I should not have listened either to Greece or to the Metropolitan, he brooded. Captain Michales, that wild boar, has done the right thing! I too should have stayed there to die. What good is life to me now? I’d like to join him again.
He coiled the mouthpiece around the neck of the narghile and, sighing, stepped over the threshold. At that moment Manoles the pope passed by. His grease-spotted cassock was bellying in the wind. He had not stirred out of Megalokastro during the trouble. He had buried, baptized, censed people’s houses, filled his pockets and added more fat to his neck. Now he was bearing the sacred chalice and patten, while before him, somber and pale, Murzuflos paced, carrying a lighted lantern in the brightness of noon. Captain Polyxigis crossed himself. He had heard the sad news: the pope was on his way with the last sacrament for Captain Stefanes. On the return journey a shell fired by a Turkish patrol boat into his smuggler ship had torn off both his feet.
“God bless his soul,” he muttered. “He’s borne himself like a man.”
He was about to withdraw again into the half-darkness of his shop when he caught sight of Vendusos, wrapped in a rug and shivering with cold. He waved his hands and talked to himself as he walked. For two days he had been running through the streets as though haunted by some curse, and he could not come to a decision: Should he open his tavern and bring back his wife and daughters and engage once more in his old trade? Or should he throw everything to the winds and return to Captain Michales, to show him that he too was a man who would not let himself be knocked about and trampled on? Vendusos could not stop thinking of the captain’s parting words as he sent him with his message to the Metropolitan: “Good-by, Vendusos, you won’t come back. You’re Vendusos, I don’t ask anything of you, behave like a Vendusos if you wish!”
A thousand demons surrounded him. Now his honor demanded that he return to the mountain, to show Captain Michales how wrong he was; and now he remembered his wife, his two daughters and the tavern, and this sent him running down the mountainside again.
When he saw Captain Polyxigis on the threshold of the shop, he stopped. Halt! That was a mighty captain, and yet he’s put his tail between his legs and kept his mouth shut. Why? Because it was in the interest of Crete. Arid would you, you no-account Vendusos, think things out and act on your own? Come on, you idiot, leading in battle is heavy work, work for a palikar. But the leaders show themselves to be even more like palikars when they order the laying down of arms! Lay them down, then! Let’s have a talk with Polyxigis, to give ourselves courage. I’ve got children. Poor me, I must keep alive.
“Good day, captain,” he said, walking in. “I’ve come from the mountain. I have many greetings for you”
“Leave me in peace, the devil take you!” roared Captain Polyxigis. The sight of Vendusos moved him to wrath, because of his own shame. But this made Vendusos wild in turn. Indeed! This great lord thought he was to be knocked about and trampled on, did he? He would show him!
“I’m going back to the mountain. I’m not leaving my post. And if you’ve any message …”
He said it without thinking, simply to sting the other man.
“You’re going back to the mountain? You, Vendusos?” cried the captain with a disdainful laugh. “It’s madness!”
“Yes, it’s madness, captain. I know. But there’s no life without honor! Good day!”
Before Captain Polyxigis could find time to answer, he was gone. Suddenly he knew that he had made his decision: he was not going to flinch, he was going to put both captains, Michales and Polyxigis, to shame! And, if God granted, he would then look after his house and marry off his two daughters.
He walked quickly and came to the church of Saint Menas. He paid the saint a farewell visit and lighted a candle. The church was empty and warm and fragrant with incense. Saint Menas, sunburned, clad in silver from head to foot and mounted on his horse, smiled at him as though giving him his blessing. “A good journey to you, Vendusos,” he heard the saint say, “you are on the right track. Don’t worry. I will look after your wife and children. And I will find your daughters two good palikars. Good-by, Captain Vendusos!”
Heartened, he crossed himself and left the church. Then he heard people talking and caught sight, through the window of the Bishop’s Palace, of the fat, hairy face of the dwarf, Charilaos. What the devil was that receiver of stolen goods, that plunderer, doing in the Bishop’s Palace?
