Cook’S Return: A Novel of the Late 20Th Century

By PAUL HEIDELBERG

Artists create, love and learn on the idyllic Greek island of Crete and in Paris.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503572430

PAUL HEIDELBERG

Paul Heidelberg is a writer, poet and artist, and a graduate of the San Francisco Art Institute. He has had a writing website since 1998 (www.paulheidelberg.com) that features the prose and poetry work "Paris, Prague and Salzburg: A Remembrance," written in each of those cities with a laptop computer in 1999. Heidelberg’s writing has been published in such magazines and newspapers as "Art & Antiques," "Sports Illustrated," "The Wine News," "Wine Enthusiast," "The Miami Herald," "The Philadelphia Inquirer" and "The Orange County Register."

Book preview

COOK’S RETURN

A Novel of the Late 20th Century

Paul Heidelberg

Copyright © 2015 by PAUL HEIDELBERG.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015908182

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5035-7244-7

                eBook           978-1-5035-7243-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/16/2015

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

COOK’S RETURN IS FOR FRANCES MERCER, JAMES HEIDELBERG, ALICE HEIDELBERG, DUANE HANSON, JEANETTE HEIDELBERG, JAMES HEIDELBERG, JR., JOHNNY HEIDELBERG, FRIEDA HUEBINGER, JOHN H. MERCER, JR., J. MICHAEL MERCER, PATRICIA MERCER, HELMUT MEYER AND JOHN WOLIN.

WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO HODIE HEIDELBERG AND BEAN MERCER FOR THEIR UNCOMPROMISING SUPPORT.

Author’s Statement, Cook’s Return

In Cook’s Return I make connections to W.A. Mozart, who died more than two centuries ago.

I envision my book providing readers two centuries hence with a connection to our Time and our Art.

Paul Heidelberg

Other countries may offer you discoveries in manners or lore or landscape; Greece offers you something harder — the discovery of yourself. — LAWRENCE DURRELL, PROSPERO’S CELL 1937.

CHAPTER 1

Circling Zeus’ birthplace and other mountains that cut across the belly of the rocky mass, the plane banked left and right, above the red and purple of sunset on land and sea, until it swept down in approach, flying over changed landscape barely recognizable to Christopher Cook, who stared out the window, trying to fix on a landmark to take him back 20 years.

Finally he saw Dia Island, Dragon Island, and it looked more like a dragon from that altitude than from the shore, lumbering across the Sea of Crete, its mouth pointing towards Mallia and Aghios Nikolaos, its claws dug into the ocean floor, stuck there millions of years before the Minoans. He remembered looking at the island from the twisting road east of Iraklion, and thoughts about its sacred goats; a refuge from all that would later transform the mother island, Kriti.

The jet sailed over hotels and swimming pools, splotches of white and green where there had been only brown before — he remembered driving his old, black Renault Dauphine along the coastal road, looking down at the rusting remains of other cars, crushed where 400-foot cliffs met the ocean, remnants of uncompleted journeys. Tired from the bottles of Sancerre drunk the night before in Paris with his painter friend Marcel who was finally making it, being accepted for the trompe-l’oeil paintings he had worked at for nearly three decades, Cook squirted Visine into his eyes, and as the bitter liquid ran down his face, touching the corners of his mouth, he thought of Barbayanni — Uncle John — who had fought the Turks in his youth and had taken from their culture the baggy pants he always wore tucked into his knee-high black Cretan boots.

His old dear friend must have died 15 years earlier, Cook thought. Barbayanni had been 80 when Cook had known him, nearly four times his own age, when the young American had spent a year on the Greek island. He had met Barbayanni at a taverna on Mallia’s eastern edge, when he had bought the old man shots of ouzo and communicated with him in phrasebook Greek and hand gestures. The taverna’s owner was a pudgy, middle-aged man named Manoli, and during his time on the island, Cook knew the spot as Manoli’s. He ate there regularly, dining on salads, grilled lamb and pommes frittes, drinking the island’s Minos wine — looking through the bottle at the back of the label, one read in Greek and English a quote attributed to Aristotle: Wine makes you hopeful.

