The days went by. A strong south wind came from Arabia and flaked the walls of the houses. Noses, ears and mouths filled with thick, hot dust, whirled up by the wind. Megalokastro groaned as in a fever. At noon the dogs huddled in the shade, and the men and women gasped. They did not stir from their shops, where they fanned themselves with straw fans and gulped down cool sherbet. Barba Jannis was at his height of glory. He ran through the heat, selling the snow-cooled drink. The old man feared the fire of summer as little ps the frost of winter. His profit making cooled him in summer and warmed him in winter. And so he remained evenly tempered, all the year round. He neither left off his flannel in summer nor put on an overcoat in winter.
In the gardens the watermelons swelled to the point of ^ bursting. Every morning the gardeners brought mountains. of watermelons, gherkins and cucumbers to the main square near the great plane tree, and to the Three Vaults. The vine trellises were showing their first colored berries, and the first sour-sweet figs appeared in the market. The earth was exploding with fruitfulnesshow could the fruit dealers keep pace with it? Turks and Christians stood before the piles of fruit, and the vendors sang their wares full-throatedly. At evening they gave away what was left over, to the children, old men and destitute old women, who rushed up and collected what they could.
When the sun sank, the earth breathed. It grew cool, and tender shadows settled over Megalokastro. The, housewives sprinkled their yards and gathered now in one house, now in another, to gossip.
It was Sunday again. They were in the courtyard of Krasojorgis’ wife. While they were enjoying themselves, nibbling dainties and cracking jokes, Penelope rushed in wailing. She was pale, her eyes staring. She wore her patched and spotted house dress. All jumped up and led her to a chair. Krasojorgis’ wife gave her a drink of; cherry juice. She drank and moaned at the same time.
They asked what was wrong. Penelope swallowed what was left.
“Demetros … Demetros …” she cried.
“For God’s sake, is he ill?”
“He’s gone off.”
“Gone off? Where?”
“With his umbrella!”
“Where, my dear?”
“Into the mountains again.”
“But why, Penelope? What’s up with him?”
“Ah, I’m so worried! He ran out with his umbrella…. He’s run away from me once beforewith his umbrella that time too. During the 1878 rising.”
“Oh, that’s a bad sign! You mark what I say, my dears!” exclaimed Chrysanthe, slapping her knee. “That means another rising, God punish me if I’m lying!”
“Don’t say such a thing, my dear! May the devil’s ear be deaf.”
“God punish me if I’m lying!” Chrysanthe repeated. “How does the mouse get wind of an earthquake and escape? In the same way Demetros gets wind of the rising and runs out with his umbrella.”
“He has no money,” Penelope whispered. “And who’ll cook his meals for him, who’ll do his washing for him and his mending, and make his bed and cover him up at night? I know he’ll come back to me, like last time, with his breeches in holes!”
“Don’t make such a fuss, my dear,” said Krasojorgis’ wife, “I’m well on the way to being sick of my husband, with his cushions of fat.”
But Penelope was not consoled. She again opened her
[mouth to wail, but the mistress of the house popped a spoonful of halvah with almonds into it.
“What’s Captain Michales doing, neighbor?” she turned to Katerina quickly, to change the conversation. “For days and days I haven’t seen him.”
“Things are well with him, God be thanked,” replied the captain’s wife. “But he leaves the house at dawn and does not come home till night. How can you expect to see him?”
She sighed and fell silent.
And in truth things were well with Captain Michales. Only the world was too small for him, like a prison. He was rattling his chains. He rode over the fields as far as Nuri’s country house. When he saw it lying there among the olive trees and cypresses, his heart growled.
“Patience, patience, my heart, don’t be in too much of a hurry. Wait till he’s well,” he muttered, and turned away.
