Each morning at sunrise Efendina sat down in the courtyard with his legs crossed and placed on his knees a huge Koran. He swayed backward and forward until he as giddy, and then began intoning and howling. If it was cold, he would spring up, stretch out his arms, wag his head as low as his shoulders, dance like a dervish, whistle, spit, and stamp with his feet to get warm. Each noon, when his hunger became acute, he ran madly from one end of the yard to the other, wearing nothing but his turban and his sackcloth pants, puffing like a bellows and dripping with sweat. The neighbors would pass by and watch him through the latticed window which gave on the street. Some would laugh at him, others were sorry for him and called out, “In God’s name, Efendina, what’s the matter with you?” “I’ve flames inside me, neighbor,” he would answer, without pausing.
Whenever he gave the slip to his mother and got out into the open, the Greek children threw stones at him. Then he would run quickly on, and would try to jump across from one gutter to the other. But he could not. The street appeared to him like a river; he wanted to plunge in but dared not. He drew back trembling, unable to swim.
Captain Michales invited Efendina each time he had a drinking bout in preparation, for he liked to include this Turkish abortion. Efendina received the news with fear and eagerness. He would count the months that passed before Charitos came again to the teke and piped stealthily into his ear: “Greetings from my uncle Captain Michales, and will you, he says, please come to his cellar,”
All the year long he yearned for pork, white bread, sausage and wine. But the Prophet would not let him drink wine or eat pork. Nor would he let him look into the eyes of a woman. If ever this did happen, a trembling came over him, and one day, when an impudent young thing teased him and pretended to be in love with him, he fell to the ground and foamed at the mouth. One pleasure only remained to him in life, a sinful but very precious pleasure Captain Michales’ invitation, every six months, to drink wine, to eat pork and fill up his poor frame for the next six months.
“By my faith, Captain Michales, threaten me,” he would say to him, “hold a knife to my throat! Shout at me: ‘Guzzle pig’s flesh, swill wine, or I’ll kill you!’ Force me, Captain Michales, so I shan’t be sinning.” And so he would eat and drink and utter every blasphemy that he had bottled up during the past six months, because the Prophet forbade him to relieve himself by saying them.
Also he would betray what he knew about “his neighbor,” for so he called Saint Menas. Only a wall divided them, and he could hear him ride forth from his church every night. Then Efendina was frightened, buried his head in his pillow, and in the morning stole the oil from his grandfather’s lamp and secretly filled the lamp of the Christian Saint Menas.
Twice eight sixteen days in the year Efendina drank and blasphemed in Captain Michales’ cellar like a real man. Then his brain worked like clockwork, he carried no flame about in him and could jump across from pavement to pavement without fear. But the good days passed like a flash, and sainthood and martyrdom began again.
All last night he had been unable to sleep for joy. He had got up in the dark, slipped barefoot out into the courtyard, opened the door softly so that his mother might not hear, and darted out. He had kept close to the wall of AiMenas’, passed the Greek school and reached the mosque of Saint Catherine. There he stopped. A cold sweat dripped from him. Now he must cross to the other pavement, to take the turning toward Captain Michales’ house. He put one foot forward, but at once drew it back and began to tremble. That was not a street in front of him, but deep water whirling boulders and balks in its course and raging between the two pavements.
Efendina leaned against the wall, wiped the sweat away and gazed up and down the street. “Will nobody come by, will nobody come by Turk or Christian, or even a Jew and have pity on me?”
He waited, breathless. Over there, on the other foot-path, the wine, the pork, the sausages. Courage, my heart, jump over!
He began to run, but as he bent forward and saw the street he shrank back and clung to the wall once more.
Above him the minaret of Saint Catherine gleamed brightly. Sunlight was already falling on the steps, and over there Tulupanas’ oven was giving out a smell. From AiMenas’ there sounded sweet, sustained intonings.
“Will no Christian on his way to church pass this way and have mercy on me? Will nobody come by? Is the world deserted? What desert is this? I am lost!”
