Report to Grego (31 page)

That night we lay awake talking into the early hours. We told each other that the time was ripe, the world was ripe, for a new way to love Christ. Earlier that day we had met a monk standing outside the monastery graveyard. When we asked him why the paintings over cemetery entrances always represented Christ crucified and not, as would be fitting, Christ rising from the grave, the monk became angry. “Our Christ is Christ crucified,” he replied. “In the Gospels did you ever see Christ laugh? He is always sighing, being scourged, and weeping—always being crucified.”

Now, unable to fall asleep, we were saying, “The time has come when we must make Christ laugh; yes, must! No more scourgings, weeping, or crucifixions. Christ must bind the strong, happy gods of Greece together inside him; He must assimilate them all. The time has arrived for the Jewish Christ to become a Greek.”

“And who shall bring this about—we shall!” exclaimed my friend, raising his hand as though taking an oath.

“Yes, we!” I exclaimed in my turn. I felt at that moment that nothing in the whole world could resist the human soul.

“We'll never separate!” cried my friend. “We'll yoke ourselves together like a pair of oxen to plow the earth!”

Years later we understood. We had yoked ourselves together like oxen, and had plowed the air.

P
hilothéou Monastery.
Marvelous stroll in the fog. Graceful, lanky poplars choked by ivy. A revolting monk named Ioannikios—a bony redhead forever jabbering. Wouldn't stop telling
us about a sister of his, Kallirhoe, who was possessed by demons. Apparently he himself had demons inside him; two of them, one called Hodja and the other Ishmael. The accursed creatures always opposed God, opposed Ioannikios. They wanted to eat meat during Lent, and they prodded Ioannikios to descend the stairs on tiptoe at night and go into the kitchen in order to devour whatever food remained from the collation. In addition, each dawn when Ishmael and Hodja—damn them!—heard the semantron, they cried out, “I'm not going! I'm not going!”

We proceeded to the monastery's courtyard. Grass was growing everywhere between the cobblestones, and the surrounding walls and cells were black with dampness and mildew. The chapel stood in the center; we entered to do obeisance to its wonder-working icon, the Virgin of the Tender Kiss. Her cheek is resting with inexpressible tenderness against the cheek of the infant Jesus, and her eyes, incurably sad, are staring into the distance.

“Look carefully into the Virgin's eyes,” said the monk who was accompanying us. “What do you see there?”

We went close and looked.

“Nothing,” we both answered.

“Whoever has faith sees Christ crucified,” declared the monk, casting a stern glance at us.

He opened a silver reliquary containing a long bone.

“Do obeisance! It is Chrysostom's right arm! Cross yourselves!”

A
ghias Lavras Monastery
. We departed first thing in the morning, anxious to see the famous Great Lavra, the monastery built by the tragic emperor Nicephorus Phocas, who yearned to cast off his crown, take refuge here, and lead the life of an ascetic. But his other yearning—for women—did not permit him, and he continually procrastinated, procrastinated and waited. Until along came his most trusted friend with a sword and cut off his head.

We arrived. Two luxuriant cypresses in the courtyard, one planted by Nicephorus Phocas's confessor, Saint Athanásius, the other by his disciple Euthýmius. Athos, completely snow-capped, hangs over the monastery like the Pantocrator.

We were brought into the sacristy and proudly shown the monastery's treasures—the skull of Basil the Great, the jaw of Theodore Stratelátes, the left arm of Chrysostom, and a multitude of
other bones. A gorgeous cross case, adorned everywhere with precious stones and pearls, was opened for us; inside lay a large section of the True Cross. The monk's voice trembled with emotion, but I was reminded of something a certain real Christian once said: “Every piece of wood is ‘true,' because from each a cross can be made.” Next, Nicephorus Phocas's dress uniform, all gold, with roses and lilies embroidered in silk. And his golden crown, studded with immense green and red jewels. And the Gospel written in his hand. . . . And then a multitude of ancient worm-eaten account books.

My friend and I gasped with admiration, but all this failed to touch our hearts. I remember most deeply of all, and with greater gratitude, the fragrance of the two blossoming medlar trees at the entrance to the library. My entire body rejoiced as it inhaled the medlar's perfume which I so adore, that sweet, peppery aroma more intoxicating than wine, women, or all the world's splendors.

