Report to Grego (27 page)

The initial rebelliousness of my adolescent years had vented its force. I had digested the humiliating notions that the earth is not the center of the universe and that man is descended from beasts, is himself a beast more intelligent and immoral than his progenitors. As for the Female, who had come and so roused my blood for an instant, since the moment I laid her out on paper, she had not returned to spoil my harmonious well-being. No matter how much my intellect discourses, proving that women have the same worth, the same soul as men, the age-old heart inside me, the African heart which scorns the Europeanized mind and wants nothing to do with it, repulses women and refuses to trust them or permit them to penetrate deeply within me and take possession. Women are simply ornaments for men, and more often a sickness and a necessity.

I think of Kostandís, a ferocious field warden in Crete who lived as a hermit and never let a female near him. Suddenly the word spread that Kostandís was getting married. “Good God, Kostandis,” I said to him, “what's this I hear? Are you really getting married?” And he answered me, “Well, what can I do, boss? I figured, suppose I catch cold, who'd bring me the cupping glass?” And someone else who was marrying in his fifties told me by way of justification, “Well, what's to be done, my boy? You see, I decided I wanted some nice curls on my pillow just like everyone else.”

As we said: sometimes a necessity, sometimes an ornament.

During that entire honeymoon in Italy I was free, without metaphysical problems or worries about love. My delights were unsullied.

When I wish to recall those delights now after so many years, however, I am astonished. The most intellectual have deposited themselves within me, become one with me, and are no longer identifiable as memories. From my memory they have passed into my bloodstream, where they live and operate like natural instincts. When deciding something, I often recollect afterwards that it was not I who made the decision but the influence exerted on me by such and such a painting, such and such a fierce tower of the Renaissance, or such and such a line from Dante inscribed in one of the narrow streets of the old part of Florence.

It is not the intellectual delights, but others more corporeal, more proximate to human warmth, that remain stationary in my memory and look at me with great tenderness and sorrow. The end result is that from the whole of that youthful adventure I am left with nothing but a meager plunder, a very meager and humble one indeed: a rose I saw wilting on a hedgerow in Palermo, a little barefooted girl wailing in one of the filthy alleyways of Naples, a black cat with large white patches, sitting in a Gothic window in Verona. It is a mystery what the human memory chooses to preserve from all that is given it. Who was the great conqueror who sighed upon his deathbed, “Three things I longed for in my life and did not have the opportunity to enjoy: a little house on the seashore, a canary in a cage, and a pot of basil”? From my entire Italian journey, two extremely bitter memories settled down within me more than all the rest. Full of reproaches, they will pursue me to the death, even though I am entirely blameless.

T
his is the first:

It was almost nightfall. The whole day: rain, torrents of rain. Drenched to the bone, I arrived in a little Calabrian village. I had to find a hearth where I could dry out, a corner where I could sleep. The streets were deserted, the doors bolted. The dogs were the only ones to scent the stranger's breath; they began to bark from within the courtyards. The peasants in this region are wild and misanthropic, suspicious of strangers. I hesitated at every door, extended my hand, but did not dare to knock.

O for my late grandfather in Crete who took his lantern each evening and made the rounds of the village to see if any stranger had come. He would take him home, feed him, give him a bed for the night, and then in the morning see him off with a cup of wine and a slice of bread. Here in the Calabrian villages there were no such grandfathers.

Suddenly I saw an open door at the edge of the village. Inclining my head, I looked in: a murky corridor with a lighted fire at the far end and an old lady bent over it. She seemed to be cooking. Not a sound, nothing but the burning wood. It was fragrant; it must have been pine. I crossed the threshold and entered, bumping against a long table which stood in the middle of the room. Finally I reached the fire and sat down on a stool which I found in front of the hearth. The old lady was squatting on another stool, stirring the meal with a wooden spoon. I felt that she eyed me rapidly, without turning. But she said nothing. Taking off my jacket, I began to dry it. I sensed happiness rising in me like warmth, from my feet to my shins, my thighs, my breast. Hungrily, avidly, I inhaled the fragrance of the steam rising from the pot. The meal must have been baked beans; the aroma was overwhelming. Once more I realized to what an extent earthly happiness is made to the measure of man. It is not a rare bird which we must pursue at one moment in heaven, at the next in our minds. Happiness is a domestic bird found in our own courtyards.

