It rejoiced over the newly painted window frames of his house and over the jasmine in bloom. Today, too, there had arrived from Alexandria four parrots, two dark-green ones and a pair that were sea green with yellow breasts. Nuri Bey had also engaged old Braimis, the blind drummer, that Emine Hanum might not be bored. For two weeks the Bey had not been in Megalokastro. He had been preparing, like a lovelorn bird, the nest where the beloved was to spend the summer. He longed to see her. The day before yesterday he had sent her a message to say he was coming to herhe could bear the separation no longer. But she had answered by the Arab that she thought she was pregnant: she had attacks and could see no one. Every evening, she said, Hamide the wise woman came and practiced her healing arts. Then the pain went away. If he loved her, he would not come before the birth.
This anxiety was not the only one. He had had to do without the sight of his beloved for two weeks, and now into the bargain the pasha had sent him word yesterday evening that he was taking too long to fulfill his word. The disgrace had still not been washed away, and the agas were murmuring. Whatever he had in mind to do he should do at once.
His father now visited him in his sleep regularly. He did not speak and no longer even remained standing over him. He did not turn to look at him, but went past him with bare feet and long, dragging steps, hi his rags. He went and yet was never out of sight; all night he was there with averted face, inexorably present.
It chanced that, precisely that morning, the accursed tribe which had killed his father passed his house on its way back from the wedding. Furiously he shut the door, went upstairs to the bedroom and watched through the wooden lattice the hundred-year-old leader of the family proudly riding past, and behind him his following: a host.
As they rode past the door, Manusakas reined in his mare, pulled out a silver pistol and fired Into the air.
“I’m shooting at your shield, Nuri Bey,” he called out. Behind the lattice Nuri Bey bit his lips and did not take up the challenge. Manusakas turned to his companions.
“The dog made a row because I took” the ass into the mosque to prayers. The day after tomorrow, at their Bai-ram festival, as sure as my name’s Manusakas, I’ll take my sow!”
The wedding guests roared with laughter and vanished in the dust.
Nuri Bey’s eyes grew bloodshot. He came downstairs, uncorked a bottle and sat outside, in front of the door, to quench his rage by drinking. He noticed the mess those accursed mules and horses had made of the ground in front of his door. He went to the middle of the road and looked toward the sun, where his enemies had vanished in the dust. He tipped the bottle and spilled wine on the ground.
“So may my blood be spilled,” he muttered, “if I don’t ‘do what I have decided!”
He threw back his head and drank without pausing, splashing the wine over himself. Then he went hi and loaded his pistols. He fired two shots: the. pistols were in order. He pulled his large, two-edged dagger out of the sheath and tested it against his wrist. It cut like a razor blade. He spent the day in running up and down his place or following the tracks of the mules and horses on the road. He returned full of renewed rage. At nightfall he killed a rabbit and had it prepared in his favorite way. He ate with appetite and plucked a handful of jasmine blossoms, which he strewed over his pillow. For the first time for a long while he fell into sweet, unbroken sleep. That night his father did not visit him.
In the morning he woke up cheerful. He whistled. The cocks in his yard greeted the sun. Light dropped from the sky onto the leaves of the trees, and on the fountain in front of the door. The stallion came out of his stable and neighed excitedly to the day, as though he saw a mare. And Nuri Bey, too, exulted in the young day.
He went into the yard. His old dog Kartsomis barked a welcome. The Bey stroked the horse in the stable. He ordered a groom to wash it with warm water. He himself brought the stallion a pail of water from the well to drink and shook out plenty of fodder. Back indoors, he told his cook to get ready some good things and to fill a bottle with lemon raki, quickly, for he must set out at once, before the sun grew hot.
“Are you going to Kastro?” the old woman asked, “and are you bringing our mistress?”
Without replying he went up to the bedroom. There he spread dark pomade on his mustache, put on his ceremonial suit, and dashed musk over his hair and ears. In his sash he stuck the silver pistols and the two-edged dagger. Then he went down to the yard again and stood at the door, radiant as the sun.
