Zorba watched over his crops with quiet contentment. It was going to be a very good year and a very good harvest. Already there had been a few, small, but profitable crops in April and June and now the best crop of the season - coming to rich fruit in August - was ready and ripe for the picking

The size of this year's crop astounded Zorba. His harvests seemed to multiply year by year - and they were such easy crops to grow, He looked up at the kindly sun which beamed down its hot bounty. He tended his fields from a cool seat under a plane-tree by the cafe corner in the town's main square and sat in the cafe just as his forefathers had sat under the shade of the olive-trees in the cool, mountain groves.

His forefathers had farmed the fertile, inland plains and grown such fine tomatoes, figs and olives but Zorba farmed the fertile sandy beaches and blue seas. And - as in the time of his forefathers - all his crops seemed to require were a little watering, feeding and gentle caressing. But some of the fruit bruised - oh so easily. Suddenly Zorba remembered. He must have a word with his son, Spiros. Yesterday at the Adonis snack-bar on Aphrodite Beach with the English girl. That boy! So handsome, but no finesse. Zorba sighed. His son had never been the same since he had got in with the wrong crowd at the Midas Hotel.

"What friends for a son of mine," he had growled to his cousin, Stephano as they sat drinking their sweet, black coffee in the cafe that morning, "Hah, this new, cosmopolitan smart-set."

But the times are changing, Zorba," commiserated Stephano.

“And must we change with them?"

Zorba nearly choked on the bitter coffee grounds as he remembered the previous night.

"Just look at my son'?" he complained. He nearly wept, "Where did we go wrong, Stephano?"

"But he's not such a bad boy. Zorba,"

Stephano glanced apologetically at his watch before adding, "Look, I must go now."

But Zorba's mind was on his son.

“If only my father were still alive," he sighed

"Well - yes," replied his cousin as he rose.

Much as he liked sitting in the cafe. sipping his coffee and enjoying the cool. morning breeze. Stephano had little desire to hear his old friend ramble on about the good old days.

"Goodbye, Zorba." he said as he left he table,“I must be off to work."

He felt a bit guilty for he had left Zorba's employment to work at he new hotel and was uncomfortably sure that he had been included among this new smart-set.

"Goodbye. old friend." roared Zorba at his cousin's back, "And mark my words, you'll be clocking in soon."

But the memory of Stephano's betrayal rankled as did the memory of his son's behaviour the previous night. It cast a gloom over Zorba's benign countenance. A gloom that appeared whenever he thought of his son. It had not been the same in his father's time - nor indeed, that of his own.

"She fuck fuck tonight," his son had sniggered to his new, smart friends - and there had been no mistaking the gesture of his finger.

The poor girl had seen and overheard.

Zorba winced at the memory of her hot blush.

Never mind, all was not lost. He would have a word with his old friend, Niki, down at the cafe-bar. A smile and a hug would do the trick. These English girls - so free with their money, so generous - so easy. The best of his crops.

Zorba mused sorrowfully, “This new generation." He must have a talk with Spiros. He must teach his son what his father had taught him. "When you milk a cow you squeeze the tits gently. Siga! Siga!" How wise was his father - Zorba the Greek. But these youngsters today - they never listen.

Zorba looked lazily around the cafe, hazy in the late afternoon sun. In the far corner sat an Englishman. How his father had laughed at those strange men and the stories he had told of one. They were the first crop and how cleverly had his father seen their potential and how well had he cultivated the harvest. Just look how the crops had grown year by year. Why, now they even brought their wives and children!

Zorba rubbed his hands in anticipation. He smiled and raised his glass to the Englishman - just as his father had taught him to do - so many years ago.

Simon, the Englishman, was lost in his thoughts and a carafe of clear liquid on the table before him, so he missed the friendly raised glass.

He was sad for years ago he had sailed to Greece and fallen in love with a prostitute. The poor girl had needed his money and disposed of her simple pleasures with a generous heart heart and a kind spirit. And how and how pleasant were her peasant ways, how pleasing her cheap and gaudy dress and how friendly her free and easy manner. It had had been no hardship -indeed a delight - to return in later years to renew his acquaintance.

He had first heard of this wonderful, sunny girl when he had sat on his grandfather's knee, and gazed in wonder into his grandfather's aesthetic old eyes, while he listened to tales of a wily peasant, and the adventures and mishaps that his grandfather had enjoyed in his company. Even then he had half fallen in love.

