It was as if my excellent host had disappeared. No morning coffee on a silver tray awaited me in the drawing room. So well-treated the evening before, I was surprised by this negligence. Had my good monk forgotten me? Several times during the night he must have crept up to the door of my room to check I was sleeping piously. From the moans from my bed he had guessed I had given myself up to lust; from the whispering, that one of his colleagues was visiting me rather late. Furious, upset, perhaps jealous, he had discreetly withdrawn, leaving me to coarse pleasures. His disappearance into the depths of Chilandari this morning was the mark of his disapproval. The absence of coffee was a reflection of my unworthiness. From now on I would be ignored. There was nothing for me to do but leave. And to convince me, as if that were necessary, he took me for a lout: the portrait of his dear Lord Byron, that distinguished, handsome young man, had been taken down ... I no longer deserved to see the liberator of the Greeks! Rejoicing at this ridiculous notion, I went down cheerfully to the courtyard, through the postern gate, and out to look at the gardens.
Immediately on my left, a low stone wall overlooked some stables and pretty vegetable plots. At the bottom of a valley a line of poplars followed the course of a stream that flowed down from the densely wooded, rich green hills that surrounded us. Eagles soared overhead. A young cat, which was playing on the flagstones, rubbed itself against my legs. Liking nothing so much as little black cats, I took it in my arms. Mule-drivers passed by. I touched its backbone. It purred with pleasure; for with cats, unlike boys, there is no dishonour in wanting caresses. Suddenly leaving my arms, it leapt gracefully onto a roof, ventured onto some rickety vine trellises, almost fell into the bunches of grapes, maddened some bees, and slid down a pole. A staircase led to a little house built up against the stables; a cat-flap seemed familiar to it, and it slipped through and disappeared. But two green eyes were soon watching me closely from the opening.
Knowing that on Athos there are only spells, calls and enchantments, I also headed for the little white-painted house. I pushed open a wooden gate. A steep ramp, paved with round stones, led down to old stables whose door stood wide-open, I could see a long line of mangers leading away towards mysterious piles of hay. Once, a hundred mules had been housed here. At that moment, two unsaddled animals, tied to iron rings and attacked by horseflies, were pawing the ground with their hoofs. A violent smell of dung, urine, sweat and straw mingled with the scent of leather from whips, tethers, stirrup-leathers and reins, bound together in bundles on hooks securely fastened to the walls. It would have put the most virtuous of archangels in heat.
I went up the steps and knocked at the door. It was opened: it was a bar. A narrow whitewashed room, a few tables, some chairs; a stove in one corner. Three mule-drivers were drinking raki, talking about it in low voices, as is only right and proper when you are a mule-driver on the Holy Mountain. The mule-drivers of Athos: a collection of thieves, widowers and deceived husbands; all of them rabble and good company. I had met more than one of them at bends in the road. Wearing old caps and ragged clothes, in espadrilles or barefoot, poor as Job, and good men by the way, they went into the forests with their beasts to look for wood. They repaired roofs; more often they wandered idly, their only occupation playing discreetly with their manhood through a hole in a trouser pocket. I was given a warm welcome and asked to stay for a while. One of them, half-innkeeper, half mule-driver, put a metal pot on the stove. With its long iron handle he could hold it on of the glowing coals. An exquisite smell of boiling coffee spread through the room. I was offered raki and cigarettes. Soon I was given delicious coffee. The cat jumped onto my lap and, charmingly, butted me gently in the face. People wanted to know who I was. I didn’t know. I was studied: with my features, my bearing, I could only be German! More than me they had held on to the memory of the present century, and had some idea of their own identity. The innkeeper was a widower, another was just an old thief and didn’t hide the fact. That is how I found out, by chatting with them, that it was June in the year 1954, that they were Greeks, and that they hired out mules.
