What others are saying about
Looking for the Summer
"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
"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." -- Bob Wake, CultureVulture.net
"Looking for the Summer brings to light the turmoil going through the mind of a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War...a powerfully written novel.... Highly important in its message about standing up for what one believes and about the personal growth one experiences while on a soul-searching journey as a result of taking such action...certain to have a profound impact on the reader. It is a must-read, unforgettable novel." -- Knowbetter.com
"During the waning years of the Ford administration, a rather unlikely alliance was struck up between an American, an Iranian, and an Afghani.... Within weeks of this chance meeting, the American protagonist would find himself traveling overland to Iran, and then on to Afghanistan, Pakistan, and eventually India, where the tale reaches a hopeful conclusion amid the squalor and depravity of Calcutta....
"In the hands of any author, Looking for the Summer would probably be a compelling read due to the inherent intrigue in the story's setting. But Norris is a masterful writer and storyteller, and he uses his craft to elevate this tale above mere 'compelling' or 'interesting' to the realm of uplifting and insightful. He deftly paints a portrait of his locations using a visual poetry that is neither self-conscious nor affected.... This is a fascinating novel, told in spellbinding English. I can't recommend it enough." -- Christine Hall, editor at Alternative Approaches Magazine
*****
LOOKING FOR THE SUMMER
by
Robert W. Norris
SMASHWORDS EDITION
*****
PUBLISHED BY:
Robert W. Norris on Smashwords
Looking for the Summer
Copyright © 2010 by Robert W. Norris
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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*****
LOOKING FOR THE SUMMER
*****
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)
*****
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 call myself a bona fide writer until the move to Paris, to the "moveable feast" as Hemingway had called it. I was like a lunatic disciple the way I carried Hemingway's book of the same title with me everywhere, hoping in some demented way a little of the feeling and life of his words would rub off on me.
I found myself retracing Hemingway's steps, visiting all the places he had written about. The Closerie des Lilas was now a high-priced cafe for tourists. There were no famous writers or artists to be seen. The statue of Marshall Ney was still there, but gone were the war veterans who wore medals on their chests and sipped their aperitifs at the Closerie. The sawmill beneath the flat at 113 Rue Notre Dame des Champs, where Hemingway and Hadley had lived, was gone and the flat itself condemned and boarded up. The Shakespeare and Company bookstore was still on the Rue de l'Odean. Much of the old atmosphere still prevailed, but there was a newer commercial side to the store.
There was a unique atmosphere to all of Paris. I felt myself walking through the dust of time. What had been written about Paris was still true. It remained the center of Western culture, the city for the artist, young and old alike, from which to draw inspiration and impetus for work. Everywhere one turned, every street corner where one stopped to absorb the milieu, lay a wealth of material and experience to exploit. My wandering took me to all parts of the city.
There were the many nights exploring the streets around the Left Bank, riding the underground Metro trams with nothing else to do but watch the street people -- the old women sprawled over vents on side streets to keep warm, the musicians strumming their sad guitars, a hat partially filled with coins at their feet, the slow-moving, red-cheeked gendarmes patrolling their beats, the gaudy prostitutes selling love to broken heroes from years past.
There were the leisurely daytime strolls. I loved the smell of the crèperies, where thin pancakes were dispensed to street customers by old women hovering over circular griddles on cold, grey days. I loved window-shopping, peering at the individual shops of each street -- boot shops, glove shops, perfume shops, book shops, clothing shops -- each with its own unique display, dazzling works of imagination and style, in cramped spaces alive with the consumerism of Paris. I often lounged in the brasseries, the bars where people stood and drank. Outside each bar were crowded tables that faced the streets. Seated at one of these tables, I could peoplewatch, a wonderful sport for leisure that occupied many an hour for me. There were the ubiquitous food markets and fish marts with their neatly arranged rows of fresh fish stacked on ice. There was the smell of the sea at dusk when the fish marts were given a fresh douching, the water flowing to the streets, men in long rubber aprons with buckets in their hands laughing and bickering with one another.
There were the day noises of construction: jackhammers, hydraulic equipment, shovels clashing with rock, trucks grumbling and changing gears in a high-pitched whine. Often my strolls took me to the Seine, glittering with barges and boats. I watched it flow languorously in a timeless march past architectural wonders. The Louvre: I went there as often as possible to study the grim, mystical atmosphere of Rembrandt, the still lifes of Chardin, the sensuality of Reubin, and all my favorites of the Impressionists. The Notre Dame Cathedral: Its peak pointed to heaven in impressive supplication. The Eiffel Tower: It loomed over the grey, winter landscape like a stairway to the gods.
