Looking for the Summer

By Robert W. Norris

David Thompson is a former Vietnam War conscientious objector in Paris on a quest to find himself in the early days of 1977. When he befriends an Iranian and an Afghan and is invited to return with them to their countries, his quest slowly becomes a descent into his own private hell. On the road from Europe to the East, he encounters Kurdish bandits in the eastern mountains of Turkey, becomes involved with an underground group opposed to the Shah in Iran, escapes to Afghanistan, passes through Pakistan during the uprising against the Bhutto regime, and suffers extreme sickness on the streets of Delhi and Calcutta. Although continually searching for the happiness and identity he could not find in the U.S., he cannot easily shed his American past. Throughout the journey he is hounded by the demons of memory, particularly that of his father, a World War II hero who disowned David and died while David was still in prison. The journey itself becomes a physical manifestation of his struggle to achieve reconciliation with his own conscience.

Praise for Looking for the Summer

 

"A graceful autobiographical novel that breathes life into a perennial genre: the spiritual bildungsroman. The theme of a questing expatriate who renounces Western materialism in favor of an exotic pilgrimage to the East will be familiar to anyone who has fallen under the spell of W. Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge or Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums ....

 

"Although published prior to the events of 9/11, it is impossible to pick up Norris's novel without a heightened interest in its vividly depicted locales in a part of the world where our attentions are now so intensely focused. Several fascinating chapters are devoted to [the protagonist's] stay in Afghanistan. Written with a novelist's eye for characterization and a reporter's skill for observation, Looking for the Summer is the kind of small press gem that is often overlooked but is well worth seeking out."—CultureVulture.net

 

"Looking for the Summer is a stunning novel of a metaphorical and physical journey across the Middle East. Though set during the 1970s, this story of war and pacifism and redemption is as pertinent to today's global struggles as tomorrow's news. Fashioned in exquisite language and bolstered with some of the most beautiful descriptive passages I've ever read, Looking for the Summer takes us on a voyage over deserts and mountains and through cities as the protagonist pursues spiritual, intellectual, political, and psychological enlightenment. This is a remarkable book and a must read for anyone seeking insight into the historical precedents for our post September 11 world."—Marnie Mueller, author of Green Fires, The Climate of the Country, and My Mother's Island

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert W. Norris
• Release date: Apr 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201759414

Robert W. Norris

Robert W. Norris was born and raised in Humboldt County, California. In 1969, he entered the Air Force, subsequently became a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War, and served time in a military prison for refusing to fight in the war. In his twenties, he roamed across the United States, went to Europe twice, and made one journey around the world. In 1983, he landed in Japan, where he became a professor at a private university, spent two years as the dean of students, and retired in 2016 as a professor emeritus. Norris is the author of Looking for the Summer, a novel about a former Vietnam War conscientious objector’s adventures and search for identity in Europe, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, and India in 1977; Toraware, a novel about the obsessive relationship of three misfits from different cultural backgrounds in 1980s Kobe, Japan; Autumn Shadows in August, an hallucinogenic mid-life crisis/adventure, and homage to Malcolm Lowry and Hermann Hesse; The Many Roads to Japan, a novella used as an English textbook in Japanese universities; and The Good Lord Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise: Pentimento Memories of Mom and Me, a memoir and tribute to his mother. He has also written several articles on teaching English as a foreign language. He and his wife live near Fukuoka, Japan.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I wish to express my gratitude to Yasushi Azuma, president of Touka Shobo Publishing, which first put out Looking for the Summer in print form in 1996. I am also deeply indebted to the many friends whose invaluable advice, encouragement, and support through the years made it possible for me to continue through the many drafts it took to make this book a reality: Bill, John, and Lanore Cady; Bill Cornett; C. Michael Gies; Jim and Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston; Shannon Kelly; Raymond Mungo; Nick Warren; Dan White; and Robert Yamaguchi.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my wife Shizuyo

to my mother Kay Schlinkman

to my father Bill Norris

and to the memory of Midge Kelly (may her soul rest in peace)

Epigraph

A man’s life is like the seasons. Every man has his own spring, summer, autumn, and winter. The most difficult time is between his spring and summer, the time when he must leave his youth behind and find his way in the world. Every man must, sooner or later, go looking for his summer. That is the most crucial time, the time that will determine the course of the rest of his life.—An old man to a young man in a bar

Chapter 1

I had just returned to the Hotel des Mines on Boulevard Saint Michel from one of my customary evening walks. As I approached the front desk to retrieve my room key I noticed the two Asiatics. They were speaking and gesticulating excitedly in an attempt to communicate a message to the desk clerk, who spoke only French.

The taller of the two turned to me and asked, Do you speak English?

Yes, I do.

This man does not speak English. We must leave an important message and he does not understand. Can you help us?

