Extract from his autobiogra-phy ‘Report to Greco’ (1961), 

by Nikos Kazantzakis 

Chapter 18, Italy 

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. 

Suddenly I saw an open door at the edge of the village. I looked in: a lighted fire 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 reached the fire and sat down on a stool. She eyed me rapidly but 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. The meal must have been baked beans; the aroma was overwhelming. Once more I realised 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 the shelf. 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 oppo-site each other. She made the sign of the cross, then glanced rapidly at me. I understood. I made the sign of the cross and we began to eat. We were both hungry; we did not breathe a word. 

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. 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. Sitting 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 coloured 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.” 

James Neophytou