I told them about my plan to go up the mountain. I questioned them at length, for their knowledge of the paths could be invaluable to me. What roads, what routes through the jungle must I take to reach the bright marble peak that could just be seen beyond the hills? My question surprised them. They could not give me any useful information. They did not like my insistence. None of them had been up to the high slopes, nor had they seen the immaculate block of stone from close up. They only knew the lower forests, from which they brought back loads of scented wood for the kitchen stoves. To a man they advised me not to attempt the climb. Just beyond a builder’s yard, where one of them had once spent all summer cutting beams, were mysterious cedar woods about which it was best to say nothing. Saintly hermits lived right up high on the mountain; they were not unaware of this, but they had never felt the desire to meet any of them. The summit of Athos: these simple people preferred not to talk about it. They respected it as having been a holy place from time immemorial—holy even before Christ, before the Virgin—without wanting to go there. It was none of their business. And anyway, the jungle was dangerous. The night before, jackals had dared to come right into our gardens. Bulls wandered in the woods, spent the winter in caves and, driven mad by the rut, attacked passers-by. There were wild boars, snakes and deer everywhere. It was best not to move away from the sea. But since I would not budge in my resolve to reach the block of bright marble, one of the mule-drivers stood up and took a coloured map of Athos down from the wall. Pushing aside the glasses, he spread it out on the table.
Athos: a peninsula about sixty kilometres long and bizarrely shaped. I had gone much too far north. I had to come back towards Kariés, towards the south. Beyond Koutloumousiou and the Great Lavra, paths led off into the mountains. They advised me to get to the west coast quickly, via Zografos and Konstamonitou. I asked them to make me a present of the map, which they gladly did.
They reminded me that they hired out mules: did I have any money on me? My pockets were empty; they were disappointed.
More coffee was served. Tired of my questions about the bright marble peak, they went back to their usual talk with pleasure. Several glasses of raki loosened tongues that were only waiting to speak. According to the mule-drivers, the monks were nothing but old lay-abouts who offloaded all the hard work on to them; hoarse old billy goats, completely broken, completely crippled, and singing out of key; greybeards and old misers. The sudden arrival of a young, sixteen-year-old mule-driver, who walked into the inn without knocking, as though it were his home, silenced the tongues. The adolescent had a twenty-drachma note in his hand, and wanted two bottles of oil. He threw the note on the table, took the bottles he was handed respectfully, and went away ... closing the door behind him with a skilful flick of the heel. The mule-drivers finished their raki.We were about to take our leave of each other. They were warning me one last time about the danger of venturing too high on my own into the forest, when the adolescent came back and asked me courteously to follow him. This time he was holding a hundred-drachma note. He bought bread, raki, courgettes and cucumbers. While the innkeeper was counting out his change, the youth, with a gentle hand, lovingly stroked the cat, which was purring with sensual pleasure under the table. He put the coins in his pocket, gave the animal a final caress and a heavenly smile. We went out together, our arms laden with delicious provisions.
We went back into Chilandari. Straight away, we took a dilapidated spiral staircase which led us up beneath the roof. This part of the monastery was the oldest, and the most dirty At the sound of our footsteps a door opened at the far end of a corridor. And who did I see? My guest from the night before! He came towards us, hugged me, relieved me of the courgettes and the cucumbers which I was holding to my heart, and which excessive demonstrations of friendship threatened to crush; and everyone knows that a crushed cucumber is of no use on the Holy Mountain! He asked me to come into his room, where
two places had been laid on a very wobbly pedestal table. He introduced me to the adolescent: his name was Gregorio. He drew water, acted as cook, swept the floor and fetched the groceries. “Having spotted you at the inn with the mule-drivers,” he told me immediately “I sent the child back, instructing him to tell you I would be very honoured to receive you at my modest table.”
This fine phrase over with, the poor man, not knowing what else to say, showed me his ‘apartment’, while the said Gregorio danced from one foot to the other, avoiding my gaze. The apartment consisted of only one room. It was furnished with a divan, a cane chair, a mat where Gregorio slept, a chest with numerous locks, an armchair upholstered in yellow velvet and the pedestal table where our knives and forks were set out. Above a narrow window with its broken panes replaced by sheets of oiled paper, stood a paraffin heater on a small wooden plank, along with a bundle of books, a copper bed-warmer and a recent icon showing a pink, insipid Saint George elegantly piercing a friendly dragon with his lance.
