Beat Hearts

Friends remembered on William Burroughs birthday

William and I in Amsterdam

Beat Hearts

It was some years ago and the mill was turning. Tulips spread across the fields like some glorious disease. We were a little wild then and our medicine chests were bursting, as hearts in love. We were walking the Haarlem streets and Bill and Brion dropped their pace to admire the slim waist of our young guide. Both had a desire for Moroccan food, and we traced his steps through the winding streets envisioning lamb and couscous and mint tea. Later, Brion went dancing at one of the crowded Amsterdam clubs. Bill and I returned to the American Hotel sharing a bowl and talking about Tangiers. We waited for Brion to return, like a charged cloud, into our small suite of rooms, armed with stories.

When he did return, he was distraught. He had lost his scarf, a long, fringed shawl of striped Moroccan silk. Faded, yet glowing like a memory which had swept his shoulder. He nearly wept when he told Bill, talking very excitedly, very low, “It was the only thing I had left of ....”

Bill handled him with tenderness. “It will come back,” he promised. He placed his hand on Brion’s shoulder. Brion seemed to calm, so trusting in Bill whose special powers were undisputed. So, we sat, as though in vigil, with Brion murmuring to Bill and Bill nodding and answering softly. After a time, I opened my clarinet case and fitting my instrument, dampened the reed and began to play, improvising an evening on the Rif. My abilities were limited but the atonal drone seemed to be a suitable track for the dropping night. An hour later Bill exited, giving me a discreet nod that seemed to say, “watch over him.”
I played for a while, lost in a meandering sidewinding journey. Then, slightly embarrassed, I stopped playing, not wishing to bore him with my repetitious patterns. “No, don’t stop,” he said, more awake than asleep. “It takes me back.”

And so, I blew happily, for there is not a ready audience for this style of play and he listened half-smiling, half dreaming with his hands crossing his chest. When I’d stop he’d motion for me to continue. Such was the breadth of this man. Even as he desired to be indulged, he indulged my desire to improvise, amateur player that I was. We created together a dream of Morocco.

The following morning, Bill and I met in the cafe adjacent to the hotel. The coffee was very good, and we had a few refills. Brion appeared, animated, full of go. His scarf, as Bill predicted, had come back and all was well. Events unfolded we did the work we had converged to do, shared a pipe and parted, without regret, full of mutual care.

Bill and Brion in London by Charles Gatewood

Brion died in 1986 in Paris. At the time I lived in Michigan with my husband. I thought of Brion, as I glanced at the case where my clarinet was held, sheathed as a sword, ready yet not called upon. I thought of Bill and wondered how he felt to lose (as he called Brion) the better half of the third mind. I entered our old, converted boathouse. Through the sliding glass doors and the small arched window, one could watch the canal waters flow. I was reminded of another canal and a warm and brilliant man with the heart of a child floating a paper boat. William stood watching as Brion tossed the petals of the national flower into the water. “Tulips,” he laughed. “They were smuggled here by a holy man. He brought this country two sacred gifts. The tulip and hashish. And who brought the windmill – a Spaniard. Everything is from somewhere else yet finds a home nonetheless.”

In a corner against the wall is a desk where I write. On the back of the chair is an ancient piece of cloth from Kashmir, from a friend who is traveling. On the desk was a worn paperback of Brion’s The Process with Bill’s notation “a book you will want to read and reread.” As I approached the makeshift desk to replace a bottle of ink, a shaft of light fell across the chair, illuminating the faded cloth. Its threads seemed to glow like rust woven with gold, like a memory swept about a shoulder.

“It was the only thing I had left of...”

Brion, mourning a scarf – a bit of old, beloved Moroccan silk. And I am mourning both Bill and Brion, in the miraculous light, spilling like the notes of a pipe played by a shepherd boy dancing on a hill.