Report to Grego (19 page)

One day in September I made my decision.

“Would you like to climb Psiloriti with me?” I asked her. “The whole of Crete is visible from the top, and there's a little chapel at the summit where we can spend the night and I can say goodbye to you.”

Her ears turned crimson, but she accepted. What deep mystery that excursion involved, what sweetness and anxious anticipation—just like a honeymoon! We set out at night. The moon above our heads was truly dripping with honey; never again in my life did I see such a moon. That face, which had always seemed so sorrowful to me, laughed now and eyed us roguishly while advancing with us from east to west and descending by way of our opened blouses to our throats, and then down as far as our breasts and bellies.

We kept silent, afraid that words might destroy the perfect, tacit understanding achieved by our bodies as they walked one next to the other. Sometimes our thighs touched as we proceeded along a narrow path, but then each of us suddenly, abruptly, drew away from the other. It seemed that we did not wish to expend our unbearable desire in petty pleasures. We were keeping it intact for the great moment, and we marched hurriedly and with bated breath, not, so it seemed, like two friends, but like two implacable enemies: we were racing to the arena where we would come to grips, breast to breast.

Though we had uttered not a single amorous word before this time, though now, on this excursion, we had agreed on nothing, both of us knew full well where we were going and why. We were anxious to arrive—she, I felt, even more than I.

Daybreak found us in a village at the foot of Psiloriti. We were tired, and we went to lodge at the house of the village priest. I told him that my companion was the daughter of a pastor on a distant, verdant island, and that she desired to see the whole of Crete from the mountain's top. The priest's wife, the papadhiá, came to set the table. We ate. Then, sitting on the sofa, we engaged in small talk. First we discussed the Great Powers—England, France, America, Muscovy. Then vines and olives. Afterwards the priest spoke of Christ, who he said was Orthodox and would never turn Protestant no matter what was done to him. And he wagered that if the girl's father had been with us, he would have converted him to Orthodoxy in one night. But the blue eyes were sleepy, and the priest nodded to his wife.

“Fix her a bed so she can get some sleep. She's a woman, after all, and she's tired.

“But as for you,” he continued, turning in my direction, “you're
a man, a stalwart Cretan, and it's disgraceful for a Cretan to sleep during the day. Come, let me show you my vineyards. There are still some unpicked grapes. We can eat them.”

I was ready to drop from fatigue and lack of sleep, but what could I do? I was a Cretan and could not disgrace Crete. We went to the vineyards, ate the leftover grapes, then took a walk in the village. The retorts were boiling away in the courtyards, the liquor being removed. We drank more than enough raki, still warm, and returned home arm in arm, both staggering. It was evening already. The Irish girl had awakened, the papadhiá had killed a hen. We ate again.

“No talking tonight,” declared the priest. “Go to sleep. At midnight I'll wake you up and give you my little shepherd as a guide, so you won't get lost.”

Going out to the courtyard, he inspected the sky like an astronomer, then stepped back inside with a satisfied air. “You're in luck,” he said. “Tomorrow will be gorgeous. Leave everything in God's hands. Good night.”

Around midnight the priest seized me by the leg and awakened me. He also awakened the girl, by banging a copper roasting pan above her head. Awaiting us in the yard was a curly-haired shepherd boy with pointed ears and a fierce glance. He smelled of billy goats and cistus.

“Ready!” he said, raising his crook. “Quick march! We want to reach the summit in time for sunup.”

The moon was at the zenith, still happy, still full of sweetness. It was cold out; we wrapped ourselves in our overcoats. The Irish girl's tiny nose had turned white, but her lips were richly red. I looked the other way in order not to see them.

It was a fierce mountain. Leaving the vineyards and olive groves behind us, then the oaks and wild cypresses, we reached bare rock. Our shoes lacked spikes; we kept slipping. The Irish girl fell two or three times but got up unaided. We were no longer cold; sweat drenched our bodies. Clenching our lips together to keep from gasping, we advanced in silence, the little shepherd boy leading, the Irish girl in the middle, and myself bringing up the rear.

