"It was not meet for thee, to lie beneath the earth…"

Zorba went out into the yard. He wanted to weep, but he was ashamed to do so in front of the women. I remember he said to me once: "I'm not ashamed to cry, if it's in front of men. Between men there's some unity, isn't there? It's no disgrace. But in front of women a man always has to prove that he's courageous. Because if we started crying our eyes out, too, what'd happen to these poor creatures? It would be the end!"

They washed her with wine; the old woman who was laying her out opened the trunk, took out clean clothes and changed her, pouring over her a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. From the nearby gardens came the blow flies and laid their eggs in her nostrils, round her eyes and in the corners of her lips.

Night was falling. The sky to the west was beautifully serene. Small, fleecy red clouds edged with gold were sailing slowly across the dark-purple evening sky, looking one moment like ships, the next like swans, then like fantastic monsters made of cotton wool and frayed silk. Between the reeds in the yard could be seen the gleaming waves of the choppy sea.

Two well-fed crows flew from a fig tree close by and walked up and down the yard. Zorba angrily picked up a pebble and made them fly away.

In the other corner of the yard the village marauders had prepared a tremendous feast. They had brought out the large kitchen table, searched out bread, plates, knives and forks. They had brought from the cellar a demijohn of wine, and cooked a few hens in the pot. Now, hungry and happy, they were eating and drinking with a fine relish and clinking glasses.

"God save her soul! And for all she's done let her off the forfeits!"

"May all her lovers turn into angels and carry her soul to heaven!"

"Just take a look at old Zorba," said Manolakas. "He's throwing stones at the crows! He's a widower now; let's ask him to drink to the memory of his woman! Hullo, Zorba! Come and join us, countryman."

Zorba turned round. He saw the full table, the steaming hens in the dishes, the wine glistening in the glasses, the stout sun-tanned fellows sitting jauntily with their scarves tied round their heads, all instinct with youth.

"Zorba, Zorba!" he murmured. "Hold on! This is where you'll have to show what you're made of!"

He went over to them, drank a glass at one gulp, then a second, then a third, and ate a leg of chicken. They spoke to him, but he made no reply. He ate and drank fast, greedily, in huge mouthfuls, lengthy draughts, and in silence. He kept looking towards the room where Bouboulina was lying and listening to the mirologues coming through the open window. From time to time the funereal chants broke off and they could hear some shouts, as though a quarrel had started, and the sounds of cupboards and trunks being opened and shut, and heavy, rapid tramplings as if people were fighting. Then, the mirologue would begin again, monotonous, despairing, a soft murmur like that of a bee.

The two women were running to and fro in the death chamber, chanting their mirologues while they feverishly rummaged in every little corner. They opened a cupboard and found several little spoons, some sugar, a tin of coffee and a box of loukoums. [30] Aunt Lenio pounced on them and seized the coffee and loukoums. Old mother Malamatenia seized the sugar and spoons. She picked up two loukoums as well, thrust them into her mouth, and for a while the mirologue came out in muffled and choking fashion through the sugary paste.

"May flowers rain on thee and apples fall in thy lap…"

Two other old women crept into the room, rushed to the trunk, plunged their hands inside, picked up a few little handkerchiefs, two or three towels, three pairs of silk stockings, a garter, and thrust them down their bodices, then turned to the dead woman on the bed and crossed themselves.

Mother Malamatenia saw the old women rob the trunk and that put her into a fury.

"You go on; keep going, dear, I shan't be a second!" she cried to aunt Lenio, and dived head first into the trunk herself.

Bits of old satin, an old-fashioned mauve dress, antique red sandals, a broken fan, a new scarlet sunshade, and, right at the bottom, an admiral's three-cornered hat. A present someone had made Bouboulina long ago. When she was alone in the house sometimes she used to put it on and sadly and gravely admire herself in the mirror.

Someone approached the door. The old women went out, while aunt Lenio gripped the deathbed once more and started beating her breast as she chanted:

"… and crimson carnations round thy neck…"

Zorba entered, looked at the dead woman, still and peaceful now, quite yellow and covered with flies, as she lay with her arms folded, and a tiny velvet ribbon round her neck.

"A bit of earth," he thought, "a bit of earth that was hungry… and laughed, and kissed. A lump of mud that wept human tears. And now?… Who the devil brings us onto this earth and who the devil takes us away?"

He spat and sat down.

Outside in the yard the young people were taking their places for the dance. The clever lyre player, Fanurio, came at last and they pulled the tables aside, and cleared away the paraffin cans, the washtub and the clothesbasket, to make room for the dance.

The village worthies appeared: uncle Anagnosti, with his long crooked stick and full, white shirt; Kondomanolio, plump and dirty; the schoolmaster, with a large brass inkhorn in his belt and a green penholder stuck behind his ear. Old Mavrandoni was not there; he had gone into the mountains as an outlaw.

"Glad to see you!" said uncle Anagnosti, raising his hand in greeting. "Glad to see you're enjoying yourselves! God bless you all! But don't shout… you mustn't. The dead can hear, remember, the dead can hear."

Kondomanolio explained:

"We've come to make an inventory of the dead woman's belongings, so that they can be divided among the poor. You've all eaten and drunk your fill, now that's enough. Don't strip the whole place! Look!" he waved his stick threateningly in the air.

Behind the three elders appeared a dozen ragged women, with untidy hair and bare feet. Each one carried an empty sack under her arm and a basket on her back. They came in furtively, step by step, without a word.

Uncle Anagnosti turned round, saw them and burst out: "You get back, there, you pack of gipsies. What? Come to rush the place? We're going to write everything down, item by item, and then it'll all be divided properly and fairly between the poor. Get back, will you!"

The schoolmaster took the long inkhorn from his belt, opened a large sheet of paper and went to the little shop to begin the inventory.

But at that very moment a deafening noise was heard-as if someone was banging on tins, as if cases of cotton reels were falling, and cups were knocking together and breaking. And in the kitchen was heard a tremendous din among saucepans, plates and cutlery.

Old Kondomanolio rushed there, brandishing his stick. But what could he do? Old women, men, children went rushing through the doors, jumped through the open windows, over the fences and off the balcony, each carrying whatever he had been able to snatch-saucepans, frying pans, mattresses, rabbits… Some of them had taken doors or windows off their hinges and had put them on their backs. Mimiko had seized the two court shoes, tied on a piece of string and hung them round his neck-it looked as though Dame Hortense were going off astraddle on his shoulders and only her shoes were visible…

The schoolmaster frowned, put the inkhorn back in his belt, folded up the virgin-white sheet of paper, then, without a word and with an air of deeply offended dignity, crossed the threshold and walked away.

Poor old uncle Anagnosti went about shouting, begging the people to stop, waving his stick at them.