I wanted to speak to her, wish her a happy New Year, but my throat was too tight, as on the day when the gallery fell in and my life had been in danger. The reeds surrounding her garden stirred in the wind, the winter sun fell on the golden lemons and the oranges with their dark foliage. The entire garden was resplendent like a paradise.

The widow stopped, stretched out her arm and thrust the gate open. I was passing her just at that moment. She looked round and, raísing her eyebrows, turned her gaze on me.

She left the gate open and I saw her disappear behind the orange trees, swaying her hips as she went.

To enter that gate and bolt it, to run after her, take her by the waist and, without a word, drag her to her large widow's bed, that was what you would call being a man! That was what my grandfather would have done, and what I hope my grandson will do! But I stood there like a post, weighing things up and reflecting…

"In another life," I murmured, smiling bitterly, "in some other life I'll behave better than this!"

I plunged into the green defile, feeling a weight on my soul as if I had committed a mortal sin. I wandered up and down. It was cold and I was shivering. It was no use my chasing from my thoughts the widow's swaying hips, her smile, her eyes, her breasts, they always returned-I was suffocating.

The trees had no leaves as yet, but the buds were full of sap and already swelling and bursting. In every bud you could feel the concentrated presence of young shoots, flowers, fruits-to-be, lying in wait and ready to burst out to the light. Day and night in the middle of winter, the great miracle of spring was silently, secretly being prepared beneath the dry bark.

Suddenly I gave a cry of joy. A bold almond tree opposite me in a sheltered hollow had burst into flower in midwinter, leading the way to all the other trees and heralding the spring.

The oppression I felt left me. I took a deep breath of its somewhat peppery scent. I left the road and sat down beneath its flowering branches.

I stayed there a long time, thinking of nothing, care-free and happy. This was eternity and I was sitting beneath a tree in Paradise.

Suddenly a loud rough voice ejected me from this paradise.

"Now what might you be doing tucked away in there, boss? I've been looking high and low for you. It's close on twelve, come on!"

"Where?"

"Where? You ask me where? To old mother Sucking Pig, of course! Aren't you hungry? The sucking pig's out of the oven! What a smell… makes your mouth water! Come on!"

I rose, stroked the hard trunk of the almond tree containing so many mysteries and which had produced this miracle of blossom. Zorba went on ahead, light-footed, full of zest and hunger. The fundamental needs of man-food, drink, women and dance-were never exhausted or dulled in his robust and eager body.

He was holding in his hand a flat parcel wrapped in pink paper and tied with golden-colored string.

"A New Year's gift?" I asked with a smile.

Zorba laughed, trying to hide his emotion.

"Well, just so she's no room for complaint, poor woman!" he said, without turning róund. "So she'll remember her past grandeur… She's a woman-haven't we said so often enough?-and therefore a creature always mourning over her lot…"

"A photograph?"

"You'll see… you'll see; don't be in so great a hurry! I made it myself. Come on, we'd better get a move on."

The midday sun was such as to gladden your very bones. The sea, too, was happily warming itself in the sun. In the distance the tiny uninhabited island, shrouded in light mist, looked as if it had raised itself out of the sea and was floating.

We approached the village, and Zorba came close to me and lowered hís voice.

"You know, boss," he said, "the person in question was at church. I was standing in front by the cantor when I suddenly saw the sacred icons light up. Christ, the Holy Virgin, the Twelve Apostles, everything shone… 'Whatever's happening?' I said, crossing. myself. 'Is it the sun?' I turned round-it was the widow!"

"All right, Zorba. That'll do," I said, hurrying on.

But Zorba ran after me.

"I saw her close to, boss. She's got a beauty spot on her cheek that's enough to send you crazy. Another of those mysteries-beauty spots on women's cheeks!"

He opened wide his eyes with an air of stupefaction.

"Have you noticed, boss? The skin's all soft and smooth, and then, all of a sudden, a black spot! Well, that's all that's needed! It sends you crazy! D'you understand that, boss? What d'your books say about it?"

"The devil take them!"

Zorba laughed, pleased with himself.

"That's the stuff!" he exclaimed. "That's the stuff. You're beginning to realize…"

We did not stop at the café; we pressed on.

Our good lady had cooked a sucking pig for us in the oven and was waiting for us on her doorstep.

She had put a canary-yellow ribbon round her neck once more, and, to see her like that-heavily powdered, lips plastered with a thick layer of crimson-was enough to dismay anyone. Was she, in fact, a ship's figurehead? As soon as she caught sight of us her whole flesh seemed to be gladdened and set in motion, her small eyes danced naughtily in her head and came to rest fixed on Zorba's curled-up moustache.

As soon as the outer door had closed behind us, Zorba took her by the waist.

"Happy New Year, my Bouboulina!" he said. "Look what we brought you!" And he kissed her plump and wrinkled neck.

The old siren was tickled for a moment, but did not lose her head. Her eyes were clamped on the present. She seized it, undid the golden string, looked inside and uttered a cry of joy.

I leaned forward to see what it was: on a thick piece of cardboard that rascal Zorba had drawn in four colors-red, gold, grey and black-four huge battleships, decked with flags, sailing on an indigo-blue sea. In front of the battleships, floating on the waves, all naked and white, with hair flowing, breasts in the air, and a spiral fish-tail, was a siren-Dame Hortense, complete with yellow ribbon round her neck! She was holding four strings and pulling behind her the four battleships flying the flags of England, Russia, France and Italy. In each corner of the picture hung a beard, one fair, one red, one grey, and one black.

The old singer understood immediately.

"Me!" she said, pointing proudly to the siren.

She sighed.

"Ah! I used to be a Great Power, too, once upon a time!"

She moved a small round mirror from over her bed, near to the parrot's cage, and, in its place, hung Zorba's picture. Beneath her thick make-up she must have gone pale.

Zorba, meanwhile, had slipped into the kitchen. He was hungry. He brought in the dish with the sucking pig, placed a bottle of wine on the table in front of him and filled three glasses.

"Come! Eat, eat!" he cried, clapping his hands together. "Let's begin with the foundation-the belly. After that, my sweet, we'll take care of what's below!"

But the atmosphere was troubled by the old siren's sighs. Each New Year, she, too, had a little Doomsday of her own… she looked back on her life, weighed it up and found it wanting. Beneath this old woman's thinning hair, big cities, men, silk dresses, bottles of champagne and scented beards rose from the graves of her memory on all solemn occasions.

"I've no appetite," she murmured coyly. "None at all… none at all…"

She kneeled down before the brazier and poked the hot coals. Her flabby cheeks reflected the light of the fire. A lock of hair slipped from her brow and was singed by a flame. The nauseating smell of burnt hair permeated the room.

"I won't eat… I won't eat…" she muttered once more, seeing we were taking no notice of her at all.

Zorba clenched his fists impatiently. He remained for a moment undecided. He could let her mutter to herself as much as she chose, while we got on with the roast pig-or he could throw himself on his knees, take her in his arms and calm her down with kind words. I watched his tanned face and saw, passing over his mobile features, waves of contradictory impulses.