There are peoples and individuals who call to God with prayers and tears or a disciplined, reasonable self-controlor even curse Him. The Cretans called to Him with guns. They stood before God’s door and fired rifle shots to make Him hear. “Insurrection!” bellowed the e could not think of his next move, once he had jumped down and penetrated into the garden.
Sweat broke out on his brow. He thrust his hand into his sash and fingered the knife-hilt. “The dog’s right,” he muttered, “one or other of us is one too many.”
As he gripped the knife and in spirit climbed over the high wall and slid down into the garden among the pots of flowers where the lamp with the red and green glass still burned, he heard above him, behind the wooden lattice, a laugh. At once the sweat poured in heavy drops from his brow, his neck and his shoulders. A light burst upon him, and he realized he was not breaking into that house to kill! A demon had got into him, a new, unsummoned one that had nothing in common with the demons of his stock. This one was scornful, shameless, fragrant with musk, and its face was, shame! a woman’s face.
“Aren’t you ashamed, Captain Michales?” he groaned. “What have you come to?”
He saw his forefathers raising their tombstones to curse him. He shrank back and clenched his fist. “Hey, grandfathers, stay in your holes in the earth! I’m alive, I’m in command, don’t shout!”
He wiped his brow with his headband and pulled himself together again. The mountains stood firm once more,’ the coast glittered, under his feet the river straightened and became a road again. Once more he remembered why he had ridden out to the Hospital Gate and where he was bound. He had given the Bey his word yesterday and must keep it. He meant to go and see his brother Manusakas at Ai-Janni.
To this small village, wide with gardens, an hour from the large village, Petrokefalo, where his family came from, fate had blown his brother Manusakas like a grain of seed, some years ago. He had taken root there and flourished. Now, as an oak has its branches and twigs, he had children and grandchildren sprouting all over the village and drawing nourishment from the soil.
One unforgettable day it was September fourteen in he year 1866Manusakas, sweeping along with his palikars in search of Turks, had stormed into Ai-Janni and found there, in a peasant’s house, a young woman with her hair down, keening. They had just slain her husband on the threshold. She was newly married and she was cursing God: He is unjust, He is no Christian, He loves the Turks. Manusakas, who was forty and had lost his wife two years before, gazed at the young widow, and his heart was lost. He left his palikars to rest and feed in the yard, and himself went into the house, a powder-blackened, long-haired savage. When the widow saw him, she was terrified. “Holy God!” she shrieked, and hid her face in her lap.
But he did his best to look gentle and approached her. “Weep, woman,” he said, “weep yourself out and lighten your heart. I too had a wife, and those dogs of Turks killed her. I too yelled and shed tears and lightened my heart.”
He squatted down close by her; he watched how she struck herself and howled; he waited. He stared at her and his heart shuddered with longing. Ah, if only he could seize her and clasp her in his arms! So, with her neck bare, hot and convulsed as she was with the keening never had Manusakas felt such a yearning for a woman. He laid a hand warily and softly on her shoulder.
“That’s enough,” he said to her tenderly, “that’s enough. You’ll destroy those eyes of yours, woman. Aren’t you sorry for them? Lovelier ones, by my soul, the world never brought forth. And remember, I’ve been about the world I, Captain Manusakas, now kneeling before you. I won’t boast to you, but you can ask anywhere from Kissamos to Sitia, and they’ll tell you who I am.”
He fell silent. He was afraid a word too many might escape him and the widow be terrified again. But he could not bear it. He drew still closer, bent over her and began to tell, in a soft singsong voice, of the things he had seen and suffered, how many widows and orphans were left in the same anguish as she, how many streams f tears had been shed, from one end of Crete to the other. These were the trials of Crete; and whoever was born a Cretan had to know them and must not flinch.
Slowly the widow raised her head. She longed to hear of the trials and sufferings of the world, and it consoled her. She wiped her eyes, cleared her throat, and began in her turn to tell how they had killed her husband; and raising her hand, she pointed at the blood, which was still on the threshold. She meant never to wash it off, she said, so as to have it before her eyes, to think of it and bewail it.
