In the Spring of 1975 Greece is like a patient recovering from the recently deposed fascist Colonels and breathing again the fresh air of freedom.
Sailing into the enchanting harbor of Hydra I am enthralled by the gracefully arcing harbor with its white-washed restaurants and cafes.
A friend leads me from the waterfront up the narrow stone path past rustic white cottages leading to his villa resting on the Island’s southern slope.
The next morning over breakfast my friend asks me if I would like to meet you and I say yes…yes…I do want to meet the master.
After a short walk down a stone path leading to the harbor I arrive at a humble two-story wood and stone house overlooking the sea.
Suzanne, a stunning brunette, greets me with a smile and invites me in.
She feeds me tea and oranges that come all the way from China.
Silently you appear from another room, a serenely smiling Buddha
slight and so dapper in his beige linen shirt and slacks.
You welcome me to Greece. When I tell you I too am a poet, that I revere your words and music you glow with gratitude and tell me
“The only way to make a living from poetry is by singing it.” How easy for you to say. You can carry a tune.
You invite me downstairs to your study, a small windowless room with a wooden chair, table and typewriter. A door opens onto an olive grove.
There is a cot in the corner where you sleep after creating. You turn on the record player and we listen to Miles’ Sketches of Spain.
A voice interrupts our reverie. It is time for me to go. I hand you my poems wrapped in a brown paper bag hoping and praying you will read them.
Leonard and Suzanne stand together in the open doorway as I descend the path to the harbor where I eat a lunch of fresh fish and drink a retsina.
Later as I sit at a café on the waterfront a contact lens falls from my eye disappearing on the flagstone floor. Partially blind I get on my knees in a
futile search for my missing lens. Sitting nearby you see me in distress. You rise and walk over to where I am kneeling. You ask me, “Why are you on
your knees?” “Praying,” I reply, before telling you the real reason why. You stare momentarily at the ground, point down and say calmly, “There it is.”
Following the trajectory of your slender index finger to the ground I find my missing lens. Your vision has restored my sight. Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
During my month stay at the villa several blissfully beautiful young ladies knock at the upstairs door after sundown. They always ask for you.
And I, instead of inviting them in and offering them a glass of ouzo, reply, “No, Leonard doesn’t live here. He lives down by the harbor.”
They smile, say thank you, and disappear into the dark. I wonder how many of these divine devotees have found their way to your front door.
A year later I see you at a Hollywood party beaming your Buddha smile. Phil Spector is producing your album, “Death of a Ladies Man.”
I see you on the cover sitting between two lovely ladies, Suzanne and a much younger one, in a café on Hydra. The sadness in your lovers’ eyes says it all.
Tomas 06