Suddenly he shuddered and cried, “Hey, Christians, help!”
The door opposite opened a high, ornate door with a heavy bronze knocker. Mr. Charilaos Liondarakes, the avaricious moneychanger, came out a dwarf with enormous buttocks, a wild beard and short hairy fingers. He had shoes with triple soles, a short coffee-colored overcoat and a walking stick with a silver handle in the form of a lion’s head. Mr. Charilaos Liondarakes belonged to an important Venetian family which had become Greek. His ancestors had had a lion on their banner and carved in relief on their palace.
He was on his way to church. He stared at Efendina and began laughing scornfully. He liked to see half-wits, lepers, blind men, beggars, and other unfortunates. It consoled him for his own appearance.
“Efendina,” he shouted across, “courage, you poor idiot! Jump!”
“Have you no faith in God, Mr. Charilaos?” the poor man cried. “By the day that’s above us, come nearer! Give me your hand, help me to get across! I want to go to Captain Michales’, and I can’t!”
A girl with full lips and a dark little face came out of the door. Mr. Charilaos was in the habit of making love to her and climbing on a footstool into her bed. One night she had given him a piece of advice: “Swallow a fresh egg, sir, every morning, on an empty stomach!
Bertodulos. On the high table the food steamed. The wine sparkled, dark red like blood, in large glasses.
Vendusos had placed his lyre on his knees. He held his ear close to it, and was twisting the pegs and tuning it. Bertodulos, wrapped in his cloak, trembling and happy under the protection of Furogatos, nibbled ceaselessly, Kajabes ate and drank; his thoughts were with his wife.
Captain Michales kept filling and refilling his glass and drinking. The wine gave him not the slightest pleasure. He hated it. Each time he raised his glass to his mouth, his lips resisted and refused. Against his own will he forced the wine into his stomach, to quell the demons within him. Neither woman nor war nor God could overcome them. His demons were afraid of wine alone, and he drank of it freely whenever he felt their rage rising in him. These demons were savage voices; most of them were not human voices, but bestial ones, bellowing inside him as soon as the portcullises below opened, letting ancient images spring forth: a tiger, a wolf, a wild boar, and after them the hairy ancestors out of the caves of Psiloritis.
But now for the first time a new demon announced itself within him. This one did not bellow, did not threaten; it laughed. Its breath did not stink, it smelled sweet? For the first time Captain Michales was afraid, and he kept filling his glass and refilling it and drinking.
When the door swung open and Efendina appeared, he raised his head. Efendina rubbed his hands distractedly, jerked a foot forward, but dared not come down the steps. His words, too, fled in confusion. He wanted to say, “Greetings, Captain,” but he could not get it out and merely stuttered.
Captain Michales raised his hand and pointed to a low stool opposite him. “Sit down!”
“What am I to play, Captain Michales?” asked Vendusos, without taking his ear from the lyre.
Furogatos had already stood up. He shoved the benches aside to make room for himself. He was eager to start. His soles had caught fire, they were tickling him.
For others wine led to song or joking, or to weeping and slumber. For this long clumsy fellow, wine led to dancing. He drank, danced and became sober or rather, the drinking fit merely changed its form. It became a great and fruitless effort t6 give the body wings, to make it the conqueror of unconquerable laws. And Furogatos began drinking afresh, to win fresh power t
o soar.
Captain Michales took in each of his five guests in turn with a circling gaze. Neither song nor dance nor lyre could lighten his heart today. His gaze rested on Efendina.
“Sir,” cried Efendina in alarm, “don’t ask me to smile and utter blasphemies against the Prophet. Threaten me first! Compel me against my will to eat and drink, then I’ll have the courage!”
But Bertodulos, who had eaten and drunk and acquired strength, chimed in. “Most noble Captain Michales,” he began in his drawling, singsong speech, “to pass the time, may I tell you a famous old story from Venice? I saw her with my own eyes on the balcony, and since then my heart has been able to find no rest. How often have I forgotten the bitternesses of life, because I bore in my imagination Dysdemona, the nobleman’s daughter, ignominiously murdered.”
