Report to Grego (11 page)

Every Sunday when I went to church, I saw an icon (placed low on the iconostasis) which showed Christ rising from the grave and hovering in the air, a white banner in His hand. On the bottom His guards were fallen on their backs and staring at Him in terror. I had heard many stories about Cretan uprisings and about wars, I'd been told that my paternal grandfather was a great military leader, and as I gazed at the icon, I gradually convinced myself that Christ was indeed my grandfather. I collected my friends around the icon, therefore, and said to them, “Look at my grandfather. He's holding the banner and going to war. And see there on the bottom? The Turks, sprawled on their backs.”

What I said was neither true nor false; it overstepped the limits of logic and ethics in order to hover in a lighter, freer air. If someone had accused me of telling lies, I would have wept from shame. The feather in my hands had ceased to be a rooster's; the angel had given it to me. I was not telling lies. I had an unshakable faith that the Christ with the banner was my grandfather and the terror-stricken guards below were the Turks.

Much, much later, when I started writing poems and novels, I came to understand that this secret elaboration is termed “creation.”

One day while reading the legend of Saint John of the Hut, I jumped to my feet and made a decision: “I shall go to Mount Athos to become a saint!” Without turning to look at my mother (Saint John of the Hut had not turned to look at his mother), I
strode over the threshold and out into the street. Taking the most outlying lanes and running all the way for fear that one of my uncles might see me and take me hack home, I reached the harbor, where I approached a caique, the one which was ready to weigh anchor first. A sun-roasted seaman was leaning over the iron bitt and struggling to undo the cable. Trembling with emotion, I went up to him.

“Can you take me with you, Captain?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Mount Athos.”

“Where? Mount Athos? To do what”'

“Become a saint.”

The skipper shook with laughter. Clapping his hands as though shooing away a hen, he shouted, “Home! Home!”

I ran home in disgrace, crawled under the sofa, and never breathed a word to anyone. Today is the first time I admit it: my initial attempt to become a saint miscarried.

My misery lasted for years, perhaps even to this day. I was born, after all, on Friday the eighteenth of February, the day of souls, a very holy day indeed, and the old midwife clutched me in her hands, brought me close to the light, and looked at me with great care. She seemed to see some kind of mystic signs on me. Lifting me high, she said, “Mark my words, one day this child will become a bishop.”

When in the course of time I learned of the midwife's prophecy, I believed it, so well did it match my own most secret yearnings. A great responsibility fell upon me then, and I no longer wished to do anything that a bishop would not have done. Much later, when I saw what bishops actually do, I changed my mind. Thenceforth, in order to deserve the sainthood I so craved, I wished to avoid all things that bishops do.

T
HE DAYS
were slow-moving and monotonous in that era. People did not read newspapers; the radio, telephone, and cinema were still unborn, and life rolled along noiselessly—serious and sparing of words. Each person was a closed world, each house both locked and bolted. The goodmen within grew older day by day. They caroused in whispers lest they be overheard, or they quarreled secretly, or fell mutely ill and died. Then the door opened for the remains to emerge, and the four walls momentarily revealed their secret. But the door closed again immediately, and life began noiselessly to grind away once more.

On the annual holidays—Christ's birth, death, or resurrection-all the people dressed, donned their jewelry, and forsook their houses to pour out of every lane. They were headed for the cathedral, which awaited them with gaping doors. Its great candlesticks and chandeliers had been lighted, and the knight and master of the house, Saint Minas, stood on the threshold to receive his dear friends the residents of Megalo Kastro. Hearts opened, misfortunes were put out of mind, names forgotten; all became one. They were slaves no longer. Disputes and Turks did not exist, nor did death. Inside the church, with the mounted Captain Minas as leader, everyone felt part of an immortal army.

Life was deep and stationary in those years. Laughter was minimal then in Megalo Kastro, tears ample, and the undivulged heartaches more ample still. The solid citizens were serious, always looking after their own affairs, the rabble docile: they rose with respect whenever a rich man passed. But all were united by a single shared passion which made them forget their cares and privations and brought them together in brotherhood. They did not divulge this passion, however, because they feared the Turk.

And lo! One day the still waters began to move. A steamship all
bedecked with flags was seen to enter the harbor one morning. Those Kastrians who happened to be at the waterfront stood with gaping jaws. What was this multicolored, multiplumed, flag-bedecked boat which had slipped between the two Venetian towers at the harbor's mouth? It was coming close. Saints preserve us! This one said it was a flock of birds, that one, a group dressed for a masquerade, and still another, a floating garden, one of those that Sinbad the Sailor had viewed in warm faraway seas. At that point a huge wild voice cried from the harbor café, “Welcome to the pelerines!” The onlookers suddenly all took a deep breath; they had understood. The boat had come closer meanwhile. Now its cargo was clearly visible: gaudily dressed women, with hats, with plumes, with colorful pelerines, their cheeks dabbed with poppy-colored rouge. At the sight of them the older Cretans crossed themselves and murmured, “Get thee behind me, Satan,” spitting onto their chests. What business did the hussies have here? This was celebrated Megalo Kastro; it wasn't going to stand for any such abominations!

An hour later scarlet programs had been pasted to all the walls and the city was informed that these people were a troupe of actors and actresses. It seems they had come to entertain the Kastrians.

To this day I still cannot understand how the miracle happened, but my father took me by the hand and said, “Let's go to the theater and see what the devil this is.” Night had already fallen. He held me by the hand and we proceeded harborwards to a poor section which was unknown to me. There were huge sheepfolds and only a few houses. One of the sheepfolds was brightly illuminated. The sound of a clarinet and bass drum came from within. A ship's sail hung over the entrance; you raised it to go inside. Entering, we found benches, stools, and chairs with seated men and women gazing at a curtain in front of them and waiting for it to open. A gentle breeze came from the sea, the air was fragrant, the men and women talking, laughing, and munching peanuts or pumpkin seeds.

“Which is the theater?” asked my father (he too was going to this kind of fête for the very first time). He was shown the curtain. We sat down as well, therefore, and pinned our eyes on this curtain. Written at the top of the canvas in large capitals was
“Schiller's
The Brigands
, a most entertaining play,” and just below, “No matter what you see, do not'be disturbed. It's all imaginary.”

“What does ‘imaginary' mean?” I asked my father.

“Hot air,” he answered.

My father had his own problems. He turned to ask his neighbor who these brigands were, but too late. Three raps were heard, and the curtain opened. I stared in goggle-eyed amazement. A paradise had unfolded before me: male and female angels came and went, dressed in gaudy costumes, with plumes, with gold, their cheeks colored white and orange. They raised their voices and shouted, but I did not understand; they became angry, but I did not know why. Then two hulking giants suddenly made their entrance. It seems they were brothers, and they began to argue and hurl insults and pursue each other with intent to kill.

My father pricked up his ears and listened, grumbling with dissatisfaction. He squirmed on his chair; he was sitting on hot coals. Drawing out his handkerchief, he wiped away the sweat which had begun to flow from his brow. But when he finally realized that the two gangling beanstalks were brothers at odds, he jumped to his feet in a frenzy.

“What kind of buffoonery is this?” he said in a loud voice. “Let's go home!”

He grabbed my arm and we left, overturning two or three chairs in our haste.

Putting his hand on my shoulder, he shook me. “Don't ever set foot in a theater again, you wretch. Do you hear? Because if you do, I'll tan your hide!”

That was my first acquaintance with the theater.

A
warm breeze blew; my mind sprouted grass, my entrails filled with anemones. Spring came with her fiancé Saint George mounted on a white steed, it left, summer came, and the Blessed Virgin reclined upon the fruited earth, that she too might rest after bearing such a son. Saint Dimítris arrived on a sorrel horse in the middle of the rains, dragging autumn behind him crowned with ivy and shriveled vine leaves. Winter pressed down upon us. At home (when my father was absent) my mother, sister, and I lighted the brazier and sat around it roasting chestnuts or chickpeas
on the embers. We were waiting for Christ to be born, so that my rosy-cheeked grandfather could come with the roast piglet wrapped in lemon leaves. This is exactly how we imagined winter: like my grandfather, with black boots, white mustachios, and holding a roast suckling pig in its hands.