The plane hit an air pocket and then began to glide, pushing down against the increasing color of sunset, the absolute redness covering everything. After the plane had landed and parked, Cook stood nervously in the aisle with other passengers, waiting to disembark, his heart beating rapidly anticipating the island. Walking down the ramp toward the concrete runway, he noticed dozens of red-faced tourists pushing their noses against the terminal’s windows, searching for friends?

The terminal had been enlarged, and the runway had been lengthened to accommodate large jets such as the one that had just carried him. Inside, he saw a row of car rental agency booths that he walked to immediately — he would rent a car for a few days before he found the house where he would live. The ebullient clerk talked him into a Japanese copy of a Jeep, assuring him that he would need such a vehicle for the mountains he proposed to explore, and even included a bargain rate.

Inspecting the vehicle, Cook saw it had no radio, and lamented the bouzouki music he would not hear. He could not find the road that had run by the airport on its way to Mallia, and soon found himself stuck in Saturday night traffic in Iraklion, driving in dusty circles. Everything seemed dirtier to him, the roads more narrow, as he searched for a blue sign pointing the way East. For his first night on the island he wanted to spend it at Mallia. He was heading south toward Knossos before he knew it and passed Sir Arthur Evans’ dream city before he cursed and made a U-turn wondering how he had ended up there. He drove for almost an hour, hitting spots of bumper-to-bumper traffic, impatient for the country road and cool night air that would take him to Mallia.

Finally, he drove past an old church he remembered in the Poros section of Iraklion — its steeple had been toppled by an earthquake during his first visit. The landmark gave him his bearings, and he drove downhill before turning onto the road to Mallia. Once out of Iraklion, he became surrounded by the countryside’s blackness he remembered from his first night on the island.

Cook had tried to brace himself for the changes, but he was not prepared for the rows of tacky restaurants and bars that dotted the highway, replacing single tavernas that had blasted bouzouki music into the night. Driving into the town of Mallia, he took the road to the beach — he wanted to begin with the beach.

When he had first arrived on Crete, the road had been a dirt path. Barbayanni used it to ride his donkey to the fields near the ocean, where he worked on a potato crop. Fresh yogurt was brought to the taverna on the beach each morning by a donkey-riding courier.

Shortly before Cook had left the island, the road had been paved as work began on the first large hotel at the beach — a five-story monster.

Now both sides of the beach road were lined with disgusting, tourist-catering restaurants and bars. When Cook saw the worst — a disco with multi-colored lights flashing inside and a ’58 Chevrolet convertible perched on its roof — he muttered, What have they done to my island, What have they done to my island?

At the end of the road, he parked near a building he recognized immediately — a small structure that had blended into a stand of trees by the beach. it had been Mallia’s only ocean-side hotel. He walked onto a ledge of rocks he remembered between the hotel and the beach and paused before walking onto the sand and going back.

It was pitch-black and he saw only shadows. He was looking for the old taverna, where he used to dance to the bouzouki music that played on its jukebox, lifting wooden chairs above his head with his teeth, waving his arms freely. Cook began to breathe heavily as he searched, his feet sinking deeply into the sand making walking difficult, before he began to run as he peered exhaustedly at the row of buildings in the darkness, looking for a familiar sight; seeing nothing, he stopped and turned toward the ocean. He could see the white of the waves breaking on the shore and walked to them, and then listened to their beat against the sand as he looked at the island off from the shore with its white chapel, and remembered midnight swims when the ocean’s phosphorescent algae provided fireworks-lights for bathing.

At least this place is peaceful at night, Cook thought, remembering countless nights sitting at his table nearest the ocean, listening to the water slap against the shore.

Hearing that familiar sound once again as the waves fell at his feet, he said aloud, They can’t change that, the bastards.

The next morning, after spending the night in a hotel on the eastern edge of Mallia away from the congestion, Cook returned to the beach. The shell of the old taverna was all that remained, as the roof over its outdoor section had been ripped off and large trees on the taverna’s periphery had been cut five feet off the ground, making them sprout new limbs impotently at their sheered tops — they had been dismembered so that the tourists could most easily pinken themselves. And, for hundreds of yards, the beach was lined with snack bars and restaurants. Cook felt sick.

He returned to town and made inquiries about Barbayanni; he hadn’t had luck with his questions the night before, when he had been surprised that there were people in Mallia unfamiliar with the old man — Manoli’s taverna, where they had met, had been replaced with a flower shop. Now he heard conflicting information, the last being that Barbayanni had died the year before. Cook had hoped he had not missed him by one year.

