“Men drink wine and don’t get drunk, and don’t go to bed like infants but mount the mares and ride not into the Turkish quarter to some hanum, but to the Turkish coffeehouses, to the agas. Take an example yourself, Uncle, from Captain Michales!”
These words pierced Captain Polyxigis through the heart, for he felt that Diamandes, drunk though he was, was quite right.
“Curses on you, you good-for-nothing! You’re well on the way to squandering your sister’s dowry on wine and women, watches and chains. If at least you could read the time! But you’re not capable even of that, you good-for-nothing!”
Diamandes gave a yell and sprang forward over pans and cans to attack his uncle, but he tripped and fell thunderously to the floor.
Captain Polyxigis laughed disdainfully. “I wish you joy of your little brother, Vangelio,” he said, and crossed the threshold.
“God grant I may have joy of him till my death, Uncle!” Vangelio retorted. She helped her brother up from the copper onto the sofa, brought him a cushion for his head and stroked him tenderly.
At midday young Thrasos came back from school in great excitement.
“Mama!” he shouted, throwing into the air the little red cap his sister had made for him. “Father’s mare strikes sparks from the cobbles. I saw him ride along Broad Street, and the shopkeepers and cobblers stood up to gape at him. ‘He’s come from the Turkish quarter,’ one of them said. ‘He’s going to the Turkish quarter,’ another said. I stood where I was, took off my cap and waved to him. But how should he notice me? The sparks were flying from the cobbles, I tell you!”
“Signor Paraskevas was here and has been complaining to me,” said the mother, frightened at her son’s admiration for his father. “The day before yesterday, he says, you and your friends kidnapped his daughter. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
Thrasos laughed.
“Why did you do it?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “We felt like it. Yesterday we nearly pulled off something with Tityros. We’d planned to hide behind a door with rope, and just throw a noose round his neck when he came in, like they do to catch wild horses. He’d told us how, himself, the day before yesterday. So now we were playing horse-tamers.”
“His mother scolded, “Villains! What has that holy man ever done to you? Why did you want to kill him?”
“Kill him? Us? But we like him. It was a game. We wouldn’t have tied the noose tight. We’d only have given him a fright, to see what he’d do!”
He took the clothesline from his shoulder and returned it to its place. Then he clenched his fist and frowned like his father.
“At the last minute the others were frightened. There were too many of them, and too many cowards among them. But it doesn’t matter. Another time I’ll pick them myself fewer, and reliable. Perhaps I’ll do it alone.”
There was a knock at the door, and Ali Aga appeared.
“In God’s name, Captainess,” he said. “Efendina’s playing the madman again. He’s run out into the Greek quarter and is coming to your house. Bolt the door. Don’t let him in.”
He had not yet finished speaking when Efendina burst howling into the yard. It hurt Katerina to look at him. The poor creature seemed hardly human. His clothes were torn, his sackcloth breeches were showing. His eyes were red and swollen from weeping. He had taken off his turban, and his scab was thickly smeared with horse dung. He knelt down in the middle of the yard and began wailing.
“I have defiled myself,” he screamed, “eaten pork, drunk wine, uttered wicked words. Men and women, forgive me! May God also have mercy and forgive me! Captainess, if God questions you tomorrow, tell Him that Captain Michales forced me to it against my will.” He crawled on his knees toward her, to seize her hand and kiss it.
“Have pity on me, Captainess, I am hurrying to publish my suffering and my shame, and I am beginning with you. Afterwards I shall hurry to the pasha’s door, and to the other Turkish houses. They must see my scab, and learn of my guilt; they must spit upon me. But in you I place my trust. If God questions you tomorrow, tell Him that Captain Michales forced me to it against my will.”
Thrasos watched him and laughed. He had stealthily taken the clothesline down again and made a noose. Renio came out of the kitchen, glanced at Efendina and likewise laughed. But Katerina felt her eyes grow wet.
“Stand up, Efendina,” she said gently, “stand up, I’ll do as you say. I’ll bear witness before God that I have seen with my own eyes how Captain Michales compelled you against your will.”
“May you be blessed, Captainess! And now I ask you for a favor. Spit on me!”