And he touched her gently very gently now on the shoulder, now on her hair, now on her knee, and said to her, “You’re right, woman. I too did the same for my dear one. They murdered her in my yard, for revenge, because she had a leader for a husband. The yard was full of blood, but the rain came and washed the blood away. The stones were again white.”
He sighed and bent over the widow. “The soul of man, too, is like stone, woman. Slowly, slowly, the blood will be washed away all will be forgotten.”
As he saw that the woman grew angry at such words, he took his warm cloak, which reeked of powder, and placed it around her shoulders. “It’s turned cold,” he said. “Don’t catch cold.”
And, she looked and felt ashamed, as though a man had placed himself on top of her. She wanted to throw off the cloak, but she was afraid to hurt him. She bent forward and felt, at first with shuddering, but gradually with sweet agitation, a warm male smell arise from the woolen cloth and stealthily penetrate her body, from her shoulders to her back, her thighs, her flesh. … She thought of her husband, his first embraces, his arms, and how softly and supplicatingly they had held her body on the first night… . She grew warm under the cloak and found a little comfort. She felt the man’s breath upon her, panting violently. A sweet sympathy overcame her. She turned to him.
“I can’t get you anything to eat,” she said, “and you must be hungry. You’re straight from the fighting. But those dogs of Turks have robbed all my stores.”
“I don’t want anything to eat, woman,” he answered. “God forbid! How should I eat and let you go hungry? Either you have courage, and we eat together, or by God in Whom I believe, I die of hunger with you.”
He dreaded lest too strong a word might have escaped him. He coughed and could not think how to put it right again.
“Don’t be angry with me,” he said, “for speaking to you so boldly. But what am I to say to you? How am I to say it? You won’t believe me!”
He sighed again. He began to roll a cigarette, but gave it up. He was bewildered and at a loss. The widow raised her long tear-wet eyelashes and gazed at him. She wanted to question him, but was afraid. She longed to hear what he would say, but was ashamed.
“It’s shameful,” Manusakas began again, “but I can’t hold out against it. I’m going to tell you the whole truth honestly. Don’t take it amiss, for God’s sake! If I’m lying, may God hurry with His lightning and burn me up! As soon as I came in here and saw you weeping, a knife went through my heart. I’m telling you the truth, woman, I was undone never in the world have I seen such beauty! I mean well. Don’t be angry. Don’t get up and run away. There, I’m not touching you. Listen, though, to what I’ve got to say: your dear husband is dead; he’s gone. My dear wife is dead; she’s gone. Both of us are left alone in the world. Come and let me look after you.”
The little widow cried out, reeled, and sank on her knees. Her teeth were chattering; she was trembling. Manusakas rose and went to the door, to leave the woman alone for a moment and give her the chance to pull herself together. He saw his palikars stretched out in the yard; they had opened their sacks and were eating. Beyond the yard he saw the fertile fields, the fruit-laden olive trees, and the windmills turning and creaking peacefully. “I’ll strike root here,” he muttered, his mind made p. “This soil is good and fruitful, and I like it. The widow, too, is good and fruitful: she’ll bear strong children, I like her. By the all-seeing sun above me, no, I’ll not stir from here
!”
When he went back to see how the young widow was, he found her with her bodice laced and her hah tidy. She had bitten her lips and licked them to make them red. She was still wearing the warm cloak.
“Captain Manusakas,” she said cunningly, rolling her eyes, “what you said was not proper, forgive my saying so. And if it’s true, it’s a great sin. The blood of my dear husband is still warm on the threshold.” Manusakas sighed. He paced up and down. “If only I had a bit of bread,” he said at last, renouncing the conversation, “and a mouthful of wine! And if you wouldn’t mind, woman I can’t do it myself sewing on this button that’s hanging loose on my waistcoat.”
The widow said nothing; she was sorry for the man. She found her needle and threaded it, and the man knelt down in front of her. She wiped her eyes, to see better. Then she began sewing the button on tight. As she sewed, she could feel the heart of Manusakas beating hard within his waistcoat and his fiery breath upon her knees.
