“Isn’t it wrong?” Stratas said, “in front of the body…”
“In the first place, we’ll drink outside, Stratas. And then only to give us the strength, my boy, to go through with the watch till morning. Besides, we’ll be drinking to his well-being… . Go, Famurios, please, to the cellar.”
Famurios had already grabbed the lamp that burned at the dead man’s feet, and made for the cellar. He emerged carrying a string of sausages and the cask. Also, in his belt, he brought three tumblers.
Patasmos jumped up, cut off some lengths of sausages and went out into the yard. There he made a fire and roasted them. The world smelled sweet.
“For God’s sake, shut the doors, Famurios, so that the women don’t notice the smell!” said Patasmos, as he wrapped the morsels hi lemon leaves.
Meanwhile Famurios had filled the glasses to the brim T ith raki. Stratas too had gone to the cellar, to get a loaf of bread.
When he returned, they gripped the glasses, and touched fingers to avoid the clink. “God bless his soul,” said Stratas. “His health, friends! Ours too!” cried Patasmos. “Drink it up in one gulp,” said Famurios. “The cask God has sent it to usis half full. Brother Manusakas, farewell!”
They drank to the last drop. Then they seized the sausages. Famurios pulled out his herdsman’s knife and cut the bread into three parts. Appetite was whetted. They roasted the remaining sausages. Famurios brought a white cheese from the cellar. He placed the cask on his lap and doled out more raki.
“Let’s drink to the health of the widow,” Patasmos proposed. “I’m sorry for the poor thing. I’ll make a mantinade for her.” “To her health!”
They drank. “And to Captain Michales’ health!” said Stratas. “He will avenge his blood. To his health!”
“Come, friends, to the health of all the people we know,” suggested Famurios, “whether they’re alive or dead.”
%They went through the relatives, the friends, the dead parents, the neighbors, all in turn, and drank. Then they began on the great fighters of CreteKorax, Hadjimi-chals, Kriares, Daskalojannesand drank. Next they came to Arkadi Monastery and drank three large glasses to its health. Then they moved on to 1821 and drank to the health of Kolokotrones, of Karaiskakes, of Miaules, of Odysseus Andrutsos. The cask was nearly empty.
“Let’s drink to the health of ancient Hellas,” proposed Patasmos, who laid claim to a few grains of education. “Too dull,” said Famurios. “Well then, we’ll sing. …”
“In the name of Christ, that isn’t right!” Stratas objected.
“Quiet, quiet! In a whisper. Not a soul can hear us Like this___”
And he began, imitating the motion of a fiddle bow in the air, to sing softly:
“Faithless one, in you the red Of dawn was at its prime …”
The other two quickly sang after him: “Of dawn was at its prime.”
“When I kissed you, and you said: ‘It’s night, and loving time!’”
“Is that the mantinade you’ve composed for the widow? Have you no fear of God?” cried Stratas. “Don’t you know any sacred songs?”
“Is it sacred songs you want? With pleasure!” He turned to the dead man, crossed himself, and began: “Come to the final kiss… .” Hardly had he begun when the three took up the hymn of mourning, fell upon the dead man, and kissed him as the tears fell. The house droned with the litany. A door half opened, and a woman stuck out her hand, wound in a cloth. But Patasmos made an angry sign at her, and the woman vanished.
Then they felt that the hymn of mourning had gone on long enough, and stood up, the three in a row, before the dead man, and looked at him. They felt lightened. There was in them a surge of strength renewed by raki, sausages and weeping. Famurios spat on his hands.
“Friends,” he said, indicating the dead man with his eyes, “shall we jump over him?”
“Suppose we do jump over him!” cawed Stratas and Patasmos together. They pulled their sagging breeches well up, so that their legs should be unencumbered, seized the bier and placed the corpse in the door to the yard, to give themselves room for a run.
“I’ll go first!” said Famurios, “because I’m his brother!”
T
He took his position by the street door, spat on his hands, and let fly. As he came up to the dead man he gave a mighty leap. His skull hit the lintel with a crack. But Famurios did not notice. He landed on his feet in the middle of the room.
