He laughed ironically, then repented.

"If I may say so, boss… the only book I've ever read in my life is Sinbad the Sailor, and for all the good that did me…"

He undid the santuri slowly and affectionately.

"Come outside," he said. "The santuri isn't at home between four walls. It's wild and needs the open spaces."

We went out. The stars sparkled. The Milky Way flowed from one side of the sky to the other. The sea was frothing. We sat down on the pebbles and the waves licked our feet.

"When you're broke, you have to have a good time," said Zorba. "What, us give up? Come here, santuri!"

"A Macedonian song of your own country, Zorba," I said.

"A Cretan song of your country!" said Zorba. "I'll sing you something I was taught at Candia; it changed my life."

He reflected for a moment.

"No, it hasn't changed really," he said, "only now I know I was right."

He placed his big fingers on the santuri and craned his neck. He sang in a wild, harsh, dolorous voice:

When you've made up your mind, no use lagging behind, go ahead

and no relenting Let your youth have free reign, it won't come again, so be bóld and

no repenting.

Our cares were scattered, petty troubles vanished, the soul reached its peak. Lola, lignite, the line, "eternity," big and small worries, all became blue smoke that faded into the air, and there remained only a bird of steel, the human soul which sang.

"I make you a present of everything, Zorba!" I cried, when the proud song was done. "All you've done-the woman, your dyed hair, the money you spent-all of it's yours! Just go on singing!"

He craned out his scraggy neck once more:

Courage! In God's name! Venture, come what may! If you don't lose, you're bound to win the day!

A number of workmen sleeping near the mine heard the songs; they got up, crept down to us and squatted round. They listened to their favorite songs and felt their legs tingling. At last, unable to restrain themselves longer, they loomed out of the darkness, half-naked, their hair ruffled and their breeches baggy. They made a circle round Zorba and the santuri and began dancing on the pebbled shore.

Thrilled, I watched them in silence.

This is, I thought, the real vein I have been looking for! I want no other.

The next day, before dawn, the galleries of the mine were echoing with Zorba's cries and the sounds of the picks. The men were working frenziedly. Zorba alone could lead them on like that. With him work became wine, women and song, and the men were intoxicated. The earth came to life in his hands, the stones, coal, wood and workers adopted his rhythm, a sort of war was declared in the galleries in the white light of the acetylene lamps and Zorba was in the forefront; fighting hand to hand. He gave a name to each gallery and seam, and a face to all invisible forces, and after that it became difficult for them to escape him.

"When I know that that is the 'Canavaro' gallery," he used to say about the first gallery he had christened, "where the hell do you think it can hide? I know its name, it wouldn't have the cheek to do the dirty on me. No more than 'Mother Superior,' or 'Knock-knees,' or 'The Piddler.' I know them all, I tell you, each one by its own name."

That day I slipped into the gallery without his noticing me.

"Come on! Put some life into it!" he was shouting to the workmen, as he always did when he was in good form. "Come on! We'll eat up the whole mountain, yet! We're men, aren't we? Creatures to be reckoned with! God himself must tremble when he sees us! You Cretans and me, a Macedonian, we'll have this mountain; it takes more than a mountain to beat us! We beat the Turks, didn't we? So why should a little mountain like this put us off? Come on, then!"

Someone ran up to Zorba. In the acetylene light I could just make out Mimiko's thin face.

"Zorba," he said in his mumbling voice, "Zorba…"

Zorba turned round, and saw at a glance what it was about. He lifted his big hand:

"Beat it!" he shouted. "Clear out!"

"I've come for her…" faltered the simpleton.

"Clear out, I tell you! We've got work to do!"

Mimiko made off as fast as his legs would carry him. Zorba spat in exasperation.

"The day's for working," he said. "Daytime is a man. The night-time's for enjoying yourself. Night is a woman. You mustn't mix them up!"

I came up at that moment

"It's twelve o'clock," I said. "Time you stopped work and had a meal."

Zorba turned round, saw me and scowled.

"Don't wait for us, boss, d'you mind. You go and have your lunch. We've lost twelve days, remember, and we've got to catch up. I hope you eat well."

I left the gallery and walked down towards the sea. I opened the book I was carrying. I was hungry, but I forgot my hunger. Meditation is also a mine, I thought, so go ahead! And I plunged into the great galleries of the mind.

A disturbing book: it described the snow-covered mountains of Tibet, the mysterious monasteries, the silent monks in their safFron robes who concentrate their will and oblige the ether to take what shape they desire.

High mountain tops, the air full of spirits. The vain murmur of human life never reaches so high. The great ascetic takes his pupils, boys of sixteen to eighteen, and leads them at midnight up to an icy lake in the mountain. They undress, break the ice, plunge their clothes into the freezing water, put them on again and leave them to dry on their backs. Then they plunge them in afresh, and leave them to dry once more on their bodies. They do this seven times in succession. Then they return to the monastery for morning service.

They climb a mountain peak, fifteen to eighteen thousand feet high. They sit down quietly, breathe deeply and regularly. They are naked to the waist but feel no cold. They hold a goblet of icy water in their hands, look at it, concentrate with all their power on it, and the water boils. Then they make their tea.

The great ascetic collects his students round him and says:

"Woe to him who has not within himself the source of happiness!

"Woe to him who wants to please others!

"Woe to him who does not feel that this life and the next are but one!"

Night had fallen and I could not see to read. I closed the book and looked at the sea. I must free myself of all these phantoms, I thought, Buddhas, Gods, Motherlands, Ideas… Woe to him who cannot free himself from Buddhas, Gods, Motherlands and Ideas.

The sea had suddenly turned black. The young moon was rapidly setting. In the gardens in the distance, dogs were howling sadly, and the whole ravine howled back.

Zorba appeared, covered with dirt; his shírt was hanging in shreds.

He crouched by me.

"It went very well today," he said happily; "plenty of good work done."

I heard Zorba's words without grasping their meaning. My mind was still far away on distant and dangerous slopes.

"What are you thinking of, boss?" he asked me. "Is your mind out at sea?"

I brought my mind back, looked round at Zorba and shook my head.

"Zorba," I said, "you think you're a wonderful Sinbad the Sailor, and you talk big because you've knocked about the world a bit. But you've seen nothing, nothing at all. Not a thing, you poor fool! Nor have I, mind you. The world's much vaster than we think. We travel, crossing whole countries and seas and yet we've never pushed our noses past the doorstep of our own home."

Zorba pursed hís lips and said nothíng. He just grunted like a faithful dog when he is hit.

"There are mountains in the world," I said, "which are huge, immense and dotted all over with monasteries. And in those monasteries live monks in saffron robes. They stay seated, with crossed legs, for one, two, six months at a time, thinking of one thing and one thing only. One thing, do you hear? Not two-one! They don't think of women and lignite or books and lignite, as we do; they concentrate their minds on one and the same thing, and they achieve miracles. You have seen what happens when you hold a glass out to the sun and concentrate all the rays onto one spot, Zorba? That spot soon catches fire, doesn't it? Why? Because the sun's power has not been dispersed but concentrated on that one spot. It is the same with men's minds. You do miracles, if you concentrate your mind on one thing and only one. Do you understand, Zorba?"