She was ashamed, sewed hurriedly and stood up. She opened the chest. It wasn’t true, she said, the Turks hadn’t stolen everything. She took out a woven tablecloth and spread it on a table. It was snow-white and lighted up the house. Then she started a fire and began cooking. Manusakas lighted a cigar and, taking a footstool, sat down at the threshold, as though he were the man of the house. He looked out but his ears were attentive to the sounds inside the house. He heard the woman busily going up and down, poking the fire, cooking the food, getting knives and forks and plates and laying the table. … He heard, and his heart rejoiced. Never had he felt so comfortable, so hungry, so patient. He knew now, he was sure: this young powder-stained widow, now cooking for him and with whom in a moment he would sit down to a meal, would, after the prescribed period of mourning for the dead, share food and bed with him for life.
That was how Manusakas won his Christinia and struck root in her village. She fulfilled her promise and gave him children. She bore them by twins, and his yard became full. In due course he even had his first grandson and got drunk to celebrate. He hoisted his ass upon his shoulder and lugged it into the mosque of the big village at prayer time, late in the evening.
“He did right,” muttered Captain Michales. “I would have done the same the same and worse. But I’ve given my word, and I must keep it, even if he is older than I. I’m the head of the village.”
On the mountain slope, Petrokefalo showed in the distance, and farther up the defile, surrounded by green, An-Janni, Christinia’s village. He spurred the mare hard. She too recognized the village and whinnied and began galloping along the road.
Manusakas’ door stood open. Captain Michales ducked his head, rode in, and halted in the yard.
“Brother Manusakas,” he called. The whole family was seated indoors around the low table, eating. Manusakas was leaning against the wall and had hung the whip near him. Opposite him, with her legs crossed under her, sat his wife, Christinia, happy and grateful. She had got rather fatter, and her breasts sagged: she had suckled too many children. But her face still glowed like a rose in full bloom.
Manusakas heard his brother’s voice and sprang up. He came out into the yard.
“Welcome, brother,” he said, stretching out his huge hand. “The table’s laid, your sister-in-law loves you, get down.”
“I’m in a hurry,” said Captain Michales. “Shut the door. There’s something I must say to you.”
“Good news? Bad?”
“Depends how you take it. Shut the door, I tell you.”
Manusakas shut the house door, to keep his sons and daughters from hearing. He went over to his brother.
“Listen to what I’m saying, brother Manusakas,” Captain Michales said. “If you can’t carry your wine, don’t drink any.”
Manusakas’ face darkened. “Why do you say that to me?”
“God didn’t make the ass to ride men, but for men to ride. Understand?”
“I understand. Your blood brother, Nuri Bey, has been upset by it and has sent you to do his dirty work. Has it upset you too, on your own account, Captain Michales?” “I wasn’t upset. And don’t throw my words in my face. You know what I feel. But it’s no service to the Christian cause. The moment hasn’t come yet for us to raise the banner.”
But Manusakas had become angry. “When you get drunk and sing the Moscow Song, burst into the Turkish coffeehouses, insult beys and send them sprawling on the pavement, do you think of the Christian cause? And do you now come to me hi my own yard and play the schoolmaster?”
He bent down, picked up a stone, threw it to the ground violently, and gripped the reins of the mare. “What have you to say, Michales? Am I right? Don’t play Saint Onufrios with me!”
Captain Michales was silent. What was he to say? Manusakas was right. As soon as he himself got drunk, he gave no thought either to Crete or to Christendom. To the devil with sweet reasonableness! At those times he rode out on his mare, and the whole world seemed to him small and trifling, a nutshell, and he rode up and down and felt like trampling it under his mare’s hoofs. The devil take it!
“You don’t answer,” said Manusakas, looking hard at his brother, who frowned and stared up at the mountain. “You don’t answer. Now for what’s worrying you I can see what’s going round inside you. Make up your mind: youre a palikar, aren’t you? Make up your mind, I tell you. That is Crete’s destiny. Let me too have my revenge, and the world can go to blazes! At their feast of Bairam I’m going to take a mule over my shoulders and bring it into the mosque. There it can pray alongside the ass. They can kill me if they like.”