I loved the parks with their pondering sculptures, bundled women, children playing soccer, lovers in intimate embrace, drifters tossing bread crumbs to pigeons, bare trees in death slumber awaiting their spring birth. I often ran through the Luxembourg Gardens, my favorite of the parks. The running was best when my writing was slow and wearisome and I was troubled. It seemed I was free of everything except the rhythm of arms and legs pumping, heart beating, images and abstract thoughts racing through my mind. And always, at the end of those invigorating and therapeutic walks when the world appeared with much clarity, there was the return to my cubicle, my drab little haven, my place of rest, of work.
I thought of the friends I had made in Paris. There was Ann Dufeu, the attractive, middle-aged English woman I met on the train from Le Touquet to Paris. She had married a Frenchman thirty years before, lived in Paris all of that time, and was now in the process of obtaining a divorce. I occasionally took the Metro tram to Vincennes in the eastern outskirts to visit her. She was an encouraging friend and confidant. Her small home provided a wonderful warmth away from the cold, damp loneliness of my room. She was so youthful, energetic, and knowledgeable that in my fantasies I felt like a young Hemingway in the presence of a Gertrude Stein.
"Look at the simplicity of this Modigliani," she would say, pointing to a picture in one of her many books on painting. "Look how you can tell the age of his models without a line or crease in any of the faces. That is genius!" Or "Listen to this, David," playing a record from her collection of classics, "If you ever hear anyone speak of Air on a G String, you'll understand the beauty to which they refer." Or "When you fall in love again," showing me Andrew Marvel's To My Coy Mistress, "you can read this to your lady love and you will surely win her heart."
Ann taught me many useful French phrases. Over tea, omelettes, and champagne, she listened compassionately to accounts of my various drug experiences, particularly the story of the time I took LSD in prison and how it changed my basic perception of the world. Ann had read Aldous Huxley's accounts of his experiments with hallucinogens and was curious whether it was possible to see the world through the eyes of a Van Gogh or Breughel or Cézanne by taking a drug. She encouraged me, reinforced my faith and confidence in what I was doing, what the writing commitment was about. I believed myself fortunate to know her.
There was George Tingley, the young American composer I met at the library in the George Pompidou Center. He epitomized the struggling artist to me. His apartment on the Rue des Archives had no heat and was no larger than my own. A mattress took up most of the floor space opposite a portable piano and broken stool. He was studying under an eighty-nine-year-old master composer of modern French classical music. He was of little means. His entire existence was of composing and playing the piano in his dingy, cold room. His pale, ascetic face reminded me of the severe intellectuals of the Spanish hierarchy in many of El Greco's paintings.
We often went for walks in the grey, wet gloom of Paris and discussed our work. George was extremely helpful in showing me how to take a more tranquil approach to my work. I was in the rudimentary stages of the novel. The vicissitudes of my emotions and moods fluctuated daily according to the judgment I gave to each day's output. If I believed I had written nothing but trite and uninspiring trash, I became frustrated and depressed. If the work had gone well, I was exuberant. When I spoke of this tendency to George, he looked at me with a knowing smile as if to say, "I've been through that stage, understood it, and overcome the anxiety." He explained to me how one should work without judging daily quality, for it was the creative process itself that sustained one from day to day. The knowledge that came from seeing progress over a period of time was enough to overcome one's fears and others' criticism.
George showed me his own work completed since arriving in Paris a year before. It was enlightening to me, with my limited knowledge of music, to hear George draw parallels between the writing of music and literature. The interrelationship between the techniques, formulae, and planning of the two was much the same. Only the medium was different. Seeing George derive his impetus for life from his work, despite his discomforts and poverty, gave me a profound inspiration.
Finally, there was Gerald Paine, the American draft dodger who had fled the States in opposition to the Vietnam War and set up a new life in Paris. Gerald, two other expatriates, and two French friends ran a small restaurant on the Left Bank. I had read a newspaper article about American war resisters who were living in Paris. The name of Gerald's restaurant appeared in the article, which was mainly about Jimmy Carter's promise of pardon for the draft resisters as his first presidential act once sworn into office.
