The Colossus of Maroussi

by Henry Miller

  At first I was angry; I felt that I had been tricked. But after I had walked around the block several times I decided that it was probably an act of fate. At least I was free to clear out. Max was only free to stay and spend his remaining drachmas. The war was spreading. Soon the Balkans would be inflamed. Soon there would be no choice.

  I went back the next day to see the American Minister and find out how much time they would accord me. The former director of “The Dial,” as he turned out to be, received me cordially. I was delighted to learn of his great sympathy and love for the Greeks. Everything went smoothly. No undue hurry. Only please prepare to leave as soon as possible. I sensed that it was best to comply graciously. So I shook our minister, Mr. Lincoln MacVeagh, cordially by the hand and departed. On the way out I made the sign of the cross in Orthodox fashion.

  Winter was coming on; the days were short and sunny, the nights cold and long. The stars seemed more brilliant than ever. Owing to the shortage of coal the heat was turned on for an hour only in the morning and an hour in the evening. I quickly developed sciatica and was reminded that I was getting old. Golfo the maid was very solicitous; Socrates, the night porter, came up every evening to rub me with a Greek horse liniment; the proprietor sent up grapes and mineral waters; Niki with the Nile green eyes came and held my hand; the bellhop brought letters and telegrams. All in all it was a very pleasant illness.

  I shall always remember the walks through Athens at night under the autumn stars. Often I would go up to a bluff just under Lykabettos and stand there for an hour or so gazing at the sky. What was wonderful about it was that it was so Greek—not just the sky, but the houses, the color of the houses, the dusty roads, the nakedness, the sounds that came out of the houses. Something immaculate about it. Somewhere beyond the “ammonia” region, in a forlorn district whose streets are named after the philosophers, I would stumble about in a silence so intense and so velvety at the same time that it seemed as if the atmosphere were full of powdered stars whose light made an inaudible noise. Athens and New York are electrically charged cities, unique in my experience. But Athens is permeated with a violet-blue reality which envelops you with a caress; New York has a trip-hammer vitality which drives you insane with restlessness, if you have no inner stabilizer. In both cases the air is like champagne—a tonic, a revivifier. In Athens I experienced the joy of solitude; in New York I have always felt lonely, the loneliness of the caged animal, which brings on crime, sex, alcohol and other madnesses.

  At midnight, returning to the hotel, I was frequently intercepted, usually by some wily Greek who knew enough English to strike up a running conversation. Usually he would invite me to join him in taking a coffee, pretending to be overjoyed to meet an American like himself (sic). One evening I ran into a Cretan from Utica, New York. He had come back to do his military service in Greece, so he said. He had a brother in Herakleion who was well off. After much beating about the bush, inquiring after the state of my health and so on, he admitted blushingly that he was short 73 drachmas for the boat fare to Crete. Now 73 drachmas is only about a half dollar in American money and a half dollar is nothing to offer a stranger from Utica who desires to do his military service abroad, especially if like the one I am talking about he has already paid for your coffee, pastry and ice cream, has already offered you his cigarettes and already invited you to make use of his brother’s car while in Crete. I hadn’t told him that I had just been to Crete, of course. I listened to him in sympathetic silence and acted as naif and ignorant as Americans are supposed to be. As a matter of fact I was really itching to be taken in—otherwise I would have felt cheated, disillusioned about the Greek character. Aside from my experience of the first day nobody in Greece, no Greek certainly, had ever tried to gyp me. And perhaps this one would have been successful had he not been so maladroit. In the first place I happened to know Utica fairly well, having spent one of my honeymoons there, and the street which he described to me as being his home I knew did not exist; in the second place he had made the mistake of telling me that he was taking the “Elsie” to Herakleion, whereas I knew, having just come back on the “Elsie,” that this boat would not be returning to Crete for several months; in the third place, having inquired of him what he thought about Phaestos, which is pronounced the same in all languages, including Chinese, he asked me what it was, and when I told him it was a place he said he had never heard of it, he even doubted its existence; in the fourth place he couldn’t remember the name of the hotel which I ought to stop at when going to Herakleion, and for a man born in Herakleion, which has only two hotels to its name, the sudden loss of memory struck me as rather glaring; in the fifth place he no more resembled a Cretan than a man from Canarsie would, and I very much doubted that he had ever seen the place; in the sixth place he was too free with his brother’s car, and cars are not plentiful in Crete where the bullock still draws the plough. None of these factors would have deterred me from handing him the seventy-three drachmas since, being a born American, a half dollar has always seemed to me to be just the right sized coin to throw down a sewer if there is nothing better to be done with it. Only I did want him to know that I knew he was lying. And so I told him so. At this he pretended to be aggrieved. When I pointed out why I thought he had been lying to me he rose up solemnly and said that if I should ever go to Crete and there meet his brother I would regret what I had said—and with that he stalked out looking as injured and wounded as possible. I called the waiter over and asked him if he knew the man. He smiled. “Why, yes,” he said, “he’s an interpreter.” I asked if he had been living a long time in Athens. “He’s been here all his life,” he said.