“I don’t care if they kill you, I care only if Crete is smashed.”
“Idiot, it won’t be smashed, have no fear. We men are smashed, but not Crete the immortal. Wait a minute,” he said, thoughtfully. “Brother,” he went on, “here’s the truth I’m telling you. I’m stifling hi this village, don’t you understand?” For a long while I didn’t understand it myself, but when I drink wine my mind clears, and my heart overflows like yours. I can’t go to Constantinople and kill the Sultan so let me work it off in my own way and prove myself a hero in my own small village.”
Captain Michales tugged at the rein and steered the mare toward the outer door. “Weigh what I’ve said to you, brother Manusakas,” he said, “weigh it well, when you’re alone. And do as God enlightens you. Do what’s best for Crete. I’ve nothing else to say to you. Farewell!”
“Get down, I tell you, have something to eat, don’t be in such a hurry. What demon’s after you? Stay in my house tonight. It’s big, thank God, there’s room for you. And see your nephews and Christinia, and my first grandson. I’m going to call him Lefteres(*The Free) so that he may see freedom.”
“Greet them all for me. I’m in a hurry.”
“Won’t you even ride into the village and visit our old father?”
“I haven’t time. I’m in a hurry, I tell you. Tomorrow morning, early, I’ve something to do. Health and happiness to you!”
“You’re an obstinate, pigheaded fellow. Whatever you get into your head to do, you do, and the world can go hang. All the best …”
Captain Michales spurred the mare, rode through the main door and galloped out onto the plain. He was happy. Manusakas had spoken well, had stood up to him well and like a man. But for his horror of sentiment, Captain Michales would have flung his arms round him. Yes, you’re right, Manusakas. Act on what you believe, the devil take it! Even if the water boils overt
He rode like lightning and came back to Megalokastro with his heart leaping. He had put his stock to the proof once more. And he found it as he would wish.
Noon was already past; the sun was beginning to sink. When the women of the quarter learned that Captain Michales would be absent all day, they gathered in his yard with their sewing, their spindles and their vegetables to be peeled: Penelope, Chrysanthe, Polyxigis’ sister, Krasjorgjs’ wife Katinitsa and Mastrapas’ wife, all in a Saturday-evening good humor. The week was at an end. Tomorrow meant
leisure, good food and plenty of society. Praise be to God, Who created Sundays.
“Have you heard the sad news, Aretusa, my dear?” began Katinitsa in a singsong voice. “Last night there were shouts and screams in the neighborhood, from Furogatos’ house. Furogatos was being beaten by his wife again/”
“Pity my Demetros hasn’t Furogatos’ mustache,” remarked Penelope. “Looking at it you feel deliciously afraid hes twirled it so tight, and the wax he uses makes it stay so stiff.”
“Why don’t they change places, I wonder? He ought to give his wife his mustache and put on her dress,” said Mastrapas’ wife the one who kept her husband tied by the ankles all night.
Miss Chrysanthe laughed. “Last night, about midnight,” she said, “he was yelling again, so loud that he brought all the neighbors to their feet. My brother was passing by and heard him. In the morning he went to see him. ‘Brother Furogatos,’ he said to him, ‘why do you let your wife slash you to ribbons? You never raise a hand to kick her into shape. You’re making all us men look like fools. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ And what do you think he answered? ‘I am ashamed, Captain Polyxigis, I am ashamed, but I en-j-j-j-joy it!’”
The women shook with laughter. Renio got up and brought the food and drink coffee, preserves and sesame biscuits. Just as she was serving them, lo and behold, over the threshold came their neighbor AH Aga with his stocking and knitting needles and with the green bag given him by Renio slung around his shoulders. He was bald without a single hair and he shone from much washing. His shabby many-times-darned shirt was shiny, his thin little legs in their clogs were shiny.
Katerina greeted him politely. “Welcome, All Aga,” she said, “dear neighbor. Come and get a cup of coffee.”
Freedom or Death Page 7