Every evening, late, Ali Aga came, covered with dust, from Nuri’s country house with his news. “Today he tried to get up, but the pain overcame him and he rolled back onto his bed.” … “Today he got up. His Moor supported him and guided him out to the yard. I stood in a corner behind the water trough and watched him. By my faith, Captain, I didn’t recognize him. He’s so pale, so thin! And where have those cheeks of his gone, and that ell kept mustache? His skin is full of furrows.” …“Today he came out into the yard without the Moor. He looked at me, and I went up to greet him. But he waved me awayhe didn’t want to speak.” … “Today the Moor got him onto his horse, and he went for a ride. The Moor ran behind, in case he should faint and fall from the saddle. And the horse went carefully, as if it understood everything!”
One evening, after days and weeks, Ali Aga came panting into Captain Michales’ shop, where the captain sat waiting in the dark.
“He’s well,” said the old man. “Today Mustapha Baba left the house. ‘You don’t need me any more, Nuri Bey,’ he told him, ‘the rest lies in Allah’s hands.’ And with that he went. The Bey rode out this afternoon without being accompanied by the Moor.”
“What does he look like? In his stride again?”
“He’s still pale, Captain. Yellow as a bit of lemon peel. Gloomy. Quiet. He doesn’t eat, the old nurse told me, he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t sleep. He’s always sighing. And yesterday, when the old woman asked him when Emine” Hanum was coming to the estate, he caught hold of the stair rail to prevent himself from falling. He nearly fainted. He looked at the old woman with staring eyes, .ť and did not answer.”
“You talk too much, Ali Aga.”
But Ali Aga stayed where he was. He wanted to say something more, but hesitated.
“Why are you scratching your head? Is there a piece of news you’re still keeping back?”
“They say, Captain–-” He broke off.
“Speak out, you blockhead! What do I pay you for?”
“They say the poor creature is maimed.”
“What do you mean?”
He lowered his voice still more.
“He’s no longer a man. And Emine Hanum has heard t
“Go!”
Ali Aga reeled back. Stumbling among the ships’ ables and paint pots, he found the way out and vanished.
Captain Michales started to his feet.
“That can’t be!” he shouted, rushing up and down in the darkness of the shop. “It isn’t possible!”
Biting his mustache convulsively he kept saying to himself again and again: “It can’t be! But supposing it is? Suppose it’s true? How can I take vengeance on a maimed man? What sort of vengeance is that? What does death mean to him?”
Suddenly he made a decision: I’ll go and see him myself!
He let a few more days elapse. The man must rest a bit longer, he thought, get back his strength. And one Sunday he mounted his mare. The plain lay in the blaze of summer, the vine trellises were heavy with clusters, the sky burned.
“Summer, vintage, war… .” he whispered. “Ah, Mother rich in sufferings!” Full of pity, his spirit embraced Crete. Crete was to him a living, warm creature with a speaking mouth and weeping eyes; a Crete that consisted not of rocks and clods and roots, but of thousands of forefathers who never died and who gathered, every Sunday, in the churches. Again and again they were filled with wrath, and in their graves they unfolded a proud banner and rushed with it into the mountains. And on the banner the undying Mother, bowed over it for years, had embroidered with their black and gray and snow-white hair the three undying words: FREEDOM OR DEATH.
Captain Michales’ eyes grew moist. When he was alone he was not ashamed of tears. “Luckless Mother!” he whispered. “Luckless Mother!”
Between the olive tree
s gleamed the Bey’s country house. Captain Michales put spurs to the mare.
The gate stood open. He rode through it. In the yard he dismounted and looked around. So many years ago,
There, in this yard, near this gnarled olive tree, the two of them had kneeled together, and their blood had flowed. They had had the choice between death and brotherhood: they had become brothers. And now that, after all those years, he was returning to that same yard, it looked as if God had repented and they must kill each other… .
A servant ran up and recognized him. “Welcome, Captain Michales,” he said. “Where is the Bey?” “Upstairs.”
“Go and tell him I’ve come and would like to see him.”
Nun’s stallion scented the mare and neighed to her. But the mare did not answer, for she was pregnant.
The servant came back. “The Bey says, welcome, Captain. Would you have the kindness to wait until he is dressed? Shall I give the mare some hay, Captain?” “No.”
The captain went to the fountain and took the brass cup down from its hook. He drank. There was an inscription in Turkish lettering around the rim of the cup, in which their blood had once mingled. On that evening Nuri Bey had translated it: “Raise thy head, O traveler, and drink. Even the hen raises her head when she drinks, and thanks God!”