  There was another one called George, George of Cyprus, who was even less capable. George pretended to be a close friend of the American Minister, our Mr. MacVeagh no less. He had been watching me read a German news weekly at a little kiosk in the same “ammonia” region. He greeted me in German and I answered him in German. He asked me how long I had been in Athens and I told him. He said it was a beautiful night and I agreed, it was indeed. “Where do you go from here?” he asked next and I said “To Persia perhaps.” All this in German. “Where do you come from?” he asked. “From New York,” I replied. “And you speak nothing but German?” “I can speak English too,” I said. “Then why did you speak German to me?” he inquired, with a sly smile. “Because you addressed me in German,” I said. “Can you speak Greek?” he asked next. “No,” I said, “but I can speak Chinese and Japanese—can you?” He shook his head. “Do you speak Turkish?” I shook my head. “Arabic?” Again I shook my head. “I speak all the languages except Chinese and Japanese,” he said, smiling again in his strange way. “You’re very intelligent,” I said. “Are you an interpreter?” No, he was not an interpreter. He smiled and lowered his eyes. “Have a drink with me?” he said. I nodded.

  Seated at the table he began a long roundabout discussion to find out what my occupation was. I told him I had none. “You are a rich man, yes?” he said, his eyes gleaming. “No, I am very poor. I have no money.” He laughed in my face, as if the very thought were absurd. “You like women?” he asked suddenly. I said I liked them very much, especially if they were beautiful. “I have a friend—she is very beautiful,” he said immediately. “We will go to see her—now, as soon as you have finished your coffee.” I told him I didn’t care to see her right away because I was going to bed soon. He pretended not to have heard me correctly and went into a long rhapsody about her charms. “She must be very beautiful,” I said. “Aren’t you jealous of her?” He looked at me as if I were slightly cracked “You are my friend,” he said. “She will be honored to see you. Let’s go now,” and he started to rise from his seat. I sat there as if made of lead and looking up at him I blandly inquired what day it was. He wasn’t sure—he thought it was Tuesday. “Ask the waiter,” I said. He asked the waiter. It was Tuesday all right. “Well,” I said, slowly dragging it out, “I shall be busy until Thursday a week from now, but if you are free T
hursday evening, Thursday the 17th, I’ll call for you here about ten in the evening and we’ll go to see your friend.” He laughed. “Come, we’ll go there now,” he said, taking me by the arm. I remained seated, allowing him to hold my arm which had become as inert as a stovepipe. “I’m going to bed in a few minutes,” I repeated calmly. “Besides, I have no money—I told you I was poor, you remember?” He laughed. Then he sat down, drawing his chair up closer. “Listen,” he said, leaning over in confidential style, “George knows everybody. You don’t need any money—you are my guest. We’ll stay just a few minutes—it’s right near here.” “But it’s late now,” I said, “she may be asleep.” He laughed. “Besides,” I continued, “I told you I was tired. Thursday a week will be fine for me—about ten o’clock.” George now dove into his inside pocket and brought out a packet of letters and a dirty, crumpled passport. He opened the passport and showed me his photograph, his name, where he was born, etc. I nodded my head. “That’s you, George, no?” I said innocently. He tried to pull his chair still closer. “I am an English citizen, you see? I know all the consuls, all the ministers. I will speak to Mr. MacVeagh for you. He will give you the money to go home. He’s a very good man.” Here he dropped his voice. “You like boys—young boys?” I said I did, sometimes, if they behaved themselves. He laughed again. He knew a place where there were very beautiful boys, very young too. I thought that was very interesting—were they friends of his, I wanted to know. He ignored the question and, dropping his voice, he inquired discreetly if I had enough to pay for the coffee and pastry. I said I had enough to pay for my own share. “You pay for George too?” he said, smiling slyly. I said No flatly. He looked surprised—not injured or aggrieved, but genuinely astounded. I called the waiter over and paid for my check, I got up and started to walk out. I went down the stairs. In a moment—he had been whispering to the waiter—he followed me to the street. “Well,” I said, “it was a pleasant evening. I’ll say good-night now.” “Don’t go yet,” he urged, “just two more minutes. She lives right across the street.” “Who?” I asked innocently. “My friend.” “Oh,” I said, “that’s very convenient. Next Thursday a week, then, eh?” I began walking off. He came up close and took me by the arm again. “Give me fifty drachmas, please!” “No,” I said, “I’m not giving you anything.” I walked a few paces. He crawled up on me again. “Please, thirty drachmas” “No,” I said, “no drachmas tonight.” “Fifteen drachmas!” “No,” I repeated, walking away. I got about ten yards away from him. He yelled out: “Five drachmas!” “No!” I yelled back, “not one drachma! Good-night!”