Perhaps. What’s the message?

He explained that a German friend named Thomas Knorr would call the hotel and was to be told the two had arrived in Paris and would meet him in the German town of Lorrach in a matter of days. There was some urgency concerning a business transaction. I had learned enough French in my two months in Paris to give a crude interpretation. The desk clerk said he would relay the message if the German called.

Allah be praised, the Asiatics exclaimed, throwing their arms in the air. Let us celebrate your arrival at a good time. Come, we shall have some tea.

The three of us proceeded across the street to a tea shop, and made our introductions. The taller man, Hasan Fahtami, was a carpet dealer from Iran. He was in Paris looking to expand his family business. He had been to Europe once before. He was thin, clean-shaven, and well-dressed in European clothes. He had intelligent, dark eyes, and a bright smile. His companion was an Afghan named Ataullah Abduli, who was part owner of a small motel in Kabul. It was his first time out of Afghanistan. Ataullah was also dressed in Western clothes—boots, jeans, denim jacket—but his clothes were worn and shabby. He was shorter than Hasan, but much stockier. He had a thick, wiry, black beard, a prominent nose, and a full head of black hair.

You were very kind to help us, Mr. Thompson, Hasan said.

It was nothing really. Please call me David.

"I will call you David-jan. Jan means ‘soul’ in Farsi, but we use it to mean ‘good friend.’ We are strangers to you, but you helped us anyway. No other people in this country help us. The French never help us. They never speak English and I know many of them do. It makes me angry when they refuse to speak English. They think they are better than we are. The people in our countries always help strangers. They are friendly people. I hate this country. The people are too cold. You should visit Iran and Afghanistan. They are ten times better than France. We are staying in Paris only a few days to make some business contacts. Then we will go to Germany. And you, David-jan, what do you think of France? Do you plan to be in Paris very long?"

My experience here hasn’t been too bad, but it is expensive and I don’t know how long I can stay. I have no income and I don’t think the money I have will last very long. Is it difficult to find work in Iran? Is it expensive there?

Hasan told me there would be no problems finding a job. There were many Americans working in the oil business and many others teaching English. The cost of living was not high, libraries were free to use, a room would be easy to find, and the affability of his people would make me want to spit on Paris. Ataullah nodded in agreement. So impressed were they with the friendliness I had displayed that, much to my amazement, both Hasan and Ataullah offered their services and friendship if I would return to their countries with them. Dreams of adventure danced in my mind. I wasted no time agreeing to their proposal. They appeared pleased with my decision.

For the next two days I took time to help my new friends. I acted as their guide, taking them to all the favorite places in Paris I had discovered. I helped them buy gifts to take back to loved ones, secured their train tickets to Germany, and helped in processing their visas.

You are very different from the other Americans, Hasan often said. You do not act so proud and arrogant and rich. You are not afraid to mix with others who are different from yourself. You will like Asia very much.

Ataullah, in particular, fascinated me. Hasan was more westernized in his dress, his mannerisms, the way he expressed himself. He was ingratiating when dealing with someone he believed higher on the social hierarchy than himself, someone from whom he could gain something. Ataullah, on the other hand, was reserved and unpretentious. He seemed awed by the immensity of the buildings as we paced the streets, baffled by the complexity of the traffic, disgusted with the hectic pace of a city where few people had time for one another.

I spent an entire day alone with Ataullah shopping and walking around. The first day we met he had been dressed in Western clothes, but on this day when he showed up at my room, he was dressed in his native attire. To my eyes he appeared to be wearing a loose set of brown pajamas. A brown cloth was also wrapped around his head with the tail tossed over his left shoulder. Ataullah took no notice of the smirks cast his way as people passed him in the streets. He seemed completely unaware of the strange appearance he projected.

As the day passed, I learned Ataullah came from a nomad family in the Afghan desert and possessed no formal education. He could not read or write. He had gone to Kabul as a boy. At first he sold pudding in the streets, then became an errand boy in a small motel. He saved every scrap of money he could until eventually buying half interest in the motel. Five of his brothers had moved from the desert to help him run the motel. This was his first venture outside his country, something few of his countrymen were able to do. He had saved enough money to buy a passport, telling the government the trip was for business. His journey to the West was comparable to a man being thrust suddenly from the days of the Old Testament into the twentieth century. To Ataullah, Paris was like traveling to a distant galaxy far superior in technology and material goods, but inferior in the quality of its life. He said he missed the simplicity and the leisureliness of Afghanistan. His almond-shaped eyes scanned everything with an air of mistrust. What impressed me most about Ataullah was that, despite his apparent simplicity, he had been able to pick up portions of three foreign languages—English, German, and Farsi—and communicate in them, even if in an unpolished manner.