“No, that I won’t, Efendina. Stand up and go with the seven-fold blessing of God.”
“Spit on me, or I won’t go.” He turned to Ali Aga: “Next, you will spit on me, Ali Agayou, as a faithful Mussulman. And afterward, all Megalokastro. Before I eft the teke, my grandfather rose up from his coffin and spat upon me. You too must spit, Captainess! Spit on me, if you believe in God!”
The captain’s wife turned away. “I can’t,” she said. “I won’t. Go, good-by!”
“I won’t go,” bellowed Efendina. “Yes, by Mohammed, I shall stay here if you don’t spit on me.”
The captain’s wife grew angry. “I shall do as I will, not as you will, Efendina!” she said, and went back into the kitchen.
“Here on these stones will I remain kneeling till dawn,” cried Efendina and beat his forehead against the stones. Then he began his wailing all over again, and howled like a dog.
Thrasos made a sign to his sister. She understood and took up her position near him, behind Efendina’s back. As Efendina beat his breast and howled, with his eyes on the kitchen, Thrasos threw the noose round his neck. Renio too caught hold, and they both pulled.
Efendina gave a strangled cry and fell over backward. His face went bluish, his eyes started. He wrenched at the noose to prevent himself from choking, but his hands were powerless with terror.
“In God’s name, children, you’re throttling the poor creature!” cried Ali Aga.
The captain’s wife heard his cry and came running out. She snatched the cord out of her son’s hands and loosened the noose. Then she pushed Efendina to the street door.
“Out you go,” she said, “poor wretch, out you go! With my best wishes.” Then she gave him a shove, so that he stumbled into the street. She bolted the door.
Thrasos and Renio burst out laughing. “You see, Mother, that’s how they catch horses,” said Thrasos and again hung the cord near the washtub. “Tityros won’t be able to escape me now!”
Captain Michales stormed through the Turkish quarter on his mare. The wine had not clouded his brain. His knees pressed the mare’s flanks powerfully, and in his limbs and muscles he felt a boundless strength that oppressed him more than the wine he had drunk. He did not know how to shake free of his oppression.
He did not clearly distinguish the men who went past; the houses seemed to him to have got lower and the streets narrower. The Hags heard his horse and rushed to their peepholes. They recognized Captain Michales, but the sun was dazzling and they could not see the expression on his face. “What’s up with the boar at the height of noon?” Aglaja asked. “Is he drunk?”
“Keep your eyes peeled, there’s something going on here,” remarked Thalia, sniffing as though she could smell it. “Why has Captain Polyxigis been hanging around our quarter since yesterday? I saw him, just when the earthquake started when Emine rushed out and pretended to faint. What a chance that he came by. But was it chance? Or was it arranged? And the person in question woke her up out of her swoon. And since that day our quarter has been smeared with honey, and he’s stuck fast. And now Captain Wildboar as well that damned bitch! Both those lecherous hounds can smell her a mile away”
“Quiet, quiet!” said Phrosyne, “just listen to how Nuri’s horse is neighing!”
From the precincts of the Turkish konak the noble steed could be heard greeting the lusty mare.
“Efnine’s whinnying,” said Thalia with a giggle. But immediately her tongue stuck in her throat, and both her sisters cried out; for as the mare heard the stallion’s neighing, she reared, as if she wanted to dance.
“That’s death for Captain Michales,” cried the three.
But he gripped the rearing beast by the mane and fused with her to a single body. He put the spurs to her, and his power did not yield. She felt her pitiless master on top of her, lowered her head and moved on.
“Damn you, with that hot blood of yours!” he muttered, and struck the mare’s head with his fist.
Outside, down by the sea, he gave her her head and let her run freely along the broad ramparts. His chest filled with sea air. High up on a bulwark overgrown with weeds he reined her in. He gazed out over the deep-blue foaming sea sparkling hi the sun, and lost himself in the mist to the north, toward Greece. He sighed. “With Thee I can endure, my God,” he muttered, “with Thee, not with men.”