And now Simon had returned to look up this old love - this time in Crete, for she lived all over Greece. The previous morning he had sorrowfully inspected the town. God, how she had aged! Gone the gaudy dress. Her streets and alley-ways painted with the most garish of lipstick. His peasant prostitute had become a European whore. Her greedy, peasant soul now resided at the Midas Hotel.

The Englishman was not sure - but somehow he felt that she no longer wanted anted his money. There were far richer pickings to be had.

“Raki?"

Simon looked around in confusion. Had someone spoken to him?

"Parakalo?"

The words came from a waiter with a not inconsiderable paunch.

Zorba beamed down. A smile required little effort on his part. Years of smiling had formed his features into a permanent crease. He beamed again. The Englishman seated at his table was about the same age as his son. Zorba's smile turned into a frown as he remembered. He wished that Spiros had some of that quiet, English temperament. A gloom appeared on his face.

"Don't you ever get sick of grinning at them?" his son had often sneered.

At times Zorba was heartedly sick of it and secretly sympathized with his son who would exclaim "Hah! Tourista!" as though he intended to get out his rifle and shoot them - as his grandfather, Zorba the Greek, had shot the carrion who pecked at his fruit.

The memory of his father restored something of Zorba's good nature. After all, it had been his goodwill and international reputation that had enabled him to set up his profitable business.

"Anglica?"

He smiled at the Englishman as he spoke.

"Eh?"

"Raki?" said Zorba.

"Raki," replied Simon politely.  

The conversation languished and, with a grunt, Zorba retreated to his seat under a plane-tree, where he glowered at Englishman from a distance.

“These youngsters today,” he muttered under his breath. But, no matter, it was still going to be a good harvest this year. He glanced at his reflection in the cafe window, smiled with satisfaction and patted his paunch. His crops were flourishing all around him. Rich, plump, golden-brown fruit - fresh and ripe for the picking

Simon tried to avoid the waiter's gaze. What had he done? Had something he said annoyed the old chap? The waiter had obviously tried to strike up a conversation. What was his interest in him? And why had he patted his paunch? Not that the gaze was hostile. It was ambivalent, solicitous, paternal - almost drooling, one might say.

He turned away and tried to dispel the unhappy thoughts that had entered his brain. "It must be the liquor, “ he mused. He was not used to such heady thoughts. The soul of Greece a whore? Indeed! What nonsense. He was, after all, on holiday and ought to be having fun.

Two weeks! Thirteen days, excluding the flight from London. Eleven if you discounted the day-long sea voyage there and back from Piraeus. Eleven days to enjoy himself. But what should he do first? Yes - first to work. It was a yearly task that had to be done.

'Dear Aunt Edna'. But what could he say? It was, indeed, very hot.

Simon had bought a sack full of postcards from a tiny shop in a side street. He had a large family and knew well the quantity required. The wily Greek proprietor had not only given him a generous bulk discount, but had thrown in a pen as bonus. Though old, and a little brown at the edges, the cards were still quite serviceable. They had been an absolute bargain.

Simon stared at the picture on the postcard before him - a panorama of the bay - and then he looked around the square for inspiration. His particular cafe straddled that corner of the square which led to the sea-front. What he saw bore little resemblance to the card.

He rummaged through the sack and pulled out a card at random. It was a view of the Gulf looking out to sea. Simon grimaced. Already he attempted a short swim in the bay - to wash off the dust from his voyage. He rubbed his calf where it had been cut by an object in the water. Another card fell out from the sack. And here was a view of the town from the sea. Fringed by the mountains, the town looked quite beautiful. And here was a view of the main promenade. 'Aphrodite Beach' was inscribed on the rear of the postcard. The sea looked invitingly blue. Simon dug out some more cards and spread them out on the table. Some were sepia-tinted and were of archaeological sites - Phaestos, Knossus. Ruins and bare rock dominated.

And here was a photograph of a Greek Urn. A bacchanal. Young lovers in white and blue. Pottery and clay figurines.

Simon nibbled his pen thoughtfully.

‘Amigo?”

Simon looked up. He had finished he carafe of liquid before him. It was now dark. His eyes caught the clock face on the church tower opposite. It seemed to revolve. Five o'clock? No that couldn't be? Half-past ten? That was it! God, he'd been sitting there most of the evening

Simon put the pen away.

“Merci."

He paid the waiter and rose from his seat. One day of his holiday had passed already. He felt tired and a bit unsteady on his feet. It had been a long day. He decided to take a short stroll along the promenade before retiring early to bed.