Rising, the old lady took down two soup plates from a shelf next to her. She filled them, and the whole world smelled of beans. Lighting a lamp, she placed it on the long table. Next she brought two wooden spoons and a loaf of black bread. We sat down opposite each other. She made the sign of the cross, then glanced rapidly at me. I understood. I crossed myself and we began to eat. We were both hungry; we did not breathe a word. I had decided not to speak in order to see what would happen. Could she be a mute, I asked myself—or perhaps she's mad, one of those peaceful, kindly lunatics so much like saints.

As soon as we finished, she prepared a bed for me on a bench to the right of the table. I lay down, and she lay down on the other bench opposite me. Outside the rain was falling by the bucketful. For a considerable time I heard the water cackle on the roof, mixed with the old lady's calm, quiet breathing. She must have
been tired, for she fell asleep the moment she inclined her head. Little by little, with the rain and the old lady's rhythmical respiration, I too slipped into sleep. When I awoke, I saw daylight peering through the cracks in the door.

The old lady had already risen and placed a saucepan on the fire to prepare the morning milk. I looked at her now in the sparse daylight. Shriveled and humped, she could fit into the palm of your hand. Her legs were so swollen that she had to stop at every step and catch her breath. But her eyes, only her large, pitch-black eyes, gleamed with youthful, unaging brilliance. How beautiful she must have been in her youth, I thought to myself, cursing man's fate, his inevitable deterioration. Sitting down opposite each other again, we drank the milk. Then I rose and slung my carpetbag over my shoulder. I took out my wallet, but the old lady colored deeply.

“No, no,” she murmured, extending her hand.

As I looked at her in astonishment, the whole of her bewrinkled face suddenly gleamed.

“Goodbye, and God bless you,” she said. “May the Lord repay you for the good you've done me. Since my husband died I've never slept so well.”

A
nd here is the second memory, the more bitter of the two:

Toward the beginning of spring I arrived at Assisi, Italy's most sacred city. Gardens, rooftops, courtyards, the very air—all were filled with the invisible presence of God's sweet little pauper. It was Sunday. The massive bells of his church were ringing, and the shrill, silver-voiced bells of the Convent of Saint Clare were answering them from the small square opposite. The two of them, Saint Clare and Saint Francis: joined in the air, forever inseparable, with the immortal voices given them by sainthood and death. “Father Francis, when are you finally going to come and see us poor sisters in our convent?” “When the thorns blossom with white flowers . . .” And behold! thorns now blossom everlastingly, and God's two mated doves, forever inseparable, flap their wings eternally over Assisi.

I climbed the narrow streets. Doors kept opening, women emerging. Freshly bathed, perfumed with lavender, their hair carefully combed, they were setting out hurriedly, cheerfully, for church—to see and be seen. In springtime in the lands of the sun
the church is the Lord's sitting room; His friends, men and women alike, go there, seat themselves in the rows of chairs, and engage in small talk, at one moment with God, at the next with their neighbors. God's servant comes and goes, habited in white lace and a black or red dress. He rings the little bell and in a sweet voice chants the praises of Saint Francis, the master of the house. Then the guests rise, say goodbye, and head for the door. They have paid their visit to the Saint; now the visit is over. Heaven laughs with satisfaction, and below on earth the taverns open their doors.

I had a letter of introduction to Countess Erichetta which would enable me to stay at her palazzo. She had been described to me as an elderly aristocrat who lived all alone with a faithful servant named Ermelinda and who would be extremely delighted to have my company. Once Assisi's loveliest belle, she had been widowed at the age of twenty-six, and since that time had not known any man. She possessed huge expanses of olive groves and vineyards; formerly she had mounted her mare each morning and gone out to inspect her lands, but now she was old, continually cold, and she simply sat in front of her fire, taciturn and sorrowful, as though regretting her life of chastity. Talk to her, I had been told, look at her as if she were still twenty-six years old, give her a little joy, even if too late.

