He took a step forward and stretched out his short-fingered hand. “Don’t be angry with me, Captain Michales,” he said, “for bringing you to my house. It was necessary. You’ll see for yourself.”
Captain Michales growled and, without a word, followed the Bey to the men’s quarters. For a short moment he remained on the threshold, as though in angry thought. He cast a stolen glance backward. Nobody. The big lamp in front of the divan was lighted. There was a fire of coals burning in a large bronze brazier. In the hot atmosphere it gave out a smell of burned lemon peel. On a round table in one corner there stood a long-necked porcelain jug full of raki, two glasses and some sweetmeats.
They sat down close to each other on a small divan. Captain Michales was near the closed window which gave onto the garden. Nuri Bey took from his belt his dark iron tobacco box with a mother-of-pearl crescent in the middle. He opened it and held it out to his friend.
Captain Michales rolled a cigarette, and Nuri Bey did the same. They smoked. For some time they remained without speaking. The Bey cleared his throat. He did not know how to put the matter to prevent his guest from taking it amiss and losing his temper. He knew that he was not the man to let a fly run up and down his saber. And what he” had to say to him this evening was difficult.
“Shall we have a raid, Captain Michales? It’s a nice mature one. It’s made from lemons. I ordered it for you.”
“What have you to say to me, Nuri Bey?” asked Captain Michales, and held his hand over both glasses. He did not want to drink.
The Bey coughed and crushed his cigarette into the cinders in the brazier. As he bent his face over the burning coals it glowed copper-red.
“If I have to speak out,” he said, “don’t take it in bad part, Captain Michales.”
He waited a little for the dark Greek to say something and rouse his temper. But he kept silent. The Bey stood up, went to the door, opened his shirt at the neck, returned and sat down again. Suddenly the slippers he was wearing were too tight. He kicked them off and laced his naked soles on the ground. This refreshed him.
He turned to his dumb companion. His mind was now made up. He raised his hand to twirl his mustache, but let it fall again. Careful! The irascible captain might take that too in bad part.
“Your brother Manusakas,” he said, and sighed. “Your brother Manusakas, Captain Michales, scoffs at Turkey. The day before yesterday, March twenty-fifth, he was drunk again, hoisted an ass onto his back and went into the mosque to pray. I came in from the village and found all my people beside themselves. Your people were armed. There was serious trouble brewing. I’m telling you this, Captain Michales, so that you may not make a fuss later. It was my duty to tell you and yours to listen. Do as God directs you.”
“Pour out the drinks,” said Captain Michales. The Bey filled the glasses; the world smelled of lemons. “To your good health, Nuri Bey.” “And to yours,” Nuri Bey answered quietly, looking him in the eyes.
They clinked glasses.
Captain Michales stood up and brushed back the tassels of his headband. “Is that what you wanted to say . to me, Nuri Bey?” he asked. “Is that why you sent for me?”
“If you are Godfearing,” said the Bey, and caught him lightly by the belt, “don’t go. This is a spark, but it can cause a fire in which our village would burn up. Order your brother not to put our government to shame. We’re of the same village, the same soil. Sit down and let’s set this right.”
“My brother is older than Sixteen years older,” said Captain Michales. “He has children and grandchildren and years of discretion. He’s strong enough for seven What he wants to do he does. No words of mine would do any good.”
“You’re the captain of the village. People listen to your words.”
“Words are dear, Nuri Bey. They don’t easily get past my teeth.”
The Bey bit his lips, but his heart hardened. He examined Captain Michales, who had already got up and was looking at the door, ready to go out. This giaour comes of a savage, upstanding stock, the Bey thought, and my race has some old scores against him. Was it not Kostarosmay pitch defile his corpse his brother, who slew my father against a rock? I was still a mere child, and I possessed myself in patience till I should be ripe to take blood for blood. But I had no luck. The accursed man got himself killed at Arkadi blown sky-high. And his son was still a sapling; it would have been shameful to kill him. I waited for him to grow up. But as he was just growing a mustache, he escaped me. He went back, so they say, to the Franks to study… . When will he come back? My father’s blood cries out!
