Zorba pulled his thick winter cap over his head.

"All right, then!" he said unhappily. "Let's go! But I want you to know that God would have been much more pleased if you'd gone to the widow's tonight, like Archangel Gabriel. If God had followed the same path as you, boss, he'd never have gone to Mary's and Christ would never have been born. If you asked me what path God follows, I'd say: the one leading to Mary's. Mary is the widow."

He waited in silence and in vain for my reply. He thrust the door open, and he went out. He angrily struck at the pebbles with the end of his stick.

"Yes," he repeated persistently, "Mary is the widow!"

"Now, let's get along!" I said. "Don't shout!"

We strode along at a good pace in the winter night. The sky was perfectly clear, the stars looked big and hung low in the sky like balls of fire. The night, as we made our way along the shore, resembled a great black beast lying along the water's edge.

"From tonight," I said to myself, "the light which winter has forced back will begin to fight victoríously. As if it were born this night together with the infant god."

All the villagers had crowded into the warm and scented hive of the church. The men stood in front and the women, with clasped hands, behind. The tall priest, Stephanos, was in an exasperated state after his forty-days' fast. Clad in his heavy gold chasuble, he was running hither and thither in great strides, swinging his censer, singing at the top of his voice and in a great hurry to see Christ born and get home to a thick soup, savory sausages and smoked meats…

If the scriptures had said: "Today, light is born," man's heart would not have leapt. The idea would not have become a legend and would not have conquered the world. They would merely have described a normal physical phenomenon and would not have fired our imagination-I mean our soul. But the light which is born in the dead of winter has become a child and the child has become God, and for twenty centuries our soul has suckled it…

The mystic ceremony came to an end shortly after midnight. Christ had been born. The famished and happy villagers ran home, to have a feast and feel in the depths of their bowels the mystery of incarnation. The belly is the firm foundation; bread, wine and meat are the first essentials; it is only with bread, wine and meat that one can create God.

The stars were shining as large as angels above the white dome of the church. The milky way was flowing like a stream from one side of the heavens to the other. A green star was twinkling above us like an emerald. I sighed, a prey to my emotions.

Zorba turned to me.

"Boss, d'you believe that? That God became man and was born in a stable? Do you believe it, or are you just pulling our legs?"

"It's difficult to say, Zorba," I replied. "I can't say I belíeve it, nor that I don't. What about you?"

"I can't'say I do either. I can't for the life of me. You see, when I was a kíd and my grandma told me tales, I didn't believe a word of them. And yet I trembled with emotion, I laughed and I cried, just as if I did believe them. When I grew a beard on my chin, I just dropped them, and I even used to laugh at them; but now, in my old age-I suppose I'm getting soft, eh, boss?-in a kind of way I believe in them again… Man's a mystery!"

We had taken the path leading to Dame Hortense's and we started galloping along like two hungry horses who can smell the stable.

"The holy fathers are pretty crafty, you know!" Zorba said. "They get at you through your belly, so how can you escape them? For forty days, they say, you shan't eat meat, you shan't drink wine; just fast. Why? So that you'll pine for meat and wine. Ah, the fat hogs, they know all the tricks of the game!"

He started going even faster.

"Let's get moving, boss," he said. "The turkey must be done to a turn!"

When we arrived in our good lady's room, with its great tempting bed, we found the table covered with a white cloth, and on it the steaming turkey lying on its back with its legs apart. The brazier was giving off a gentle heat.

Dame Hortense had curled her hair and was wearing a long dressing gown of faded pink color with enormous sleeves and frayed lacework. Round her Wrinkled neck was a tight, canary-yellow ribbon, about the width of two fingers. She had sprayed herself generously with orange-blossom water.

How perfectly everything is matched on this earth, I thought. How well the earth is matched to the human heart! Here is this old cabaret singer who has led a thoroughly fast life, and now, cast up on this lonely coast, she concentrates in this miserable room all the sacred solicitude and warmth of womanhood.

The copious and carefully prepared repast, the burning brazier, the painted and pennanted body, the orange-blossom scent-with what rapidity and what simplicity all these very human, little, corporeal pleasures are transformed into a great spiritual joy!

My heart suddenly leaped in my breast. I felt, on that solemn evening, that I was not quite alone here on this deserted seashore. A creature full of feminine devotion, tenderness and patience was coming toward me: she was the mother, the sister, the wife. And I, who thought I needed nothing, suddenly felt I needed everything.

Zorba must have felt a like emotion, for scarcely had we entered the room than he rushed to the bedecked cabaret-singer and hugged her.

"Christ is born!" he cried. "Greetings to you, female of the species!"

He turned to me, laughing.

"See, boss, what a cunning creature is woman! She can even twist God round her little finger!"

We sat down at table; we hungrily devoured the dishes and drank the wine. Our bodies were satisfied and our souls thrilled with pleasure. Zorba became lively once more.

"Eat and drink," he continually shouted. "Eat and drink, boss, and get warmed up! You sing too, my boy, sing like the shepherds: 'Glory to the highest!… Glory to the lowest…' Christ is born, that's a terrific thing, you know. Pipe up with your song and let God hear you and rejoice."

He had quite recovered his spirits, and there was no stopping him.

"Christ is born, my wise Solomon, my wretched pen-pusher! Don't go picking things over with a needle! Is He born or isn't He? Of course He's born, don't be daft. If you take a magnifying-glass and look at your drinking water-an engineer told me this, one day-you'll see, he said, the water's full of little worms you couldn't see with your naked eye. You'll see the worms and you won't drink. You won't drink and you'll curl up with thirst. Smash your glass, boss, and the little worms'll vanish and you can drink and be refreshed!"

He turned towards our gaudy companion, raised his full glass and said:

"My very dear Bouboulina, my old comrade-in-arms, I'm going to drink to your health! I've seen many figureheads in my life; they're nailed to the ship's prow, they hold their breasts in their hands, and the cheeks and lips are painted a fiery red. They've sailed over all the seas, they've entered every port, and when the ship falls to bits they come on dry land and, till the end of their days, stay leaning against the wall of a fisherman's tavern where the captains go to drink. My Bouboulina, tonight, as I see you on this shore, now my belly's full of good things and my eyes are wide open, you look to me like the figurehead of a great ship. And I am your last port, I am the tavern where the sea captains come to drink. Come, lean on me, strike your sails! I drink this glass of Cretan wine to your health, my siren!"

Touched and overcome, Dame Hortense started to cry, and leaned on Zorba's shoulder.

"You just see, boss," Zorba whispered in my ear, "my fine speech is going to land me into some trouble. The jade won't want to let me go tonight. But, there you are, I'm sorry for the poor creatures, yes, I pity them!