The Ballade of Nixon Tyme Chapter Nineteen

Stepping from the ferry at Patras, that late, autumn morning, Nixon soon felt like he was sitting on a film set for Zorba the Greek. Like the character from the book's opening, ensconced in a packed, steamy dock side cafe, Nixon had taken shelter from the rain, in a place not so different. It probably hadn't changed much in over forty years.

The chatter was impenetrable. Nixon didn't speak any Greek. He'd bought a dictionary in Italy, before sailing, but so far, even deciphering the distinctive, twenty four letter alphabet, was tricky. Dictionaries were okay, but trying to construct a meaningful sentence wasn't so easy. He sat down with a thick, gritty coffee, and tried to look up some words to help him on the journey.

He decided that he'd try to make his way east to Corinth. From here, he could turn north to Athens, and find enough English speakers who might be able to help him to find work. It was the method his friend had used last year, ending up at Piraeus, south of Athens, and sailing out to Crete. For Nixon, it went differently. At Corinth, he met an Australian traveller who was headed south, down into the Peloponnese. He'd already passed through Athens, and had heard word of a camp site full of young travellers, called Mykines. It served as a labour station for the farmers, who needed extra labour to get the fruit picked in time for the lucrative Christmas market.

The Australian's name was Clint. He was eighteen, but had been on the road for two years already. He told Nixon that he'd travelled through Asia, smuggling a few diamonds along the way. Then, he'd smuggled blocks of hash from India to Sri Lanka, which had funded his travels, and finally, led him here, to Greece. Nixon was unsure how true all this was, but certainly, Clint did have a confident, street wise manner that suggested he may be worth tagging along with.

It was a good decision, and the camp site story, proved true. Mykines, was actually the modern name for Mycenae, the ancient Greek Citadel, ruled by Agamemnon, leader of the Greeks during the Trojan war. Back in its heyday, the population was around thirty thousand, but now it had become no more than a tourist stop village, of barely a few hundred souls. By wintertime, the tourist trail had dried up, and the only activity that remained was picking Oranges and Olives.

The camp site was of modest size, and hosted around forty campers. All were young foreigners, mostly northern Europeans. Most of them had tents, but a few like Nixon, rented small, wooden cabins, barely bigger than the camp beds they contained. There was a wash block, and most importantly, a canteen. Run by the site owners, known simply as 'Mama' and 'Baba'. Every morning and evening, Mama would manage to lay on a wholesome choice of good, cheap food. Baba, for his part, would serve, wash up, and attend to site maintenance. Neither spoke much English, but when it came to mealtimes, everybody seemed to find a way to make themselves understood.

The work started early. Dirty lorries and battered pick up trucks would arrive one by one, and the pickers would jump aboard, until the farmer had what he needed. The place really had the air of a sixties commune, a culture that was probably due to the all pervading influence of the camp's most senior resident, Jim Nielsen. Jim, an American in his mid thirties, had spent his early years living on a commune in Nevada, and had been visiting Mykines each winter, for several years running. He spoke Greek, which made him well respected by the locals, and although still young, he was significantly old enough to be looked on as a paternal figure by the rest of the camp.

Jim was athletically built. Tanned, with long pony tailed hair, he sported a thin moustache, and trimmed goatee beard. He could have walked out of the pages of a Kerouac novel. He wore thin, round wire spectacles, and bore an almost, Svengali air. Nixon loved the way he spoke. His west coast drawl would espouse worldly wisdom, ponderously delivered with elegant economy.

He spent many evenings in the canteen, listening to Jim's philosophical tales of life on the road. In his time there, Nixon had already seen Jim take three different lovers, without anybody evidently falling out. He was intrigued to discover why it all seemed so harmonious.

“Its a question of possession..........” he drawled

When the human race learns to share, then ownership becomes redundant.................................... To treat humans as possessions, to me, that's wrong.” He lit a cigarette, and exhaled slowly.

“Emotional love ?”

“That, in my opinion ….is a weakness......... I think we can make love, without being in love.”

Nixon pondered this. He'd certainly found contentment on the camp. Could that last?

“Improving oneself in relation to money, or fame...... is the aspiration........of a fool..........

Improvement is the nourishment of the soul…................which is only truly found ….....through the acquisition of knowledge.......and..... the sharing of love”

Jim smiled his knowing smile, and then slipped his arm around the shoulder of his new, Swedish companion, and together, they made their way to his quarters. This was potent stuff for Nixon. He'd heard of this before, but never seen it in action. Evidently, Jim's mantra had seeped out into the camp, and it seemed to work, but Nixon wondered whether it was possible, on the outside of what had become this idyllic bubble.

With little to spend their wages on at the camp, Nixon, Clint, and a few companions, would often head up to Athens for the weekend, and do a little spending. Near Christmas time, Clint suggested taking an extended trip up to Turkey, and visiting Istanbul. They spent ten days discovering the many delights of this sprawling city. It was markedly different to Athens. More exotic, more eastern. As well as taking in the usual tourist spots, Nixon particularly liked hanging around the legendary 'Pudding shop' in Sultanahmet, or taking tea in tulip shaped glasses, amongst the bizarre mix of barbers and fisherman, on the lower deck of the floating Galata bridge. Back in Naples, he'd been left a little underwhelmed. This time, travelling in a group was much more fun. Near the end of this first stay in old Constantinople, Nixon happened upon an altogether particular encounter.