He followed another road to the beach that was said to lead to the town cemetary and it seemed vaguely familiar, as it wove through potato fields, appearing much as the other road had during Cook’s first visit.

At the cemetery Cook spoke with a man who appeared to be a caretaker.

Where is Barbayanni? he asked the man in Greek.

He led Cook to a marble and gravel gravesite. Inside a windowed shrine at its top were oil, wine and a photograph of the old man Cook recognized.

Dammit, Cook said as he read the date of Barbayanni’s death — the previous year. He had lived to be 100.

Cook stood over the grave, remembering Barbayanni and his black vest with grape ornaments for buttons, remaining silent for several minutes, until the man he had thought to be a caretaker brought a photograph from the shrine at the next grave.

My son, he said in Greek. He was only 25 when he died in an automobile accident in the mountains. Why does Barbayanni live so long, and my son have such a short life? Why? Why? he asked looking at the sky.

Cook didn’t know what to say to comfort him. He just repeated that Barbayanni was a good person, and a good friend.

Before Cook left, the man told him that Barbayanni had been bed-ridden for his last 10 years.

That is probably for the best, Cook said to himself later. Maybe he didn’t see what they’ve done to his road and his village. Maybe he didn’t see what they’ve done.

CHAPTER 2

During his first stay on the island, Cook had repeatedly passed a sign on the northern coast highway that pointed away from the ocean and south toward the mountains, to a village called Kastelli. Cook had always meant to go there. Now he would.

Leaving Barbayanni’s grave, he drove up the little road, vowing to never take the developed one again. On this clear day in early June, the mountain at Mallia’s back was edged sharply in blue. Into the mountains and Kriti, Cook shouted.

He turned onto the coast highway, heading west, in the direction of Iraklion toward the road to Kastelli. In the daylight, the extent of the development was astounding. When Cook saw the sign pointing to Kastelli, he eagerly turned south onto a narrow road that wove through olive groves and vineyards — he felt as if he were back on his old island. Passing through small towns, he waved and shouted Yassu to villagers, who cheerfully returned the greeting.

Cook’s first reaction to Kastelli was negative — it appeared more drab than he had expected. He saw a wooden sign that read Ursula’s Pensione, with an arrow painted in red pointing to a road Cook followed. Ursula was a German native who had married a Cretan. They operated a pensione and restaurant and her husband Dimitri also worked as" a farmer. Cook followed her up a staircase to a large second-floor room with a balcony that overlooked the road he had arrived on and a huge olive grove across from it. He liked the room and took it and before he began to unpack, sat in a metal chair on the balcony.

Watching the traffic pass below him he gazed at mountains and vineyards behind the olive grove across the street, where an old woman in black fed chickens kept in a pen at its center.

Townspeople drove by in low-horsepower, three-wheeled carts he remembered from his first visit, but had not seen on this trip until Kastelli. The carts were loaded with tools and equipment being carried to the fields that surrounded the town. Cook liked the slow pace of the traffic, and when he took a nap, he fell asleep thinking about the little carts and the green fields they were traveling to.

He had been hungry before his nap, but Ursula had told him the town’s restaurants and tavernas would not re-open until 8 o’clock that evening. He awoke groggily at 7:45 and took a shower and dressed before walking down the road to a taverna she had recommended. Its proprietors, an elderly couple, also operated a kiosk across from the taverna, and as Cook sat drinking beer, he watched them taking turns going to the kiosk to wait on customers.

Cook ordered a large village salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, olives and feta cheese and an entree of grilled lamb. He had finished eating and was drinking his third beer when a large, unshaven man who appeared to be in his early 50’s sat at the table next to him, where a man had been drinking alone from a liter bottle of wine. Cook listened to them, but had difficulty understanding their conversation.

Just as Cook was preparing to leave, the first man left the taverna and the large man came to Cook’s table. He bowed his head and extended his hand.

How do you like our little village? he asked in fluent English scored with a strong New York accent.

It’s quite nice and peaceful, Cook replied as he shook his hand, reminded of the old man in Mallia 20 years earlier who dressed in traditional Cretan clothing, but spoke English with a tough Chicago accent that came from the 40 years he had spent living in