The Ballade of Nixon Tyme Chapter Sixteen

I

Under the shadow of the Alps, by the end of Nixon's stint on the apple farm, it was the third week of October. Even in the south east of France, the morning chills were becoming increasingly intense, and he was pleased to be finally moving south.

His head was in a better place. As well as earning enough to be able to relax for a while, the hard work and wholesome cuisine had made him feel fit and healthy. He now realised how much a similar timespan of excess, back in LA, had drawn him in the opposite direction. The cherry on this particular gateau was that the outside world had not intervened, and he intended to keep it that way.

Nixon spent the next three weeks, meandering his way down through Italy, hitching, or taking the train, however the mood or weather pleased him. The plan was not to do any work, until he made it over to Greece, where he'd been told there was plenty of work picking oranges, which hopefully, would see him right through the winter. His friend, who'd made the trip previously, had listed a few places and names worthy of a visit. He didn't mind being a punter now and again, but for the most part, Nixon was happy to keep on as a player.

He decided to make four stops before he reached Greece. Hitching south to Nice, he caught a train to Pisa. Then, on to Rome, Naples and Otranto, on the heel of the Italian boot. From here he could take a ferry over to Patras in the Peloponnese, the southern region of mainland Greece.

Following the premise of player, he chose to take in each stop as if he were a local. Searching out cheap pension hotels, and tracking down bars and restaurants where only the locals congregated. The languid calm of rural France, contrasted hugely with bustle, and general air of organised chaos, typifying Italian city life. Cars parked in improbable places, horns blared, cash registers dispensed sweets for small change, and washing lines, hung high between narrow streets of decrepit apartment buildings. The musicality, and pace of the language sounded as if in a higher gear than France, with a sense of urgency that could be construed as perhaps appropriately, operatic.

Content in his own world, one of the few concessions to luxury he'd packed was a journal, where he noted, or sketched down little vignettes of daily life that caught his eye. A man pushing a dog in a shopping trolley in Pisa. A car, shunting into a space, far too small, in Rome. Pickpockets around the Spanish steps, and Termini hookers, patrolling the evening traffic.

In Naples, at the station, trains appeared to be departing from the wrong platforms, with the amusing consequences of hordes of passengers, dragging their luggage across the lines, rather than walk the long way. The Neapolitans, to Nixon, were a breed apart. This felt like the true heart of Italy. Less tourists, more chaos, more noise. Naples even smelled different.....fish, coffee, tobacco...life. He busied himself sketching. A tiny, portable television, delivering fuzzy football images to a screaming crowd in a bar, squid hung up to dry alongside shirts and socks, and street urchin kids, playing Campana, a traditional, Italian form of Hopscotch.

Then, for the next couple of days, as if to gain some perspective, he allowed himself to become a punter, and took a ferry over to Capri. His mother had often expressed a wish to visit this little island, just across the bay of Naples. Nixon thought a postcard might bring her a bit closer. His parents had never travelled much, so perhaps this small reminder might convince them, that they too, could live out some fantasies, and allow themselves to dream.

'I'm going to the Blue Grotto tomorrow. You should try it too, its never too late! Love Nick. x'

The island, was undeniably beautiful, but expensive and awash with tourists. He knew it would be like this, but it was worth it, just to send her the card. As promised, he joined the cattle trail to the little boats, which would then paddle them out to the famous grotto, then through the tiny hole, and into the brilliant, aquamarine cave. Everybody took photos. Their hopelessly inadequate cameras would produce images, that would eventually sit, undisturbed and forgotten, in various drawers all over the world. A symbol of confirmation, that they'd paid their money, joined the queue, and qualified as a bona fide punter.

Afterwards, in the comfort of a bustling, Neapolitan bar, he decided that tomorrow he'd be leaving for Otranto, and the ferry to Greece. He looked at his map for the route out of the city, and realised he could give punting another go, just in case he'd missed something. Tomorrow, he'd go to the ruins of Pompei, and its looming nemesis, Mount Vesuvius.

II

Back in Saint Brieuc, Gil Riot had used his bad experience in London as a means to an end. On his return, his misery was compounded by the arrival of draft papers for an obligatory, twelve months of military service. Two sleepless nights, and too much speed and whisky, prepared him well for a visit to the doctor. His enhanced performance of depression, with psychotic tendencies, was enough to get him signed off work for two months, and recommended as unsuitable military material.

The break was cathartic, and he used the time to study sound engineering. Gil enjoyed the technical nature of the subject, and learned quickly. His plan would be to save up, and construct a recording studio, maximising his chances of meeting a wider field of musicians. If ultimately, the musicians themselves didn't have enough originality, then perhaps, his applied innovative production could work the spell. A French George Martin? It was worth a go.

Finally returning to work, he channelled his money into accruing enough equipment to begin experimenting. Over the next dozen years, Gil built up the studio, and his business grew.

Personal musical success still eluded him, but nonetheless, he steadily gained something of a reputation in the region, as a sound engineer and producer. His work consisted of recording local bands, voice overs, and producing small run album compilations, but Gil was resolute, and never let go of the idea that he could set his sights higher.