It was a late balmy afternoon, and he'd decided to set out on his own and take a walk in the fresher air near the banks of the Bosphorus. After a pleasant meandering stroll, he stopped at a secluded waterside bar. It was nearing dusk, and just as his peace was broken by the nearby mosque's last afternoon call to prayer, he was approached by an exotic looking woman asking for a light.

“So, you're English ? Hello, my name is Carla”

Somewhat older than himself, she had fulsome, Latino features. Her heavy lidded eyes reminded him a little of Joan Baez. With the smoke lit, she made little effort to move on, and when Nixon offered a drink she seemed happy to join him. Despite her looks, it transpired she was actually of Danish origin, and had been in the city for a few years running an antiques pitch in the old bazaar. Her English was impeccable, and carried an urbane tone which contrasted engagingly with a guttural husky laugh that he found irresistible. It was a Mrs Robinson moment for Nixon, and just as he was inwardly wondering where this chance encounter may be heading, they were suddenly interrupted by a young man who evidently needed to talk to Carla urgently.

Jamil, it appeared, was her employee, and needed to engage his boss over the details of a business trip they'd be taking tomorrow. Nixon couldn't help but take in the striking beauty of the man. He reminded him of an Egyptian Pharaoh. A sculpted brush of raven hair atop jewel like eyes, and a profile seemingly carved from marble.

Scarcely acknowledging Nixon's presence, he spoke with haste, and although Carla seemed reluctant to leave, it was soon clear that she must, but not before her leg had casual drifted, unseen, against Nixon's. No more than the counterbalance as she'd turned to engage her inquisitor, but rather than pull away, she deliberately kept it there. Nixon, feeling the warmth of her flesh through his jeans, remained resolutely still. The conversation dragged on, but the contact didn't break. She knew what she was doing. Eventually, however, unable to resolve the problem, she stood up and made to leave with her companion.

“I'm sorry Nixon, I'm afraid I'll have to go....... Tomorrow we'll be out of town for a while, but perhaps you might like to come later this evening........for a drink ?

Carla's behaviour had already excited him, but by the time he'd found her home later that evening, he imagined an invisible thread had almost tugged him there by his balls.

The house was old. A sprawling mid 19th century wooden construct, typical of this part of the city. Having knocked and waited for what seemed too long, the great carved edifice finally creaked open. Nixon, anticipating the welcoming features of Carla, was quickly disappointed to discover Jamil, greeting him with a coy smile, and an extravagant sweep of the arm bidding him inside. It wasn't the welcome he was expecting, but nevertheless, Jamil appeared friendlier than before, and whereas earlier his attire matched conventional street clothes of the city, he now resembled something that would have looked easily at home in a Sultans palace from way back. Nixon followed his silken gowned guide through an elaborate central hall, and out into an exterior courtyard. Ornamental citrus trees lined the perimeter, and the warm evening air was tinged with gentle sweet scents of Magnolia and Verbena.

Carla was nowhere to be seen. Nixon sat down on a bench amongst the greenery, while Jamil having wandered off, soon returned proffering a tray laden with tea and sweetmeats. He apologised for Carla's absence. She would be down shortly, but in the meantime, would he like to take a bath?

In the middle of the courtyard was a cabin, but once inside, it had materialized into an accurate

reproduction of one of Istanbul's many famous Roman built Hammams. The marble lined steam room was empty. Jamil instructed Nixon to undress, and proffered a peshtemal, a small piece of cloth no bigger than a small skirt. At first, the intense heat took his breath and, a little self consciously, he began to feel unnerved by his vulnerability within these new alien surroundings.

Jamil fetched more tea. This time, the taste was different. Not unpleasant, something of Cardamom, but nothing like he'd known before. Jamil calmly ladled more water, and as the steam thickened, Nixon sensed a different wave of sensations passing up slowly through his spine and neck. His skin tingled, and the heat of the room cradled him like a blanket. Everything now had an outline.

Soon after Nixon, now gowned like Jamil, found himself back in the house, standing in an opulently appointed smoking room. Lush mohair and velvet banquettes were piled high with densely patterned jewel-toned cushions. Persian tapestries set against silk jacquard wall coverings, steeped the darkly sensual room in decadent luxury. In the corner, lounging on an ornately carved day bed, was Carla, silken robed, and smoking a long, thin clay pipe,

“Good evening Nixon, I trust you are feeling relaxed and refreshed. Come and sit down.”

As she gestured to the space beside her, her robe parted slightly. Despite catching his eye, she made no effort to cover herself, giving off a confident demeanour that demonstrated she was very much in control of proceedings. He silently took his place, and patiently waited for the evening to reveal its hand.

After a time, the door opened, and Jamil entered, followed by a young woman. He gestured to her to sit on a high level divan betwixt two imposing bookcases, and made to leave.