Vendusos could not know, naturally, what the wily Metropolitan was up to. The gnome was at the Residence by invitation. They were now drinking their coffee together, and this is what the Metropolitan had on his mind: The Christians who had fled to Athens and to the Piraeus were now returning, to find their houses devastated. The Turks had smashed chests, cupboards and chairs for firewood, and had even taken down the doors and burned them. Only the disfigured walls stared at the homecomers. The Metropolitan wanted to awaken some sense of honor in Charilaos and persuade him to lend money at favorable rates for the rebuilding of the ruined town. Charilaos had made thousands of pounds out of this rising, by keeping on the right side of the pasha. Also, in exchange for a bit of bread, he was raking in earrings, rings, necklaces of precious stones and ducats from the starving Christians. His coffers were brimming over with gold and jewels.
Now, over the coffee, the Metropolitan skillfully and with great urbanity brought the conversation around to God. What profit was it if a man should gain the whole world and lose his soul? Then he guided it furtherto the Motherland. How many patriots were immortal because they had sacrificed themselves for the Motherland! And such a sacrifice, it must not be forgotten, need not consist only in giving one’s lifeit could also be a sacrifice of money. Whoever gave his money would also be immortal and would earn the title of “patriot.” God would then open His records and inscribe in them the names of the patriots in golden letters; and, against each name, how many pounds had been given for the Christian cause.
The gnome drank his coffee sip by sip, smoked his cigarette and looked out through the window at the ruined houses and, above them and beyond, at the white-foaming sea. The Metropolitan’s words went in one ear and out the other. The cleric’s trying hard to get around me, he thought, blowing the smoke out through his nose, he wants to shame me in order to plunder my coffers. Ah, I’m sorry for him! I’m more than a match for his tricks! When he considered that the Metropolitan had come to the end of his beguiling arguments, he stubbed out his cigarette in the bronze cup and turned to him respectfully. His voice sounded subdued and sad.
“Your words are saintly, my lord. How many times have I not accused myself: ah, if only I were a proper man and could take a gun and offer my life for the Motherland! Or, since God has cursed me and made me a weakling, if at least I were rich enough to give my mite to the widows and help the Christian cause a little! God might then have mercy on me at the Last Judgment! But I’m ruined, my lord, I’m lost. My businesses aren’t going well, believe me, my lord, however much the people insult me as an exploiter of the poor. A widow comes, or an orphan, and brings me a little ring. I know perfectly well it’s worth sixpence, not more. And yet I give twice that for it, because my heart burns when I see misfortune. I’m ruining myself and I know it. But I’m human and I’m orry for them! I’ve sold a vineyard, an olive plantation, I’ve even had to mortgage the house I live in, my lord, God is my witness! That’s where the money comes from. What’s going to become of me? My kindness has devoured me, and when you invited me to the Bishop’s Palace my heart leaped with joy. God is merciful, then, I said to myself. He is just, and rewards fair dealing. The Bishop is summoning me, he has heard of my good deeds but also of my suffering. God has enlightened him, and he will grant me support out of the diocesan moneybags, to keep me from going to the bottom. I hear the communal fund is nice and full, thank God!”
The Metropolitan swallowed drily. That God-damned, avaricious monster! he thought. The sight of the dwarf became intolerable to him. He drank up his coffee with one gulp and fingered his rosary
nervously. Charilaos had been sitting cross-legged on the sofa. He now stood up on his small legs and rubbed his hands. “It’s cold,” he said. “What’s going to become of us without fuel, without warm clothing, without enough to eat, Bishop? I’ve been forced to sell all my hens. But for that, I’d have been able to swallow an egg every morning. That’s over, too. God have pity on us!”
Kissing the Metropolitan’s hand, he took his leave.
“Pray for us, too, my lord. With your leave, I’ll go now.” I don’t feel wellI must lie down.”
Out of the school streamed the children, bumping into each other, yelling and whistling. Tityros had kept them late today, because tomorrow the Christmas holidays were beginning, and so he had given them a last-day-of-term address. He was now a Tityros grown strong, filled out and sunburned. The peasant girl he had married was expecting a child, and the schoolmaster was beside himself with joy. It was a far cry from the days when everyone had pushed him to one side. Now he had the upper hand. Woe to his pupils who now tried to make fun of him!
Vendusos let the children run past. He scarcely recognized Tityros.