I visited the restaurant on a grey January day when it was too cold to work. I told Gerald about my own participation against the war, and the novel I was trying to write. We ate lunch together and discussed the proposed pardon and the newspaper article.
"Do you think the article presented a fair account of what your life in exile has been like?" I asked.
"That article on American war resisters dealt primarily with the lives of only three men in exile in France. It's probable that some people who read it could have been misled as to the real magnitude of opposition to the war. Our country, and I still think of the U.S. as our country, not France, has been at war in Vietnam for over 30 years. Hell, we practically financed it while the French were there in the early fifties. It's hard to imagine how any government could carry on a war which came to such a barbaric magnitude without strictly controlling information unfavorable to it. Hold on a minute."
Gerald disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with piece of paper on which various numbers were written. He placed the paper in front of me.
"These figures are now a matter of public record," he said. "The Selective Service System examined 15,612,487 men from 1965 through 1972. Only 1,727,608 or eleven percent of the total were inducted. The SSS final report also estimated from census figures that 500,000 to 1.7 million young men failed to register for the draft at all during this same period and still face five-year prison sentences and $10,000 fines. And the Department of Defense says there were 495,689 acts of desertion from August 1964 to December 1972. Numbers still differ as to the number of deserters at large. Military counselors' estimates range as high as 100,000 with perhaps only 10,000 abroad, in Canada mostly, and the rest living marginal underground existences in the States. Most deserters eventually returned to military control to join the ranks of those with less than honorable discharges. Open resistance to the war within the military was a good way to go to jail like you did or be sent to the front line.
"From these figures it's not hard to see that Carter's promise of pardon for 4,400 draft resisters falls way short of the scope of the problem. Case-by-case judgment would be impossible to implement. And racially prejudiced. Blacks and poor people who can't afford expensive lawyers will be left out. On top of the nearly one million bad discharges, a half million to 1.7 million nonregistrants, and up to 100,000 deserters at large, tens of thousands of civilian protesters still in prison or saddled with criminal records must also be added, as well as all those who took citizenship in other countries and are excluded permanently from the States as undesirable aliens by the Department of State."
Gerald took a large gulp of coffee, paused a moment as if to allow me to sift through all this information, then continued.
"And of course look at what the war did to our own veterans, the 55,000 who died in Vietnam, the 300,000 wounded, the 25,000 who are paraplegics. The war will never be over for our whole generation that was affected by it. And what about the generations to come? No one will really be able to tell how many of these veterans' babies will be deformed mentally or physically because of the aftereffects of the chemicals used in that war. Did you know that almost a third of all men in prison in America are Vietnam vets? Or that almost as many vets, some 50,000 by now, have killed themselves as were killed in the war itself?
"We all know what we did to Vietnam. We practically blew that country off the map by dropping three times the tonnage of napalm and bombs there as we did in all the war theaters combined in World War II! And even if you take the argument -- which is a sick one precluding all morality for there is no morality in any war, only economics -- that we were there to win, to stop the domino madness from spreading, in reality the military was hindered by the political system and the war was extended for one simple reason: Too many people were making too much money. Look at the stockholders' earnings for the majority of those corporations who had defense contracts -- Boeing, Dow Chemical, Lockheed -- and you'll see over, say, a ten-year period from 1963 to 1973 they tripled on a minimum.
"And, you know, the American government still refuses to recognize the new governments, continues to lie about them, refuses aid and the promises it made in international agreements, and won't establish economic ties, as it's done after every other war in our history, all of which denies Americans jobs. No, I can't get excited about Carter's proposed pardon, even though it is a far cry from Gerald Ford's cruel joke of a couple years ago. No Carter cabinet pulled out of Lyndon Johnson's dirty linen closet is going to bribe us into stating we were wrong to oppose the war. Total amnesty is the only answer."
*****
That was the only time I talked with Gerald, but his words remained etched in my mind. For the years since my release from prison I had shrunk away from politics and political thinking, practically to the point of possessing no political opinions at all. In those years my one previous political commitment, the participation in the antiwar movement from within the military, had become, in my mind's eye, an act of selfish determination to survive. The act itself, and all its consequences, drained me of all desire to participate in a political stand again. I turned inward, into trying to understand myself, and in so doing became something of a romantic anarchist whose sole desires and motivations in life were self-centered. The only reality was myself.
