He began to laugh. He could not sleep; his brain was in a turmoil.

"Ah, Grandad, may God sanctify your bones!" he said after a time. "He was a rake, too; just like me. And yet the old rascal went to the Holy Sepulcher and became a hadji [25] God knows why! When he got back to the village, one of his cronies, a goat thief, who had never done a decent thing in his life, said: 'Well, my friend, didn't you bring me back a piece of the Holy Cross from the Holy Sepulcher?' 'What do you mean, didn't I bring you any back?' said my cunning old grandad, 'Do you think I'd forget you? Come to my house tonight and bring the priest with you to give his blessing and I'll hand it over to you. Bring a roast sucking pig, too, and some wine, to bring us luck!'

"That evening grandad went home and cut out of the doorpost, which was all worm-eaten, a small piece of wood, no bigger than a grain of rice; he wrapped it in some wadding, poured a drop or two of oil over it and waited. After a time, up comes the fellow in question with the priest, the sucking pig and the wine. The priest brings out his stole and gives the blessing. Grandad performs the ceremony of handing over the precious piece of wood, and then they start devouring the sucking pig. Well, believe me, boss, the fellow bowed and prostrated himself before that little piece of wood, hung it round his neck, and from that day forth was another man altogether. He changed completely. He went up into the mountains, joined the Armatoles and Klephts, and helped to burn Turkish villages. He'd run fearlessly through showers of bullets. Why should he be afraid? He was carrying a piece of the Holy Cross from the Holy Sepulcher-the bullets couldn't hit him."

Zorba burst out laughing.

"The idea's everything," he said. "Have you faith? Then a splinter from an old door becomes a sacred relic. Have you no faith? Then the whole Holy Cross itself becomes an old doorpost to you."

I admired this man whose brain functioned with so much confidence and daring and whose soul, wherever you touched it, struck out fire.

"Have you ever been to war, Zorba?"

"How do I know?" he asked with a frown. "I can't remember. What war?"

"I mean, have you ever fought for your country?"

"Couldn't you talk about something else? All that nonsense is over and done with and best forgotten."

"Do you call that nonsense, Zorba? Aren't you ashamed? Is that how you speak of your country?"

Zorba raised his head and looked at me. I was lying on my bed, too, and the oil lamp was burning above my head. He looked at me severely for a time, then, taking a firm hold of his moustache, said:

"That's a half-baked thing to say; it's what I expect from a schoolmaster. I might as well be singing, boss, for all the good it is my talking to you, if you'll pardon my saying so."

"What?" I protested. "I understand things, Zorba, don't forget."

"Yes, you understand with your brain. You say: 'This is right, and that's wrong; this is true, and that isn't; he's right, the other one's wrong…' But where does that lead us? While you are talking I watch your arms and chest. Well, what are they doing? They're silent. They don't say a word. As though they hadn't a drop of blood between them. Well, what do you think you understand with? With your head? Bah!"

"Come, give me an answer, Zorba; don't try to dodge the question!" I said, to excite him. "I'm pretty sure you don't bother yourself overmuch about your country, do you?"

He was angry and banged his fist on the wall of petrol cans.

"The man you see here in front of you," he cried, "once embroidered the Church of Saint Sophia in hairs from his own head, and carried it round with him, hanging on his chest like a charm. Yes, boss, that's what I did, and I embroidered it with these great paws of mine, and with these hairs, too, which were as black as jet at the time. I used to wander about the mountains of Macedonia with Pavlos Melas [26]-I was a strapping fellow then, taller than this hut, with my kilt, red fez, silver charms, amulets, yataghan, cartridge cases and pistols. I was covered with steel, silver and studs. When I marched, there was a clatter and clank as if a regiment were passing down the street! Look here! Here! And look there!"

He opened his shirt and lowered his trousers.

"Bring the light over!" he ordered.

I held the lamp close to the thin, tanned body. What with deep scars, bullet and sword marks, his body was like a collander.

"Now look at the other side!"

He turned round and showed me his back.

"Not a scratch on the back, you see. Do you understand? Now take the lamp back."

"Nonsense!" he cried in a rage. "It's disgusting! When will men really be men, d'you think? We put trousers on, and shirts and collars and hats, and yet we're still a lot of mules, foxes, wolves and pigs. We say we're made in the image of God! Who, us? I spit on our idiotic mugs!"

Terrifying memories seemed to be coming to his mind and he was getting more and more exasperated. Incomprehensible words issued from between his shaking, hollow teeth.

He rose, picked up the water jug, took a long drink and seemed refreshed and calmer.

"No matter where you touch me, I yell," he said. "I'm all wounds and scars and lumps. What d'you mean by all that rot about women? When I discovered I was really a man, I didn't even turn round to look at them. I touched them for a minute, like that, in passing, like a cock, then went on. 'The dirty ferrets,' I said to myself. 'They'd like to suck me dry of all my strength. Bah! To hell with women!'

"Then I picked up my rifle and off I went! I went into the mountains as a comitadji. One day, at dusk, I came into a Bulgarian village and hid in a stable. It was the very house of a priest, a ferocious, pitiless Bulgarian comitadji. At night he'd take off his cassock, put on shepherd's clothes, pick up his rifle and go over into the neighboring Greek villages. He came back before dawn, trickling with mud and blood, and hurried to church to conduct mass for the faithful. A few days before this, he had killed a Greek schoolmaster asleep in his bed. So I went into this priest's stable and waited. Towards nightfall the priest came into the stable to feed the animals. I threw myself on him and cut his throat like a sheep. I lopped off his ears and stuck them in my pocket. I was making a collection of Bulgar ears, you see; so I took the priest's ears and made off.

"A few days later, there I was in the village again. It was midday. I was peddling. I'd left my arms in the mountains and had come down to buy bread, salt and boots for the others. Then I met five little kids in front of one of the houses-they were all dressed in black, barefoot, holding one another by the hand and begging. Three girls and two boys. The eldest couldn't have been more than ten, the youngest was still a baby. The eldest girl was carrying the youngster in her arms, kissing him and caressing him so that he shouldn't cry. I don't know why, divine inspiration I suppose, but I went up to them.

"'Whose children are you?' I asked them in Bulgarian.

"The eldest boy raised his little head.

"'The priest's. Father's throat was cut the other day in the stable,' he answered.

"The tears came to my eyes and the earth began turning round like a millstone. I leaned against the wall, and it stopped.

"'Come here, children,' I said, 'come near to me.'

"I took out my purse; it was full of Turkish pounds and mejidies, I knelt down and poured them all out on the floor.

"'There, take them!' I cried. 'Take them! Take them!'

"The children threw themselves on the ground and gathered up the money.

"'It's for you! It's for you!' I cried. 'Take it all!'