“Schoolmaster!” he called out to him, “you’ve been eating dragonwort and have turned into a dragon! I’m going back to the mountain,” he went on, proudly. “What message have you got for your brother?” Moved, Tityros pressed his hand. “Vendusos, you’re a palikar. Forgive me, I never noticed it all the time I’ve known you.”
“I wasn’t a palikar, ever, schoolmaster. But how can I help it? I’ve become one. Who sits with a blind man soon squints. Captain Michales is the cause.”
“I too am doing my duty. Tell him that. This is my way. Whole chains of Cretan children are hanging round my neck. I’m awakening Crete in them, to the best of my power. I left the mountain only to be useful to Crete. And that’s why he ought to come down. Tell him that.” “Don’t worry, I’ll tell him. But we shan’t come down. You mark my words! Good-by, schoolmaster!”
“Good old Vendusos,” Tityros answered, and watched him with admiration as he went out nimbly through the Hospital Gate.
When Charilaos left, the Metropolitan called his deacon. “I’m very tired, deacon. All the same, I must go to Archondula’sthe pasha will be there. We are going to meet again for the first time in months. He would not come to the Bishop’s Palace, I would not go to his konak, so we’ve agreed on Archondula’s house.”
“Shall I saddle the ass, since you’re tired, my lord?” asked the deacon, a stately, dark-haired peasant’s son whose voice rang like a bell. He was reputed to be formidably strong. A pillow could have been stuffed with the hair from his head and beard.
“You’re right, bless you. Get the ass. That horrible miser has made me weak.”
The deacon laid a rug over the ass, spread on top of that a cloth with a border woven in a design of cypresses and crosses, placed the beast close to a step and heaved the bishop’s heavy body onto-it.
The pasha, meanwhile, had been having a good meal he had gnawed every chicken bone clean and drunk a jugful of malvasia wine. Now he too called his Suleiman:
“Suleiman, you blockhead, I’ve got to go now and see the fat giaour parson, to show the Christians and Turks that the fighting’s over. Wolf and lamb have forgiven each other. Bring me my horse. It is not seemly that I should go on foot. And come with me. I’ve eaten too much and I’m sleepy. Hold me as we go through the streets, so that I don’t fall off!”
Just as he was about to mount the horse, there appeared before him, locked in a close embrace, the two seers of spirits, the two choice fools of Megalokastro, Barba Jannis and Efendina. The two were well away hi the seventh heaven, hooting and swaying and urging each other on.
Barba Jannis was celebrating. One of his granddaughters had borne a son, so now he was able to hold in his arms his first great-grandchilda sufficient ground for getting drunk. In his tipsiness he had remembered Efendina, and had summoned him. “Sit down, Efendina,” he had told him, “eat and drink.”
“Swear to me you won’t defile my faith,” said Efen-dinaV sniffing uneasily and greedily at the food on the table.
“I swear, Efendina. Have no fear. No pig’s flesh and no wine, I’ll drink that all myself.”
“Wine wouldn’t be so bad,” said Efendina. “I can drink that. Everybody drinks it.”
“I don’t want to have your reproaches on my head later on,” Barba Jannis persisted. “I’ll give you some salepi to drink.”
“No, no, salepi doesn’t agree with me, Barba Jannis. I’ll drink wine. It does no harm. Only pig’s flesh does any harm.”
They emptied a bottle between them and became happy.
“What do you think, Efendina?” said Barba Jannis. “Shall we do something?”
“Whatever you like, Barba Jannis. As long as I don’t have to cross any streets.”
“I’ll carry you over on my back. Don’t worry. Well then, listen: you’re a Turk, I’m a Christian. D’you want to kill me? There, take the knife, slaughter me!”
“No, by my faith,” shouted Efendina. “Put that knife away, Barba Jannis! You’re giving me a heart attack!”
