to take him in her arms. “He’s put you to shame,” she said obstinately, drumming on the floor with her little slippers. “Captain Michales has put you to shame, so I shall put you to shame. That is the custom among our women.”
To distract himself, Nuri Bey had turned to his country estate. The weather was warm: soon the hanum would come out, as she did every year, to spend the summer among gardens and flowing water. And God is great: perhaps her thoughts would grow mild here and her love rise afresh. So he spurred his workmen on to paint doors and windows and to consruct little pavilions of brushwood. Also he ordered canaries from Smyrna and parrots from Alexandria to pass the time for Emine. This would soften her mood, he hoped.
But she reclined on soft cushions behind the lattice of the balcony on the street, drinking sherbet, chewing mastic and eyeing the passers-by. She made no distinction between Greeks and Turks, they were all men to her.
“What’s a Turk, a Christian or a Jew, Maria?” she asked her old nurse. “There are only two kinds of men old or young, white beards or black beards. I like the black ones.”
Every evening, as the sun sank and the alleys grew shadowy, a Greek with a large fez and jaunty boots walked back and forth, casting loving glances at the latticed balcony above.
“Who is that Greek, Maria? Where have I seen him?” Emine” asked the Moorish woman one day. “It seems to me as if I’d seen him in a dream.”
“He’s the one who roused you out of your faint, the day of the earthquake,” answered the Moorish woman. “Captain Polyxigis.”
“He looks handsome, by my soul. He has gaiety written in his face. He sways and stretches, and his boots creak. Listen, the poor man’s sighing like a calf.”
Emine laughed, and felt eager for him. She half closed her long-lashed eyes and smiled contentedly. I’ll do as I want, she thought. If I want, I’ll fetch him into my bed. If I want, I’ll leave him in the street, to wander about like a dog. Am I not a woman? I’ll do as I want.
One midnight, when the street was empty of people, Captain Polyxigis took up his position beneath the latticed balcony. The moon was shining, honeysuckle and jasmine were fragrant, and in Nuri’s garden the nightingale twittered a hopeless love-longing. From the harbor, the sea, too, sighed and moved its breast against the fortress wall.
Emine” could not sleep.
She was hot. She threw off her nightdress and peeped out, and saw in the moonlight a man, exhausted, leaning against the pillar of the street door. She recognized him at once. She laughed and nudged the Moorish woman, who was asleep, curled up like a hare.
“The poor thing,” she said giggling. “Come, have a look at him. He’s almost fainted, I think, and I ‘should love to go down and rouse him. The way he roused me! What do you think, Maria? Nuri Bey is at the estate.”
“Emine’i my child, it would be a great sin.” “For you,” retorted the hanum, “for you, because you’re a Christian. But I’m a Moslem. I’ve a different God and different laws. You eat pig’s flesh and are not defiled. But if you nibble at a strange man, you are defiled. With us it’s the other way round: pig’s flesh defiles us, a strange man doesn’t. Go, tell him to come up.”
“Emine, my child …” the Moorish woman pleaded, bewildered.
“See first if the Moor at the door is asleep.” “He’s asleep,” said Maria with a sigh. “I heard him snoring.”
“Is the dog tied up too? Go on, you silly hen, stop shivering. Show some zest … God made men and women for this, you poor creature! Ah, what a moon there is tonight, what a warm wind! The jasmine is in blossom, and the nightingale is mad. Go on, fetch him up. I’ve often thought: in winter a woman can be respectable, but in the spring… ?”
Leaning forward, Emine saw Captain Polyxigis still at Ms post, staring up at the lighted lattice. “I don’t care for Nuri, and Captain Michales is not to be had: this one here is good enough for me!” She reached for her comb and mirror, hastily tidied her hair, rubbed musk under her armpits and gave the nurse a push. “Go on, I tell you!”
Holding her head, the Moorish woman stumbled down the stairs.
Emine splashed the rest of the musk over her bosom and body. She stood up and pulled the lamp back behind the door. “I wanted another one,” she murmured, “but he is wild and unapproachable. Doesn’t matter, this one too suits me.”
She pricked up her ears. She heard the street door slowly open. The dog barked once, steps became audible in the yard, in the men’s part, on the stairs… . She leaned back on the cushions and started to put on her nightdress again. But she thought better of it and let the moon shine unhindered on her breasts and body. Boots
I queaked on the floor. The smell of a man came in and Emine’s nostrils quivered. She passed her tongue over her lips. Then she half closed her eyes and waited.
Captain Polyxigis now stood on the threshold. She gazed at him through her long lashes. He raised his hand to his eyes as though he were giddy; his heart was beating wildly. The Circassian flung her arms wide in the moonlight and lay back. As if this were the agreed signal, Captain Polyxigis bounded toward her and extinguished the lamp.
April was nearing its end, and filled with fear, the Christians entered Passion Week. In the whole of Christendom there was no people that shared so deeply, so bloodily, in so special a way, in the sufferings of Christ as the Cretans during these decades. In their hearts Christ and Crete were mingled, the sufferings of both were the same: the Jews crucified Christ and the Turks Crete. The Christians felt in themselves how the sufferings of Christ mounted from day to day, as they grew weak from watching and fasting, until in their hearts an angry accusation sought to vent itself. They eyed the Turks wildly, and only with difficulty could they restrain themselves from striking down the few Jewstinsmiths and moneychangerswho lived huddled in the Jews’ alley near the harbor. The Jews always bolted themselves in early during the sacred and dangerous time of Passion Week.
