"Is that my son?" he muttered to himself. "That little pip-squeak! Who the devil does he take after? I'd like to pick him up by the scruff of his neck and thump him on the ground like a young octopus!"

Zorba was like a cat on hot bricks. The widow had inflamed his senses, he could no longer stand being within these four walls.

"Let's go, boss, let's go," he whispered every second. "We'll burst in here!"

It looked to him as if the clouds had dispersed and the sun come out.

He turned to the café proprietor:

"Who is that widow?" he asked, feigning indifference.

"A brood mare," Kondomanolio replied.

He put his fingers to his lips and gave a meaning glance at Mavrandoni, who had once more riveted his eyes on the floor.

"A mare," he repeated. "Don't let's speak of her, lest we be damned!"

Mavrandoni rose and wound the smoking-tube round the neck of his nargileh.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm going home. Pavli, follow me!"

He led his son away. They passed in front of us and immediately disappeared in the rain. Manolakas also rose and followed them.

Kondomanolio settled in Mavrandoni's chair.

"Poor old Mavrandoni!" he said, in a voice so low it could not be heard from the neighboring tables. "He'll die of rage. It's a great misfortune which has struck his house. Only yesterday I heard Pavli myself, with my own ears, saying to his father: 'If she won't be my wife, I'll kill myself!' But that jade doesn't want to have anything to do with him. She tells him to run along and wipe his nose."

"Let's go," Zorba repeated. At every word said about the widow he became more excited.

The cocks began to crow; the rain was not quite so heavy.

"Come on, then," I said, rising.

Mimiko leapt from his corner and slipped out after us.

The pebbles were gleaming; the doors running with water looked black; the little old women were coming out with baskets to look for snails.

Mimiko came up to me and touched my arm.

"A cigarette, master," he said. "It'll bring you good luck in love."

I gave him the cigarette. He held out a skinny, sunburnt hand.

"Give me a light, too!"

I gave him a light; he drew the smoke in to his lungs and, with eyes half-closed, blew it out through his nostrils.

"As happy as a pasha!" he murmured.

"Where are you going?"

"To the widow's garden. She said she'd give me some food if I spread the news about her ewe."

We walked quickly. There were rifts in the clouds. The whole village was freshly washed and smiling.

"Do you like the widow, Mimiko?" Zorba asked, with a sigh.

Mimiko chuckled.

"Friend, why shouldn't I like her? And haven't I come out of a sewer, like everyone else?"

"Of a sewer?" I said, astounded. "What d'you mean, Mimiko?"

"Well, from a mother's innards."

I was amazed. Only a Shakespeare in his most creative moments, I thought, could have found an expression of such crude realism to portray the dark and repugnant mystery of birth.

I looked at Mimiko. His eyes were large and ecstatic and they had a slight squint.

"How do you spend your days, Mimiko?"

"How d'you think? I live like a lord! I wake in the morning, I eat a crust. Then I do odd jobs for people, anywhere, anything, I run errands, cart manure, collect horse-dung, and I've got a fishing rod. I live with my aunt, mother Lenio, the professional mourner. You're bound to know her, everybody does. She's even been photographed. In the evening I go back home, drink a bowl of soup and a drop of wine, if there is any. If there isn't, I drink enough of God's water to make my belly swell like a drum. Then, good night!"

"And won't you get married, Mimiko?"

"What, me? I'm not a loony! Whatever are you asking now, friend? That I should saddle myself with trouble? A woman needs shoes! Where'd I find any? Look, I go barefoot!"

"Haven't you any boots?"

"What d'you take me for? Of course I have! A man died last year and my aunt Lenio pulled them off his feet. I wear them at Easter and when I go to church and stare at the priest. Tben I pull them off, hang them round my neck, and come home."

"What do you like best of all, Mimiko?"

"First, bread. Ah, how I like that! All crisp and hot, 'specially if it's wheat bread. Then, wine. Then, sleep."

"What about women?"

"Fff! Eat, drink, and go to bed, I say. All the rest's just trouble!"

"And the widow?"

"Oh, leave her to the devil, I tell you, if you know what's good for you! Get thee behind me, Satan!"

He spat three times and crossed himself.

"Can you read?"

"Now, look here, I'm not such a fool! When I was little I was dragged to school, but I was lucky. I caught typhus and became an idiot. That's how I managed to get out of that!"

Zorba had had enough of my questionings. He could not think of anything save the widow.

"Boss…" he said, taking me by the arm. Then he turned to Mimiko and ordered him to walk on ahead. "We've got something to talk about.

"Boss," he said, "this is where I count on you. Now, don't dishonor the male species! The god-devil sends you this choice morsel. You've got teeth. All right, get 'em into it. Stretch out your arm and take her! What did the Creator give us hands for? To take things! So, take 'em! I've seen loads of women in my time. But that damned widow makes the steeples rock!"

"I don't want any trouble!" I replied angrily.

I was irritated because in my heart of hearts I also had desired that all-powerful body which had passed by me like a wild animal in heat, distilling musk.

"You don't want any trouble!" Zorba exclaimed in stupefaction. "And pray, what do you want, then?"

I did not answer.

"Life is trouble," Zorba continued. "Death, no. To live-do you know what that means? To undo your belt and look for trouble!"

I still said nothing. I knew Zorba was right, I knew it, but I did not dare. My life had got on the wrong track, and my contact with men had become now a mere soliloquy. I had fallen so low that, if I had had to choose between falling in love with a woman and reading a book about love, I should have chosen the book.

"Don't calculate, boss," Zorba continued. "Leave your figures alone, smash the blasted scales, shut up your grocer's shop, I tell you. Now's the time you're going to save or to lose your soul. Listen, boss, take a handkerchief, tie two or three pounds in it, make them gold ones, because the paper ones don't dazzle; and send them to the widow by Mimiko. Teach him what he is to say: 'The master of the mine sends you his best wishes and this little handkerchief. It's only a small thing, he said, but his love is big. He said, too, you weren't to worry about the ewe; if it's lost, don't bother, I'm here, don't be afraid! He says he saw you going by the café and he's fallen sick and only you can cure him!'

"There now! Then the same evening you knock on the door. Must beat the iron while it's hot. You've lost your way, you tell her. It's dark, will she lend you a lantern. Or else you've suddenly come over dizzy and would like a glass of water. Or, better still, you buy another ewe and take it to her: 'Look, my lady,' you say, 'here's the ewe you lost. It was I who found it for you!' And the widow-listen to this, boss-the widow gives you the reward and you enter into… God Almighty, if only I could ride your mare behind you-I tell you, boss, you'll enter into Paradise on horseback. If you're looking for any other paradise than that, my poor fellow, there is none! Don't listen to what the priests tell you, there's no other!"

We must have been approaching the widow's garden, for Mimiko sighed and began in his stammering voice to sing his sorrow:

Wine for the chestnut, honey for the wálnut! A lass for the lad, and a lad for the lass!

Zorba stepped out on his long shanks, hís nostrils quivering. He stopped abruptly, drew in a long breath. He stared me straight in the eyes: