"Good health, boss! Luck is blind, they say. It can't see where it's going and keeps running into people… and the people it nocks into we call lucky! Well, to hell with luck if it's like that, say! We don't want it, do we, boss?"

"We don't, Zorba! Good health!"

We drank, finished off the sheep, and the world was somehow lighter-the sea looked happy, the earth swayed like the deck of a ship, two gulls walked across the pebbles chattering together like human beings.

I stood up.

"Come on, Zorba," I cried, "teach me to dance!"

Zorba leaped to his feet, his face sparkling.

"To dance, boss? To dance? Fine! Come on!"

"Off we go, then, Zorba! My life has changed! Let's have it!"

"To start with I'll teach you the Zéimhékiko. It's a wild, military dance; we always danced it when I was a comitadji, before going into battle."

He took off his shoes and purple socks and kept on only his shirt. But he was still too hot and removed that as well.

"Watch my feet, boss," he enjoined me. "Watch!"

He put out his foot, touched the ground lightly with his toes, then pointed the other foot; the steps were mingled violently, joyously, the ground reverberated like a drum.

He shook me by the shoulder.

"Now then, my boy," he said. "Both together!"

We threw ourselves into the dance. Zorba instructed me, corrected me gravely, patiently, and with great gentleness. I grew bold and felt my heart on the wing like a bird.

"Bravo! You're a wonder!" cried Zorba, clapping his hands to mark the beat. "Bravo, youngster! To hell with paper and ink! To hell with goods and profits! To hell with mines and workmen and monasteries! And now that you, my boy, can dance as well and have learnt my language, what shan't we be able to tell each other!"

He pounded on the pebbles with his bare feet and clapped his hands.

"Boss," he said, "I've dozens of things to say to you. I've never loved anyone as much before. I've hundreds of things to say, but my tongue just can't manage them. So I'll dance them for you! Here goes!"

He leaped into the air and his feet and arms seemed to sprout wings. As he threw himself straight in the air against that background of sea and sky, he looked like an old archangel in rebellion. For Zorba's dance was full of defiance and obstinacy. He seemed to be shouting to the sky: "What can you do to me, Almighty? You can do nothing to me except kill me. Well, kill me, I don't care! I've vented my spleen, I've said all I want to say; I've had time to dance… and I don't need you any more!"

Watching Zorba dance, I understood for the first time the fantastic efforts of man to overcome his weight. I admired Zorba's endurance, his agility and proud bearing. His clever and impetuous steps were writing on the sand the demoniac history of mankind.

He stopped, contemplated the shattered cable line and its series of heaps. The sun was declining, shadows were growing longer. Zorba turned to me and with a gesture common to hím, covered his mouth with his palm.

"I say, boss," he said, "did you see the showers of sparks the thing threw out?"

We burst out laughing.

Zorba threw himself on me, embraced and kissed me.

"Does it make you laugh, too?" he said tenderly. "Are you laughing, too? Eh, boss? Good!"

Rocking with laughter, we wrestled playfully with one another for some time. Then, falling to the ground, we stretched out on the pebbles and fell asleep in one another's arms.

I woke at dawn and walked rapidly along the beach towards the village; my heart was leaping in my breast. I had rarely felt so full of joy in my life. It was no ordinary joy, it was a sublime, absurd and unjustifiable gladness. Not only unjustifiable, contrary to all justification. This time I had lost everything-my money, my men, the line, the trucks; we had constructed a small port and now we had nothing to export. It was all lost.

Well, it was precisely at that moment that I felt an unexpected sense of deliverance. As if in the hard, somber labyrinth of necessity I had discovered liberty herself playing happily in a corner. And I played with her.

When everything goes wrong, what a joy to test your soul and see if it has endurance and courage! An invisible and all-powerful enemy-some call him God, others the Devil, seems to rush upon us to destroy us; but we are not destroyed.

Each time that within ourselves we are the conquerors, although. externally utterly defeated, we human beings feel an indescribable pride and joy. Outward calamity is transformed into a supreme and unshakable felicity.

I remember something Zorba told me once:

"One night on a snow-covered Macedonian mountain a terrible wind arose. It shook the little hut where I had sheltered and tried to tip it over. But I had shored it up and strengthened it. I was sitting alone by the fire, laughing at and taunting the wind. 'You won't get into my little hut, brother! I shan't open the door to you. You won't put my fire out; you won't tip my hut over!'"

In these few words of Zorba's I had understood how men should behave and what tone they should adopt when addressing powerful but blind necessity.

I walked rapidly along the beach, talking with the invisible enemy. I cried: "You won't get into my soul! I shan't open the door to you! You won't put my fire out; you won't tip me over!"

The sun had not yet peeped over the mountain. Colors played in the sky over the water-blues, greens, pinks, and mother-of-pearl; inland, among the olive trees, small birds were waking and chirping, intoxicated by the morning light.

I walked along the edge of the water to say goodbye to this solitary beach, to engrave it upon my mind and carry it away with me.

I had known much joy and many pleasures on that beach. My life with Zorba had enlarged my heart; some of his words had calmed my soul. This man with his infallible instinct and his primitive eagle-like look had taken confident short cuts and, without even losing his breath, had reached the peak of effort and had even gone farther.

A group of men and women went by carrying baskets full of food and big bottles of wine. They were going to the gardens to celebrate the first of May. A girl sang and her voice was as clear as spring water. A little girl, her young breast already swelling, passed by me out of breath, and clambered on to a high rock. A pale and angry man with a black beard was chasing her.

"Come down, come down…" he cried hoarsely. But the gírl, her cheeks aflame, raised her arms, folded them behind her head and, gently swaying her perspiring body, sang:

Tell me with a laugh, tell me with a cry, Tell me you do not love me, What care I?

"Come down, come down…!" the bearded man was shouting, his hoarse voice begging and threatening by turns. All at once he leaped up and caught her by the foot, gripping it fiercely. She burst into tears as if only waiting for this brutal gesture to relieve her feelings.

I hurried on. All these sudden manifestations of joy stirred my heart. The old siren came into my mínd. I could see her-fat and perfumed and sated with kisses. She was lying beneath the earth. She must already have swollen and turned green. Her skin must have split, her body fluids must have oozed out and the maggots must be crawling over her now.

I shook my head with horror. Sometimes the earth becomes transparent and we see our ultimate ruler, the grub, working night and day in his underground workshops. But we quickly turn our eyes away, because men can endure everything except the sight of that small white maggot.

As I entered the village I met the postman preparing to blow his trumpet.

"A letter, boss!" he said, holding out a blue envelope.

I leaped for joy as I recognized the delicate handwriting. I hurried through the foliage, emerged by the olive grove, and impatiently opened the letter. It was brief and written in a haste. I read it straight through.