“I’ve jumped over him,” he said proudly, “Your turn, Stratas!”
Stratas too took a run and, with his supple, slender body, sprang in a low arc without touching the corpse. He landed lightly on the tips of his toes.
“Your turn, Patasmos,” he said.
_ But Patasmos’ heart flinched. He gazed at the bier. How the devil could one jump so high? “I’m not jumping,” he said, discouraged.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Captain Wasp?” Famurios chided. “Are you a Cretan or a Carpathian? Jump!”
“I’m not jumping, I tell you. I’m a lyre player.” “Have you no sense of the honor due to the dead, you heathen? It’s an insult! Is that all your friendship with Manusakas means? Jump, even if you fall down dead!”
Patasmos scratched his bald spot. He remembered how much he had really loved Manusakas. His sense of honor awoke.
“All right, I’ll jump!” he exclaimed, then, “Hop! Hop!” to give himself courage.
He began to run and got up speed. But as he came to the dead man, it seemed to him that the bier reached to the ceiling. His legs caught the feet of the bier and jolted the corpse, which rolled to the ground, Patasmos, with his beard flying, beyond it.
“You’ve disgraced us,” said Famurios. “Get your beard shaved off.” He gave him a kick. “Come, Stratas, help!”
They lifted the dead man from the ground, wrapped him in his shroud again, bundled him into the open coffin and pressed the icon once more into his hands.
“There, brother, you’re dead. It didn’t do you any harm. It hasn’t hurt you,” said Famurios, stroking the dead man’s hair and beard.
He bent down, picked up the cask and tipped it up. There was a little raki left in it. They drank. They sat down once more near the dead man and gazed at him. Their eyelids slowly drooped, their heads sank on their chests, and sleep embraced them.
Next day, before the sun was well up, Captain Michales arrived at Manusakas’ yard. He wore a black shirt, black headband and black boots, like Charos. He shoved the women aside as they crowded wailing around him, went in, bent down, kissed the dead man and stood for a long time gazing at him silently. That morning the women of the neighborhood had brought from the fields basil, marjoram, mint and yellow marguerites by the armful and had decked the corpse with them. The dead man, too, gazed at Captain Michales with his open eyes. Christinia, the sons and daughters, Famurios his brother and Stratas and Patasmos and the neighbor women stood in a circle and watched how the two brothers spoke together without saying a word.
This mysterious conversation lasted a long while. When Captain Michales had had his fill of grieving, he went into the kitchen, then out into the yard again. He visited the stable, touched the dead man’s cattle and his mare; he went up to the bedroom, saw the wide bed and the working gear and the holy pictures; he looked out of the window at the roofs of the village with the little church of St. John in the middle; then over it and beyond at Petrokefalo, his father’s village at the foot of the towering mountain.
“Farewell, brother Manusakas,” he whispered over and over, as he examined, touched and took leave of the things the murdered man had loved.
The pope came. The bier was lifted high. The women clung to it and tried to prevent it from being taken out. Christinia fell down in a faint, and while she was being revived with water and perfume, the corpse and bearers had already crossed the threshold and were nearing the green cemetery at the edge of the village.
From Petrokefalo and the neighboring villages they had comethe men armed, the
women in blackto take leave of the fallen pillar of the village. No Turk appeared in the streets on this day. The women tore their hair and extolled the virtues of the murdered man. Old Sefakas, dry-eyed, gripping the double handle of his stick, led the procession behind the dead man. He knew what Charos meant, that it was unbecoming to human beings, and could do them no good, to sink so low as to supplicate him. And so, without words or tears, he walked along, striking the stones with his stick. Showing no emotion, he stood before the hole in the earth.
The pope intoned the last words at the grave hastily, raised his hand and gave the blessing. He took a handful of earth from the ground and threw it into the grave. The corpse was lowered. All bent down, each took a handful of earth, and threw it after.
Captain Michales stepped forward to the edge of the grave.