At the end of the day as he boarded a train to Lorrach two days in advance of Hasan, Ataullah said, "I am thankful to you forever, David-jan. I shall not forget. I am Afghan. You come to my country and everything I have is yours."

I spent most of the next two days with Hasan. Although we were approximately the same age, Hasan assumed the attitude of an older brother, one who had experienced more of the world’s joys and maladies and thus was responsible for passing on what he had learned. He asked few questions about my own life. I was glad of that. I was tired of constantly explaining myself to others. The things Hasan spoke about were so different and engaging—his military life as a driver for a general, his travels throughout Asia and East Europe, the customs and rituals of Iranian life, his many love affairs—that it was natural for me to acquiesce and listen patiently. Hasan seemed pleased to have such an attentive audience.

It seemed his exposure to the world outside of Iran had corrupted Hasan to a certain degree, but I admired him. He was an adventure-seeker, a quality to which I had a strong attraction. When he boarded the train to Lorrach the next day, we agreed to meet again in Germany. He gave me Thomas Knorr’s address and phone number. I could reach both Ataullah and him there. I was to wait for two weeks to give him time to buy a car that he would later sell in Iran to cover the cost of the journey.

Chapter 2

I returned to my room at the Hotel des Mines. It was a small cubicle with a bed, a sink, a writing desk, a closet where I had placed my duffel bag containing the few necessities I had brought with me, and a window that looked out on a brick building next door and a drainage pipe decorated with pigeon shit.

I lay down on the bed and reflected on the reasons I had come to Paris, the changes I had undergone in the short time I had been there, and the new opportunity that lay before me. I had come to Paris to write my first novel. I had about $2,000 and figured if I lived frugally the money would last a few months. I had an abundance of optimism, the one American trait I could not rid myself of no matter how much anti-American zeal I carried in my heart. I had faith that eventually something good would come along to help me out, as it already had in the form of my chance encounter with Hasan and Ataullah.

It was with a marked weariness that I had begun my commitment to writing. The change in time zones, the loneliness of being a stranger in a different land, and the inability to communicate in French had all taken their toll. I accomplished little the first week except the daily entries I made in a journal. I passed much of the time reflecting on my past while walking the gloomy Parisian streets.

The walking had prepared me for the writing. As I paced briskly up and down the major boulevards and narrow, winding streets, along the Seine, past the thousands of nondescript faces, by the centuries of man’s architectural achievements, the outline of the novel took shape. I returned to the Gare de Lyon, the rail station where, four years before, I first met Michelle, the American art student who changed my life forever. In my mind I saw her again sitting on the same waiting bench and looking so serene and sad. Everything came back in a vivid recapturing of the past: the year I spent in military prison for refusing to fight in Vietnam; the journey across the U.S. and Europe when I made one discovery after another hitching around, riding trains, and sleeping in the streets with nocturnal creatures who seemed so Christ-like in my dementia; the headaches and long nights of study after returning to the States and pouring over ideas and literary works and language unintelligible to me in the beginning, but which gradually took on a semblance of meaning through my perseverance and many attempts of putting down on paper all the experiences that fate had provided me with in the divinely preordained manner by which I rationalized my commitment. It was all interrelated—each suffering, adventure, chance encounter, action, result—and I saw it all taking shape as something more than liquid, transient thoughts as I walked and walked that first week.

At first the going was slow and tedious, but each day brought progress. I set up a disciplined program of writing four hours, reading four hours, walking the streets, returning to the room for a couple more hours of writing, then retiring to bed to think of the day before falling asleep. The cubicle in which I lived and worked became as familiar as any place in which I had lived. I thought of it as my little haven of refuge for the insane. Indeed, it reminded me at times, by its dimensions, of the concrete cubicle in which I spent time in solitary confinement during the initial phase of my imprisonment. The familiarity of the Parisian room helped greatly in recalling the past and remembering the importance and sadness of the time I was attempting to recreate on paper.

I had undergone many changes these past two months. I began to see how when one is alone with one’s thoughts during the whole of each day, reliving the past, acting as editor of the pictures and scenes of that past, picking out what is important to use, discarding what is not, seeing how one picture relates to the whole and how it can be used to the greatest effect, one becomes obsessed with the past, with its significance and symbolism. It was not long before many pains and joys once long buried began surfacing in a flood of emotion. Had someone observed me in that room, he would surely have thought me mad the way I would stare at a blank piece of paper for hours sometimes only to bury my head in my hands in a fit of shameless weeping over the pain and guilt of a previous tragic relationship or death about which I was thinking. Conversely, if I was reliving a joyous or humorous occasion, I often broke out in hysterical laughter, falling to the floor in a convulsion of spasms.

Of all the changes taking place inside me, the most encouraging was the confidence I was gaining in perceiving myself as a writer. I had rarely had the courage to