Tales Of Crete - Row, Row, Row Your Boat - 18

Tales of Crete© “Row, Row, Row Your Boat . . .” 18 By Jack Schimmelman The day was young, but the image of that poor young woman half alive remained. “Morning has broken” took on new meaning. We were now the ones broken. After much silence, fear and denial Margot spoke up and said, “well, the way they behaved, she deserved it.” Carlos leaped from his seat directly to her heart, to let her know that nobody deserved to be raped. Margot was always very hard. It is 30 years later and I still remember that poor girl in that café that morning; her tattered clothes, unlit eyes. I still wonder if we all just allowed it to happen the night before as we sat and drank and talked on the café’s terrace; if we didn’t know what was going on when we heard from the black veiled beach the shouts and anguish cooking in the torrid night Crete air. There was nothing to do. The tide had receded and we were left with our shame and confusion. I refused to be with my friends that day. They obeyed their reflexes and made their way to the ocean to try to burn their memories. Apollo had assumed his regal position in the sky and the air once again was a furnace. Damnoni was losing its charm. I was losing my charm. I walked to Nola’s village to speak with her about what had occurred the past couple of days. She was quite gracious and invited me in. The sun was perched at its highest point. The small houses brilliantly reflected his majesty with their whitewashed cement walls. We had a small meal with tea. She told me that she had heard about what was going on in Damnoni with the most recent wave of students. She had heard about the rape. She said that she found out that Damnoni’s reputation had changed and that men from all over the Island district were planning to go there for one thing only. Sex. She understood that sooner or later, someone would get hurt, for these men did not understand nor did they want to understand such behavior. So, she wasn’t surprised when she heard about the tragic event. She then went on to explain how it was too late; Damnoni’s sanctuary was ruined. We would begin to attract all kinds of people who could harm us. I understood that I had to soon make a choice. August was nearing its conclusion and I was at the end of my drachmas. Cutting grass for sheep and making bales of hay was a precious occupation, at least for the sheep, but it was not a career choice I could sustain. And

I knew I couldn’t go back to destroying watermelons. And being a donkey in the Vineyards had lost its romance. I was not an agricultural type of guy. I contemplated my present. Nola and I said goodbye and that was the last time I ever saw her. I always wondered how long she was able to maintain her life in that small village on Crete, selling her art. Her sales were growing. No Internet. No advertising. By word of mouth people came to her door from all over the world. Her art was powerful, beautiful, as was she. I walked back to Damnoni, down rocky paths, past my beloved sheep and goats. I explained to the sheep I would soon stop conducting their chorus and feeding them. They were indifferent. I stopped at the B&B that overlooked the area. I went to the kind old woman who owned the place and asked for some tea, which she gladly offered with the delicious biscuits that she baked each morning. I was sitting on the balcony where just a few days before I was applauding a cloud. My eyes had darkened. Instead of eyes, I had two small cameras. I tried to maintain the last remnants of my innocence by squeezing Crete’s light. But the harder I gripped, the more the radiance vanished. As I sat there, I noticed a living poem sitting on the opposite end of the balcony from me. She was beautiful, tan and quiet. Grace incarnate. I walked up to her and we began to speak. She spoke English with a German accent and I asked where she was from. Vienna, she said. I asked her the usual questions. She said she was there with her husband, a well-known painter from Vienna. He was there for inspiration. She came to watch and rest. Her name was Sabrina. Maybe she was in her early 30’s. Her husband soon joined us. He was a shorter man, blonde, blue eyes, with cheekbones that were made for pictures. He also spoke perfect English. The two looked like twins. He was Stefan. They both were dynamic people searching for something they did not yet know. They would fit right in. They had just arrived the day before and had not had a chance to explore the area. I told them about the nude beach behind the mountain and they could see some of it from where we sat. I asked if they were interested in knowing more. They smiled, put down their biscuits. I took them down the path. They left their Porsche on the dirt road behind the B&B. When we arrived, I could see that Stefan was already being inspired. We took off our bathing suits halfway down the cliff as we descended towards the smooth, sandy alcove bordered by a cobalt blue sea. During the entire five months I was at Damnoni, I never failed to be amazed at how enthusiastic people were to take off their clothes and how their personalities were instantly transformed once they were completely vulnerable to the elements and each other. It didn’t matter their national origin or economic circumstance or whether they were in great shape or piss poor condition. Almost without exception, when 2