‘The servant appeared. “Will you be so kind as to come in?” he said. “The Bey is waiting for you.”
Captain Michales pulled his black headband tighter, concealed the bone handle of his knife, and went in.
Nuri Bey was sitting on the divan, in a dim corner of the room, dressed up like a bridegroom. He knew for what purpose his guest had come, and was ashamed to appear before him pale and debilitated. He had put black pomade on his mustache and rouge on his cheeks. His eyelashes too had been colored with charcoal, to make his eyes brighter. He too had pushed his black-hilted dagger deeper down into his sash to make it invisible.
“Welcome, Captain Michales,” he said, stretching out his hand. But the other buried his hands deep in his belt; e would not touch the hand that had killed his brother. Nuri Bey, humiliated, leaned back.
Captain Michales remained standing. He was trying, in the half-dark, to measure the strength that remained to Nuri, and to weigh his words accordingly.
“Are you in such a hurry, Captain Michales, that you won’t sit down? And you’ve come all this way… .”
“Can’t you stand up, Nuri Bey?”. Captain Michales asked. “The business that has brought me to your house is not discussed on divans.”
“I know. Why do you remind rue, Captain Michales? Only don’t be in a hurry. Let us first drink a coffee, smoke a cigarette, and talk a little. And then what you want shall happen, Captain Michales.”
His voice was tired and full of bitterness.
“Right, Nuri Bey. Since you wish it, I won’t be in too much of a hurry,” said Captain Michales, and sat down opposite him. He looked intently into Nuri’s face, and involuntarily the Bey drew back still further into the shadows.
“You were wounded, Nuri Beythey say, severely… .”
“I’m very well, as before, Captain Michales. Don’t worry,” the Bey answered defiantly. “My bones are still where they ought to be.”
“I’m glad,” said Captain Michales.
The coffee came. Each rolled himself a cigarette, and they both sat in silence, with bent heads. He has come to kill me, to avenge his brother’s blood, reflected Nuri Bey, without excitement. He’s dressed in black, like Charos. Welcome to him! What good is life to me now? For me life and shame are one.
“Welcome,” he said suddenly. “Day in, day out, I have waited for you.”
“I have drunk the coffee you gave me and smoked the cigarette, Nuri Bey. We have nothing to talk to each other about. Stand up!”
“As you decide.” The Bey stood up with a great effort. He bit his pain down. Then he walked with a slight limp o the threshold of the courtyard, where the sunlight fell on him.
When Captain Michales saw him in the light, he drew back, appalled. So this was the handsome Nuri Bey, the moon countenance, the lion of Turkey? His cheeks were hollow, his eyes dim; his underlip receded, shrinking as though from a perpetual pain. Beneath the rouge and the pomade Captain Michales discerned the complexion of death. He frowned. How could he fight with this cripple? What a dishonor!
“Nuri Bey,” he said, “you’re still not right, are you?”
“Do I look pale to you? A cripple? Come! On the threshing floor the truth will appear.”
With trembling knees he limped on. In the middle of the yard he turned. Captain Michales was still standing at the threshold and watching him.
A chill overcame Nuri Bey. The giaour sees through me, he thought. He is refusing me. The Bey tried in vain to speak strongly. His voice remained plaintive.
“Captain Michales, how long I have been waiting for you! For no one else, all this time. Only for you. And now that you’ve come, do you mean to go away?”
Captain Michales said nothing. His feeling of pity grew stronger.
“.‘Why do you keep looking at me? The illness has devoured my cheeks, but my strength remains. Don’t listen to people’s gossip, Captain Michales. My strength is as before. Come with me.”
Captain Michales did not move.
“Shall I have my stallion brought, so that you may see how I ride? Shall I fire my pistols at a target? Draw a circleI’ll shoot at it. Come with me to the threshing floor. There we,shall see who is a man.”
He pushed his headband to one side and laid his hand challengingly on his sash. But a cold sweat trickled from his forehead and his belly hurt. Captain Michales’ heart was full of pity.
