They went towards the stone staircase leading to the upper cells. Demetrios turned round, looked at the young monk, and said a few words. The monk shook his head as in refusal. But immediately afterwards he nodded in submission, put his arm round the old monk and they mounted the steps together.

"Get it?" asked Zorba. "D'you see? Sodom and Gomorrah!"

Two monks peeped out, winked at one another and began to laugh.

"Spiteful bunch!" grunted Zorba. "Wolves don't tear one another to pieces, but look at these monks! Have you ever seen women go for one another like this?"

"They're all men," I said, laughing.

"There's not much difference here, boss, you take it from me! Mules, all of them. You can call them Gavrilis, or Gavrila, Demetrios, or Demetria, according to how you feel. Come on, boss, let's be off. Get the papers signed as quick as we can and let's go. We'll soon get disgusted with men and women altogether if we stay here."

He lowered his voice.

"Besides, I've got a scheme…"

"Another mad idea, I know. Don't you think you've done enough foolish things in your time, you old goat? Tell me what your scheme is."

Zorba shrugged his shoulders.

"How can I tell you a thing like that, boss? You're a nice chap, if you'll allow me to say so! You do your utmost for everybody, whoever they are. If you found a flea on your eiderdown in the winter you'd put it underneath so that it wouldn't catch cold. How should you understand an old scoundrel like me? If I find a flea, crack! I crush him. If I find a sheep, swish! I cut its throat, slap it onto the spit and invite my friends to a feast! But you'd say: the sheep isn't yours! No, I admit that. But, boss, let's finish eating it first, afterwards we'll talk it over quietly and discuss what's 'yours' and 'mine' as much as you like. You could talk to your heart's content about it, while I cleaned my teeth with a matchstick."

The courtyard resounded with his peals of laughter. Zaharia appeared, terrified. He placed a finger on his lips and crept up to us on tiptoe.

"Sh!" he said. "You mustn't laugh! Look up there, that little window… that's where the bishop is working; it's the líbrary. He's writing, the holy man is. He writes all day long, so don't make a noise."

"Ha, you're just the person I wanted to see, Father Joseph!" said Zorba, taking the monk's arm. "Come, take me to your cell, I want a chat with you." Then he turned to me:

"While we're away, you go and have a look round the chapel and all the old icons," he said. "I'll wait for the abbot, he won't be long. But don't start anything yourself, you'll only make a mess of it. Leave it to me, I've got a scheme." He bent down and spoke in my ear.

"We'll have that forest at half price… Don't say a word." And he went off quickly, holding the mad monk's arm.

18

I CROSSED the threshold of the chapel and plunged into the shadowy interior, which was cool and fragrant.

The building was deserted. The bronze chandeliers shed a faint light. A finely worked iconostasis filled the far end of the chapel. It represented a golden vine arbor laden with grapes. The walls were covered from top to bottom with half-obliterated frescoes: terrifying pictures of skeleton-like ascetics, the Fathers of the Church, Christ's prolonged Passion, huge fierce-looking angels with their hair tied in broad blue and pink ribbons which had faded with the damp.

High up in the vault was the Virgin, with arms imploringly outstretched. A heavy silver lamp stood before her and the soft light flickered round her, caressing her long, contorted face. I shall never forget her dolorous eyes, her puckered, rounded mouth and strong wilful chin. Here, I thought, is the completely happy and satisfied Mother, even in the most agonizing pain, because she feels that from her mortal loins has issued something that will not die.

When I recrossed the threshold the sun was sinking. I sat down under the orange tree in a state of happiness. The dome of the chapel was turning pink as though it were dawn. The monks had gone to their cells and were resting. They would not sleep at all; they had to muster all their strength. Christ would begin to climb Golgotha that night, and they had to go with him. Two black sows with pink teats were lying fast asleep beneath a carob tree. Pigeons were strutting on the roofs and cooing.

How long, I thought, shall I live to enjoy the sweetness of the earth, the air, the silence and the scent of the orange tree in blossom? An icon of Saint Bacchus, which I had looked at in the chapel, had made my heart overflow with happiness. The things that move me most deeply-unity, firmness of purpose and constancy of desire-were once again revealed to me. Blessed be that charming little icon of a Christian youth with curly hair falling over his forehead like bunches of grapes. Díonysus, the handsome god of wine and ecstasy, and Saint Bacchus fused in my mind and took on the same appearance. Under the vine leaves and the monk's habit there quivered with life the same body, burnt by the sun- Greece.

Zorba returned and hurriedly gave the news:

"The abbot did come. We had a little talk; he needs a lot of coaxing; he says he's not going to give the forest away for a song; he's asking a lot more than we said, the old rogue, but I haven't finished with him yet."

"Why does he need coaxing? I thought we were agreed?"

"Don't you meddle in this, for heaven's sake, boss," Zorba pleaded. "You'd only spoil things. There you are, after all this, talking about the old agreement; that's buried long ago. Don't frown; it's buried, I tell you. We'll have that forest at half price!"

"What mischief are you up to now, Zorba?"

"Never you mind. That's my business. I'm going to oil the works and make them turn, do you get it?"

"But why? I don't get it at all."

"Because I spent more than I should have done at Candia, that's why! Because Lola swallowed quíte a heap of my-that is to say, your money. You don't think I've forgotten, do you? There is such a thing as self-respect. No blots on my copybook! I've spent so much, so I pay so much. I've reckoned it up; Lola cost me seven thousand drachmas. I'll knock them off the price of the forest. It's the abbot, the monastery and the Holy Virgin who'll pay for Lola. That's my scheme. How d'you like it?"

"Not at all. Why should the Holy Virgin be responsible for your excesses?"

"She is responsible and more than responsible! Look, she had her son: God. God made me, Zorba, and he gave me some instruments-you know what I mean. And these damned instruments, no matter where I meet the female of the species, make me lose my head and open my purse. See? Therefore, Her Holiness is responsiible and more than responsible. Let her pay."

"I don't like it, Zorba."

"That's another question altogether. Let's save the seven little banknotes first; we'll discuss it later! 'Make love to me first, darling, I'll be your aunt again afterwards…' You know how the song goes…"

The fat hospitaller appeared: "Come inside," he said, in a suave ecclesiastical tone; "dinner is served."

We went down to the refectory, a large hall with benches and long narrow tables. The smell of sour, rancid oil filled the air. At the far end was an old fresco of the Last Supper. The eleven faithful disciples crowded around Christ like a flock of sheep, and on the other side, standing quite alone, was the redhaired Judas, the black sheep. He had a bulging forehead and aquiline nose. And Christ could not take his eyes off him.

The hospitaller sat down, placing me on his right and Zorba on his left.

"We are fasting," he said, "so I hope you will excuse us-no oil or wine, even for visitors. But you are welcome!"

We made the sign of the cross; then we served ourselves in silence to olives, spring onions, fresh beans and halva. We all three munched slowly, like rabbits.