“Farewell, brother Manusakas,” he said, in a calm voice. His burning eyes could bring forth no tears. “Listen to what I am saying to you. Don’t come into my sleep ty accuse me and make me wild. I know my duty. Have nd anxiety.” He was silent for a moment, pondering. But he could think of nothing else, and repeated: “I know my duty. Have no anxiety. Just be patient!”
His heart swelled. “Farewell, Manusakas!” he shouted. Before the escort broke up he returned alone to Manusakas’ house and mounted his mare. At that moment Thodores, the eldest son, came running to the street door. “What orders have you got for me, uncle?” he asked, catching hold of the mare’s reins.
Captain Michales bent down and looked at him. “I mean, how am I to avenge his blood?” asked the son.
“How old are you?” “Seventeen.”
“Stay in your nest.”
He put spurs to the mare and took the wide main road to Megalokastro.
CHAPTER 6
APRIL WAS OVER, and May came with its sunny consequencesthe melons and cherries, the swelling clusters and the first gleaming vintage grapes, still unripe. The heat became oppressive. Turks and Christians poured out their sweat and dried wherever they could find a cool breeze. Nuri still lay consumed with pain on his bed, and Manusakas was still hidden in Captain Michales’ heart. In Megalokastro revolt was brewing, still under cover. At night the elders gathered in the Metropolitan’s residence, to take counsel about the threatened position of the Greeks, while at midday in the pasha’s konak the beys and hodzas discussed measures for the repression of the Greeks. The fate of Crete hung on a hair.
On the twenty-ninth of May the bells began to toll dolefully in the dim light of early morning. The Christians rose from their sleep and set out for church to commemorate that day’s somber meaning for Christendom. In the middle of the church, on a huge tray, stood a memorial cake, flanked by two great lamps swathed in black. Inscribed in almond kernels and cinnamon on the thin sugar coating was the name of the dead man: KONSTAN-TINOS PALAILOGOS. This was his death day. On a dark morning like this one the Sultan’s myrmidons had laid him low and put Constantinople under their yoke.
The Christians stood around the cake and listened to the funeral service. All the prominent Kastrians had gathered. There were the three elders: Captain Elias, Hadjisavas and the Rose Bug. With them had come Captain Polyxigis, Charilaos the gnome, the learned Idomeneas, Stefanes the ship’s captain, Kasapakes the doctor and the grocer, Mr. Aristoteles. Behind them stood the less important people: Demetros Leanbottom, Krasojorgis, Mastrapas, Kajabes, Vendusos, Furogatos, Bertodulos, and Signer Paraskevas the barber. And to them was joined the throng of the insignificant.
Even Captain Michales had appeared, but he had not entered the church. He stood in the narthex, his shirt and his heart black. Since the funeral of his brother he had spoken to no one. Unrest was in his blood. His mind was busy devising a thousand arts of malice, turning over a thousand occasions on which he could catch Nuri and avenge the crime that had been committed. To him Nuri was no longer a blood brother. The red thread which had bound them together had been cut. He had heard that Nuri had been severely wounded and was near death at his country estate. Captain Michales had sent All Aga there to spy, to eavesdrop on the servants and find out if Nuri really was seriously wounded. All Aga had come back that same day with his tongue hanging out and had brought the news.
“It’s true, Captain Michales, the poor thing is badly wounded.”
“Where? Have you found that out?” “In the testicles, Captain. Your brother, it seems, stabbed him with his knife between the thighs. Mustapha Baba has anointed him and bandaged him, but the pain is torturing him and he bellows day and night. I heard him myself from the gate, Captain.”
Captain Michales was dismayed. As long as Nuri was ill, he could not touch him. He would have to wait till he recovered strength. How long might that be? He was in a hurry!
When, early this morning he had heard the mourning bells, he had decided to go to church. Tityros is to make a speech; he’ll make us all ridiculous, he thought. He ressed impatiently. He pulled the tassels of his headband over his eyes. He did not want to see or greet, anyone. Could that cheese of a little schoolmaster have the least idea of what the fall of Constantinople and heroism and struggle meant?
Leaning against the window at the entrance, he could see, over the crowd, the Metropolitan standing, clothed in black, and with a long, black scarf wound round his hat.
