"Aren't you going to undo the knot, Zorba?" she asked. "You don't seem to be in a hurry!"

"Let me drink my coffee and smoke my cigarette first," he answered. "I don't have to undo it, I know what there is inside."

"Undo it, undo it!" the old siren begged him.

"I'm going to finish my smoke first, I tell you!"

And he cast a glance of accusation at me, as if to say: "This is your fault!"

He was smoking slowly, expelling the smoke from his nostrils as he looked at the sea.

"We'll have a sirocco tomorrow," he said. "The weather's changed. The tree'll swell, and so will young girls' breasts-they'll be bursting out of their bodices! Ah! spring's a rogue! An invention of the devil!"

He stopped speaking. A few moments later he added:

"Have you noticed, boss, everything good in this world is an invention of the devil? Pretty women, spring, roast suckling, wine-the devil made them all! God made monks, fasting, camomile-tea and ugly women… pooh!"

As he said that he threw a fierce glance at poor Dame Hortense, who was curled up in a corner, listening to him.

"Zorba! Zorba!" she implored him every second.

But he lit another cigarette and started contemplating the sea afresh.

"In the spring," he said, "Satan reigns supreme. Belts are slackened, blouses unbuttoned, old ladies sigh… Hands off, Bouboulina!"

"Zorba! Zorba!" the poor old creature implored. She stooped to pick up the handkerchief and thrust it into his hand.

He threw away his cigarette, took hold of the knot and undid it. He held his hand open and looked.

"Whatever's this, Dame Bouboulina?" he asked with disgust.

"Rings, little rings, my treasure. Wedding rings," muttered the old siren, all of a tremble. "Here is a witness, God bless him, the night is beautiful, it's sirocco weather, God is watching, let's get engaged, Zorba!"

Zorba looked now at me, now at Dame Hortense, now at the rings. A host of demons were fighting inside him and for the moment none was on top. The wretched woman looked at him in terror.

"Zorba!… My Zorba!" she cooed.

I had sat up on my bed and was watching. Of all courses open to him, which was Zorba going to choose?

Suddenly he shook his head. He had made his decision. His face cleared, he clapped his hands and leaped up.

"Let's go outside!" he cried. "Beneath the stars, so that God himself can see us! You carry the rings, boss; can you chant?"

"No," I replied, amused. "But that doesn't matter!" I had already jumped down from the bed and was helping the good lady to get up.

"Well, I can. I forgot to tell you I was once a choirboy; I used to follow the priest at weddings, baptisms, funerals and so on; I learned all the church songs by heart. Come, my Bouboulina, come, hoist your sail, my little French frigate, and come on my right!"

Of all Zorba's demons it was the kind-hearted clown who had won. Zorba had been sorry for the old siren, his heart had been torn when he saw her faded eyes fixed on him so anxiously.

"Devil take me," he muttered as he made his decision, "I can still give some joy to the female of the species! Come on!"

He rushed out onto the beach, took Dame Hortense's arm, gave me the rings, turned to the sea and began to chant:

"Blessed be our Lord in the world without end, amen!"

He turned to me and said:

"Do your stuff, boss!"

"There is no such thing as 'boss' tonight," I said. "I'm your best man."

"Well, keep your wits about you, then. When I cry out: 'Bravo!' you put the rings on."

He started chanting again in his deep ass's bray:

"For the servant of God, Alexis, and the servant of God, Hortense, now affianced to each other, we beg salvation, O Lord."

"Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!" I quavered, with difficulty controlling laughter and tears.

"There's a lot more business, yet," said Zorba, "damned if I can remember it all! Anyway, let's get the ticklish part over!"

He leaped in the air like a carp and cried:

"Bravo! Bravo!" holding out his big hands towards me.

"Now you hold out your little hand," he said to his fiancée.

The fat hand, lined with washing and housework, was held out trembling towards me.

I put their rings on while Zorba, quite beside himself, roared out like a Dervish:

"The servant of God, Alexis is affianced to the servant of God, Hortense, in the name of God the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen! The servant of God, Hortense is affianced to the servant of God, Alexis!"

"Good. Now, that's done till next year! Come here, my sweet, let me give you the first respectable and legitimate kiss you've ever had!"

But Dame Hortense had collapsed to the ground; she was clasping Zorba's legs and weeping. Zorba shook his head with compassion.

"Poor women! What fools they are!" he murmured.

Dame Hortense stood up, shook her skirt and opened her arms.

"Eh, now!" shouted Zorba. "It's Shrove Tuesday today, keep your hands off! It's Lent!"

"My Zorba…" she faltered faintly.

"Patience, my dear. Wait till Easter; we'll eat some meat then, and crack red eggs together. Now it's time you were getting home. What will folks say if they see you hanging about here till this time of night?"

Bouboulina's look was imploring.

"No! No! It's Lent!" said Zorba. "Not before Easter! Come along with us."

He leaned over and said in my ear:

"Don't leave us alone, for God's sake! I'm not in the mood!"

We took the road to the village. The sky was bright, the tang of the sea enveloped us, the birds of night hooted about us. The old siren, hanging on to Zorba's arm, dragged along happy but disappointed.

She had at last entered the harbor she had yearned for so much. All her life she had sung and danced, had a high old time, made fun of decent women… but her heart had been torn to shreds. When she went by, perfumed and heavily plastered with paint, wearing loud and garish clothes, in the streets of Alexandria, Beirut, Constantinople, and saw women giving the breast to their babies, her own breasts tingled and swelled, her nipples stood out, asking for a tiny childlike mouth as well. "Get a husband, get a husband, have a child…" that had been her dream throughout her long life. But she never revealed these painful longings to a living soul. Now, God be praised, a little late but better than never, she was entering the longed-for haven, thaugh crippled and buffeted by the waves.

From time to time she raised her eyes and peeped sideways at the great gawk of a fellow who was striding beside her. "He isn't a rich pasha with a gold-tasselled fez," she was thinking, "and he's not the handsome son of a bey, but, God be praised, he's better than nothing! He will be my husband! My husband forever, God be praised!"

Zorba felt her weighing on his arm and dragged her on eager to reach the village and be rid of her. And the poor woman kept tripping over the stones in the road; her toenails were almost torn out, her corns were hurting, but she said not a word. Why speak? Why complain? Everything was splendid, praise be to God!

We passed the Fig Tree of Our Young Lady and the widow's garden, and when the first village houses appeared we stopped.

"Good night, my treasure," said the old siren fondly, standing up on tiptoe to reach her fiancé's lips.

But Zorba did not bend.

"Let me kiss your feet, my love!" said Bouboulina, making ready to drop to the ground.

"No! No!" protested Zorba. He was moved and took her in his arms. "I ought to kiss your feet, my love! I ought to… but I don't feel up to it! Good night!"

We left her and went in silence along the road, breathing in the scented air. Zorba suddenly turned to me.

"What ought we to do, boss? Laugh? Or cry? Give me some advice."

I made no answer. I was tight about the throat, too, and could not say why: was it from laughing or crying?