The following morning we set out before dawn for the summit of Athos. The semantron had yet to sing out in the cloister, the birds had yet to awaken. The sky was milky and absolutely clear, with the morning star shining far off in the east like a six-winged seraph.

Short, bowlegged Father Loukás, a former smuggler, went in the lead to show us the way. From time to time he stopped to chat with us about seas, revels, disputes with the Turks. The whole of his previous existence in the world remained like a fairy tale inside him; it seemed to have taken place on some other wilder and more dangerous planet, one filled with shouts, curses, and women. He told and retold this fairy tale of his, relived it, and felt happy. Though he had renounced every aspect of his former life, he had taken it all with him, wrapped inside his frock.

He halted now beneath a large fir tree, anxious to talk.

“We'll stop and rest awhile, lads—all right? Let's exchange a word or two. I'm ready to burst.”

He brought out a tobacco pouch hidden beneath his cincture, rolled a cigarette, and opened the conversation.

“Me, the person you see now with the frock, they used to call me Leonidas—Captain Leonidas of Kálymnos, the terror of the Turks. A smuggler I was, a hellion if there ever was one. Now, just how I came to don the frock, that I'll tell you some other time.
Suffice it to say that the smuggler inside me never croaked. How could he, seeing as I stuff him with food and drink as though he were a bey, no matter if he's chained inside me like a boat dog. Loukás eats bread and olives in the refectory with the other monks, but when he goes back to his cell and bolts the door, he sets the table for Leonidas and eats meat. As you can see, we're not one but two. Understand? . . . That's what I wanted to tell you. Sin confessed: sin redressed. I've spoken and I feel better. Now let's go.”

“Bravo, Captain Loukás!” exclaimed my friend, splitting with laughter. “You've done a fine job of managing the unmanageable. But don't you ever have a suspicion that all this might be the work of the Tempter?”

“Of course, of course,” said the monk, winking his eye cunningly. “I have this suspicion every morning—but by dinnertime I've forgotten it.”

“Tie a knot in your handkerchief as a reminder,” I suggested.

He took a deep puff on his cigarette; the smoke came out through his nostrils.

“I don't have a handkerchief,” he said.

We resumed our climb. Pines, firs, terrifying precipices. The sea, calm today, stretched below in the gentle morning light. As the brightness increased, we were able to make out the divine islands of Imbros, Lemnos and Samothrace in the distance; they seemed to be floating in mid-air, not touching the water.

We reached the snow line. Father Loukás advanced slowly with careful steps. We slid and fell, proceeding with difficulty and danger upon the frozen snow; the mountain was precipitous, cruelly inhuman. Suddenly my friend, who was climbing in front of me, halted, leaned over, and gazed downward into a deep, bottomless chasm. Livid with vertigo, he turned to me and murmured, “Let's go back.”

“But wouldn't that be shameful?” I said, looking at him reproachfully. I wanted so very much to reach the summit.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured in humiliation. “Forward!” And he began once more to climb.

The sun was high when we set foot on the summit. We were both panting with fatigue, but our faces were resplendent because we had achieved our goal.

We went to do obeisance in the little chapel dedicated to the Transfiguration of Christ. Meanwhile Father Loukás built a fire with the twigs and branches he had collected along the way, then took some coffee from his sack and brewed it. Huddling together behind a large rock because the wind had begun to blow and we were cold, we gazed at the mute, boundless sea in front of us, the islands sailing brilliantly white in it, and far in the distance, the unknown mountains which gave a leaden cast to the air.

“They say you can see Constantinople from this holy peak,” declared Loukás, and he gazed out goggle-eyed toward the east in an effort to discern the royal capital.

“Have you yourself ever seen it, Father Loukás?”

The monk sighed. “No. I was never deemed worthy. It seems that our bodily eyes are not sufficient. Others are needed, the eyes of the soul, and alas! my soul is shortsighted.”

“But you're able to see God,” I said.

“Eh! eyes aren't needed for that,” replied the monk. “God is closer to us than our liver and lungs.”

My friend had been despondent and silent. Doubtlessly he could not bring himself to forgive his body for momentarily turning coward. Suddenly he was unable to restrain himself any longer. He held out his hand and squeezed mine energetically.

“Please,” he said, “forget it. I swear I won't do it again.”

I
osaphaíoi, December
6. We spent today, my name day, in the celebrated painting studio of Iosaphaíoi. There are ten painter-monks. Each week one of them takes over the household chores-sweeps, washes, and cooks—while the others paint. Emerging from this studio to be disseminated to the farthest limits of the Orthodox world are the well-combed well-nourished Christs, the beautiful, richly gowned Virgins, the rosy-cheeked, contented saints lacking all sanctity—decalcomanias, all of them. The monks are simple and personable, hospitable and self-respecting; they love fine food, fine wine, and castrated cats. For hours after dinner we sat together and talked in front of the large fire burning in the hearth, we about this world, they about the divine world above. Father Akákios, a short, rotund monk with swollen feet, had spent the entire day painting Saint Antonius, and now, stroking a fat black cat on his knees, he spoke movingly about the saintly eremite.
It seems that a girl came to him one day and said, “I have observed all of God's commandments; I place all my trust in the Lord. He will open the gates of paradise for me.” Saint Antonius then asked her, “Has poverty become wealth for you?” “No, Abba.” “Nor dishonor honor?” “No, Abba.” “Nor enemies friends?” “No, Abba.” “Well then, my poor girl, go and get to work, because right now you possess nothing.”

As I looked at the simple Akákios, who was perspiring from too much food, the fire's great warmth, and the memory of the frightening ascetic, I kept thinking what a rosy-cheeked Antonius he must have been painting all day, and I was possessed by a diabolical urge to say to him, Go and get to work, poor fellow, because right now you possess nothing. But I did not speak. A crust of lard, habit, and cowardice envelops the soul; no matter what it craves from the depths of its prison, the lard, habit, and cowardice carry out something entirely different. I did not speak—from cowardice.

That night when we went to bed, I confessed this to my friend.

“You must have refrained out of courtesy, not cowardice,” he said to console me. “Out of pity, because you did not want to sadden such a fine fellow. Perhaps even out of the conviction that your words would have accomplished nothing.”.

“No, no,” I protested. “Even if it's as you think, we must conquer the minor virtues you talk about—courtesy, pity, expediency. I am less afraid of the major vices than of the minor virtues, because these have lovely faces and deceive us all too easily. For my part, I want to give the worst explanation: I say I did it from cowardice, because I want to shame my soul and keep it from doing the same thing again.”

The next morning, sitting with the ten befrocked artists in the glassed-in veranda of the hermitage amidst the painted rosy-cheeked saints and chubby Virgins, we drank our milk and munched the tasty wheaten rusks and the rich condiments which accompanied them. The winter sun came in with extreme mildness through the large windows, together with the honey-sweet aroma of pine. We talked and laughed. This was not the Holy Mountain. Christ had been resurrected here; He was laughing along with us. When the monks recounted the miracles performed by the saints, their eyes fluttered from belief (or disbelief) and their faces glowed with a faraway luster.

Father Agápios extended his hand and directed our attention to one of his paintings, which hung on the wall opposite us. He was the youngest of the artists and had a glossy black beard and red lips.

“It is Arsénios the great ascetic,” he said, admiring his work. “And the woman you see kneeling at his feet is a beautiful Roman aristocrat who crossed mountains and seas to come and prostrate herself before him. But look how the ascetic is pointing with his finger to the sea and knitting his brows (I want to show that he is angrily repulsing her). ‘Go away,' he says, ‘and don't tell anyone you saw me—because the sea will become a highway and women will start transporting themselves to my solitude.' ‘Pray for me, Father,' implores the woman. ‘Woman,' replies the ascetic, ‘I shall pray God to make me forget you.'”

The painter turned, gave us a sly look, and asked, “What does that mean: ‘I shall pray God to make me forget you'?”

Not knowing what the monk had in mind, we kept still.

“It means that the ascetic was pricked by the woman's beauty; that explains why he sought God's help to make him forget her.”