Tales Of Crete - The Mafia Cafe - 9

Tales of Crete© The Mafia Café 9 By Jack Schimmelman

The sun melted our fears as I slowly recognized myself with each passing revolution. The sea bathed my soul. Each day was the same; each hour was different; each timeless moment branded my heart. Heated rays would open my eyes and I’d jump down from my cave onto the beach, pass Jorge’s abode, greet the latest sated woman leaving his place wearing nothing but a smile, then wait for Jorge to emerge with that same smile. We’d walk to the café, rinse in the freezing shower and meet our friends, who would inevitably be in the process of inhaling their breakfast. Exhaling was inevitable and as the air flew from our heads, we would speak about everything. Nothing formal. We thought we were all so profound sitting in this Greek café at the border of the beach. We were profoundly happy. One day Jorge announced to all of us that we must pay attention. To what? To the other café, he gravely intoned. It seems that we were ignoring the other place of business bordering the beach, which was run by a native Cretan; someone who, it was rumored, represented the mob, such as it was on Crete. His name was Yanni and he was beginning to feel insulted. We then immediately forgot what Jorge said and danced our eternal path to the second beach over the first mountain of rocks; took off our clothes and made love to the sun. Ok. We really just played with sand and waves. Wave! There were no waves to speak of and so when one did suddenly appear, perhaps 1 foot high, Margot, Carlos, Jorge and the others would plop down into the surf and give their best Hawaiian surfer imitation, creating surf angels in the mud. Being a veteran of the Atlantic and her multitude of swells, I laughed and applauded their efforts. We spent our days as children. I wrote ceaseless, fevered poetry. No clothes, just waving with the crystal blue mist that was the Libyan Sea’s architecture. However, on this particular day in July, at the end of the afternoon, after we had settled the conflicts of the planet, as the sun made her final preparations to leave an infinite sky, we snake danced our way back over the mountain slowly putting on our minimal cloth and followed Jorge to the “other” café. The mobster’s café. We met a group of Italians who were very happy to speak with us. They were all

friends from Rome, mostly artists and business people. They would laugh, eat, drink, celebrate the night and day. They asked us about the landscape and we told them everything. After much ouzo they decided to get a rowboat and make their way into the dusk settling on the cobalt blue sparkles, which were steadily transforming into grey. There was no moon. We watched as they floated onto the sea and then returned to our tables. Two hours and two liters of ouzo passed, but no Italians had returned to our balmy night shore. A Greek posse was formed and walked to the borderline of sand and salted water. Looking. Nothing. Soon, people became nervous. Nervous turned into frantic. Frantic turned into Greek tragedy. No one was seen to come out of the black horizon. Not a voice was heard. The Cretans are a tough bunch, they had successfully resisted the Nazis, but even they were feeling foreshadowed. Words were flung into the abyss. Passion, grief, keening was making its way through the bodies of those who waited. Hands pulled at hair. Arms flung askew. Suddenly, the blackness elicited a voice. One voice. Two, then several, all with distinctly Italian tones. We could now see the outline of the rowboat. What had been the precursor of a funeral turned into a celebration. Hair no longer strained, remained atop balding scalps and arms flew with glee. When the lost Italian party made its way to shore, they jumped out of their boat and kissed the Earth. Opera at its best. I think they would have done that in the middle of the day just walking out of their house. They were Italian, after all. We were all relieved. We could continue being drunk without guilt and the fantasy of benign ocean, sand and firmament would remain pristine in our fertile hearts. We all returned to the not so cool café, which by now had become very cool, indeed. Yanni, the mobster, offered us all free liters of ouzo to continue our reverie. Later that night I stumbled back to my cave in the dark, satisfied that a good time was had by all in the Mafia café. That would change.

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