He rode on. Always when he thought of Crete, abandoned by all, he disputed with God. A violent blasphemy pressed on the tip of his tongue. He did not lament before God, he was angry with Hun. He asked for no sympathy, he asked for justice.
A dark cloud, small as a water bottle, rose up from the south, became larger and larger, until it darkened the sky. The sun smoldered. A damp, sultry wind came sighing from the sea over Captain Michales’ haggard face. He raised his eyes to the sky.
“But I fight it out with Thee, my God,” he growled between his teeth. “So I shall fight it out with men.” He dug his heels into the mare and shot along Broad Street again like a flash. The Christians stood up, the better to see him. He reached the Kanea Gate, where the big Turkish coffeehouse patronized by the distinguished agas lay. Every time there was a rising, the great consultations took place in this coffeehouse, and from here the Turks went forth with knives between their teeth to every slaughter. When, on spring afternoons, the sun’s heat was diminished, the pavements sprinkled with ram and the earth fragrant, in this coffeehouse the handsomest Turkish youths sat enthroned on high benches and sang their languorous refrains. And here in winter the most gifted storytellers made the agas laugh. The muezzin, too, stopped here, searchingly examined the Turkish youths, listened to their seductive melodies and joined hi their yearning. Sometimes he no longer knew whether this was a coffeehouse or Mohammed’s Paradise. Nothing was lacking, neither good tobacco for his narghile nor a fresh little breath from the gardens.
Midday was already past. The agas had eaten and were sitting at ease, with legs crossed, on the straw mats of the coffeehouse. They had ordered narghiles and, half dozing with eyes almost closed, were sipping their coffee. They were happy.
Everything had arranged itself pleasantly for them. Generations ago then: forefathers had divided up Crete, and its fat vineyards, olive orchards and acres were their heritage. The arid land had been left to the Greeks. From time to time the Christians raised their heads, but the soldiers from Anatolia struck at them and made them bow again under the yoke. Beautiful were the hanums, and each man could have as many of them as his purse allowed. Beautiful too were the Turkish boys, and if one only pampered them properly they acquired downy, blossom-white flesh. Also their Mohammed was no puritan: he liked what the agas liked. He did not worry them to become saints. He carried no cross and did not ask them to carry one. In his pocket he always carried a phial of scent, a small mirror and a comb. For the pleasure of Mussulmans he was no God, but a man. And death, for the faithful, had nothing about it of worms or stench, but was a green doorway to a wide, everlasting garden.
Nuri Bey appeared, freshly shaved, handsome as a lion, and his thinly pointed mustache, dyed with black pomade, flashed like steel. He bowed silent greetings to right and left and went to sit inside near the serving table, to be quite alone.
Since the day when his horse had stumbled between the tombs and his father had risen up before him in the air with wild and bloody hair, Nuri Bey had been able to get no pleasure from sleep or food or conversation. The blood of his father hankered for vengeance. The sons, brothers and nephews of the murderer were alive. They were marrying, breeding, carousing, swaggering. And had not one of them recently brought an ass into the village mosque to pray? How long were all these insults to be endured? How long was his father to wander barefoot up and down the underworld? The moment had come for him to make a decision, if he were a man.
“Pass me the narghile, Hussein,” he told the proprietor, “and don’t let anybody come near me.”
In the distance dull thunder was heard. The agas turned their faces toward the door. The sky was now entirely covered. Sulphur-yellow lightning flashed. The wind hissed like rending silk.
“That’s because of the heat,” said one of the agas. “It’ll rain; that’ll be good for the crops,” said another. “And for the olives and the almonds make ‘em ripen quick,” said a third, and went as far as the door to observe the weather.
But as he reached the threshold he sprang back terrified. Captain Michales had appeared on horseback at the entrance to the coffeehouse. He saw the agas comfortably sitting around and sleepily smoking their narghiles. The blood rushed to his head and the world swayed. He spurred the mare and she reared and crashed into the coffeehouse. Inside, the mare smashed several stools and upset a table; there was a sound of china breaking. She got as far as the serving table, where the proprietor, as usual, stood in front of the coal fire, putting the coffeepots on and taking them off. There she came to a halt.