“Oh, I'd like you to meet Alexya......She will be....... entertaining us”    

Perhaps, a little younger than Nixon, she barely acknowledged them, then sat, almost to attention, as if waiting inspection. She wore a bob of coarse, straw coloured hair, which framed rather striking, Slavic features. Alexya had an athletic physique, and apart from a violet chemise, and some black patent heels, was completely naked.

Some moments passed, then Jamil returned, and handed a squat shot glass to the girl. She took it, and instantly downed the colourless contents. Then, having instructed her to stand, he took her hands, and in a matter of seconds bound them with a small rope cord. Turning her about face, he suspended the rope over one of a series of small brass hooks on the wall. They were arranged vertically, and Jamil had expertly managed to attach it to the hook that exactly caused her to raise her heels just off the ground. He then placed a hand on each shoulder, and pressed her upper body slowly, but firmly against the wooden panelled wall, as if pressing a butterfly onto the pins of a display case. Alexya remained completely still. Nixon barely knew what to think, but sensed a spark of excitement in Carla as she focussed the unfolding scene ahead.

Suspended in this way, Alexya's delicate chemise had ridden up to reveal firm small, proud buttocks, now tensed, in an effort to relieve the pressure of the rope on wrists. Meanwhile, standing to one side, Jamil had now armed himself with a short, stout riding crop. Carla struck a match and relit her smoke, raising a knee, whilst drawing in deeply from the delicate white pipe.

Jamil tested the flex between two firm hands, paused for a good few seconds, then suddenly, and in one lithe movement, landed a cracking blow across the pale unprotected flesh. Head pressed against the wood, Alexya exhaled loudly, and the sound sent an unexpected fizz through Nixon. He'd never experienced anything like this before, and felt slightly guilty witnessing this discomfort, but nonetheless, he couldn't deny it was also defiantly arousing. Jamil continued, but deliberately, and enticingly slowly. Each strike of the crop, maybe thirty seconds apart, whipped the air, ruthlessly homing in on it's delicate target. After four or five strikes Alexya began to pant, and by eight, a feint whimper punctuated each whack of the fiendish crop.

At his side, Nixon heard Carla's breath deepen. He felt himself harden, and self consciously held his gown close, realising that he, perhaps like Alexya, as well as being a prisoner of the moment, was also a willing participant. The ritual continued for some time, and when it finally stopped, the room, except for the deep slow breaths of the four occupants, held an intense, edgy calm. Nobody moved. Carla had now stretched out, shamelessly revealing herself. Raising her head, she exhaled a long cloud of blue smoke across the room. Nixon remained completely still, as then Jamil climbed up and unhooked the girl's hands, and without a word, guided her toward a raised leather banquette.

It had sturdy wooden handles on either side, and brass eyelets with straps for restraint. Alexya didn't seem fazed by this, and now it struck Nixon that there was a certain amount of familiar theatricality about the way she mounted this device, face down with her rear, doubled over, flanking her spectators.

Jamil, having secured the straps over the pale prone body, moved to the front and slowly removed the cord from his gown. Nixon noticed Carla had already reached up and grabbed, what looked to be a large, ceramic phallus. Consumed with voyeuristic pleasure, she now began working it on herself in deliberate, long circular movements.

Her dark satin limbs began to tense and shiver with each slow, heavenly turn, and as she did so, her free hand gently gestured Nixon towards the rear of the banquette. It was he who was now required to fulfil his role. Nervously, but with little need for more motivation, he gripped the banquette's handles, and smacked home firmly upon the hot, tender, rose welted flesh.......

The evening continued in a swirling blur of crazed permutations, with Carla always in control, and Jamil, the expert facilitator, Nixon encountered sensations and experiences he'd never previously known. The effect was huge and explicit. Beings without reserve, liberated and free.

By the time he awoke, the following morning, naked, grazed and raw, he couldn't exactly remember how the evening had concluded, but now he was alone, save for an uncommunicative solitary housemaid busying herself in the hallway. The house was deserted. Carla and the others had left no trace of their presence, and now he understood. It was time to leave. The talk of them leaving the next day, even if it was true, plus the lack of any messages meant this was how it was meant to be.

Nixon never returned to Istanbul, but often thought back to that evening. It was as if it had prepared him for life back Mykines, which slipped back into a new pleasurable routine of work and pleasure. By mid February, some of the camp residents had started to drift off. The work was now nearing an end, and so, while some made plans to travel further out to the islands, and catch the imminent Greek spring, Nixon felt he'd found all he needed, and decided to return home, finally content.

Jim had already returned to the States, and Nixon knew that although their paths would probably never cross again, his influence would stay with him. Jim's philosophy had focussed some of the ideas he'd already formed during his trip. It had helped him to understand his trauma with the Blueboys, and now confront his future. He'd learned that the conventional pursuits of wealth, fame, or the need to commit oneself to one individual, were flawed.

He'd been six months on the road, living an anonymous, frugal lifestyle and with no permanent companion, yet he'd been more content than he could ever remember. Nixon decided that from now on, he would try run his life in this way. He thought back to Jim's parting line.

“Relax, then use your senses to read the signs”