The sky began to turn bluish white. The crags became visible; the first hawks hovered in the blue-black air in search of prey. And when at last we set foot on the summit, the east was gleaming rosy-red.
But I could see nothing in the distance. A thick mist lay all around us, shrouding land and sea. Crete's entire body was covered. Shivering from the frightful cold, we pushed open the chapel's little door and went inside. The shepherd, meanwhile, began to search all about to find dry twigs in order to light a fire.

The chapel was built of stones laid up without cement. We remained alone inside, the Irish lass and myself. Christ and the Virgin gazed at us from the humble iconostasis, but we did not gaze at them. Demons opposed to Christ and Virgin, antichrists, antivirgins, had risen within us. Extending my hand, I seized the Irish lass by the nape of the neck. She inclined submissively—this is what she had been waiting for—and the two of us rolled down together onto the flagstones.

A black trap door opened to swallow me, and I perished within. When I raised my lids, I discovered Christ eying me furiously from the iconostasis. The green sphere He held in his right hand was swaying, as though about to be hurled at me. I felt terrified, but the woman's arms wrapped themselves around me and I plunged anew into chaos.

My knees were shaking when we opened the door to go outside; my hand trembled as it drew back the bolt. I had suddenly been possessed by an age-old fear: God would hurl a thunderbolt to reduce both of us, the Irish girl and myself—Adam and Eve—to ashes. To be sure, it is not with impunity that one defiles the house of the Lord directly in front of the Virgin's eyes. . . . I gave the door a push and bounded outside. Whatever happens, I said to myself, may it happen quickly and let's be done with it. But as I ran outside and saw: Oh, what immense joy, what a miracle this was that stretched before me! The sun had appeared, the mist had lifted, and the entire island of Crete from one end to the other gleamed white, green, and rose—fully naked—surrounded by her four seas. With her three high summits, the White Mountains, Psiloríti and Dhikti, Crete was a triple-masted schooner sailing in the foam. She was a sea monster, a gorgon with myriad breasts, stretched supine on the waves and sunning herself. In the morning sun I distinctly saw her face, hands, feet, tail, and erect breasts. . . . A goodly number of pleasures have fallen to my lot in the course of a lifetime; I have no reason to complain. But this, the sight of the entire island of Crete upon the billows,
was one of the greatest. I turned to look, at the Irish girl. She was leaning against the little church, chewing a piece of chocolate and calmly, indifferently, licking her lips, which were covered with my bites.

The return to Kastro was dismal. At last we came near; there stood the famous Venetian ramparts with their winged lions of stone. The tired Irish girl drew close in order to lean against my arm, but I could not endure her odor or her leaden eyes—the apple she fed me had covered my lips and teeth with ashes. Moving away brusquely, I refused to let her approach. She, without a word, fell one pace behind me. I heard her sobs. I wanted to turn, clasp her in my arms, and say a kind word to her, but instead I quickened my pace and remained silent. Finally we reached her house. She withdrew the key from her pocket and opened the door. Then she stood waiting on the threshold. Head bowed, she stood waiting. Would I come in or not? Unbearable compassion and a multitude of joyful and sorrowful words rose in me, reaching as far as my throat. But I pressed my lips tightly together and did not speak. I gave her my hand; we separated. The following day I departed for Athens. I had no monkey to give her as a keepsake, but through one of her students I sent her a little dog which liked to snap, a dog I loved. Its name was Carmen.

Y
OUTH
is a blind incongruous beast. It craves food but does not eat, is too timid to eat; it need simply nod to happiness, which strolls by on the street and would willingly stop, but it does not nod; it turns on the faucet, permitting time to drain away uselessly and be lost, as though time were water. A beast that does not know it is a beast—such is youth.

My heart breaks when I bring to mind those years I spent as a university student in Athens. Though I looked, I saw nothing. The world, covered by a dense fog of morality, fanciful imaginings, and frivolity, was hidden from my eyes. Youth is bitter, bitter and disdainful; it does not comprehend. And when one begins to comprehend, youth has fled. Who was the Chinese sage who was born an old man with white hair and beard, his eyes filled with tears? As the years went by, gradually his hair turned black, his eyes began to laugh, his heart was relieved of its burdens, and when he finally neared death, his cheeks became those of a virgin and were covered with delicate childish fuzz. . . . This is the way our lives should unfold, the way they would unfold if God pitied mankind.