An aged Turk came by, with a sack on his back. He was Mustapha Baba, who collected herbs, prepared ointments for wounds and dealt also with jaundice, shingles and evil spells.^He journeyed through Greek and Turkish’ villages crying: “Good doctoring, good medicines, long life!” From his sack he distributed, according to the illness, juniper berries, hellebore, rue, wormwood, mandrag-ora: he was a holy man, who journeyed about as a healer and took no pay. He appeared to live on bread and water. As he caught sight of Nuri Bey he stopped dead and stared at him in terror.
“What’s the matter with you, Mustapha Baba? Why are you looking at me like that?” Nuri Bey asked, holding the dog back by the scruff of its neck.
The old man bowed.
“You’re very handsome today, Nuri Bey,” he answered. “Handsomer than is right,” he added hi a subdued voice.
Nuri Bey laughed.
“Don’t laugh, Bey,” said the old man. “To men and women there are limits set, and to cross them means sin.”
“Too great handsomeness, too great kindness, too much honoris that sin?”
“It is sin, Bey,” the old man sighed. “Why? I don’t understand that, Mustapha Baba.” “Neither do I, my child. But such is God’s law. Be careful, Nuri Bey!” Once again he raised his hand to his chest, lips and forehead. “Farewell, Bey,” he said. He took several steps and again stopped. Nuri Bey watched him and laughed.
“Would you like something, Mustapha Baba? Have ome breakfast at my table.” “I’m not hungry, Nuri Bey. Excuse me. Only…” “Only? Speak out freely, Mustapha Baba.” “I would like to say something to you, but you will augh.”
“You’re a holy man. I’m not laughing. Speak.”
“Rub smut upon your face, put on your everyday suit and your patched boots if you have any. Lay those silver pistols aside. Diminish your handsomeness, Nuri Bey!”
The Bey burst out laughing again, and sorrow spread over the kindly, thin, old face. “As God is above you, don’t laugh, Nuri Bey!” he muttered and, bent double, passed on his way.
Proudly Nuri Bey went back to where his saddled horse glittered. The old servant was hanging a saddlebag filled with dainties and lemon raki from the saddle. Nuri Bey looked about him. The house shone, the olive, almond and pomegranate trees were bearing fruit, the fig trees were spreading broad, dark-green leaves and the parrots were preening themselves in the cages between the trellised vines. Not a breath of wind stirred.
For an instant Nuri Bey’s heart hesitated. Where was he going? Why was he going? Why was he leaving all these comforting gifts of God? His estate was a paradise; nothing was lacking here. The woman, too, would soften she would come, and this courtyard would echo with her sparkling laughter. And the pomegranates would ripen and the figs grow sweet, and the parrots would lay eggs the size of almonds, concealing yellow, green and rose-tinted wings.
He sighed. The old servant observed her master. She had reared him, day by day, hour by hour. He had grown p under her hand. She had never married or known a man. She did not regret it. This man was her husband, her son and God. Never did she raise her eyes to him to question him. What he did was well done, what he ordered was right, and to obey him was a joy. She had no other joys. But today her heart was heavy.
“Where are you going, master?” she asked him again.
Nuri Bey turned in surprise. “What’s the matter with you, little mother? Why do you ask?” He placed his toes in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The old woman laid her shriveled hand on the horse�
�s shimmering neck.
“Where are you going, master?” she muttered once more, fearfully.
“Look after the place!” he replied, and put spurs to the horse.
“God be with you, my child… .” She saw her master use the spurs again and vanish among the silver-leaved olive trees.
She felt a lump in her throat, and her heart was hard as a stone. “He’s drunk the immortal water and knows no fear!” she said out loud, and bolted the door.
After the Easter days Manusakas had gone up to the pens on the slope of Mount Selena. The heat was already oppressive, the shearing had begun. This was a tremendous festival in the mountains. With their clumsy shears the herdsmen were shearing the goats and sheep and joking as they worked. The women too came up on the mountain, and kindled fires on which to heat kettles of water for cleaning the wool. Manusakas’ sons had dug a hole that day, outside the pen, and had stuffed into it a dead lamb in its skin. They had covered it with plenty of glowing charcoal and were waiting till the meat was roasted in the earth.