He stood up and placed himself in front of the door. Within him rage rose and sank. He did not know where to begin. Captain Michales’ tangled beard of prickles flashed in the soft glow from the lamp. He had taken an oath, it was said, not to cut it off till Crete should be free. Nuri Bey’s eyes sparkled with scorn. Let him wait for that, the giaour, if it doesn’t bore him. Let his beard flow down to his knees, to the ground. Let it lay hold of the earth and strike roots there, but Crete, no, it won’t see freedom! For twenty-five years we got ourselves killed in front of the Venetian walls of Megalokastro before it fell into our claws. We’re not letting it go, it’s not letting us go. It’s become part of our flesh.
Nuri Bey groaned. He thought of his father and of the Mussulmans who had met their death in the trenches around Megalokastro. Between him and Captain Michales a stream of blood rolled.
“Let the bellows rest, Nuri Bey!” Captain Michales said, raising a hand to push him out of the way and get to the door. “It’s no good puffing and blowing. What you want can’t be done.”
Nuri Bey was a strong man. He restrained his rage. wrestled, thrown each other, laughed, fought, made up. And one afternoon, when they were grown men, they had met, both of them on horseback, on this side of Nuri Bey’s estate, an hour from Megalokastro, quite close to the Cave of Pendevis. For a while they had ridden side by side in silence. Both were sullen, for hi those days Turks and Christians had been killed, Crete was again catching fire, the raias were again raising their heads.
They rode without a word. The famous Venetian walls came hi sight, blood red from the glow of the setting sun.
This dog, Captain Michales had thought. I can’t bear the sight of him any longer, the way he rides for fun through the Greek quarter and bewitches the women.
I can’t bear the giaour any longer, Nuri Bey had thought. Every time he’s drunk he comes out from his house on horseback and insults the Turks. Last year he caught me by the hips, lifted me up like a sack and tossed me onto the roof of his shop. People came thronging, placed a ladder for me to get down, and laughed at me.
Nuri Bey’s cheeks had burned. Angrily he had turned to Captain Michales and said, “Hey, Captain Michales, either I must finish you off, or you me. There’s no room for both of us in Megalokastro.”
“Choose the weapons, friend Nuri Bey! Shall I dismount so that we can start?”
Nuri Bey had not answered. His glance had rested on the Greek at his side, and his eyes had filled with that heroic figure. What a man! he had thought. What pride and what courage! He never says a superfluous word, he never boasts. He doesn’t quarrel with those beneath him. He knows no fraud. He has no respect even for death. Happy the man who has such an enemy!
At length he had opened his mouth: “Not so fast, Captain Michales. It would be a pity … I take back what I said. Yes, by my faith, neither my Mohammed nor your Christ wants that. You’re a good palikar (Young Warrior), I think, and so am I. We ought to mingle our blood, but hi a different way.”
“In a different way?”
“Become blood brothers.”
Captain Michales had spurred his mare and ridden on. His heart had swollen, risen to his throat. For a while all he could hear was the blood throbbing in his jugular vein. At length it had subsided and his brain cleared. A strange agitation had taken possession of him. Perhaps it was pleasure at the thought of mingling blood with this young Bey, brought up am
id the scent of musk, of no longer being obliged to kill him, of banishing the temptation which, every time he saw him, pushed the knife Into his fist.
The man was splendid, even if he was a Turk. The pride of Megalokastro, and nothing false about him. He was kindly, generous, noble, a man through and through. Curse him!
He had tugged at the reins. The mare had pulled up short. Nuri Bey had spurred his horse and drawn level with him.
“All right,” Captain Michales had said without looking at him.
They had ridden back without a word to the Bey’s estate. As they came into the courtyard a laborer had run up, taken the horses and led them to the stable. The Bey clapped his hands, and an old daily servant appeared and bowed.
“Kill a cock, the big one with all the feathers,” the Bey had ordered. “Get out some of the old wine. Yes, and get two beds ready spread the silk sheets on them. We’re eating and sleeping here tonight. Go and shut the gates.”