“There! I don’t want to slaughter you .either. Shouldn’t all Turks and Christians be like us two? Live like brothers? Haven’t you seen how sometimes a bitch will give suck to a kitten among her puppies? Well, that’s how it is with Crete. What am I driving at? That the two of us should now go arm in arm to the pasha and say to him: ‘Here, look, Pasha Effendi, how Turks and Christians have made it up. Efendina is Turkey and I am Christendom. We’ve become brothers. Give us something to drink!’ And the pasha, who’s a good man, devil take him, will burst out laughing and call that Suleiman of his. ‘Serve them!’ he’ll say, ‘they have my blessing!’ And out of his cupboard he’ll take a decoration for each of us. Then we’ll bow to him and go off arm in armyou, Turkey, and I, Christendomacross Broad Street to the church to pray. And afterwards to the mosque to pray. And finally to Hussein Aga’s coffeehouse, where the Turkish youths sing and the spirit of man languishes happily. Understand, Efendina?”
“What about the gutters?” asked Efendina, as he broke out in a cold sweat.
“No fear, I tell you. I’ll carry you across on my back. I’ve learned to swim. Just wait while I arm myself.”
He took the scimitar from the wall and the tin decoration out of a kitchen drawer. It was a simple piece of tin, such as they hang on trees to keep off the evil eye.
“Forward!” he said, “in the name of Christ and Mohammed! Say the same, Efendina, you idiot, and then you’ll be all right.”
“But I must put Mohammed’s name first. Let’s be fair!”
“What’s it matter? Well, then?” “In the name of Mohammed and Christ,” said Efendina, and the two stepped over the threshold, right foot first.
In the street Efendina turned and said, “What do you think, Barba Jannis? Shall we go by Ah’ Aga’s and take the poor man with us too? He’s neither Turk nor Greek. He’s Turk and Greek, the one just as much as the other. So let’s take him with us, to be able to show the pasha all the nations.”
“Why not?” shouted Barba Jannis, who in his joy would have liked to give the whole world a kiss.
They reached Captain Michales’ quarter and knocked at Ali Aga’s low door. Wooden clogs rattled in the yard.
“Who’s there?” said a high little voice.
“Two friends, Ali Aga. Open!” shouted Barba Jannis. “We’ve come to bring you luck.”
“I’m afraid, children. Go about your businesswhat friends?”
“It’s me, Ali Aga,” Efendina announced himself. “Efendina Horsedung.”
The little door opened. The old man was all creased and shriveled. Since the flight of his Christian neighbors he had ventured nowhere. Christians mistrusted him, and Turks would have none of him. Every morning he went intd.the fields and gathered a few leeks, which he ate with oil. He knitted stockings and hawked them, limping. And he waited for men to acquire reason and for his neigh
bors to come home. Then there would once more be evening visits, with titbits to eat.
Barba Jannis saw how Ali Aga had fallen in the world, and suddenly he felt very fond of this Turk, whose misery frightened him.
“What’s the matter with you, Ali Aga?” he asked, and fell into his arms.
“I’m old, Barba Jannis. I can’t bend down any longer. … I can’t shake it off.”
“Are you coming with us to the pasha?” asked Efendina.
“To the pasha?” cried the old man, terrified. “What should I do there? I don’t go anywhere.”
“It’s in your interest, Ali Aga,” Barba Jannis explained. “You’ll get a decoration.”
“For the love of God, go about your business and leave me alone!” screamed the old man, slamming the door.
“Leave him, Efendina,” said Barba Jannis, no longer interested. “He’s only a bit of dead meat. Let’s get on!”
They reached the main square and went in through the pasha’s gate.
“Pasha Effendi,” they cried, as they saw him. “Stand and admire us!”
“What do you chicken brains want?” asked the pasha, laughing. “What sort of a masquerade is that?”
Efendina hitched up his sackcloth breeches, for the string had broken as usual, and Barba Jannis’ scimitar got between his legs so that he was riding astride it. The two advanced, and the representative of Christendom spoke first, solemnly:
“Pasha Effendi, think not that I am Barba Jannis the salepi vendor! I am Christendom. And that man there is not Efendina Horsedung; he is Turkey. We ate the weed of dissension and became enemies. Afterwards we ate honey and were reconciled. Now we are brothers, Pasha Effendi. Do you see? Crete is like a bitch that can give suck to puppies and kittens at the same time. Milk for all is there in plenty, do you see? Then concord, love, well-being and happiness! Today I’ve become a great-grandfather; up with reconciliation!”
Freedom or Death Page 45