But that conversation with Gerald stirred something in me. It made me realize that I still belonged to a special group that had committed itself to an ideal, no matter how futile, and followed that ideal at the expense of families, careers, ambitions, and lives. We were, in a sense, martyrs. Through Gerald's concern for the others of that group I saw a bit of myself, the old self, resurface. There were still feelings of compassion and empathy for those who had experienced a much worse fate than my own. I derived a new impetus for my work and plunged into it with a new determination, a new willingness to write as honestly and clearly as I could about the things I had seen and experienced, the effect of that period of America's history upon me as an individual representative of a new, lost, paranoid generation.
In the short time I had been in Paris, the city had made a profound impression on me and instilled in me a belief in the divine guidance of the artist's life. Was there not a reason and purpose for every experience, every chance encounter, every new person placed upon one's path? I believed my meeting Hasan and Ataullah was more than mere coincidence. I believed their offer to take me with them back to Iran and Afghanistan was a predetermined act of fate. I had come to a vital fork in the road, and my destiny ultimately lay at the end of the path I chose. Once the choice was made, there was no turning back. I chose the path to Iran.
Chapter 3
Two weeks later I took a train to Basel, Switzerland, where I rented a room and phoned Hasan. The next night he met me at the German-Swiss border. From there we went to a tavern in Lorrach to have a drink and meet Thomas Knorr.
Thomas was a small, thin man in his early thirties. He had curly, blond hair, a handsome smile, and amiable, blue eyes. He had first met Hasan eight years before in Iran when he smuggled everything from guns to hashish to make a living. In recent years he had turned to a more legitimate and profitable trade. Through Hasan, he began buying rare and valuable carpets and selling them to collectors in Germany. He was proficient in Farsi and Pashto and now spent six months of every year traveling into the deserts of Iran and Afghanistan to live and trade with nomad tribes. He was the proprietor of a veritable house-museum and an expert on the art and history of the Near East.
After several beers we retired to Thomas's house in the hills above Lorrach. His wife and two children were in bed, but Ataullah was still awake and greeted me warmly. Thomas showed me around the two-storey, brick-and-stone farmhouse. Inside were hundreds of hand-woven carpets of every conceivable size, shape, color, and pattern. They were everywhere, abounding on the floors, in large, wooden chests, and on the walls of every room. There were also many other types of artwork scattered here and there: china, pins, bracelets, jewelry, boxes, paintings, stoneware, sculptures of bronze and stone, everything ranging in age from centuries in the past to the present age.
Thomas led us outside to his barn. Inside the barn was assembled a yurt. It was circular with a fence of thin, pointed reeds that surrounded the base. The basic support was an interwoven framework of branches of a thick, strong wood curved at the top to form half-arches. Overlaid on the foundation was a covering of animal hides that formed the walls and ceiling. Inside the yurt a circle of stones was placed in the center of the dirt floor. This was the fireplace. There was an open spot in the center of the ceiling for smoke to escape.
Hasan was tired and returned to the house to go to bed. Thomas lit a kerosene lamp. He, Ataullah, and I sat down on some carpets and smoked a pipe of hashish.
"Hasan says you are a writer," Thomas said. "What kind of book are you writing?"
I explained how I was trying to use my experiences as a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War as the basis for a novel about a drifting, alienated generation in search of itself.
"I hope you can be comfortable while you are here. You may use the yurt as your room and workplace for as long as you like. Ataullah also sleeps here, but he is quiet and won't bother you."
Ataullah nodded and smiled.
"You're very kind," I said.
"Think nothing of it. Many people in many lands have helped me on many paths. I was a stranger to all of them, yet they willingly gave of themselves. I am in a position now to provide help, so I do. It is the way of the nomad. And now I must go to bed. I have to get up early in the morning. Please consider my place as yours while you are here. Good night."
After Thomas left the yurt, Ataullah wrapped himself in some thick blankets and I crawled into my down sleeping bag. I extinguished the flame in the lamp and fell asleep.
*****
The days at Thomas's passed quickly. There was a continual stream of vagabonds, poets, musicians, drug smugglers, and art connoisseurs from all parts of the world passing through. It seemed Thomas's house was a stopping point where they could share a meal, a story, a drink, and a pipe of hashish. A zest for adventurous living pervaded the place. Thomas and his wife, a stocky woman with a gentle face, were kept busy from sunup to sundown. They treated all of their guests as if they were members of a large, international family.