Manusakas had got the big ram firmly between his knees and was clipping off chunk after chunk of the thick, matted wool. On his right stood about twenty sheep shorn to the skin, on his left as many unshorn. In front of him the mound of wool, smelling strongly of grease, was growing. Manusakas was humming. He was in a good ood. A little cool breeze was blowing from the mountain. It had been a good year. The flocks and herds were increasing. In the hut close by the pen his two eldest sons, Thodores and Jannakis, were arranging cheeses in deep copper jars, and in the cool cheese cellars there were masses, God be praised, of hard cheeses and soft. Down below, in Ai-Janni, the crops and vines were thriving. And his mare had brought forth a fpaL
He let his shears rest for a moment and took a long look around him, and down as far as the plain. “Yes, the earth is like a rabbit,” he murmured. “She’s always bearing and bearing. The animals bear, the trees bear, the women bear. … Hey, Christinia, be a good girl and bring me a raki to cool me down.”
His wife Christinia was poking the fire in the middle of the pen. She was still a woman with strong muscles and firm bones, but dried up. She could bear no more children, and about that she now complained to God. Only when a woman was over seventy should she be past bearing childrensuch was the advice she gave, hi her monologues to God. Then one could manage to bring two dozen children into the world, and one’s longing would be stilled. Two dozen children would be enough: twenty sons and four girls. And on the day when she received her first great-grandchild a pleasant giddiness, like a sleepiness, would come over her; then she should cross herself and die. “My God, if only I had been at Your side when You were making the world! I would have revealed to You some secrets which only we women know….”
She heard her husband call and answered at once: “With pleasure, Manusakas dear. Would you like something to eat as well? I’ve cooked some sheep’s kidneys.” “Bring them over!”
And as he ate and drank and was content with the world, hoofbeats and rolling stones were heard.
What demon can be coming up the mountain on horseback? Manusakas wondered, and with his mouth still full he rose on his knees and looked over the stone wall of the pen. He shielded his eyes with his hand against the linding sun and recognized a black horse, which was climbing upwards with short steps and sending stones flying to either side.
“God punish me for lying, but I believe it’s that dog Nuri!” he muttered, and jumped up. He strode over the space in front of the pen and came tp a standstill at the entrance. “He’s looking for me!”
With one bound he was inside the pen, and he took his bag from the wall. His wife was still kneeling by the kettle and making up the fire. She did not see him. He pulled out of the bag his broad, short knife and stuck it at his hip, tightening his belt. He picked up his shepherd’s staff of oak and went back to the entrance and stood there.
The horseman had now passed the huge oak with the thick leaves, which stood darkly in a hollow. He was wearing a white headband, and the silver pistols glittered in the sun. Manusakas could now clearly make out the very round, very light face of Nuri, with its black waxed mustache.
“He’s looking for me!” he muttered again. “Welcome o the dog, if he comes this way.”
He called to his wife. “Hey, Christinia, lay the table. We’ve got a guest.” ť “Who?” He heard his wife’s surprised voice.
‘“A devil,” replied Manusakas. “Get the table ready, I efl you!”
He went to meet the hgrseman. Nuri saw him and raised his hand. From a distance his drawling, mocking voice was heard. “Good day, Captain Manusakas.”
“Welcome, Captain Nuri Bey. Where are you bound for?”
“For Captain Manusakas’ pen. Do you know him?” Nuri asked with a laugh. His teeth flashed, his fresh cheeks rippled.
Manusakas’ eyes sparkled with rage, but he controlled imself.
“Who has not heard of his heroic deeds?” he answered, and tried to laugh, but only his upper lip moved, laying is teeth bare. “Only a few days ago he brought an ass into the mosque to join in the prayers.”
“I heard that too. A mischievous bird flew by and told me. And I’ve come to see what shoulders they are that can carry an ass.”
“You won’t see any shoulders, Nuri Bey. Get that out of your head. Manusakas doesn’t show his shoulders.”
“If he sees danger ahead, he’ll show his buttocks as well, I think!” laughed Nuri, and tickled the horse’s ears with his whip. The proud beast reared powerfully and leaped forward at Manusakas.