  It was the first time in my life I had so stubbornly refused anybody. I enjoyed the experience. As I was nearing the hotel an oldish-looking man with long hair and a rather large Bohemian hat darted out of a dark alley and, greeting me in perfect English, held out his hand for alms. I instinctively put my hand in my change pocket and fished out a handful of coins, perhaps fifty or sixty drachmas. He took it, bowed respectfully as he removed his flowing hat and, with a candor and a sincerity that were amazing to behold, he informed me in his impeccable English that grateful as he was for the generous gesture it would not be sufficient for his needs. He asked me if it were possible, and he added that he knew it was a great deal to ask of a stranger, to give him two hundred drachmas more, which was the sum he required to pay his hotel bill. He added that even then he would be obliged to go without food. I immediately pulled out my wallet and handed him two hundred and fifty drachmas. It was now his turn to be astounded. He had asked, but apparently he had never dreamed of getting it. The tears came to his eyes. He began a wonderful speech which I cut short by saying that I had to catch up with my friends who had strolled ahead. I left him in the middle of the street with hat in hand, gazing after me as if I were a phantom.

  The incident put me in a good mood. “Ask,” said our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, “and it shall be given unto you.” Ask, mind you. Not demand, not beg, not wheedle or cajole. Very simple, I thought to myself. Almost too simple. And yet what better way is there?

  Now that my departure had become a certainty Katsimbalis was desperately attempting to organize a few last-minute excursions. It was impossible, with the limited time at my disposal, to even think of visiting Mt. Athos or Lesbos, or even Mykonos or Santorini. Delphi yes, perhaps even Delos. Towards lunchtime every day Katsimbalis was at the hotel waiting for me. Lunch lasted usually until five or six in the afternoon after which we would repair to a little wine cellar where we would have a few aperitifs in order to whip up an appetite for dinner. Katsimbalis was now in greater form than ever, though still complaining of arthritis, migraine, bad liver, loss of memory and so on. Wherever we went we were sure to be joined by some of his numerous friends. In this ambiance the discussion developed to fantastic proportions; the newcomer was fitted into the architectural pattern of his talk with the case and dexterity of a mediaeval joiner or mason. We made sea voyages and inland voyages; we traveled down the Nile, crawled through the pyramids on our bellies, rested awhile in Constantinople, made the rounds of the cafés in Smyrna, gambled at the casino in Loutraki and again at Monte Carlo; we lived through the first and second Balkan wars, got back to Paris in time for the armistice, sat up nights with the monks at Mr. Athos, went back stage at the Folies Bergère, strolled through the bazaars of Fez, went crazy with boredom in Salonika, stopped off at Toulouse and Carcassonne, explored the Orinoco, floated down the Mississippi, crossed the Gobi desert, joined the Royal Opera at Sofia, got typhus in Tiflis, put on a weight-lifting act at the Medrano, got drunk in Thebes and came back on motorcycles to play a game of dominoes opposite the Metro station at “Ammonia.”