This time the atmosphere in Megalokastro was even more threatening than ever, for the Turks had not yet got over the injury done them by Captain Michales. At night they crowded to St. Menas’ church, where the Christians were mourning for Christ. They hurled curses and tried with noisy singing to insult and dishonor the Christians. The Christians waited hourly to know where, when and how the agas would strike. The subterranean excitement grew stronger and stronger.
So passed, in incense-burning, watching and fasting, the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of Holy Week. The’ evening hours were soft and blue. Violets bloomed in ll the courtyards; on Good Friday the girls would pick them, to place them along with the elder blossom and the last April roses on the cloth with the picture of the dead Christ. Immediately after sundown the Christians shut their shops, went home to their houses and rapidly at the meal prescribed for a time of fasting: baked beans, lettuce, raw artichokes, red fishes’ roes, olives and sesame soup. They paced around their yards, listening and waiting. St. Menas’ bell rang out, hesitant and mournful, in the raild twilight. The Christians crossed themselves, opened their doors and streamed, bowed down and silent, through the alleys of Megalokastro, to learn once more how God had suffered at the hands of men.
As the days of Passion Week went by, the excitement of the Cretans rose. On Maundy Thursday, as the reading of the twelve Gospel lessons began, and as the Metropolitan, Pope Manoles, and the Deacon in turn read, in harsh monotone voices, how Judas had betrayed Christ and how the Mohammedans of those days had begun to strike, mock and scourge Him, the people were affected as though they themselves were running breathlessly with Christ from Annas to Caiaphas and to Pilate, as Omer Vrioni had run to Mustapha Pasha and to the Sultan, to demand justice.
With growing impatience they managed to listen to the first seven lessons; then they rushed headlong out into the churchyard, where early that morning a Judas of daubed clouts and straw had been set up. They fell upon it with knives and burning torches, pierced it through and set it on fire. This relieved and cheered them all a little, so that they then went back into the church, to hear the remaining lessons.
On Good Friday morning the bells rang sorrowfully. Over the holy tomb in the middle of the church the cloth bearing the image of Christ was spread. The church doors stood wide open, and Christians went in and out.
In the churchyard stood Murzuflos, exhausted from watching and fasting. Round him stood Demetros, Kajabes, Vendusos, and Signor Paraskevas the barber. With ent heads they were all listening to the words of Murzuflos. He was telling them how yesterday the pasha had sent his Arab to the Metropolitan with the present of a hare. But the Metropolitan had been angry and had sent the hare back to the pasha with a message:
“We are fasting. The Jews have killed Christ, and we are mourning.”
“He should not have sent it back,” said Paraskevas. “That was an insult.”
“The pasha shouldn’t have sent it,” said Kajabes; “that was an insult. Doesn’t the dog know that we are in Passion Week?”
“It’s pure madness,” said Demetros with a sigh. “Are we now going to go against the pasha? Hit the egg with a stone and it goes to the devil. Hit the stone with the egg and again the egg goes to the devil. That’s what I think.”
During the holy days Captain Michales did not go to church with the crowds. He honored God and prayed to him, but could not abide the priests. His custom was to wait till the church emptied and the priest’s vestments ‘ women’s skirtswere out of the way. When the place was pure he would visit it and light his candle. But always on Maundy Thursday morning, whether consciously or not, he would come to church when the popes were still there, and receive Communion. He would cross himself, open his mouth and receive the body and blood of Christ. He would feel the great fire die down within him.
But this year, for the first time in his life, he did not go to Communion. He rode aimlessly into the countryside on his mare. He got as far as the estate of Nuri Bey, but stopped short and turned. He breathed in the sea air. As long as the evil spirit is in me, he said to himself again and again, breathing heavily, as long as the evil spirit stays in me, I won’t go to Communion.
There was no day in the year longer than Good Friday: it stretched over five afternoons, lost its way, stood still, took one step forward and two back and would not let evening come. The Christians, hungry from their fast, could feel themselves growing weak as they pas
sed the ragrant bakeries. The women went about their housework as though possessed. They cleaned the rooms. Great fires were kept going. The courtyards were freshly scrubbed. Hearts were expectant, they were waiting for the setting of the sun, and then for the merciful, dark blue night to rise up, fulfilling the cry: “Christ is risen!” Krasojorgis’ wife kept looking up at the sun and measuring the time. The star of blessing, it seemed, would never come forth in the sky. The smell of the chicken cooking and of the custard cakes which her son Andrikos had brought from Tulupanas’ bakery, made her nearly faint.
Penelope had been painting eggs since Maundy Thursday. They had turned out very well. Now she was gaily preparing the tripe soup in the kitchen. Mr. Demetros ran about at her orders with pots and pans, to and fro between house and bakery. “Up, my Demetros! Courage, my hero! This evening Christ rises; this evening I shall need you, my treasure! Are you listening? All this meat and these custard cakes must not be wasted.”
God granted Krasojorgis’ wife her prayer at last and made the sun go down. Easter smells spread over Megalokastro hi the dusk. The Christian quarters filled with loud gaiety. The women began to adorn themselves. Vangelio too dressed carefully and sat in the courtyard waiting for her brother. Would he come? Or not? Would he take her to the Easter service alone for the last time? Next year they would have Tityros with them.
Midnight drew near. The Christians went out into their yards and listened for the chimes to begin. Already Christ was stirring in His grave, already He was gathering His strength to heave the heavy stone aside. All Christians stood on tiptoe hi the courtyards and at their windows and waited. Only two in all Megalokastro were not with God in their thoughts. One of them, on this holy night, held a Circassian woman in his arms. The other sat upright on his bed in the dark and smoked one cigarette after another. Like a dog, his thoughts ran through the arrow alleys and stopped, barking, in front of a green door.
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