In Crete I had risen in revolt against my destiny. I had given myself over to wine for one moment, touched the Irish girl for another moment. But this was not my road. I felt that I had sinned. Ashamed and repentant, I returned to solitude and books.

From youth right to old age every word or deed which diverted me from my destiny I considered a sin. What was this destiny of mine, where was it leading me? Since my intellect still could not unravel the mystery, I allowed my heart to decide: “Do this, don't do that. March! Do not halt or cry out. You have a single duty—to reach the limit.” “What limit?” I demanded. “Ask no questions. Advance!”

As I listened intently in solitude to my heart's foolhardy and
pretentious advice, my cravings grew overluxuriant and nothing of all I saw or heard around me in the celebrated city of Athens was able to satisfy my hunger. The courses at law school failed to answer my soul's needs to the slightest degree, nor did they even satisfy my intellectual curiosity. I felt no pleasure whatsoever in the parties my friends had with girl students or simple little dressmakers. The ashes from the apple the Irish lass had fed me were still resting on my teeth. Once in a while I went to the theater or to a concert and enjoyed myself. But the joy was a surface one which did not change the inner man; as soon as I reached the street again, I forgot. I continued my study of foreign languages. The awareness that my mind was broadening pleased me greatly, but straightway the mysterious tepid wind of youth always blew, and all these pleasures wilted. I craved some other good, something beyond women or learning, beyond beauty—but what?

The two wounds of my adolescence opened frequently. All seemed futile and worthless, since everything was ephemeral and raced into the abyss, incited as a joke by some merciless, invisible hand. I pushed away the refreshing face of every young girl and saw the future crone. The flower wilted; behind the girl's happily laughing mouth I perceived her skull's naked jaws. The world in front of my eyes took on a violently rapid rhythm and crumbled to ruins. Youth seeks immortality, does not find it, will not deign to compromise, and thus rejects the entire cosmos—out of pride. Not all cases of youth, only those which are wounded by truth.

On Sundays I liked to go on solitary outings. I felt that the company of friends—their conversation, jokes, and laughter—debased the sacred silence. The mountains were fragrant with pine and honey. I entered the olive groves and felt my eyes being refreshed. I exchanged a word or two with any peasant who happened to pass—an Albanian, for example, with narrow forehead and a filthy black hat, who smelled of milk and garlic. His words were prosaic, fuddled, full of dark curiosity. These peasants glanced at me out of the corners of their tiny cunning eyes, tormenting their minuscule brains to find out who I was and why I roamed the mountains. A spy? Lunatic? Peddler? They cast rapacious eyes on the sack I carried on my back.

“What are you selling, friend?” they asked. “Bibles? Are you a Freemason, is that it?”

One day when I heard chirping and saw a steel-blue bird fly overhead, I stopped a peasant who was passing by.

“What kind of bird is that, my friend?” I anxiously inquired. “What is it called?”

“Poor fellow, why worry about it,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “It's no good for eating.”

I used to get up at dawn. The morning star would be dripping onto the earth, a light mist hovering over Hymettus. A cool breeze icicled my face. Larks ascended songfully into the air and vanished in the light. One Sunday in springtime I remember seeing two or three blossoming cherry trees in a red, recently ploughed field. Happiness filled my heart. At that very moment the sun rose, gleaming as on the day it first emerged from God's hands. The Saronic Gulf beamed; Aegina, in the distance, filled with roses in the morning light. Two crows, their wings vibrating like bowstrings, flew by on my right—a good omen.

On one side, white-maned waves like Homeric horses, long-sweeping, refreshing verses of Homer; on the other, Athena's oil-and light-filled olive, and Apollo's laurel, and Dionysus's wonderworking grape all wine and song. And the dry, frugal earth, its stones tinted rose-red by the sun, the mountains flapping bluishly in mid-air, steaming in the light, peacefully, restfully sunning themselves, all naked, like athletes.

I marched, and as I marched, I felt that the entire earth and sky were journeying with me. All the surrounding miracles penetrated me. I blossomed, laughed, vibrated in my turn like a bowstring. How my soul vanished on that Sunday, faded songfully into the morning light, just like the lark!