  Finally it was decided that we would go to Delphi, the ancient navel of the world. Pericles Byzantis, who was a friend of Ghika’s, had invited us to spend a few days there at the new pavilion for foreign students which the government was opening up. We pulled up at the museum in Thebes in a beautiful Packard—Ghika, Byzantis and myself. Katsimbalis had decided to go by bus for some reason or other. By some unaccountable logic Thebes looked exactly as I had pictured it to look; the inhabitants too corresponded to the loutish image which I had retained since school days. The guide to the museum was a surly brute who seemed suspicious of every move we made; it was all we could do to induce him to unlock the door. Yet I liked Thebes; it was quite unlike the other Greek towns I had visited. It was about ten in the morning and the air was winey; we seemed to be isolated in the midst of a great space which was dancing with a violet light; we were oriented towards another world.

  As we rolled out of the town, snaking over the low hills cropped close and kinky like a negro’s poll, Ghika who was sitting beside the driver turned round to tell me of a strange dream which he had had during the night. It was an extraordinary dream of death and transfiguration in which he had risen up out of his own body and gone out of the world. As he was describing the wondrous wraiths whom he had encountered in the other world I looked beyond his eye to the undulating vistas which were unrolling before us. Again that impression of a vast, all-englobing space encircling us, which I had noted in Thebes, came over me. There was a terrific synchronization of dream and reality, the two worlds merging in a bowl of pure light, and we the voyagers suspended, as it were, over the earthly life. All thought of destination was annihilated; we were purring smoothly over the undulating ground, advancing towards the void of pure sensation, and the dream, which was hallucinating, had suddenly become vivid and unbearably real. It was just as he was describing the strange sensation he had experienced of suddenly discovering his own body lying prone on the bed, of balancing himself gingerly above it so as to slowly descend and fit himself into it again without the loss of an arm or a toe, that out of the corner of my eye I caught the full devastating beauty of the great plain of Thebes which we were approaching and, unable to control myself, I burst into tears. Why had no one prepared me for this? I cried out. I begged the driver to stop a moment in order to devour the scen
e with one full sweeping glance. We were not yet in the bed of the plain; we were amidst the low mounds and hummocks which had been stunned motionless by the swift messengers of light. We were in the dead center of that soft silence which absorbs even the breathing of the gods. Man had nothing to do with this, nor even nature. In this realm nothing moves nor stirs nor breathes save the finger of mystery; this is the hush that descends upon the world before the coming of a miraculous event. The event itself is not recorded here, only the passing of it, only the violet glow of its wake. This is an invisible corridor of time, a vast, breathless parenthesis which swells like the uterus and having bowelled forth its anguish relapses like a run-down clock. We glide through the long level plain, the first real oasis I have ever glimpsed. How am I to distinguish it from those other irrigated Paradises known to man? Was it more lush, more fertile, did it groan with a heavier weight of produce? Was it a thriving honeycomb of activity? I cannot say that I was made aware of any of these factors. The plain of Thebes was empty, empty of man, empty of visible produce. In the belly of this emptiness there throbbed a rich pulse of blood which was drained off in black furrowed veins. Through the thick pores of the earth the dreams of men long dead still bubbled and burst, their diaphanous filament carried skyward by flocks of startled birds.