Manusakas did not stir. But the blood throbbed wildly in his wrists. He held himself in. Nuri Bey had come to his house. Patience! He clenched his fist, and could not curb his tongue. “No dog has bitten me yet, unless he was mad, Nuri Bey,” he said thickly. “Look out for yourself!”
“But I am a wild beast, Manusakas,” the Turk retorted. “So I don’t like singing my own praises. I keep silent.”
“Well?” Manusakas asked. “Why do you come to my house? What do you want?”
Nuri bit his mustache and said nothing. Manusakas looked at him from the stone on which he was standing, and also said nothing. Both their hearts were storming in their chests.
At length the Bey’s voice made itself heard. “Manusakas,” he said calmly, slowly, weighing each word, “you have insulted Turkey gravely; you must pay for it.”
“I’ve amused myself. Let the tax collector come and tell me what I owe.”
“He has come.”
“You?”
“Yes I. Turkey, flouted by you, has sent me. From the underworld I received a letter from my father, whom your tribe murdered. I have many accounts to settle with your tribe, Manusakas. Only a day or two ago your brother rode into the Turkish coffeehouse and turned the agas out. Megalokastro is shouting and demanding engeance. I may not touch Captain Michaleshe is my blood brother. I’m touching you.”
Manusakas stealthily felt around his belt. He found the dagger.
“Let’s go a bit further on,” he said, “so the wife doesn’t hear us. My sons are in the hut, too.”
Nuri Bey dismounted. He considered it unmanly to ride while his enemy went on foot. He wound the reins round his arm.
“Let’s go,” he said.
The two moved forward. The horse set stones rolling and neighed uneasily.
The mountain was deserted, for the sun was at its noon height. Outside the pen Manusakas’ sons and the shepherd boys had opened the hole, taken out the lamb, now perfectly done and tender, and had posted themselves around it, some squatting, others leaning forward on their knees. Their jaws worked like millstones as they ate. The wooden bottle passed from mouth to mouth. Not a soul paid attention to the mountain. The sheep, too, disburdened of their wool, were lying under the oak trees. Near them the sheep dogs, their tongues hanging out, had stretched themselves hi the shade and were gazing in amazement at the shorn flock.
‘At the tall leafy oak in the hollow the two h
alted. They glanced at the flat ground about the massive trunk.
“This place will do,” they agreed.
Nuri tied his horse to a smaller oak a little to one side, where the animal would not be able to see the two men. Meanwhile Manusakas cleared the space of stones and slender fallen twigs. Nuri came back and was pleased at finding the field swept.
“You’ve cleaned it up nicely,” he said. “We’ve room enough.”
“Yes, room enough,” Manusakas replied. “We could have a feast here if we wanted. But if we want to, we can kill each other. What’s your choice, Nuri?”
“That we fight,” he answered calmly. “Honor demands it, Manusakas.”
“The one doesn’t exclude the other,” said Manusakas.
“Let’s fight,” Nuri Bey repeated calmly.
“As you will.” He pulled his belt tighter and rolled up his sleeves. Nuri Bey pulled his white headband closer about his hair, drew the pistols out of their leather holsters and hung one of them up on a branch of the tree. The other he held in his hand. Manusakas watched him.
“Hang it up properly,” he said, “I like those pistols of yours. As soon as I’ve killed you, I shall take them for myself as a remembrance.”
Nuri Bey cocked the pistol. Manusakas stood motionless in front of him.
“Manusakas,” said Nuri Bey, “yesterday afternoon your tribe came past my estate and you halted. You pulled out your pistol, fired in the air and called me out with the cry: Tm shooting at your shield, Nuri Bey!’ I’m taking up the challenge, even if Charos gets me!” With that, he fired a shot in the air over Manusakas’ head, then stood on tiptoe and hung the still smoking pistol by the side of the other.
They took their stand opposite each other with their legs wide apart and firmly planted, and eyed each other. Their blood was not yet inflamed. They waited. They tried by means of crude mockeries to rouse themselves to rage and bloodlust.
“Damn the beard of your Mohammed!” said Manusakas, spitting in the air.
Freedom or Death Page 19