Of all the people who passed through the doors of Thomas's house, Ataullah remained the one who attracted my attention most. We often went for long walks together in the afternoons. Ataullah spoke longingly and proudly of his home. He did not like the fast pace of the Western world, the way people "all are like machines." He spoke of the vast stretches of desert and of the remarkable way the desert could change, like an ocean, and how a man could think and feel a closeness with the Creator, the Almighty Allah, in such an environment. There was no need for the machines of the West, no need for the crazy, reckless traffic, the airplanes and modern skyscrapers and computers and insurance and a mad obsession for money. He longed for the simplicity and leisureliness of Afghanistan, where people had time for one another, where there was a pride in their virility, strength, and tradition.
One day while walking along a path in the hills behind Thomas's place, Ataullah said, "I like this path. There are no cars on it and I think of Afghanistan, my other life. It is much different here, David-jan. You must come to visit me. There are no cars or machines. We are a close family and do not need these things. The children laugh and play. The men and women are happy. The people here in Europe are all for themselves and their machines. In Afghanistan we need only the family to be happy. How is it with your family in America?"
"My father died a few years ago. My mother lives alone. And I have a brother I haven't seen for five years. There are many families that are broken and not happy. I think there's an obsession with machines in America, too. In some ways I miss my home because for much of my life it was the only way of life I knew. But I'm happy to be here now and learning the ways of other peoples. Too often in America we think that ours is the best life, but it isn't necessarily true."
"You must always be who you are, David-jan. I miss my home very much. That is why I smoke the hashish more in Germany than at home. So I can dream. But I am not afraid. I wear my own clothes here. I know the people laugh, but I am not afraid of them."
There was something about Ataullah's honesty and sincere need for open communication and companionship that I admired. His observations and feelings were expressed directly as seen and felt without the filtering of logic and convention. His knowledge of the world was that of direct experience, the world of the immediate senses. He was not a large man, but he was solid with strong, massive hands. His hair was cut short and cropped down on his head. When unkempt, it gave him the appearance of a savage. His beard was thick and black, his lips full and expressive. There was a light darkness to his skin, almost a sallowness, though he seemed a healthy man. Occasionally he complained of a sharp pain in his stomach, which he attributed to the different food he was eating. His eyes were dark brown, squinted between flat eyelids. His gaze was probing and mysterious. He had a look that showed no fear, yet his eyes revealed a profound understanding and compassion.
That evening Thomas offered to share a pipe with two local German friends, Ataullah, and me. Hasan had gone into Lorrach to one of the bars. We went outside to the barn and entered the yurt. Ataullah built a fire. We sat around the fire, smoked a bit, and passed around a bottle of wine. Thomas brought out a cassette player and put on a rock and roll tape.
I sat quietly, legs crossed, and watched the actions of the others. Thomas was intently rewiring one of the speakers. The two Germans, one somewhat laconic and meditative, the other giggly and drunk, were engaged in a private conversation. Ataullah stood up and began dancing at one side of the yurt in a rhythmic expression of the hands and face. He seemed unaware of the others. He was expressing bodily what he was feeling inside. The music was speaking to him and he was reciprocating.
The drunken German appeared to be making fun of Ataullah. There was a mockery in his laughter. Ataullah completed his dance and sat quietly before the fire. He took a drink from the bottle, a scowl slowly forming on his face. The drunken German reached for the bottle. Ataullah kept a firm grip on the bottle and looked the German hard in the eyes.
"You do not take the bottle. You do not order. You say please first." Ataullah's voice was both threatening and restrained.
There was a moment of tension in which Ataullah and the German stared at each other, both gripping the bottle. The moment passed. The German relaxed his grip and politely asked Ataullah to pass him the bottle.
After the two Germans went home, Ataullah turned to me and said, "David-jan, I know what that man is. I know his life. My inside eyes can see his inside eyes. He is nothing inside. But I am a guest here and cannot tell him the truth of what I know."
Thomas put on a tape of Afghan music. It was a mysterious and wonderfully erotic mixture of strange sounds. Ataullah explained everything in Afghan music was symbolic of a spiritual quest. The sound of birds could be heard mixing with the strange wailing of a human voice, the pounding of bongo-type drums in metaphysical rhythm, and the sad strumming of a dambura.
Ataullah began dancing again, his eyes closed, his hands moving in circular and outward gyrations, his body spinning in a whirlwind like an ice skater in a graceful twirl, his head jerking back and forth, seemingly sliding from shoulder to shoulder. The music was pleasing, the fire hypnotizing, the ambience mystical. I applauded the performance. Ataullah was pleased.