They had been left alone. They had knelt down, close together and facing each other under the hollow olive tree which, still heavy with blossom, stood in full glory in the middle of the courtyard. The sun had gone down; the evening star shone large and bright between the olive leaves.
Nuri Bey had risen, gone out and fetched from the well the bronze cup which hung there for travelers to drink from and bless the name of the builder of the well Hani All. Then he had sat down cross-legged on the ground.
“In the names of Mohammed and of Christ,” he had said, and pulled the knife out of his belt. Captain Michales had rolled the right sleeve of his jacket up high. The muscular arm had shown sunburned and firm. Nuri Bey had bent forward and with the knife’s tip slit a powerful vein which stood out from the flesh. Dark, hot blood had gushed out, and Nuri Bey had pushed the cup underneath. He let a finger’s breadth flow in. Then he had undone his white headband and tied it tight around the cut arm.
“Your turn, Captain Michales,” he had said. “In the names of Christ and Mohammed,” Captain Michales had said, and pulled out his knife. He slit the Bey’s stout white arm, and its rich blood flowed into the cup. Then Captain Michales had taken off his black head band and tied it tight around the Bey’s arm.
They had placed the cup between them and begun slowly mixing the blood with their knives without a word.
Evening had been well advanced. Smoke rose from the manor chimney: the laborers were at their meal hi their “quarters. The two men had wiped their knives in their hair and hidden them once more in their belts.
Nuri had seized the cup and raised it high: His voice had rung deep and solemn, suitable for an oath: “I drink to your health, Captain Michales, my blood brother! I swear yes, by Mohammed that I will never harm you, not with word and not with deed, whether hi war or in good times. Honor for honor, manhood for manhood, loyalty for loyalty! I have more than enough Greeks, you have more than enough Turks. Take your vengeance among them!”
So he had spoken, and pressed the cup to his lips. He had begun drinking the mingled blood slowly, drop by drop. He drank half of it. He had wiped his lips and offered the cup to Captain Michales.
And he had taken it in both palms: “I drink to your health, Nuri Bey, my blood brother! I swear yes, by Christ that I will never harm you, not with word, not with deed, whether in war or in good times. Honor for honor, manhood for manhood, loyalty for loyalty! I have more than enough Turks, you have more than enough Greeks. Take your vengeance among them!”
And he had drunk the blood to the bottom without a pause. …
Now Captain Michales opened the window and threw his cigarette out. It fell like a small red star into a pot of roses and was extinguished in the freshly sprinkled manure. He stood up. His face darkened. The Bey shrank back. He too stood up.
“I’ve not forgotten. That’s why one of us is still alive.”
Like a flash of lightning, that evening on the estate under the olive tree darted through his mind. The glad drinking bout with the old wine. The deep sleep in the ilk sheets …
Captain Michales took the bottle, filled his glass and drank. He filled it again and drank again. He sat down.
“Haven’t you a dwarf in your house?” he asked. “A karagios?(*A Jester) Call him and let him dance for us or play the drum or sing. If not, I shall explode.”
Nuri was glad. The rage was taking a good course; it would dip into raki and be smothered there. It must be conjured away!
His heart longed to do something big, something unheard of, for his blood brother, something that would surpass friendship and love, so that this gloomy, pitiless man might be a little tamed, a little cheered. He racked his brain, ransacked his house from top to bottom to find something for his blood brother. Old gold pieces out of the chest, silvered weapons off the walls, stuffs of fine wool and silk, casks from the cellar what should he give him? And suddenly his mind rose up to the wooden lattices; he found his costliest treasure, and laughed. which spread abroad as the hanom stepped forward to the corner where the Bey had prepared her place. She came past him; her eyes flashed and she looked at him. At that same second Captain Michales also raised his eyes. The two glances met and broke away at once, both of them wild.
The hanum sat down on the cushions and crossed her feet. “What darkness!” She giggled. She wanted to be seen.
Nuri Bey screwed the lamp wick higher. Light flooded the room, and the Circassian’s cheeks, hands and delicately arched, red-colored soles shone.
