Tales Of Crete - Bring Me The Head Of Che Grevara - 5

Tales of Crete© “Bring Me The Head of Che Guevara” 5 By Jack Schimmelman jack_schimmelman@yahoo The golden crown yawned and levitated above the dark night deep. Time for me to awake in my cave. As became my custom, I responded to the early blaze by opening my eyes, yawning and listening to my cells harmonize with my now awakened heart. Hop again down to the water. See. Again. A lovely, voluptuous woman wander from Jorge’s grotto dreaming, walking, rotating her hips to a tune only she had come to know the night before. Then comes my friend, Jorge. “Did you see Carlos, yet? Remember? He’s coming from Buenos Aires.” “No.” So we continued along the frontier of sea and sand; immersed at the edge of our lives. Even at a low, morning angle, the sun was a powerful force commanding respect. After passing the “bad” café, we come upon the rest of our group having the usual breakfast at the “good” café. Before sitting, I would shower in the icy mist emanating from Greek plumbing. By the time I climbed the four steps to the café’s terrace I was dry. Towels need not apply. As had become customary, after ingesting a simple, Greek break fast, we meandered to the beach where we could uncouple from any pretense of being an adult. Totally naked, abandoning reminders of civilization, it was only what existed in our breaths that kept us sane. We were trying to discover what being kind meant. It was not easy. Complicated, even with clothes. As we’re walking, the first song begins. Margot. Sweet, short Margot tones. But we’re way too hot to mingle. I believe Margot understood then that singing was probably an evening activity. That didn’t stop her, however, so we were afforded a beautiful, silly lullaby climbing over the rocks to the second beach, once again, sans shoes, and after a short time, sans culottes. I guess you could say we were culottè (cheeky). Always the goat. That summer I acquired several friends who were goats. Very smart. And Wise. On the other side of the mountain, I asked Jorge how he came to Crete. He exhaled.

“I was in the biggest square in Buenos Aires, selling my jewelry. We each had a stall. My girlfriend, Bebe was there. Suddenly there was a lot of commotion. Someone came running up to me and said we would have to close tomorrow (Saturday!) because Eva Peron’s body was coming back to Argentina. I said when they send back Che Guevara’s body I’ll close my shop, until then I am open. I was told by Bebe the next day that I was marked because of what I had said and that we had to leave Argentina. I am not political. I really don’t give a shit. So, it was kind of stupid that someone would want to do me harm because of one dumb statement. Anyway, Bebe would know because her father was a retired Colonel and the Colonels were in charge. He had called her from London. Her father hated me. Too dark, too native, too much. I come from La Pampa. My family are peasants. My father was Indian and my mother Argentinian and she is part Indian. But I was with the Colonel’s daughter and he felt responsible for her. Still. He was a military man. He told his daughter about the threat on my life and, I suppose, on hers, as well. So, Bebe and I bought a one-way ticket on an ocean liner to England. We took very little with us. Only what could fit in one suitcase each and mine was half filled with my tools. We went the very next morning. We took the Queen Elizabeth. Quite a trip. You should try it, Joaquin!” “Che Guevara?” I could not believe he would say this. It was 1977 in Argentina. People disappeared faster than dirt during those years. “We came to England where Bebe’s father was retired, living in Wimbledon. He wouldn’t let us stay with him, but he was glad to see his daughter. We finally made our way to Italy, to Florence; to the Ponte Vecchio (“Old Bridge”). There, I set up shop and made and sold my jewelry. I have this knack of taking stuff from where I am living and making jewelry out of it – trinkets. We were quite successful in Florence, but I grew bored. Bebe was just happy to be in such a beautiful place. I left her the shop and went to Brindinsi where I took a ferry going to Greece where I took a ferry to Crete and now we are talking.” “Where is Bebe,” I asked. “She’ll be along. She has to sell everything. Then she’ll join me. I get letters from her sometimes in the main post office in Iraklion.” “But what about all these women?” “What about them?! C’mon! Anyway, I’ve never seen anything like this before. I don’t know why they come to me, but they do and I’m just going to enjoy myself. Everything will work itself out.” Ok. 2

Midday and the sun had merged into a blue-white sky. It was huge, so we took refuge at the back of the beach under the shade of the cliffs. Perhaps it was 90° in the shade. But it was dry. Very dry. Reveling in the wet blanket of water, which radiated from us to Africa, gold rays painted great elegance into our mind’s eye as well as our retinas. Anke took her usual place on one of the rocks, crouched on her feet, knees to her chin, gazing at the horizon as we watched. Our cue for dinner descended upon us as what passed for shadows in Crete grew a bit longer as the sun dusted off its oceanic cradle to doze for the evening only to light up yet another magnificent piece of our globe. We made our way over the rocks back to the café – the good one, naturally – dressed for dinner, of course, avec les culottes et les sneakers. Walking down a brown path from the mountain behind where my cave rested was a tall, very thin, bearded guy who basically swished his way down the mountainside dressed in a loin cloth and flip flops. “Carlos!” Shouts Jorge. “Jorge! Shouts Carlos. If nothing else, these guys were symmetrical. Beginning that night, Carlos would join us in the evening celebrations lending his unique musical talent to the galas. It was not serendipity that caused Carlos from Buenos Aires to become Queen of Damnoni. It was fate.

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