A wooden balcony covered with old boards served as a kitchen, and had a view of the countryside where the cicadas sang. Cucumbers and empty bottles were arranged neatly along the edge of this charming balcony, decorated with carnations which grew as best they could in rusty tin cans. A blackbird was whistling in a cage hanging from a beam. Gregorio blew vigorously on the coals of a cast-iron brazier, where three eggs were sizzling in oil in a heavy frying pan. A bracket above his head was used to haul up heavy loads: wood, my host told me, indicating a pile of logs and a little hearth which I had not seen in the semi-darkness of the room.
We sat down to eat. The eggs were fresh, the lentil broth quite reasonable. Clearly I was going from one surprise to another, and was not wrong to believe in enchantments. The evening before, an air of virtue and a passing resemblance to Lord Byron had earned me an excellent supper. Now I owed a decent lunch to my excesses of the night! Gregorio ate standing up on the balcony, wiping out the frying pan with lots of bread, all the time watching me, still shyly, but already smiling. He was handsome, open and simple. He brought us coffee. My host put an arm round his waist. The adolescent let him do so with good grace. He drank the glass of raki his master handed him, and remained close beside us, not in the least embarrassed by the hand that lingered on his hip. I had been invited ... so we could talk about him. The poor orphan had never known his mother, and was the son of the widowed innkeeper. My old monk was proud of this fine boy. From one raki to the next he began to confide in me. He remembered very well having been married. Betrayed by his wife, he became a monk, and on Athos he found the most adorable of wives ... Gregorio said nothing to contradict him; blessed with a friendly nature, this strapping mule-driver’s boy never said no. My host, who had been married for a long time, still had fond memories. He got up heavily, opened the chest, and took out a white muslin dress which had belonged to his wife. It was exactly Gregorio’s size. By now well and truly drunk, he took the dress carefully in his big hands and held it up against the adolescent. The dress did indeed suit him. A charming Greek peasant woman’s dress. Serbian, Serbian! The old man was Serbian, and his runaway wife, a native of Novi Sad, had left him for a miller from Mare. He asked Gregorio to put on the dress. Gregorio, who drew water for him and never said no, took off his clothes. Naked, he put on the unfaithful wife’s dress and stood in the middle of the room. Staggering, the old man drew a curtain and plunged us into total darkness. He pushed me against Gregorio, sat down in an armchair, snored loudly and fell fast asleep. I took the adolescent in my arms. We stood in darkness in the middle of the room. The heat was stifling; it must have been noon; the cicadas were singing stridently in the woods. He gently leant his head in the hollow of my shoulder. My fingers made out fine, hard, round hips beneath the slightly rough muslin fabric. He gave me his lips. I drew Gregorio towards the mat and he did not say no.
Had I fallen asleep after lively pleasures? When I came to, Gregorio had disappeared. As for my host, waking badly from his siesta in a foul temper, furious at having thrown Gregorio into my arms, an ‘indulgence’ he now regarded as a deplorable weakness caused by drunkenness, he had only one wish: for me to leave as quickly as possible. I took the map of Athos out of my pocket and told him I wanted to reach the immaculate peak. The summit of Athos ... he thought about it occasionally. But he had long since given up the idea of joining the hermits on the Holy Mountain. He knew he would never leave Chilandari, where he had his habits, his apartment, his memories ... Gregorio. I had no memory, I was young and free. Perhaps I would reach the bright marble peak! He wished me success while pushing me politely towards the door.
The mule-drivers were sitting in the entrance to the monastery, in the shade of an archway, looking at the blue sky.
They pointed out the way to Zografos. I took a path lined by walls beyond which rose tall yew trees. The path became steps, then a track along the side of a steep slope, and went over rocks worn down by mules’ hoofs. There I made a first stop: already high up, I saw the sea and the Bay of Bulls. Chilandari was now no more than roofs, lost among the yews. I picked up my bag and threw it onto my shoulder. To reach the west coast I had to cross some rugged hills, a foretaste of the mountain. It was early afternoon, the heat was intense, and too much raki had taken the strength out of my legs. I was trickling with sweat, I was now no more than a beast struggling under a heavy load. The lace of one of my sandals broke. I sat down to repair it. Two metres away, coiled up in a bush, a large black snake was lying in wait for me. My blood had been boiling, but it turned to ice. I quickly slid over the stones to get away from the reptile, leaving my bag a few paces from its fangs.