the clothes fell, everyone’s child came out and played. Your life embodied celebration. We found my friends at the beach, their faces ablazed; the memory of the horror that had befallen our small community the night before had begun its inevitable journey out to sea. We were fortunate. We could forget. After I introduced them to Sabrina and Stefan, Sabrina and I took a place underneath the cliffs to remain in the small amount of shade that the beach miserly allocated. The others remained by the water and played in the small waves that were gently licking the sand. Jorge and Margot imagined themselves surfing. Anke took her usual pose at the edge of the shore, squatting, just staring into space, her beautiful body perfectly aligned with her world. She was one element – sensuality. Carlos sat cross-legged surveying the scene as he carefully arranged his caftan that he used as his beach blanket. I happen to have my tarot cards with me. In those days I engaged in a parlor game, reading the cards. I never really believed one could divine anything from them, but I thought they contained interesting, and in some cases, powerful images. At best, perhaps they could provoke some insights, but I knew that they were merely projections of my personality. I asked Sabrina if she wanted me to read them for her. She graciously accepted, tolerating my pretense. I asked her to blindly choose the cards that would be read. She agreed. Unlike the Gypsies, she was not offended and found the pictures interesting. I said many things during that reading. Towards the end I asked her if she had had any cancer in her family. She remained silent and I should have done the same. So, like the idiot I was, I continued and said that an energy that resembled cancer was lingering. I said that this did not mean she would get cancer or that she had any disease at all and I was sure that this was an abstract thought and not pertinent to anything. She remained silent. Stefan came back from playing in the water and sat by us. He looked at Sabrina and asked what was wrong. She told him what I had said. Then she turned to me and said she was a cancer survivor; that she had come to Crete to recover from a difficult passage dealing with the disease. I looked at her dumbfounded. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.” They were nice to me and said not to worry. How could I know, after all. It was the last time I read the tarot. It was a ridiculous artifact for a small ego trip and nothing good could come from me pretending. Jorge, Carlos, Margot, Bèbè and Anke came to join us. The sun was beginning to edge back into the sea, waving at his worshippers. Stefan stood up and announced that he was inviting us all to dinner at the 3

café. My friends were delighted, but were puzzled as to why I did not share their joy at the mention of free food and drink. As we reacquainted ourselves with cloth while walking over the rocks on our way to the café, Stefan came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder and assured me that neither he nor Sabrina were offended. Then he caught up with Sabrina who I could see was not quite as poetic as when I first glanced at her that day. As we took our places at a long, narrow, wooden table, Crete’s fabled light slowly morphed from one pastel to another. When we ordered, we noticed a silver sliver perched above the beach. Diana had returned. When the food came, the only light that remained was the white glowing café bordering the black Libyan Sea. With each bottle of ouzo, each delicious morsel of the owner’s best cuisine that we certainly had heretofore not had the privilege of witnessing, our spirits rose. I, on the other hand, thought it a good time to go for a ride on a rowboat. Without paddles. I invited Bèbè to accompany me on my journey. She was drunk. She agreed. I was cold sober. We walked to the rowboat that was always kept tethered to a rock at the edge of the beach and got in. Jorge was following and he gallantly and happily sent us off on a bon voyage. He said something to Bèbè in Spanish, kissed her as he helped her into the boat. As we embarked, I asked her what he had said and she told me that he apologized for not having flowers for the launch and made Bèbè promise to write. She swore to do so. “Let’s see where the tide takes us,” I said confidently to Bèbè. “Ok, Joaquin.” Her words were slurred, but I understood. So, off we floated into the abyss. We did not have any lamp with us as I had seen in my midnight sightings of fishermen gliding on the water. We were smoothly drifting. I began to sing, “row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, etc.” I coached Bèbè to sing the song with me as a round and we had a wonderful time. Bèbè’s inebriated state only made our music better. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream!” I looked back at the shore and could not see the café’s lights, nor did I hear any voices. I looked at Bèbè who I could hardly outline in the enormous black hole we had entered. She was sober. Quickly. I did not need to see the details on her face, for I could feel them on mine. The dream was a nightmare. I told her not to worry, I would get us back to shore. I at least knew the proper direction. I got out of the boat into the water and with one arm towed the boat while using my other arm to swim. Bèbè was scared. I reassured her. I would swim 4

us back to shore. In those days I could actually do that. After a short time, we could make out the faint luminosity of the café. Some time after that, we could hear lots of voices that were emerging from the shore. We had a cheerleading squad awaiting us that would be the envy of any football team. As we continued to progress towards our destiny, my arms lost their angles, their joints, replaced by rubber. But we made it. Everyone applauded, cheered and whistled. I sprawled onto the sand exhausted, and Bèbè stepped out of the boat, a grateful, sober pilgrim. I had succeeded in forgetting the day’s events, at least for the moment. Everyone retreated to the café to continue their drinking. They had something to celebrate. I crawled back to my cave. My eyes returned in time to scan the late summer night sky. I bid Diana a good night. I slept well. I dreamt of paddles. “Row, row, row . . .”

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