“Who?” asked Captain Michales, frowning. “Dysdemona, my respected capitanio, the nobleman’s daughter from Venice havent you heard of her? A Moor loved her, a tremendous palikar he was, but he was jealous and he killed her in the heat of love. He took a handkerchief …”
Captain Michales raised his fist, to stop the shameless mouth. “In my presence,” he said, “there will be no talk of women, Bertodulos.”
Bertodulos shriveled, and the Venetian tale remained stuck in his throat.
“Well?” asked Vendusos, raising in the air the lyre, which had a pair of bells attached to it.
“Play what the devil you like!” replied Captain Michales and leaned his head heavily against the wall.
Kajabes emptied his glass and wiped his lips. And Furogatos, with his eyes fixed on the lyre, had already raised his right foot to let fly. … But he did not. The house shook, the walls cracked. The quinces, pomegranates and melons piled on the shelves rolled all over the place and bounced as far as the table.
“Earthquake!” cried Vendusos, and started to run up into the open. Kajabes had already made for the door. His thoughts rushed to the harbor, to a certain poor hut, in search of Garufalia. And Efendina had fallen on his nose on the floor and was twitching. On the ground above, confusion and running and the shrieks of women were heard.
“In God’s name,” Furogatos whimpered, “open the door and let us out!”
But Captain Michales grabbed for the whip above his head. “Aren’t you ashamed?” he shouted.
“Why should we be ashamed?” Furogatos had the courage to retort. “That’s an earthquake, Captain Michales. It’s not a human being that you can overcome.”
As he said this there rumbled from out of the earth a dull, rolling, long-drawn-out thunder, like the bellowing of a bull, and the bells of AiMenas began ringing of their own accord.
“Saint Dionysios, help! I am Count Mangiavino!” cried Bertodulos, and hid his head in his cloak.
Captain Michales swung the whip in the air.
“No one’s to stir!” he shouted. “Lift Efendina off the ground. Lean him against the cask.”
He whisked the cloak away from Bertodulos.
“An earthquake, Bertodulos, is nothing. Crete is a living thing. It’s moving. One day you’ll see the way it’ll join Greece.”
Suddenly he was in a good temper, and he began to talk. He had been a youngster when the great earthquake destroyed half his village. Women and men too were bewildered; they shrieked and cried and were buried in their houses. Only his father, Captain Sefakas, had quietly and without a word braced his hands and arms against the door frame and held his elbows high, until his wife and children and the two pairs of oxen and the gray mare had got through. Then he himself had sprang out in one bound, and the walls had collapsed. Since then Captain Michales had lost the fear of earthquakes. He knew that a proper man could hold them within bounds.
He filled the glasses. They drank, and their hearts returned to their places.
But up above, the women of the neighborhood had rushed out of their houses, buzzing about and screaming. Even Archondula, that stiff, acidulous old maid, had run into the street with her deaf-and-dumb brother on her arm. She too had mingled with her neighbors and had become one with them. She was chattering and screeching just as though she did not come of an important family.
In the church, at the same moment, the Metropolitan had been preaching. At first he spoke of God. But soon his discourse swooped away, left Heaven in the lurch and sank downward to Crete. The priest stood upright in front of his gilded throne, and his deep voice soared into the cupola, on which was painted the Lord Christ. From the cupola, his voice seemed to gain power. It sank down and boomed about the church. And the Christians pressed close to one another, as though it really were the Lord Christ sending His voice down to them from high up in the dome. Trembling they bowed their heads.
“My children,” the old man said, “now comes a great time of fasting, the sufferings of Christ are approaching; fear must dominate Man, and he ought to direct his thoughts only to the blood which was shed upon the Cross. And yet, God forgive me! I speak of the sufferings of Christ, and I am thinking of Crete.”
He raised his hands toward the vaulting of the church, where Christ, the rainbow of hope, gleamed, watchful.