Captain Michales looked at her stealthily. But immediately he lowered his eyes, and two beads of his rosary cracked in his fist.
“Good evening, Captain Michales,” said the Turkish girl, and her nostrils trembled.
The voice came from the man’s throat hoarsely: “Good evening, Hanum Emine”. Excuse me.”
The hanum laughed. Far away in her own country the women worked with unveiled faces beside the men and rode astride their horses. There a man enjoyed a woman and a woman a man till they had had enough. But as a small child she had been taken away, and her father had sold her to an old pasha in Constantinople. Later this Cretan Bey had come and stolen her, and Emine had never managed to live with men and have enough of the atmosphere of men. And so her nostrils shuddered like those of a hungry animal every time she met a man.
All day long she crouched behind the wooden lattice and watched young lads go by, Turks and Christians, and her bosom hurt her. And when she went out walking, thickly swathed in her silken veils and with her nurse, the old Moorish woman, gliding behind her, she liked to go past the coffeehouses, which were full of men, or down to the harbor with its robust porters and boatmen, or through the fortress gates, where shaggy, unwashed sweating peasants came in. Then the Circassian would raw deep breaths; she could not have enough of the stench of men.
“By God’s love,” she had said one day, turning to her old nurse. “By God’s love, Maria, if they didn’t stink, I wouldn’t go running all over the place to see them.”
“See whom, my child?”
“Men. How did you manage when you were young?”
“I believed in Christ, my child,” said the old Moorish woman, and sighed.
She looked at Captain Michales in silence. After all, how often and with what pride had the Bey spoken of this man who now sat before her? What had she not heard of his heroic deeds, his drunkenness and wildness? Also that he would never say or listen to a word about women! And there he was now before her; her husband himself had brought him.
“Emine, mistress of my heart,” said Nuri Bey, “sing us a Circassian song for our pleasure, to make us forget the cares of the world. We are two men here. Have pity on us.”
The hanum giggled. She laid the mandolin on her lap, struck a couple of loud chords and threw back her head.
“What are you going to sing us, wife?” asked the Bey happily.
“You’ll see,” she answered.
The notes of the mandolin became faster. She swayed in the half-light like some wild beast, and drew a deep breath. And
suddenly there shot from her pulsing throat a fountain out of the bowels of the earth the woman’s voice. The house shook and Captain Michales’ temples were pierced. What an uproar there was! What ecstasy in his fists, his throat, his loins! The mountains laughed and the plains turned scarlet with Turkish soldiers. Over them stormed Captain Michales on Nuri’s charger, behind him thousands of Cretans in black headbands, before him no one. The villages shouted, the minarets snapped like felled cypresses, the blood rose as high as his horse’s belly. …
Captain Michales clutched his temples. The Circassian’s throat fell silent. Suddenly the world stood firm again. Crete was again there, and Megalokastro, and the Bey’s konak. The Bey too gazed at Emine and sighed and drank. The soul had forgotten its flight and gone back to prison.
For a while no one spoke. At last Emine stirred, stroking the mandolin on her knees. “That was an old Circassian song,” she said. “The men sing it when they ride out to war.”
Nuri got up. His knees trembled slightly. He walked over to his wife and raised his glass. “Your health, Emine,” he said. “Three things I was told by our muezzin, three things Mohammed Gods mercy be upon him! loved: sweet odors, women and song. You, my Emine’, bring us all three. May you live a thousand years a thousand, two thousand!”
He emptied his glass at one gulp, smacked his lips and turned to Captain Michales. “Drink, blood brother! You too drink to her health,” he said, and filled his glass for him.
But Captain Michales stuck two fingers into the over filled glass and pressed them apart, hard. The glass broke in two, and the raki spilled over the table.
“Enough,” he growled heavily, and his eyes grew troubled.
Emine’ gave a cry. She leaped up from the sofa and stared at Captain Michales with tears in her eyes. Never had she seen such strength in a man’s hand. She turned to her husband challengingly.
Freedom or Death Page 3
