You must see from this letter what an unhappy man I am. It's only when I'm with you that I have any chance, through talking to you, of getting some relief from my morbid state of mind. Because you're like me, too, only you don't know it. You've got a devil inside you, as well, but you don't know his name yet, and, since you don't know that, you can breathe. Baptize him, boss, and you'll feel better!
I was saying how unhappy I am. I can see clearly that all my intelligence is stupidity and nothing more. There are times, though, when for whole days great thoughts occur to me, and if only I could do what that inside Zorba tells me to do the world would be amazed!
Seeing as how I have no time-limit clause in my contract with life, I let the brakes off when I get to the most dangerous slopes. The life of man is a road with steep rises and dips. All sensible people use their brakes. But-and this is where, boss, maybe I show what I'm made of-I did away with my brakes altogether a long time ago, because I'm not at all scared of a jolt. When a machine goes off the rails we mechanics call that "a jolt!" Änd the devil knows if I take any notice of the jolts I get. Day and night, I go full steam ahead, doing just what I like; so much the worse if I fold up and get smashed to pieces. What have I got to lose? Nothing. Even if I do take it easy, won't I end up just the same? Of course I will! So let's scorch along!
I'm sure I'm making you laugh now, boss, but I'm writing down my blather, or, if you like, my reflections, or my weaknesses-what's the difference between the three?-I really couldn't say-I'm writing to you, and you have a good laugh if you're not bored. I'm laughing at the thought of you laughing, and that's how laughing never stops on this earth. Every man has his folly, but the greatest folly of all, in my view, is not to have one.
So you can see I'm sorting out my own brand of folly here in Candia, and I'm giving you the whole shoot, boss, because I want to ask your advice. You're still young, of course, but you have read the old books of wisdom and you've become, if you don't mind my saying so, a bit old fashioned; so I'd like your advice.
Well, I think every man has his own smell. We don't notice it much because smells mingle all together and we can't tell which is yours and which is mine, really… All we know is that there's a foul smell and that's what we call "humanity"… I mean "the human stench." There are people who sniff at it as if it was lavender. It makes me want to spew. Anyway, let's get on, that's another story…
I wanted to say-I was just going to let off the brake again-that women, the jades, have wet noses, like bitches, and straight away smell out a man who desires them and one who doesn't. That's why in every town I've ever set foot in, even now when I'm old, ugly as an ape and got no smart clothes, I've always had one or two women running after me. They sniff me out, the bitches! God bless 'em!
Anyway, the first day I arrived safely in Candia, it was dusk. I rushed straight to the shops, but they were all closed. I went to an inn, gave the mule some fodder, ate myself and had a clean-up. I lit a cigarette and went out for a look-around. I didn't know a soul in the town and no one knew me; I was absolutely free. I could whistle in the street, laugh, talk to myself. I bought some passa-tempo, [19] nibbled, spat and wandered to my heart's content. The street-lamps were lit, men were having their aperitifs, women were going home, the air was scented with powder, toilet-soap, anisette, and souvlakia. [20] I said to myself: "Listen, Zorba, how long do you expect to live with those quivering nostrils? You haven't got very long left, to sniff the air. Go on, old chap, breathe it in as deep as you can!"
That's what I was saying as I walked up and down the big square-you know the one. Suddenly-praise be to God-I heard shouts, dancing, a tambourine playíng and some oriental songs. I pricked up my ears and ran to where the noise was coming from. It was a café with a cabaret. That was just what I wanted. I went in. I sat down at a little table, well to the front. Why shouldn't I be bold? As I say, nobody knew me, I was absolutely free.
A big gawk of a woman was dancing on the platform, lifting her skirts up, but I didn't pay any attention. I ordered a bottle of beer, and then a sweet, dusky little creature came and sat down at my table. She'd plastered on her paint with a trowel.
"Do you mind, grandad?" she asked, laughing.
The blood rushed up to my head at this. I felt a terrible urge to wring her neck, the hussy! But I held myself back, I was sorry for the "female of the species" so I called a waiter.
"Two bottles of champagne!"
Forgive me, boss! I've spent some of your money, but it was such a terrible insult, I had to save our honor, yours as well as mine, I had to bring that little brat to her knees before us, I really had to. I know you would never have left me defenseless, like that, at a difficult moment! So, "Two bottles of champagne, waiter!"
The champagne arrived, and I ordered cakes as well, then some more champagne. A man with some jasmine came up and I bought the basketful and emptied it into the lap of the little bit of fluff who'd dared insult us.
We drank and drank, but on my oath, boss, I didn't even pinch her. I know my stuff. When I was young the first thing I did was to pinch and play with them. Now I'm old, the first thing I do is to spend money, be gallant, open-fisted. Women adore being treated like that. The jades go crazy about you; and you can be hump-backed, an old ruin, as ugly as a louse, and they'll forget all that. They can't see anything else, the bitches, but the hand that brings out the money and lets it flow away like a basket with a hole in it. So, as I was saying, I spent a fortune-may God bless you, boss, and return it to you a hundred-fold-and the above-mentioned girl stuck tight to me. She came closer and closer; she pressed her little knee up against my big bony stumps. But I was just like a block of ice, although inside I was hot and bothered. That's what makes women lose their heads; you'd better learn that, in case you find yourself in the same situation, it tnight stand you in good stead: let 'em feel you're burning inside and yet you don't touch 'em!
Well, midnight came and went. The lights began going out, the café was closing. I took out a roll of thousand-drachma notes, paid the bill and left a generous tip for the waiter. The girl clung to me.
"What's your name?" she asked me in a love-sick tone.
"Grandad!" I replied, vexed.
The brazen little bitch pinched me hard, and whispered: "Come with me… come with me!"
I took her little hand, squeezed it with a knowing air and answered:
"Come, then, little one…" My voice was hoarse.
You can imagine the rest, boss. We did our stuff. Then we went to sleep. When I woke up it must have been at least midday. I looked round, and what do I see? A charmíng little room, spick and span, easychairs, a washbasin, soaps, scent bottles, mirrors of all sizes, gaily-colored dresses hanging on the wall, a crowd of photographs: saílors, officers, captains, policemen, dancing-women, women with only one thing on-a pair of sandals. And next to me in the bed-warm, scented, and with ruffled hair, the female of the species!
"Ah, Zorba," I said to myself, closing my eyes, "you've entered Paradise while you're still alive! This is a good place to be; don't budge!"
I told you once before, boss, that each man has his own particular paradise. For you, Paradise will be stocked full of books and big demijohns of ink. For someone else it'll be full of casks of wine, of rum and brandy, for another piles of money. For me Paradise is this: a little perfumed room with gay-colored dresses on the wall, scented soaps, a bíg bed with good springs, and at my side the female of the specíes.