“How long, O Lord?” he cried. “How many generations, how many thousands of Cretans have, like me, raised their hands toward Heaven with the cry: ‘Hr>w long, O Lord, how long?’ We are not stones or pieces of
God, O Lord, we are souls. Souls hast Thou given us. We are men and women. How long yet will the blood of Crete flow? The whole sea from the Cretan shore to the Hellespont and to Constantinople is. red.”
And behold! As the old man, standing upright and gazing up at the cupola, fell silent for a moment as though awaiting an answer, the whole church shook, the lights swayed, and the bells rang without being touched by human hand.
“Earthquake! Earthquake!” the cry arose. The women ran from the women’s side of the church and pressed, trampling on one another, to the doors. The Metropolitan stood stiff with terror, motionless. He still gazed at Christ with staring eyes. Murzuflos came running, threw his arms round him, and led him from the throne through a side door into the churchyard.
“My lord,” he said to him, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulders, “My lord, don’t be afraid. It’s an earthquake, it’s passing.”
“I have sinned, O my God,” muttered the Metropolitan, and his eyes filled with tears. “I have sinned! I am guilty. Instead of speaking of Thy sufferings, I spoke of Crete.”
Captain Polyxigis was gliding through the Turkish quarter. While the Christians were at their service, he had set out for his walk. Shaved, with plenty of lavender water on his hair, and with his roomy fez cocked on one side, he swaggered along. His boots creaked as they touched the ground, and he felt throughout his body a deep happiness. He was at the height of his strength, like a horse, like a glittering bullock wandering through 4he fields in spring. His heart, his stomach, his bowels all his organs were working without friction. Each was fulfilling its duty without quarreling with its neighbor; and all together in obedient and glad community made up Captain Polyxigis.
He murmured to himself: It’s really a shame that youth hi human beings doesn’t last a thousand years! Is
God perhaps afraid that we’ll take His throne away from Him? Is that why He craftily dismantles us, piece by piece? He pulls out our teeth, screws our knees up stiff, wears out our kidneys, dims our eyes and dribbles slime and spittle out of our noses and mouths… . Death doesn’t worry me by my soul, it doesn’t worry me. There’s something to be said for getting it over once and for all. But I can’t do with this way of turning gradually into a caricature …
The phrase was still hanging on his lips as the whole of the Turkish quarter began to stagger. Doors flew to pieces. Screams of women and the clattering of clogs rang out hi the courtyards. Ruheni, the stately Moorish woman, who was coming round the corner at the moment, shrieked out “God, have mercy!” and the round platter on her head swayed. The sesame cakes rolled hi the dirt and horse dung.
Captain
Polyxigis braced his legs so that he would stand firm and not fall. He pressed his hand against the wall, quite close to Nuri’s door, as his fate would have it.
“Earthquake!” he muttered, and his face became covered with fine sweat. He could fight against anything against sickness, against enemies, even against women. But how was he to fight against an earthquake? Captain Polyxigis turned pale. He wheeled round and saw that he was standing-in front of Nuri’s green door. He could hear high-pitched voices within, and pricked up his ears. He waited: was the earth going to open and swallow up mankind, or was this only a passing terror? All Megalokastro waited, with held breath. Even the dogs, which had begun to howl, stuck their tails between their legs and waited, with their hair standing on end and their necks craning. A dim, yellowish light was spreading, and then an uncanny sound like a piping came from under the ground. Suddenly the houses were again shaken, the minarets reeled like cypresses, and the wall against which Captain Polyxigis was leaning split right down the middle. In Nuri Bey’s house there was a crash of glasses, dishes and lamps, as they fell to the ground and smashed. Suddenly the arched green door flew open, and Emine Hanum burst out screaming, with her hair down and her feet naked. She fell in a faint in the middle of the street. Behind her the Christian Moorish woman came running, carrying her mistress’ small red slippers. She knelt by her and called to her. But Emine’ lay on the stones, with her head thrown back, white as wax.
Freedom or Death Page 10
