Report to Grego by Nikos Kazantzakis Read Free Book Online Page A

that she might be the Nereid mentioned in the fairy tales, and imagination set to work in my childhood mind: My father had glimpsed her dancing beneath the moon one night as he passed the river. He pounced, caught hold of her kerchief, and that was when he brought her home and made her his wife. Now my mother came and went all day long in the house, searching for the kerchief so that she could throw it over her hair, become a Nereid again, and depart. I used to watch her coming and going, opening the wardrobes and coffers, uncovering the jugs, stooping to look under the beds, and I trembled lest she chance to find her magic kerchief and become invisible. This fear lasted many years, deeply wounding my newborn soul. It remains within me even today, still more indescribably. It is with anguish that I observe all the people or ideas that I love, because I know they are searching for their kerchiefs in order to depart.
    I remember only one occasion when my mother’s eyes gleamed with a strange light and she laughed and enjoyed herself as in the days of her engagement, or when she was a free, unmarried girl. It was the first of May and we had gone to Phódhele, a village full of water and orange orchards, so that my father could sponsor a child in baptism. Whereupon, a violent downpour suddenly broke out.The heavens turned to water and emptied onto the earth, which opened chucklingly and received the male waters deep into its breast. The village notables were gathered with their wives and daughters in a large room in the godchild’s house. The rain and lightning entered through the windows, through the cracks in the door; the air smelled of oranges and soil. In and out came the handsels, the wine, the raki, the mezédhes. It began to grow dark, the lamps were lighted, the men grew merry, the women lifted their normally downcast eyes and began to cackle like partridges. Outside the house God was still roaring. The thunder increased, the village’s narrow lanes had been transformed into rivers, the stones tumbled down them, laughing wildly. God had become a torrent; He was embracing, watering, fructifying the earth.
    My father turned to my mother. It was the first time I ever saw him look at her with tenderness, the first time I heard sweetness in his voice.
    â€œSing Marghí,” he said to her.
    He was giving her permission to sing, giving it in front of all the other men. I became angry, though I don’t know why. Rising all in a ferment, I started to run to my mother as though wishing to protect her, but my father touched my shoulder with his finger and made me sit down. My mother seemed unrecognizable; her face gleamed as if all the rain and lightning were embracing it. She threw back her head. I remember that her long raven-black hair suddenly became undone and fell over her shoulders, reaching to her hips. She began . . . What a voice that was: deep, sweet, with a shade of throatiness, full of passion. Turning her half-closed eyes upon my father, she sang a mantinadha which I shall never forget. I did not understand at the time why she uttered it, or for whom. Later, when I grew up, I understood. Looking at my father, her sweet voice filled with restrained passion, she sang:
    I’m amazed the streets don’t blossom when you stroll,
    And you don’t become an eagle with wings of gold.
    I looked the other way to avoid seeing my father, to avoid seeing my mother. Going to the window, I pressed my forehead against the pane and watched the rain fall and eat away the soil.
    The deluge lasted the entire day. The night had borne downupon us; the world outside grew dark, heaven blended with earth, and the two turned to mud. More lamps were lighted. Everyone moved toward the walls. Tables and stools were moved aside to make room; youngsters and oldsters alike were going to dance. Installing himself on a high stool in the middle of the room, the rebecist grasped his bow as though it were a