" 'Go on, clear off! All you've got to do now is to make other little pigs; the earth's yours! Now, jump to it. Left, right, left, right… Quick march!…'

"But, you see, it wasn't a pig at all! It was wearing a felt hat, a jacket thrown carelessly across its shoulders, well-creased trousers, and Turkish slippers with red tassels. And in its belt-it must have been the devil who'd given it that-was a pointed dagger with the words: 'I'll get you!' engraved on it.

"It was man! God held out his hand for the other to kiss, but man twirled up his moustache and said:

"'Come on, old 'un, out of the way! Let me pass!'"

Here Zorba stopped as he saw me bursting with laughter. He frowned.

"Don't laugh!" he said. "That's exactly what happened!"

"How do you know?"

"That's how I feel it happened, and that's what I'd have done if I'd been in Adam's place. I'd wager my head being chopped off if Adam acted any different. And don't you believe all the books tell you; I'm the one you should trust!"

He stretched out his big hand without waiting for an answer and started playing the santuri once more.

I was still holding Zorba's scented letter with its heart pierced by an arrow, and was living through those days, filled with his human presence, which I had spent at his side. Time had taken on a new savour in Zorba's company. It was no longer an arithmetical succession of events without, nor an insoluble philosophical problem within. It was warm sand, finely sieved, and I felt it running gently through my fingers.

"Blessed be Zorba!" I murmured. "He has given a warm, beloved, living body to all the abstract ideas which were shivering inside me. When he is not there, I start shivering again."

I took a sheet of paper, called a workman and sent an urgent telegram:

"Come back immediately."

14

SATURDAY AFTERNOON, the first of March. I was leaning against a rock facing the sea, writing. That day I had seen the first swallow and I was happy. The exorcism of Buddha was flowing without hindrance onto the paper, and my struggle with him had become calmer; I was no longer in a desperate hurry, and I was sure of my deliverance.

Suddenly I heard steps on the pebbles. I raised my eyes and saw our old siren rolling along the shore, decked out like a frigate. She was hot and short of breath. She seemed to be worried about something.

"Is there a letter?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes!" I answered with a laugh, and rose to welcome her. "He sends you lots of greetings; says he's thinking about you day and night. He can hardly eat or drink, he finds the separation so unbearable."

"Is that all he says?" the unhappy woman asked, gasping for breath.

I was sorry for her. I took his letter from my pocket and pretended that I was reading it. The old siren opened her toothless mouth, her little eyes blinked and she listened breathlessly.

I made believe I was reading, but, as I got rather involved, I pretended I had difficulty in making out the writing: "Yesterday, boss, I went into a cheap eating-house for a meal. I was hungry… When I saw an absolutely beautiful young girl come in, a real goddess… My God! She looked just like my Bouboulina! And straight away my eyes began spouting water like a fountain, I had a lump in my throat… I couldn't swallow! I got up, paid my bill and left. And I who only think of the saints once in a blue moon, I was so deeply moved, boss, I ran to Saint Minas's church and lit a candle to him. 'Saint Minas,' I said in my prayer, 'let me have good news of the angel I love. May our wings be united very soon!'"

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" went Dame Hortense, her face beaming with joy.

"What are you laughing at, my good woman?" I asked stopping to get my breath and concoct some more lies. "What are you laughing at? This makes me feel more like weeping."

"If only you knew… if only you knew…" she chuckled and burst into laughter.

"What?"

"Wings… That's what he calls feet, the rascal. That's the name he gives them when we're alone. May our wings be united, he says… Ha! Ha! Ha!"

"Listen to what comes next, then. You'll be really astounded…"

I turned over the page and made believe I was reading again:

"And today, as I was passing a barber's shop, the barber emptied outside his bowl of soapy water. The whole street was filled with the scent. And I thought of Bouboulina again and began to cry. I can't stay away from her any longer, boss… I shall go off my head… Look, I've even written poetry. I couldn't sleep two nights ago and I began writing a little poem for her… I hope you'll read it to her so that she'll see how I'm suffering…

"Ah! if only on some foot-path you and I could meet, And it were wide enough to hold our rue! Let me be ground to crumbs or pie-meat, My shattered bones would still have strength to run to you!"

Dame Hortense, her eyes languid and half-closed, was listening happily, all attention. She even took the little ribbon from her neck, where it was nearly strangling her, and set her wrinkles free for a moment. She was silent and smiling. Happy and contented, her mind seemed to be drifting far away.

The month of March, fresh grass, little red, yellow and purple flowers, limpid water where groups of white and black swans were mating as they sang. The females white, the males black and with half-open, crimson beaks. Great blue Moray eels rose gleaming from the water and twined themselves round big yellow serpents. Dame Hortense was fourteen again, dancing on oriental carpets in Alexandria, Beirut, Smyrna, Constantinople, then off Crete on the polished decks of ships… She could not remember very clearly now. It was becoming confused, her breast was heaving, the shores were splitting. And suddenly, while she was dancing, the sea was covered with vessels with golden prows. On their decks, multicolored tents and silken oriflames. A whole procession of pashas came from the tents with golden tassels upright on their fezes, wealthy old beys on pilgrimages with hands full of rich offerings, and their melancholy, beardless sons. Admirals came, too, with their shining three-cornered hats, and sailors with their dazzling white collars and broad, flapping trousers. Young Cretans followed, in their billowing breeches of light-blue cloth, yellow boots, and black kerchiefs knotted over their hair. A good last came Zorba, huge, grown lean from love-making, with a massive engagement ring on his finger, a crown of orange-blossom on his greying hair…

From the ships came all the men she had known in her adventurous lifetime, not one was missing, not even the old gap-toothed and hunchbacked boatman who had taken her out on the water one evening at Constantinople. Night had fallen and no one could see them. They all came out, all of them, and in the background, mating away, oho! the Morays, the Serpents, the Swans!

The men came and joined her; they formed clusters, like amorous snakes in the spring, who rise hissing in a sheaf. And in the center, all white and naked, and glistening with sweat, lips parted to show her little pointed teeth, rigid, insatiable, her breasts erect, hissed a Dame Hortense of fourteen, twenty, thirty, forty, sixty summers.

Nothing was lost, no lover had died! In her wilted breast they were all resuscitated, in full parade dress. As if Dame Hortense were a noble three-masted frigate and all her lovers-she had seen forty-five working years-were boarding her, climbing into the holds, onto the gunwale, into the rigging, while she sailed along, much-battered and much-caulked, towards the last great haven she had longed for so ardently: marriage. And Zorba assumed a thousand faces: Turkish, European, Armenian, Arab, Greek, and, as she hugged him, Dame Hortense hugged the entire, blessed and interminable procession…