It came out of the bush, uncoiled itself, went down to my bag and stopped, resting against it. For a long time we watched each other. With my knees and elbows rubbed raw, stretched out on the hot sharp stones, I was too frightened to feel any pain. Slowly I slid a few metres further down to protect myself from sudden attack. Once I was safer I calmed down. To continue on my route I had to drive the snake away and retrieve my bag. I threw pebbles at it. The big black snake reared up, hissing. A stone hit it right on the head. Getting to my feet I picked up a lump of shale, threw it and missed. But the impact of the large stone against the rock, and the sound of it rolling down through the undergrowth frightened the snake, and it disappeared into the grass.
Danger averted, my first concern was to find a stick. Armed with a makeshift staff I carried on climbing the track, beating the thickets. Each time I stopped, ever higher among the broom and the thorn bushes, I was able to make out an even vaster horizon of ocean, grey with mist under a cloudless sky. For thirty-odd kilometres the shape of the coastline stood out against the calm blue water. The might of the Greek summer accentuated the cicadas’ cries. As I approached the top of the hill, legs worn out with fatigue, the insects’ song was deafening. The heat from the stony ground was unbearable; but then I went into a wood.
Here the path forked. I looked at the map, which was little more than approximate and symbolic when it came to the precise direction of the paths. Which route through the undergrowth led to Zografos? I chose one as better, and soon left the shade of the trees to head into the thickest part of the long dry grass and chestnut saplings. In a clearing, about twenty bulls, whose black backs and horns were all I could see, were seeking the scanty shade of a few spiky trees. They seemed very placid. Nonetheless, I walked faster.
My track became a wide channel, a sort of trench hollowed deeply out of the dry, red earth. Now covered with thick foliage, it led down like a tunnel of greenery towards wild little valleys. I was expecting to see the first roofs of Zografos at any moment, when I heard the heavy galloping of a bull right behind me. The embankment was too high to get out of the way of a charge. I hurried, and so did the animal. The hard hoofs struck the ground rhythmically, stones crumbled under the beast’s weight. It was getting closer. Suddenly I saw it bearing down on me, horns lowered. The greenery formed an arch above my head; dropping my bag, I leapt
for a branch, climbed onto it, and settled myself in a tree that jutted out like a bridge over the gulley. The rutting beast passed beneath me, brushing me with its horns! Making an immediate u-turn it returned to the attack, roaring, eyes mad, its muzzle covered with foam. It was a four-year-old, heavy and powerful, black, nose hooked, horns bright. Seeing my bag, it trampled and gored it, snorting loudly. I was out of range of its blows, but none too sure about the strength of the tree to which I owed my safety. It was an old beech, uprooted by the wind, lying against younger trees that had stopped it from falling. Cracking noises worried me; it might collapse, hurling me onto the beast in heat which, for the moment, was ploughing the gulley with its hoofs, raising a cloud of red dust. I did not move from my branch. The dry earth reverberated under the weight of the bull, which came back to my bag and struck it with a mournful bellowing. The impact of the hoofs, the animal’s violent movements, its heaving breath, my bag filled with saucepans and metal tins, dragged, mistreated, trampled and thrown against the embankments, created a savage uproar muffled by the dense vegetation. Then suddenly the animal calmed down. It stood still as if stupid, tongue dangling down by my bag, its flanks covered in sweat, red with dust. All of a sudden it urinated; a great stream flowed onto the ground. Then, having quite forgotten me, the bull went away, climbed peacefully back up the ravine and returned to its own kind.
When it was a long way off I got down from my branch, thanking the old tree for its kindness. I owed it my life. Had it waited for years to save me from a bull’s charge, and then to die an eternal death in the jungle? No sooner had I set foot on the ground than it collapsed with a crash, blocking the gulley with its venerable trunk and a pile of dead branches. I picked up my bag, damaged by the bull, whose strong smell lingered. Trails of saliva spattered the embankments dented with deep hoof-prints, the air smelt of wild animal, dust and urine. I was going to leave; I went up to the tree, I pressed my lips against its old grey bark. I gave it a kiss of love, gratitude and eternal peace before abandoning it to the mystery of the forests of Athos.
A Journey to Mount Athos Page 7