The coffeehouse was in a turmoil. The agas flung their narghiles aside and stood up. The bolder ones hastily felt for their knives in their red sashes. The old men raised their hands and cried:
“Be careful, Captain Michales, don’t plunge us into bloodshed!”
But he remained unmoved by this and swung his whip in the air. “Out with you,” he shouted, “I want to drink my coffee alone!”
The old muezzin jumped up from the platform where he had been sitting, cross-legged, and yelled, as loud as he could, “This time your game won’t succeed, Captain Michales. You can’t make fools of us every year. This time you won’t get out of here alive, unbeliever!”
A Turkish hothead, sorry for the old muezzin, stepped forward to protect him. He wrenched from his sash a broad, two-edged dagger and rushed at the rider. But
Captain Michales bent down and seized him by the wrist, so that the young Turk’s arm was paralyzed and he let go of the dagger. Captain Michales stuck it in his pocket and again raised his whip.
“Out, out,” he bellowed, “out!” “Allah, Allah,” cried the old men, and did not know what to do: send a messenger to the pasha for soldiers, or sugar the bitter pill and give in to avoid bloodshed.
Nuri Bey had not stirred. With bent head he smoked his narghile. But out of the corner of his eye he surveyed the coffeehouse, until everything before him vanished. Now he saw only the sweating chest and belly of the mare and Captain Michales’ black boots. The first raindrops were falling outside. There were heavy claps of thunder and the glass of the doors tinkled. The muezzin screamed: “If you believe in Mohammed, let me pluck him to bits like a sardine!”
But several old men seized him around the waist and under the arms, and dragged him out.
Nuri Bey bent his head still lower, smoked puff after puff and blew the smoke through his nose. The hour has come, he thought. I have given my word to my father, I prayed for an occasion, here it is! The murderer’s brother has come, my father has brought him, straight in front of the muzzle of my gun. Now for it!
He sought to rouse his heart to fury. “Now stir yourself, my heart, up, and strike! Or are you afraid perhaps?” His fists burned him, as if he were in a fever. He raised his eyes and saw Captain Michales’ gaze directed at him. Nuri Bey put away the tube of the narghile and got up slowly and heavily. He walked down from the platform and took hold of the mare’s reins. Then he turned to the proprietor, who had crouched down behind the serving table.
/> “Hussein,” he said, “make a coffee for Captain Michales. I will pay.”
He raised his hand authoritatively and signed to the young people, who were standing round the mare, to go.
“Nuri Bey,” said Captain Michales, “I want to drink my coffee alone. I want no company. Clear the coffeehouse.”
“Haven’t I too a want? A small want, Captain Michales?” said Nuri Bey, and tried hard to make his face look gentle. “I ask you one favor. Don’t insult me.”
The white headband slipped from his head, he groped for it and set it swinging, so that the air smelled of musk. At once Captain Michales’ nostrils quivered. The veins of his neck swelled.
The scent of musk pierced his vitals like a knife. It bewildered him: night, the lemon raki, the partridge, the laughter behind the lattice, the creaking stairs, and suddenly in the doorframe a body, which swayed and filled the air with the scent of musk … and this same Nuri … Captain Michales’ brow spat sparks. He shoved Nuri aside, put spurs to the mare and very nearly rode him down. He came to the middle of the coffeehouse.
“Out, out,” he shouted again, as though possessed. “Clear the coffeehouse!”
Nuri Bey wound the headband tightly about his hair. He bit his lips hard, drawing blood. The agas had left the divans and were pressing around him. A couple of them were waiting, crouched behind the door, with knives. The more prudent of the old men had already slipped out of the door. The coffeehouse was beginning to empty.
Nuri Bey felt ashamed. “Go out,” he said quietly to the agas. “He’s drunk. Don’t argue with him. I’ll stay. To see he doesn’t go too far. To see we don’t need to be ashamed.”
The agas stood still. Selim Aga, who till now had been smoking his narghile, silent and unmoved, got up. He was the best-balanced mind in Turkey, an old man blessed with everything rich, cultivated, of good family, the father of fine sons, still handsome in his old age as he had been long ago in his youth. He signed to the agas.
Freedom or Death Page 14