"When the Afghan dances he is trying to release the inside man to the outside." Ataullah pointed to the sky and showed the circular movements of his hands. "When a man has reached his best, he can do this. It is very nice, yes?"
Satisfied with the evening, Ataullah went to bed. I stayed up awhile longer with Thomas, enjoying the quiet, the fire, the companionship.
"It is very nice here in the yurt, don't you think? But in the winter it takes a lot of wood to keep warm. I am too lazy to cut so much. You can stay here as long as you want in the yurt if you want to cut the wood. It would be nice for you, David. You could have a typewriter here to work. It would be very peaceful."
"That's very kind of you to offer. But I'll continue to Iran with Hasan. One of these days, when you have some free time, I'd like to speak with you about that part of the world. I'm afraid I know nothing about it."
"Yes. When the time is right. When the time is right, I will tell you what I know and what you need to know. But not tonight. Soon. I promise you."
Chapter 4
Over the next few days I came to know Thomas much better. Although he was but five-foot-seven and a hundred and twenty-five pounds, he seemed a much larger man. Everyone around him, including the vagabonds who continually passed through his home, looked up to him for guidance and entertainment. He carried himself with what was, to me, a spaced-out self-assurance. At times his eyes bulged out of their sockets; they were always scanning, perceiving. He looked people directly in the eye. His countenance, whether in thought, action, or speech, showed a continual activity of the brain. His forehead was lined with small wrinkles, not from age but from perpetual ponderance. He had that characteristic common to all thinkers: absentmindedness. It was hard to believe his business was not failing. It seemed he lost everything he touched. But this did not bother Thomas. He was, in fact, amused by it.
His body was one of the most flexible I had ever seen. His bones seemed made of rubber. He was more comfortable sitting on his haunches, feet flat on the ground, chin rested on his knees, than in an upright chair. When on the floor playing Karumbo -- an Afghan game of skill that resembled a combination of billiards and marbles and was played on a board with chips to be flicked by the player's fingers into corner pockets -- his legs were flat on the floor, his feet pointed outward at right angles, and his head perched forward to see things as closely as possible. In this position he looked like a simian on all fours.
One evening Thomas invited me upstairs to smoke a pipe, play some Karumbo, and visit. Our conversation turned to various philosophies of life. I felt a bit like an inexperienced student listening to the pleasant lecturing of a wise, old savant. An outpouring of words flowed from Thomas's mouth. His speech was a gentle expression without pause. I had the feeling there was so much inside Thomas, such an abundance of knowledge and energy, that it was to my detriment to interrupt him. I listened intently. He spoke of smuggling experiences and adventures in distant lands, his life in California with the people surrounding the Jefferson Airplane rock band, his years of study of the languages and art of the Near East, his trips to the remotest regions of Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iran in search of rare carpets. He spoke of his dreams of international brotherhood, freedom, adventure, and his need to stay in touch with people who had not lost their dreams.
Hasan entered the room with Carol, an American woman in her late twenties who was staying at Thomas's and would travel as far as Yugoslavia with Hasan and me. They sat on the floor and joined in the conversation. The topic returned to smuggling. Hasan expressed a distaste, the risk being too great for committing a crime that brought harm to other people.
Thomas continued, "When you are looking at a man who brings a little hashish with him across the border, you fail to see the other side of the circle. Is his crime any worse than that of the men living comfortably at the expense of others? of their pain? of their suffering? of their low wages? Is his crime any worse than that of the men who -- with their factories that are killing plant life, animal life, even human life -- make chemicals for next to nothing and then sell them for unreasonable profits? And not just chemicals, but all products.