“Nuri Bey,” he said calmly. “Speaking loudly is a strain for you. Come inside.”
Nuri Bey crumpled. Two heavy tears rolled from his eyes. He turned toward the outer door, to hide his pain. He’s sorry for me, he thought, so low have I sunk. Nuri Bey, you move men with nothing but pity now.
“Let’s go indoors,” Captain Michales insisted. “Another time …”
Nuri Bey ceased to pretend. With a despairing look at his swarthy guest he whispered, to avoid being heard by the servants: “Captain Michales, you came to kill me. Why don’t you kill me?”
“Let’s go indoors, Nuri Bey. We can be heard here.” He approached the Bey, took him by the arm, and felt the weakened body shudder. Nuri made no resistance and followed, hobbling. As he did so, he moaned, “You are my blood brother, don’t forget. In this house of misfortune we mingled our blood. I beg you for one favor: kill me.”
“Don’t be angry with me, Nuri Bey. Some other day …” replied Captain Michales.
“You’re sorry for me?” The Bey sat down again on the divan, in the shadowy corner. He asked once more: “You’re sorry for me?”
But Captain Michales made no answer. He could bear this shape of woe no more. It was driving him away. What business had he in this Turkish konak? With this poor creature he had no account to settle. What could death mean to him?
He stood up. The sun was already sinking. “Nuri Bey, good-by. I’m going.” The Bey’s hoarse voice now sounded as though it came from a great distance. He said doubtfully, “You’re right, Captain Michales. God guard you.”
Captain Michales watched this man and thought of how handsome he had been, of his heroic bearing, of the sparks his horse used to strike from the roadway, and of his breeding.
“Captain Michales,” came the unearthly voice again, “if ever I was a man once upon a tune, give me your hand. If I was not, farewell.”
Captain Michales stretched out his hand and softly, so as not to hurt it, gripped the other’s hand.
“God guard you, Nuri,” he said.
“Perhaps this means good-by forever, Captain Michales. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I understand,” he answered, and stepped over the threshold. And Captain Michales, the wild boar, suddenly felt a painful cramp in the back of his neck.
Nuri
Bey waited, crouched on the corner of the divan. He listened to the hoofs of Captain Michales’ mare trampling over the stones. Then all was silent. The rays of the setting sun penetrated the room turning the walls golden. Soon they vanished, and the walls darkened.
He glided slowly from the divan and went to the mirror. Before it he washed with musk soap, changed his shirt and sprinkled the whole of a small bottle of lavender water over himself. He took a long time combing his hair. Then he went out to the stable and with long, delicate movements stroked the beloved horse from the fine, pointed ears to the slender legs. The stallion bent its neck down and passed its mouth caressingly over its master’s head and neck. It neighed joyfully.
“Farewell, my child,” the Bey murmured, in tears.
He went up to his bedroom, took a sheet of paper, and wrote: “When I am dead, I wish you to kill my horse over my grave.” He placed his seal underneath.
He sank on his knees on the ancient Anatolian carpet on which his father, seven times a day, had made his devotions, facing toward Mecca. He looked through the open window at the starry sky. A strong wind had sprung up. The dog in the stable was barking. In the far distance he heard the song of a passing wagoner, calling with longing to his wife. Nuri Bey thought of Emine, closed his eyes and sighed.
“Treacherous world, farewell!” he whispered. From his sash he pulled the black-hilted knife, raised it high in the air, and with all his strength plunged it into his heart.
CHAPTER 7
EARLY NEXT DAY, when the Kanea gate was thrown open, the dark news entered the town: Nuri Bey had been found dead in his country house! In the Turkish coffeehouses the agas hummed like swarms of wasps. Some affirmed at the tops of their voices that the Greeks had murdered him, others said it was a case of suicide. The news had deprived thejnuezzin in the mosque of coherent speech. Foaming at the mouth, all he could do was to stammer confused words: “Massacre!” “Giaour!” “Mohammed!” The Greeks left their work in the lurch and took counsel secretly by twos and threes in their houses.
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