Swimming in the Pools That Time Forgot

Annamaria introducing Michael J. Cooper

 

Michael Cooper writes exactly the kind of stories that I most love to read:  the history of exotic places seamlessly woven into page-turner plots.  Themes that shine down the decades, or centuries, and illuminate today's headlines. And characters you can cheer for, or despise, or fall in love with. 

Born in Berkeley, California, Mike emigrated to Israel after high school in 1966.  After working fitfully, he says, as an actor and musician on stage and Israel TV, he studied at Hebrew University in Jerusalem and graduated from Tel Aviv University Medical School. Now a pediatric cardiologist in Northern California, he returns to Israel and the West Bank about twice a year to volunteer his services to children who lack adequate access to care.

 

His first two thrillers are set in and around Jerusalem and are connected by common threads of Jerusalem’s Temple Mount, the St. Clair/Sinclair bloodline, and the subversive notions of coexistence and peace.  Foxes in the Vineyard, set in 1948 Jerusalem, won the grand prize in the 2011 Indie Publishing Contest. His second The Rabbi’s Knight, set in the Holy Land at the twilight of the Crusades in 1290, was a finalist for the Chaucer Award for historical fiction. A soon-to-be-completed third novel, Sins of the Fathers, is set in Europe and the Middle East during WWI.  I can't wait for that next one.

Today Michael is here to tell us how he goes about recreating history.

As I travel through Scotland and the South of France, visiting some of the significant sites referenced in my books, I’m reminded of the manner in which authors of historical fiction enjoy opportunities of using our imaginations to fill gaps in the historical record. Indeed, the more remote the history, the more gaps are likely to exist.  Some of these gaps occur where the historical record fades into the shadows of hidden history—actual events innocently unrecorded, forgotten or actively suppressed. Here we have the opportunity to shock the reader with historical fact that may seem fictional, (and make some uncomfortable in the process). We may also discover other gaps where history blurs into ambiguity, or where it disappears entirely. These gaps, called lacunae by historians from the Latin word for little pools, provide ample opportunities to embellish historical characters and events, especially if they are generally consistent with known and historically accurate facts.

And how historically accurate are historical facts anyway? We need look no further than the evening news to hear about “alternative” facts. Any account (current or historical) is necessarily selective, including certain elements and omitting others. And how much more may this nuance be amplified when looking back a year, or ten, or a hundred? It can be argued that all recorded history is, to one degree or another, a form of myth, as these accounts (from Prince to Robin Hood) are oriented towards the attitudes of the time and perspective of their recording. How relevant is the idea of filling a “little pool” in the historical record when we may be actually facing a limitless ocean of ambiguity?

These are some of my thoughts as I sit writing at the Nice Airport on the Mediterranean Coast of France waiting for my twice-delayed flight to Edinburgh with plenty of time to reflect on my own immersion in these “little pools.” Herewith just one example…

In both my books I reference a mysterious pyramid in Falicon just north of Nice. I based my description of the Falicon Pyramid on a host of traveler accounts as well as books generally describing pyramids throughout the world.  But I always felt guilty that I never actually saw the Falicon Pyramid, and two years ago I sought to rectify this situation with a sincere, full-day, but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to find it among meandering paths through Provence bramble. So, I came back again two years later—that would be yesterday.

A quick flight from Edinburgh brought me back to Nice. I drove a rental car up the hill to a weird but delightful Falicon guesthouse, and rose early yesterday morning, and this time was rewarded. Success! After following a path over boulders and through heavy bramble, uphill for what seemed more than the mile it was, and aided by written directions along with GPS, I turned a corner on the path and there it was!

Even though it was designated as a French Historical Monument in 2007, the origin of the Falicon Pyramid is shrouded in ambiguity. According to some accounts it was built by Roman legionnaires who practiced the cult of Mithras, an eastern religion that was popular with members of the Roman Army during the later Empire. According to another, it may have marked the tomb of an ancient chieftain, possibly an exiled Egyptian. According to another, it was built by Knights Templar returning to Europe from the Crusades.

What is known for certain about the Falicon Pyramid is that it sits over a deep grotto, Bauma des Ratapignata, Occitan for “cave of the bats.” What’s also known is that it was “discovered” in 1803 by one Domenico Rossetti and is listed in local tourist guides starting in the 19^th century. Located on a hillside overlooking Falicon to the southeast, Nice and the Mediterranean to the south, the pyramid is estimated to have measured 9 meters in height when intact. It’s no longer intact. Weathered by time, the elements and tourism, the pyramid is missing its apex, and is now truncated at about 3 meters. But for myself, the Falicon Pyramid’s remoteness and incongruity make it a fascinating dive into a deep pool of ambiguity and mystery. Which is why it figures in my books.

But I won’t say how, given the risk of having to issue spoiler alerts.

For those who read the books and are interested in knowing what other little pools I dip into (and there are many), just drop me an email, and we’ll go for a swim.

Mike's website will tell you more

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