The ritual came to an end. The Metropolitan signed to Tityros. Captain Michales grew agitated. He watched his brother mount the high platform and pull from his inner coat pocket a ^bundle of papers. Tityros began to speak. At first he stammered and coughed, so that he could hardly be understood. But gradually he warmed up, and his voice filled with power. He caused the towers of Constantinople to rise before his hearers, and the bells of Hagia Sophia tolled in passionate entreaty, as in the midst of the church that last, fate-laden battle pursued its coursethat battle which had filled the graves of the vast city with blood. And in the incense cloud above the tray with the cake there appeared the bloodstained head of the Emperor Constantine: everyone saw him.
Captain Michales dried his eyes, which had suddenly become wet. He observed his brother thoughtfully. How could such a flame dwell behind those glasses, above those narrow trousers and under those crooked shoulders?
When Tityros had done, he cleaned his glasses and looked among the women, who stood behind the men, for Vangelio, his wife. As he did not find her, he sat down, sighing.
After the ceremony Captain Michales went over to his brother. “You brought no shame on us,” he said.
Tityros scarcely heard him. The flame was still burning in his heart.
They walked a few steps together. The schoolmaster was tired. Slowly and listlessly he started homeward. Captain Michales looked at him covertly. How he had hanged since his wedding! His hump seemed to have increased, and he was beginning to be bowlegged. “How are things at home?” he asked softly. Tityros did not answer at once. Suddenly the sacred flame went out.
“It’s no life at all, Michales,” he said at last. “Why? What do they do to you?” “Nothing. They don’t speak to me, they don’t swear at me, they say nothing. And when I turn my back, I hear them laughing.”
“Aren’t you then master in your house? What sort of a man are you? Kick him out!”
“If I throw him out, she goes too.” They had reached Tityros’ house. Captain Michales stood still.
“Are they both in?” he asked.
“They’re inseparable. He didn’t want to go to church, so she didn’t go. Is that any sort of a life, brother Michales?”
“Listen^ schoolmaster. I’ll go in with you and play the two of them a tune to make them dance.”
“For God’s sake!” cried the teacher, in terror. “Don’t do that! If you do, I’m done for! I’m going to do some-tjjing … and then we shall see.” ‘“What shall we see?”
“We shall see,” Tityros repeated, looking away. He approached the door and took hold of the knocker. “What? Have you no key?” exclaimed Captain Michales in astonishment.
“No. They won’t giv
e me one. I have to knock.” Captain Michales wrenched the knocker off with one pull and flung it into the street.
“I want you to have a key by tomorrow,” he said, and went off with heavy tread toward the Harbor Gate.
In Captain Michales’ shop Captain Polyxigis had been waiting since the end of the memorial service. He paced uneasily up and down. What he had to say to Captain Michales was going to be difficult to express. He sent
Charitos out for coffee and lighted one cigarette after another. How could he so much as begin, without provoking a burst of fury from Captain Michales? He did not want to lose his friendship; on the contrary, he was anxious to strengthen it. That was why he had decided to speak to him today. He had tied a piece of black crape to his fez, to show that he too was in mourning for the loss of Manusakas.
“Quick, Charitos. Run to the house and see if your uncle’s there. Tell him …”
Before he had finished, Captain Michales was on the threshold. Tityros’ fiery speech was with him stillbut even more so was his rage about the key which had been refused to his brother.
He stared at the early, unexpected guest and pressed his lips together.
“Good morning, Captain Polyxigis,” he said coolly.
“I’m glad to see you, Captain Michales.”
Captain Michales threw aside his headband and took his coat off. He picked up an account book from the table and fanned himself with it. He said nothing.
“How hot it is!” said Captain Polyxigis, oppressed by the silence.
Captain Michales obstinately continued to say nothing. He took his tobacco box from his belt and began, slowly and clumsily, to roll a cigarette, as if he would never be done. Captain Polyxigis threw his cigarette away, coughed and pushed back his chair.
“Captain Michales,” he said, “I’ve something to say to you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I ask you, for the sake of our old friendship, Captain Michales, listen to me patiently. I must speak at some length, so that you may understand the whole thing.”
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