Tales Of Crete - Leaving - Incantation - 21

Tales of Crete© “Leaving (Incantation) 21 By Jack Schimmelman I unwrap the firmament and slowly compose my sight. First light has appeared on the first day of September 1979. The once darkened church is merging with gray tones in tune with the morning songs of the winged denizens alighting the overhanging trees. As light returns I note my friends in their ongoing dream tableaus breathing at a summer scale. With the light shining through her, Estelle walks towards me and the circle of pale, pastel embers, which had warmed me throughout the night. In this vision, I know immediately that she is the one who will be my exit. I do not wish to awaken my companions, but merely leave their grace, because to speak with them would only hold me to the flame once again. I needed to leave and Estelle, the eternal hitchhiker would get me there. We silently gathered our things and Margot who had been sleeping in a far corner of the monastery, whispered “so long.” I caught the glint in her eye, which assured me of both sadness and love. Estelle and I walked down the dirt road towards the paved path that would take us down the other side of the mountain towards Iraklion. Within moments Jorge was by my side. “Did you really think you were leaving without us saying goodbye, Joaquin?.” So, the three of us sauntered down the path, alive in Crete’s morn. In our wake, I heard murmurs of goodbyes from my summer companions who had become close friends. Although I did not look back, I could delineate the voices of Carlos, Anke, Werner, Stefan and Sabrina as they tossed words of kismet our way. Once on the paved road, we flagged down the bus that

was going to Iraklion.

We were on our way.

Estelle sat in front of Jorge and me. Jorge’s words motored the bus up the mountain, along the plateau, down the other side as we approached Iraklion. On this day, Jorge’s soul flew the bus as it hurtled towards civilization. “Did I ever tell you what is machismo, Joaquin?” “No.” “Most people don’t understand. And I bet you’re one of them. They think of macho and they see men dominating women, even hurting them. Women have nothing to do with it. Machismo is brotherhood. That is us, Joaquin. We are machismo. We are brothers.” To look at me, I don’t think machismo would be the first word to appear on the horizon. Old Jew destined for Miami, maybe. But macho? Not in this lifetime. We passed vineyards, which harbored my days of donkey memories, when I witnessed secret ingredients bestowed onto the brew and harvest. I felt Jorge near. I thought of our time together that summer and the parade of lust emerging from his cave each morning materialized in my mind, complete with the scents and sound of each beauty Jorge had availed himself. If Paris were Hemingway’s movable feast, Crete was Jorge’s eternal supper. As we drew closer to the city, putting distance between us and rock, sand, arid, seascape, my knowledge that I was, indeed, saying goodbye to my brother, as well as my youth descended from my curly headed face leaving in its wake resonance of a dream. My eyes remained dry in the name of machismo. Jorge sat straight in his seat, his voice harmonious with my sorrow, joy and fear; a true incantation of all that had been and all that would ever be. It did not matter if I understood each word, for he spoke wildly in Spanish and English riffing on our summer as his eyes fixated on Estelle’s swan neck. “Hey, Joaquin, remember that classical hole we found in the middle of the mountain? The echo we made as we put our heads in that hole to sing was our wall of sound.” His body fixed in time and space, only his mouth moved.

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“If only Phil Spector could have been there,” I exhaled. “Phil who?” Not to worry, Jorge. of the wall of sound.

Life goes on without the maestro

We arrived at our destination. Jorge’s chant had completed our journey. Estelle turned around, kissed my brother and said she would meet me at the boat. She had to buy something before we left. The bus left us at the dock. Jorge and I found an outdoor café, sat down and ordered our last coffee together. We had a half hour. Jorge did not slow down his cascade of images and words, as he continued his movie of that summer, living side by side in our respective caves, me an accidental celibate, him a fortuitous hedonist. Finally, he stopped in mid-syllable, arose, looked at me for perhaps 30 seconds and without further sound, his ebony skin glinting in the noon light, Jorge boarded the bus returning to our place of origin. I watched him take his seat and one word poured through me – machismo – as the bus left. I looked at the boat that would start my journey back to a land of gentler luminosity, where clouds actually dwelled. Estelle was walking towards me, smiling at the prospect of once again using her thumb to drive us to England’s magic mushroom festival, practicing her hitchhiking stance as she moved. I stood up, picked up my backpack took a step back. “I’m going back.” always.

The texture of Damnoni caressed me

“But you have nothing to go back to. You’re almost broke. If you stay, what will happen to you?” “Well, there’s always baling hay and I could probably catch the end of the harvest. They always need a good donkey. Besides, I would only slow you down. Look at you! You are motion. Me? I would just get in your thumb’s way.” So, I kissed her, said goodbye and wished her a good trip both on her way and when she arrived at the magic mushroom festival. I watched as she skipped towards the boat, a small bag in her hand, happy to be moving. I watched as that boat left without me, its horn chanting its 3

seafaring chords.

I was going home.

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