It was a mild spring day. The swallows had returned, the fields were filled with small white daisies, the breeze warm and fragrant. But the fire was burning in the great mansion and the old countess was seated in a low armchair in front of it, with a kerchief of blue silk over her white hair. Placing my letter on her knees, she turned to look at me. I was flushed and overheated from my climb, my shirt unbuttoned down the front. My knees—I was wearing short pants—glistened in the fireglow. I was twenty-five years old.

“Well?” said the countess, smiling at me. “The whole of Greece has suddenly entered my house. Welcome.”

Ermelinda came—the young “adopted daughter” who eventually would receive a dowry from her mistress. Bringing a tray, she prepared settings on a low table, then arranged the milk, butter, toast, and fruit on it.

“I'm very happy,” said the countess. “Now I am not alone.”

“Nor am I,” I answered. “As I sit here, I understand the meaning of nobility, beauty, and kindness.”

The countess's pale cheeks flushed, but she said nothing. I saw a flame flash briefly across her eyes. She must surely have thought to herself with anger and complaint, The devil take nobility, beauty and kindness! It's youth that counts, youth, nothing else!

She set aside for me an immense room containing a vast bed with a velvet tester. Two large windows gave onto the street; I could see the courtyard of the Convent of Saint Clare opposite us, with the nuns coming and going in silence, white flaps on both sides of their heads. The campanile, roof, and court were full of doves; the entire convent kept sighing amorously, like one huge female dove. “What do the nuns want with all those doves?” the countess asked me one day. “For shame! Don't they see and hear them; don't they realize how scandalous it is? They should chase them away, or better still, butcher them and eat them—to be rid of them! To let us be rid of them!”

I remained in Assisi three months. Saint Francis and Countess Erichetta held me there, not allowing me to leave. Where was I to go? If the goal of life was happiness, why leave? Where could I find a dearer, surer companion than Saint Francis, whom I went to visit each day in his house, or more charming company than the countess, that living Saint Clare? All day long I sauntered through gay Umbria, following the Saint's tracks through olive grove and vineyard. The entire spring struck me as a Franciscan procession of red, yellow, and snow-white
fioretti:
Saint Francis with his retinue of flowers, rising once more from the soil of Assisi to greet Brother Sun. And Brother Wind as well and Sister Fire and our cheerful little Brother Water . . . and the countess . . . and the happy Cretan lad at her side.

Each evening I returned to the house, tired and content. The fire would be burning, the countess waiting with folded arms in her low armchair, dressed and coiffured, her face lightly powdered. Sorrowful and taciturn as always, she sat with closed eyes, but the moment she heard the door and became aware of my footsteps, her eyes opened. She would indicate the armchair next to her and touch my knee with her extended hand.

“Talk, talk. Open your mouth and do not stop. This is the only joy I have.”

And I would open my mouth and talk to her about Crete, my parents, the women of our neighborhood, about the Cretan wars
of independence, and Prince George when he set foot on Cretan soil . . . The entire island was adorned with myrtles and laurels; the elderly combatants—with their long white beards, their bodies hewn by sword blows—bowed to kiss the Greek prince's hand; they stumbled over one another; they could not see because their eyes were filled with tears. . . . On other occasions I told her about the Irish girl, about our ascent of Psiloriti, what we did there when we were alone in the little chapel, and our subsequent separation.

“But why, why?” asked the astonished countess. “Didn't the poor dear make you happy?”

“Yes, very happy.”

“Well then?”

“But it was precisely because of that, Countess.”

“I don't understand.”

“More happiness than a young man needs. I was in danger.”

“In danger of what?”

“Of one of these two possibilities: either I would grow accustomed to this happiness, whereupon it would lose its intensity and all its glory, or I would not grow accustomed to it and would always consider it as great as before, in which case I would be lost completely. I saw a bee drowned in its honey once, and learned my lesson.”