A handsome young stalwart had died in another Cretan village, in the White Mountains. His four best friends rose and said, “Shall we go and keep the deathwatch by him, to let the women rest from their lamenting?”
“Yes,” they all replied in strangulated voices.
He had been the village’s best pallikari, twenty years old, and his death was a dagger thrust in their hearts.
“Someone brought me some raki today,” one of the friends remarked. “It’s mulberry raki, and that can bring even the dead back to life! What do you say, boys, shall I fill a bottle and take it along?”
“My ma did her baking today. Shall I take a couple of barley rolls?”
“I have some pork sausages left. Shall I bring along a good string of them?”
“Me, I'll provide the glasses,” said the fourth. “And a couple of refreshing cucumbers.”
Each took his provisions and thrust them beneath his short shepherd’s cloak of frieze. Come nightfall, all four entered the dead man’s house.
Adorned with basil and marjoram, the deceased was laid out in his casket, which stood on trestles in the middle of the house. His feet faced the door; around him the women were wailing the dirge.
“Go and get some sleep, ladies,” said the friends, bidding them good evening. “We'll keep vigil by him.” The women retired to an inner room, bolting the doors. The friends went to the stools, placed the raki and mezédhes at their feet, and gazed tearfully at the deceased. They did not speak. A half-hour went by; an hour. Finally one of them lifted his eyes from the corpse.
“What say, boys, shall we have a drink?”
“Why sure!” they all replied. “We're not stiffs, are we? Let’s drink!”
They bent down and picked up the food. One of them lighted some paper and broiled the sausages. A delicious odor invaded the death chamber. They filled the glasses and, enlacing them in their fists to keep them from making noise, “clinked” them vigorously.
“God forgive him. . . . Here’s to our turn!”
“To our turn! God forgive him!”
They tossed off one raki, two, three, ate the mezédhes, reached the bottom of the bottle, began to feel jolly.
They gazed at the corpse again. Suddenly one of them leaped to his feet.
“What say, boys”—he indicated the corpse with a sidewise glance—‘‘wanna vault him?”
“Let's!”
Turning up their wide, loose-fitting foufoúles, they stuffed the ends into their cummerbunds so they would not be hindered in running. Then they transferred the casket to the threshold and opened the door leading to the courtyard.
Pftt! Pftt! They spat into their palms, took a running start, and began to vault the corpse.
Hello everyone.
I read this passage in "Report to Greco" (published by Simon & Schuster) , the autobiography of Nikos Kazantzakis. Marvellous man, marvellous text.
The author explains himself the meaning of the story: "stalwart games over and above love and pain, over and above death;", and again he talks about "scorn of death" as the lesson.
I get that but I wanted to ask some cultural context about the act of jumping over a corpse. Did the act have a meaning of its own apart from the event told by Kazantzakis? Would that be considered disrespectful of the dead person? Apart from these two questions, please, feel free to give me all the informations you want about such an act in the context of Cretan culture.
Thank you, goodbye.