The Shepherd: My meal is ready, I have milked my ewes. The door of my hut is holted, my fire is alight. And you, sky, can rain as much as you please!
Buddha: I no longer need food or milk. The winds are my shelter, my fire is out. And you, sky, can rain as much as you please!
The Shepherd: I have oxen, I have cows. I have my father's meadows and a bull who covers my cows. And you, sky, can rain as much as you please!
Buddha: I have neither oxen, nor cows, I have no meadows. I have nothing, I fear nothing. And you, sky, can rain as much as you please!
The Shepherd: I have a docile and faithful shepherdess. For years she has been my wife; I am happy when I play with her at night. And you, sky, you can rain as much as you please!
Buddha: I have a free and docile soul. For years I have trained it and I have taught it to play with me. And you, sky, can rain as much as you please!
These two voices were still speaking when sleep overcame me. The wind had risen again and the waves were breaking over the thick glass of the porthole. I was floating like a wisp of smoke between sleeping and waking. A violent storm broke, the meadows disappeared under the waters, the bullocks, the cows and the bull were swallowed up. The wind carried away the roof of the hut, the fire was quenched, the woman uttered a cry and fell dead in the mud, and the shepherd began his lamentations. I could not hear what he said, but he was crying aloud and I was sinking deeper into a slumber, slipping like a fish down through the watery depths.
At daybreak I awoke, and there, to our right, lay the proud, wild and lordly island. The pale-pink mountains were smiling through the mists beneath the autumnal sun. Round our ship, the indigo-blue sea was still seething restlessly.
Zorba, wrapped in a brown rug, was gazing eagerly at Crete. His eyes turned rapidly from mountain to plain, followed the shore, exploring it as if all the coast and land were familiar to him, and that he were delighted to wander there again in his mind.
I went to him, touched him on the shoulder and said:
"Zorba, it's certainly not the first time you've come to Crete! You're gazing at it like an old friend."
Zorba yawned, as if bored. I felt he was not at all inclined to start a conversation.
I smiled. "Talking bores you, doesn't it, Zorba?"
"It's not exactly that, boss," he replied. "Only talking's difficult."
"Difficult? Why?"
He did not reply at once. His eyes roamed again slowly over the shore. He had slept on deck, and his curly grey hair was dripping with dew. The rising sun shone right into the deep furrows lining his cheeks, his chin and his neck.
Finally he moved his lips. They were thick and drooping, like those of a goat.
"In the morning I find it difficult to open my mouth. Very difficult. I'm sorry."
He lapsed again into silence, and once more his small round eyes were fixed on Crete.
A bell rang for breakfast. Greenish-yellow, screwed-up faces began to emerge from the cabins. Women, with their coils of hair coming loose, reeled as they dragged themselves from table to table. They smelled of vomit and eau-de-Cologne, and their eyes were cloudy, terrified and stupid.
Zorba, sitting in front of me, sniffed his coffee in a sensual way which was quite oriental. He spread butter and honey on his bread and ate it. His face gradually became brighter and calmer, the lines of his mouth softer. I secretly watched him as he slowly emerged from his wrapping of sleep, and saw how his eyes shone more and more brightly.
He lit a cigarette, inhaled with pleasure and blew the blue smoke out of his hairy nostrils. He folded his right leg under him and made himself comfortable in eastern fashion. It was now possible for him to speak.
"Is this the first time I've been to Crete?" he began. (He half-closed his eyes and looked through the porthole at Mount Ida, which was disappearing in the distance behind us.) "No, it's not the first time. In 1896 I was already a fully grown man. My moustache and my hair were their real color, black as a raven. I had all my thirty-two teeth, and when I got drunk I swallowed the hors d'oeuvres first and then the dish. Yes, I enjoyed myself no end. But suddenly the devil took a hand in things. A new revolution broke out in Crete.
"In those days I was a pedlar. I peddled haberdashery from village to village in Macedonia, and instead of money I used to take cheese, wool, butter, rabbits and corn. Then I sold all that and made a double profit. In every village I came to at dark I knew where to spend the night. In every village there's always a tenderhearted widow, God bless her! I'd give her a reel of thread, or a comb, or a scarf-a black one, of course, on account of the late-lamented-and I slept with her. It didn't cost me much!
"No, it didn't cost me much, boss, the good time I had! But, as I said before, the devil got mixed up in things and Crete took up arms again. 'Ah, to hell with her destiny!' I'd say. 'Can't that damned Crete ever leave us in peace?' I put aside my cottons and combs, took my gun and set off to join the rebels in Crete."
Zorba became silent. We were now following the curve of a quiet, sandy bay. The waves spread out here gently without breaking and only leaving a thin líne of foam along the shore. The clouds had broken up, the sun was shining, and the rugged contours of Crete became serene.
Zorba turned round and gave me a mocking look.
"And now I suppose, boss, you think I'm going to start and tell you how many Turks' heads I've lopped off, and how many of their ears I've pickled in spirits-that's the custom in Crete. Well, I shan't! I don't like to, I'm ashamed. What sort of madness comes over us?… Today I'm a bit more level-headed, and I ask myself: What sort of madness comes over us to make us throw ourselves on another man, when he's done nothing to us, and bite him, cut his nose off, tear his ear out, run him through the guts-and all the time, calling on the Almighty to help us! Does it mean we want the Almighty to go and cut off noses and ears and rip people up?
"But at the time, you see, my blood was hot in my veins! How could I stop to examine the whys and wherefores? To think things out properly and fairly, a fellow's got to be calm and old and toothless: When you're an old gaffer with no teeth, it's easy to say: 'Damn it, boys, you mustn't bite!' But, when you've got all thirty-two teeth… A man's a savage beast when he's young; yes, boss, a savage, man-eating beast!"
He shook his head.
"Oh, he eats sheep, too, and hens and pigs, but if he doesn't eat men his belly's not satisfied."
He added as he crushed out his cigarette in the coffee saucer:
"No, his belly's not satisfied. Now, what does the old owl have to say to that, eh?"
He did not wait for an answer.
"What can you say, I wonder?" he continued, weighing me up. "As far as I can see, your lordship's never been hungry, never killed, never stolen, never committed adultery. What ever can you know of the world? You've got an innocent's brain and your skin's never even felt the sun," he muttered with obvious scorn.
I became ashamed of my delicate hands, my pale face and my life which had not been bespattered with mud and blood.
"All right!" said Zorba, sweeping his heavy hand across the table as if wiping a sponge across it. "All right! There's one thing, though, I'd like to ask you. You must've gone through hundreds of books, perhaps you know the answer…"
"Go ahead, Zorba, what is it?"
"There's a sort of miracle happening here, boss. A funny sort of miracle which puzzles me. All that business-those lousy tricks, thefts and that slaughter of ours-I mean of us rebels-all that brought Prince George to Crete. Liberty!"
He looked at me with his eyes wide open in amazement.
"It's a mystery," he murmured, "a great mystery! So, if we want liberty in this bad world, we've got to have all those murders, all those lousy tricks, have we? I tell you, if I began to go over all the bloody villainy and all the murders we did, you'd have your hair stand on end. And yet, the result of all that, what's it been? Liberty! Instead of wiping us out with a thunderbolt, God gives us liberty! I just don't understand!"