Then, in 1994, he saw an advert for a workspace, which would allow him to develop the studio, which by this time, was becoming limited by its humble premises. The key in attracting higher profile artistes from farther afield, would be to provide a unique, residential location, conducive to creativity. For this he'd need space, and a special place.

III

Isabella Lake was now twenty three. Five years on from her devastating loss, she had slowly come to terms with her world. A double death insurance settlement had left her financially secure, and so, in the early years after the loss of her parents, she had busied herself in the activity of renovating her enormous property. Her house had been transformed. Isabella herself, had taken an active role in the work, and consequently, learned many skills along the way.

Initially, the artisans that came to assist her with the construction, found it amusing, or unsettling to take orders, or be contradicted on questions of method by a young woman, but after five years of intense activity, she ultimately earned the respect of those who had spent a lifetime learning their trade. As well as turning her own personal living area into a place of calm and beauty, she had created a vast studio area, incorporating the fateful dark room equipment donated by her father, and a light flooded attic space, perfectly suited for painting. She'd also retained her father's workshop. He'd amassed enough equipment for her to tackle almost any job she pleased. Its presence gave her comfort.

Somehow, the thought of having to employ someone to fix her car, repair a leak, or wire a plug, felt like a weakness, and although she could easily afford not to, she often chose to do it herself.

Recently, as the house had come together, her attentions were drawn towards the grounds. In addition to keeping chickens, beehives and goats, Isabella grew plants for food and pleasure. It was the plan her mother had talked of, and like the perfect drug, it eased the pain. Finally, after all this time and work, it felt as if she could begin again. The activity had certainly got her through her difficult time, but recently, the lingering loneliness refused to budge so easily.

Eventually, Isabella looked around her beautiful home, and realised that she didn't want to be alone. Perhaps, because of her parents, and the effort she'd invested in it, she knew she could never truly leave. It wasn't a bad thing, but she had no wish to become a Mme Havisham either, and so, began to think of how to re engage the world, without actually going anywhere.

Her idea was to create an arts collective, a group of like minded, creative people, who could live and work on the property. Each would have their individual living space, but could share and nurture their skills among the group. In this way, Les Moulins could realise the potential for which it was originally intended, rather than the mausoleum she feared she might be creating. One day, not so long after she placed her ad, Gil Riot called the number, and Isabella answered.

IV

Back in the sixties, Francis Bacon had once said 'Do you realise, that ninety five percent of people are passive, simply waiting to be entertained?'

When reminded of it years later, he replied 'Did I really say that? I must have been mad, it should have been ninety nine percent!'

Nixon, having briefly tasted the tourist trail, suspected it to be true. He took the cable car up Mount Vesuvius, and walked over the cobbles of Pompei, and yes, it was engaging. But only to a point. He wondered whether the multitudes were better off for their efforts, or if they even knew. When one weighed it up, and pondered the most significant or pleasurable moments in life, did standing in front of the Mona Lisa or wandering the interior of the Great Pyramid, come anywhere near? Nixon hoped not. He thought of the pack instinct, the fear of missing out, the need to tick a box, the need, as Bacon had said, to be entertained.

Three days later, as the afternoon autumn sun shimmered over the Adriatic, Nixon boarded The Maria Madre for a languid, eighteen hour voyage, to the land of the gods. He'd been on his travels for a little over two months, and lying on the boat deck that afternoon, it struck him that some subtle change was afoot, deep within his psyche. It was subtle, but all the same very real. It was like that exhilarating lift, somewhere during the second glass of a good wine. Nowhere near drunk, yet slightly liberated. He felt like a stage hand, wandering around an elaborate theatre set, unseen from the wings, or walking amongst the actors as if he were a ghost.

V

Isabella liked Gil immediately. He was a doer. When she'd placed the ad, she hadn't considered a musical twist. Her background had led her to imagine painters, potters or sculptors, but when Gil arrived, one breezy afternoon, in his cute trilby hat, blue pinstripe suit, and two tone rockabilly shoes, she quickly warmed to the idea. Gil was the first to reply, and upon arrival, he knew immediately that in Les Moulins he'd found exactly what he was after. For him, the place had class. Rock n Roll, he'd learned, was often a dirty business, but he was drawn by style.

They sat for a while, drinking Lapsang tea in her lounge, while Isabella set out the details. A subtle odour of incense, mingled with fragrant orchids, and charged the atmosphere. Gil struggled to concentrate, as he gradually took in the details. There was no television, just an original valve radio, and record deck. Ethnic style decorations, mingled with English and French traditional furniture. Paintings and drawings hung on the walls, nothing he recognised, nothing framed, just large, raw images. The bare stone walls, heavy wooden windows and a vast open fireplace, gave the impression that he was in some kind of medieval chateau.

A Siamese cat wandered in, and glanced with disdain as Isabella poured more tea, and asked him what he was looking for. A split second of guilt flashed over him, until he realised she was talking about his plans for the studio. He contemplated the room.

“Do you have anything to....umm... drink ?”   

She looked, puzzling at his full tea cup. Gil raised an eyebrow and twinkled an eye...... And Isabella Lake laughed, for the first time in ages.