"Every man has his vices. Every man has the criminal element in him. To those making money, the making of it is just as much a drug as the hashish is to the common man who needs to escape the misery of his life from time to time. Of course, hashish is like any other sensual aspect of life. If taken to excess, it does more harm than good. The important thing is to remain unattached to it, as the moneymaker must remain unattached to his drug. If one is attached to anything in life, he cannot fulfill himself spiritually. This is the truth of life, the inner life. Life is a series of interrelated circles. One must experience a little of each circle, each change, so to speak, in order to make a complete circle at the passing of one's life. It is important not to be hung up on any one circle, for it inhibits the inner life, the spiritual, from growing to a newer and wiser circle. One must be open to change, ready for change, as change means growth of the spirit, a coming closer to the whole. When we are born, we are totally free. Our soul is all-being, everlasting, eternal life in relation with the whole of life, of energy and forces beyond our comprehension. We all have this eternal life. Each person is just at a different stage of development in the attaining of the whole or eternally wise life. When we are born, we are like the fresh seed thrown to the soil, free of all outer influences, and then with the cultivation of environments and outside forces a covering envelops us. It is only the casting away of these outer skins, these programmed modes of thought, of behavior, of relationships, that we can attain any freedom or wisdom. We must develop the inner search. The wealthy men of the world are more shackled than most of the world's prisoners. Indeed, they are prisoners of their own possessions. It is very difficult to move to the next circle in one's life when one is bound in such a way.
"Of course, you may tell me to look at myself. Am I not attached to my own possessions and business? Do I not live comfortably and have a fair amount of money? And I say yes it is true that I have money and possessions, but in reality I am not attached to them. It would be just as easy to live in Afghanistan in a remote village as here. But I am a man like any other. I am willing to be a king today, for tomorrow I may be a pauper. And I will again be a pauper; the time will be right. The difference in my own eyes lies in the fact that I am not bound to my present life. I am living it and it is part of one circle that will lead eventually to the next. What the next will be I cannot say, but I look forward to it. This is why I smoke the hashish and still smuggle a little of it. It allows me to separate myself from this life, to look at life from a different perspective so I don't become too attached to it. I am not saying what I do is right for everyone, but each man must find his own way. It is important to experience a little of every life -- the businessman, the beggar, the criminal -- though I don't mean crime in the sense of murder, but crime in the sense we are all victims of the forces surrounding us, our environments, and to rebel against or reject these forces is criminal in the conventional way of thought. This is what I mean by criminal: to rebel against the environment in which you are molded or shaped. Thus, to rebel is to be open to change, and to change is to move to another circle, another step in the direction of life fulfillment."
Thomas paused to take a puff from the pipe. Carol laughed and said, "Thomas, if that wasn't a hash-inspired thought, I don't know what it was. I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."
Carol and Hasan got up and left the room. Later Thomas and I talked about sometimes feeling as if one were outside oneself, seeing that self as a separate entity. At one point Thomas said something that was the exact parallel of a paragraph I had written in my journal that morning about the constant feeling of watching the curious comings and goings of someone named David Thompson, of laughing at his follies, of empathizing with his joys, of weeping at his sorrows. I procured the page from my notes and brought it back to show to Thomas. He read it, smiled, and nodded as if to say, "I understand you. We are of the same feeling and thought."
A few nights later after everyone had gone to bed, Thomas and I took some psilocybin. We put on our coats and went for a walk. The night was cold, but invigorating. We walked to the highest point of the hill behind his house. We could see all of Basel on one side and Lorrach on the other. The lights glimmered below in a U-shape as if we were on an island surrounded by a sea of stars. Nearby were black silhouettes of bare trees. Snow was on the ground. Thomas looked wistfully into the distance.
"David, this may be one of the most beautiful places in the world. I must take a picture of this spot, this circle. Look at this circle here where there are seven trees, each reaching out as if groping for love, for communication, much like the mass of mankind. This spot is right at the southern tip of the Black Forest and is unique. From here you can see three countries. I love this place. But it is so hard to live here much of the time. There are many games to play. People are coming and going all the time, people wanting to smoke a pipe, straight customers looking at carpets, people staying as if I'm running a motel. Everyone wants something. It's very difficult to handle constantly."
"I've noticed. You're on the go constantly from morning to late at night. It must put a strain on you. It seems to me eventually you're going to collapse. I can't believe your wife puts up with cooking for all these people. And your kids probably would like to spend more time with you."
"Yes, it does get to them and to me, but it is important to experience it. There is so much that keeps me here. Especially my mother and father. But I would also like to live in a community where there is brotherhood and people helping each other. Here there is too much suspicion and narrow thinking. Most of the people here are trapped by their environment. I need to break free from it all. I think often of the things I have done in the past, the adventures, and sometimes I believe I was closer to being free in those wilder days. It is possible, I think, to find such a place. Did I tell you about my six friends who have a farm in New Zealand? I helped them make all the connections and contacts. They made one run, sold their dope somewhere in New York for an incredible price, and now they are completely free with their lives.
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