"Don't humiliate us, crazy Katerina," he shouted, "don't humiliate us, there are still some men, some Palikaria, in our village, you'll see!"

I could not contain myself.

"Shame on you all!" I cried. "In what way is that woman responsible? It was fated. Don't you fear God?"

But no one replied.

Manolakas, the drowned man's cousin, bent his huge body, lifted the corpse in his arms and took the first path back to the village.

The women were screaming, scratching their faces and tearing their hair. When they saw the body was being carried away, they ran to clasp it. But old Mavrandoni, brandishing his staff, drove them off and took the head of the procession, followed by the women singing dirges. Lastly, in silence, came the men.

They disappeared into the twilight. You could hear the peaceful breathing of the sea once more. I looked around me. I was alone.

"I'll go back home," I said. "Another day, O God, which has had its measure of sorrow!"

Deep in thought, I followed the pathway. I admired these people, so closely and warmly involved in human sufferings: Dame Hortense, Zorba, the widow, and the pale Pavli who had so bravely thrown himself in the sea to drown his sorrow, and Deli-Katerina shouting for them to cut the widow's throat like a sheep, and Mavrandoni refusing to weep or even to speak in front of the others. I alone was impotent and rational, my blood did not boil, nor did I love or hate with passion. I still wanted to put things right, in cowardly fashion, by laying everything at destiny's door.

In the twilight I could just see uncle Anagnosti still sitting there on a stone. He had propped his chin on his long stick and was gazing at the sea.

I called to him, but he did not hear. I went up to him; he saw me and shook his head.

"Poor humanity!" he murmured. "The waste of a young life! The poor boy couldn't bear his sorrow, so he threw himself in the sea and was drowned. Now he's saved."

"Saved?"

"Saved, my son, yes, saved. What could he have done with his life? If he'd married the widow, there would very soon have been quarrels, perhaps even dishonor. She's just like a brood mare, that shameless woman! As soon as she sees a man, she starts to whinny. And if he hadn't married her, it would have been the torment of his life, because the idea would have been fixed in his head that he'd missed a great happiness! A yawning abyss in front, a precipice behind!"

"Don't talk like that, uncle Anagnosti; you'd bring despair to anyone who heard you!"

"Come on, don't be so frightened. No one can hear me, except you. And even if they could, would they believe me? Look, has there ever been a luckier man than me? I've had fields, vineyards olive groves, and a two-storied house. I've been rich and a víllage elder. I lighted on a good, docile woman who gave me only sons. I've never seen her raise her eyes to me in defiance, and all my children are good fathers. I've nothing to complain about. I've had grandchildren, too. What more could I want? My roots go deep. And yet if I had to start my life all over again I'd put a stone round my neck, like Pavli, and throw myself in the sea. Life is hard, my God it is; even the luckiest life is hard, a curse on it!"

"But what is there you lack, uncle Anagnosti? What are you complaining of?"

"I lack nothing, I tell you! But you go and question men's hearts!"

He was silent a moment, and looked again at the darkening sea.

"Well, Pavlí, you did the right thing!" he cried, waving his stick. "Let the women scream; they're women and have no brains. You're saved now, Pavli-your father knows it and that's why he didn't make a sound!"

He scanned the sky and the mountains which were already growing indistinct.

"Here's the night," he said. "Better get back."

He stopped all of a sudden, seeming to regret the words he had let drop, as if he had betrayed a great secret and now wanted to recover it.

He placed his shrivelled hand on my shoulder.

"You're young," he said, smiling at me; "don't listen to the old. If the world did heed them, it would rush headlong to its destruction. If a widow crosses your path, get hold of her! Get married, have children, don't hesitate! Troubles were made for young men!"

I reached my beach, lit the fire and made my evening tea. I was tired and hungry, and I ate ravenously, giving myself up entirely to animal pleasure.

Suddenly Mimiko pushed his little flattened head through the window, looked at me crouching by the fire and eating. He smiled cunningly.

"What have you come for, Mimiko?"

"I've brought you something, boss… from the widow… A basket of oranges. She says they're the last from her garden…"

"From the widow?" I said with a start. "Why did she send me them?"

"Because of the good word you put in for her to the villagers this afternoon, so she says."?

"What good word?"

"How do I know? I'm just telling you what she said, that's all!"

He emptied the oranges on the bed. The whole hut became redolent with their smell.

"Tell her I thank her very much for her present, and I advise her to be careful. She must watch her step and not show herself in the village on any account, do you hear? She must stay indoors for a time, until this unhappy business has been forgotten. Do you understand, Mimiko?"

"Is that all, boss?"

"That's all. You can go now."

Mimiko winked at me.

"Is that all?"

"Get away!"

He went. I peeled one of the juicy oranges; it was as sweet as honey. I lay down, fell asleep, and the whole night through I wandered in orange groves. A warm wind was blowing; I had bared my chest to the wind and had a sprig of sweet basil behind my ear. I was a young peasant of twenty, and I roamed about the orange grove whistling and waiting. For whom was I waiting?-I do not know. But my heart was ready to burst for joy. I twirled up my moustache and listened, the whole night through, to the sea sighing like a woman behind the orange trees.

15

THAT DAY there was a strong south wind, which came burning from the sands of Africa across the Mediterranean. Clouds of fine sand twisted and turned in the air and got into throat and lungs. Teeth were gritty and eyes inflamed; doors and windows had to be locked tight if one wanted to make sure of eating a single piece of bread that was not sprinkled with sand.

It was close. During those oppressive days when the sap was rising I was myself a prey to the prevailing springtime unrest. A feeling of lassitude, an emotional tension in the breast, a tingling sensation throughout my body, a desire-or was it memory-of a vast and simple happiness.

I took the pebbly mountain track. I had a sudden impulse to visit the small Minoan city which had risen from the ground after three or four thousand years and was warming itself once more under its beloved Cretan sun. I thought that perhaps after three or four hours' walk fatigue would calm the unrest that spring had brought.

Bare grey stones, a luminous nakedness, the harsh and deserted mountain that I love. An owl, its round yellow eyes staring, blinded by the bright light, had perched on a stone. It was grave, beautiful, full of mystery. I was walking lightly, but its hearing was keen; it took fright, flew up silently among the stones and disappeared. There was a scent of thyme in the air. The first tender flowers of the yellow gorse were already showing amongst its thorns.

When I came in sight of the small ruined city I stood spellbound. It must have been about noon, the sun's rays were falling perpendicularly and drenching the stones with light. In old ruined cities this is a dangerous time of day, for the air is filled with cries and the noise of spirits. If a branch cracks, if a lizard darts, if a cloud throws a shadow as it passes overhead, panic seizes you. Every inch of ground you tread is a grave, and you hear the dead groaning.