But what was the use of my shouting? How could Zorba hear my cries from the earth? His organs had become like those of a bird.

I anxiously followed the savage and desperate dance. When I was a child I used to let my imagination go and told my friends outrageous fibs which I came to believe myself.

"How did your grandfather die?" my little school-friend asked me one day.

And straight away I invented a myth, and the more I invented the more I believed.

"My grandfather had a white beard and used to wear rubber shoes. One day he leapt from the roof of our house, but when his feet touched the ground he bounced like a ball and bounced up higher than the house, and went higher and higher still till he disappeared in the clouds. That is how my grandfather died."

After inventing that myth, every time I went into the little church of St. Minas and saw at the bottom of the iconostasis the ascension of Christ, I would point to it and say to my comrades:

"Look, there's grandfather with his rubber shoes!"

Now, this evening, after so many vears, seeing Zorba leaping into the air, I lived through my childish tale again with terror, fearing that Zorba might disappear in the clouds.

"Zorba! Zorba!" I shouted. "That's enough!"

At last Zorba crouched on the ground, out of breath. His face was shining and happy. His grey hairs were sticking to his forehead and the sweat, mixed with coal-dust, was running down his cheeks and chin.

I bent over him anxiously.

"I feel better for that," he said, after a minute, "as if I had been bled. Now I can talk."

He went back to the hut, sat in front of the brazier and looked at me with a radiant expression.

"What came over you to make you dance like that?"

"What could I do, boss? My joy was choking me. I had to find some outlet. And what sort of outlet? Words? Pff!"

"What joy?"

His face clouded over. His lip began to tremble.

"What joy? Well, what you said to me a moment ago, you said… just like that, in the air? You didn't understand it yourself? We didn't come here for the coal, you told me. That's what you said, didn't you? We came here to while away the time and lead them up the wrong track so that they shouldn't take us for lunatics and sling tomatoes at us! But when we're alone together and nobody can see us, we can laugh and enjoy ourselves! Isn't that right? I swear that's what I wanted, too, but I didn't realize it properly. Sometimes I thought of the coal, sometimes of old Bouboulina, sometimes of you… a regular muddle. When I was picking out a gallery, I said: It's coal I want! And from head to heel I became coal. But afterwards, when the work was finished, when I was skylarking with that old sow-good luck to her!-I said, let all the sacks of lignite and all the bosses go hang-by the little ribbon round her neck-and Zorba with them! Then when I was alone and had nothing to do, I thought of you, boss, and my heart melted. It weighed on my conscience. 'It's disgraceful, Zorba,' I'd cry, 'disgraceful for you to go and fool that good man and eat up all his money. When'll you stop being a rotter, you Zorba, you'? I've had enough of you!' I tell you, boss, I didn't know where I was. The devil was dragging me one way, God the other; and, between the two of them, they split me down the middle. Now, bless you, boss, you've said a great thing and I can see it all clearly now. I've seen, I've understood! We're agreed! Let's get cracking! How much money have you got left? Hand it over! Let's eat it up!"

Zorba mopped his brow and looked around. The remains of our dinner were still lying on the little table. He reached for them with his long arm.

"With your permission, boss," he said. "I'm hungry again."

He took a slice of bread, an onion and handful of olives.

He ate voraciously, tipped up the calabash, and the red wine gurgled down his throat without the calabash touching his lips. Zorba clicked his tongue; he was satisfied.

"That's better," he said.

He winked at me and asked:

"Why don't you laugh? Why d'you look at me like that? That's how I am. There's a devil in me who shouts, and I do what he says. Whenever I feel I'm choking with some emotion, he says: 'Dance!' and I dance. And I feel better! Once, when my little Dimitraki died, in Chalcidice, I got up as I did a moment ago and I danced. The relations and friends who saw me dancing in front of the body rushed up to stop me. 'Zorba has gone mad!' they cried, 'Zorba has gone mad!' But if at that moment I had not danced, I should really have gone mad-from grief. Because it was my first son and he was three years old and I could not bear to lose him. You understand what I'm saying, boss, don't you-or am I talking to myself?"

"I understand, Zorba, I understand; you're not talking to yourself."

"Another time… I was in Russia then… yes, I've been there, too, for the mines again, copper this time, near Novo Rossisk… I had learnt five or six words of Russian, just enough for my work: no; yes; bread; water; I love you; come; how much?… But I got friendly with a Russian, a thorough-going Bolshevik. We went every evening to a tavern in the port. We knocked back a good number of bottles of vodka, and that put us into high spirits. Once we began to feel good we wanted to talk. He wanted to tell me everything that had happened to him during the Russian revolution, and I wanted to let him know what I had been up to… We had got drunk together, you see, and had become brothers.

"We had come to an arrangement as well as we could by gestures. He was to speak first. As soon as I couldn't follow him, I was to shout: 'Stop!' Then he'd get up and dance. D'you get me, boss? He danced what he wanted to tell me. And I did the same. Anything we couldn't say with our mouths we said with our feet, our hands, our belly or with wild cries: Hi! Hi! Hop-la! Ho-heigh!

"The Russian began. How he had taken a rifle; how war had spread; how they arrived in Novo Rossisk. When I couldn't follow any more, I cried: 'Stop!' The Russian straight away bounded up, and away he went dancing! He danced like a madman. And I watched his hands, his feet, his chest, his eyes, and I understood everything. How they had entered Novo Rossisk; how they had looted shops; how they had gone into houses and carried off the women. At first the hussies cried and scratched their own faces with their nails and scratched the men, too, but gradually they became tamed, they shut their eyes and yelped with pleasure. They were women, in fact…

"And then, after that, it was my turn. I only managed to get out a few words-perhaps he was a bit dense and his braín didn't work properly-the Russian shouted: 'Stop!' That's all I was waiting for. I leapt up, pushed the chairs and tables away and began dancing. Ah, my poor friend, men have sunk very low, the devil take them! They've let their bodies become mute and they only speak with their mouths. But what d'you expect a mouth to say? What can it tell you? If only you could have seen how the Russian listened to me from head to foot, and how he followed everything! I danced my misfortunes; my travels; how many times I'd been married; the trades I'd learned-quarrier, miner, pedlar, potter, comitadji, santuri-player, passa-tempo hawker, blacksmith, smuggler-how I'd been shoved into prison; how I escaped; how I arrived in Russia…

"Even he, dense as he was, could understand everything, everything. My feet and my hands spoke, so did my hair and my clothes. And a clasp-knife hanging from my waistband spoke, too. When I had finished, the great blockhead hugged me in his arms; we filled up our glasses with vodka once more; we wept and we laughed in each other's arms. At daybreak we were pulled apart and went staggering to our beds. And in the evening we met again.

"Are you laughing? Don't you believe me, boss? You're saying to yourself: Whatever are these yarns this Sinbad the Sailor is spinning? Is it possible to talk by dancing? And yet I dare swear that's how the gods and devils must talk to each other.