Time passed; I grew bigger. In the courtyard the pots of basil and marigolds shrank; I mounted Eminé's steps in a single stride now, with no need for her to hold out her hand. I grew bigger, and inside me the old desires grew bigger also, while others, new ones, rose by their side. The saints' legends were too confining; they stifled me. It was not that I had ceased to believe. I believed, but the saints struck me now as much too submissive. They continually bowed their heads before God and said yes. The blood of Crete had awakened inside me. Without elucidating this clearly in my mind, I had a presentiment that the true man
is
he who resists, struggles, and is not afraid, in time of great need, to say no, even to God.

I could not set any of this new agitation forth in words, but at that stage in my life I had no need of words. I understood unerringly, without help from either my intellect or words. I was overwhelmed with sorrow when I saw the saints sitting with folded arms in front of paradise, calling out, imploring, and waiting for the door to open. They reminded me of the lepers I observed every time I went to our vineyard. They sat just outside the city gate with their eroded noses, missing fingers, putrescent lips, and extended the stumps of their arms to passers-by, begging for charity. I felt not the least bit sorry for them. They disgusted me, and I always turned my head the other way and passed as rapidly as I could. This was the state to which the saints began to decline in my childish mind. Was there no other way to enter paradise? Leaving the dragons and princesses of the fairy tales, I had entered the Theban desert with the beggar-saints, and now I felt I must escape them as well.

My mother made sweets for every important holiday, sometimes kourabiédhes, sometimes loukoums, and at Easter the special paschal cake. I used to put on my best suit and go to distribute them to my aunts and uncles as a way of sending our regards. They, in their turn, welcomed me heartily and presented me with silver coins, supposedly so that I could buy candy and decals. But I ran the next day to Mr. Loukás's tiny bookstore and bought
pamphlets about distant lands and great explorers. The seed of Robinson Crusoe had obviously fallen into me. Now it had begun to bear fruit.

I understood only a small part of these new “saints' legends,” but their essence filtered down to the depths of my soul. My brain began to open now and be filled with medieval towers, exotic regions, and mysterious islands which smelled of cloves and cinnamon. Savages with red feathers stepped inside me, danced, lighted fires, roasted human beings, and the islands surrounding them smiled like newborn infants. These new saints did not beg for alms. Whatever they desired they took by the sword. I thought to myself, If only a person could enter paradise in this way, on horseback, like those knights! Hero together with saint: that was the perfect man.

My family home grew narrow; Megalo Kastro grew narrow. The earth now seemed like a tropical jungle with colorful birds and beasts, with ripe honey-sweet fruits, and I wanted (so I imagined) to traverse all of this tropical jungle in order to protect a pale damsel in distress. Passing by a café one day, I saw her face. Her name was Genevieve.

In my imagination the saints now merged with the vehement knights who set out to save the world, the Holy Sepulcher, or some maiden. They merged as well with the great explorers, and the ships of Columbus which departed from a tiny Spanish port were the same—and the same wind swelled their sails—as the ships which up to that point had departed within me for the desert, loaded with saints.

When I read Cervantes, still later, his hero Don Quixote seemed to me a great saint and martyr who had left amidst jeering and laughter to discover, beyond our humble everyday life, the essence which hides in back of appearances. What essence? I did not know at the time; I learned later. There is only one essence, always the same. As yet, man has found no other means to elevate himself—none but the routing of matter and the submission of the individual to an end which transcends the individual, even though that end be chimerical. When the heart believes and loves, nothing chimerical exists; nothing exists but courage, trust, and fruitful action.

Years have passed. I tried to establish order over the chaos of my imagination, but this essence, the same that presented itself to me
still hazily when I was a child, has always struck me as the very heart of truth. It is our duty to set ourselves an end beyond our individual concerns, beyond our convenient, agreeable habits, higher than our own selves, and disdaining laughter, hunger, even death, to toil night and day to attain that end. No, not to attain it. The self-respecting soul, as soon as he reaches his goal, places it still further away. Not to attain it, but never to halt in the ascent. Only thus does life acquire nobility and oneness.