Brion Gysin - The Process

Doktor Aalto’s voice came across with an almost feminine cackle at times but I put that down to my own poor reception.

“Malamut” looms in sight, swimming in the air like a castle of mirage which we cannot approach by the heat of day. I am writing this under a tarpaulin I begged from our blue-veiled guide before he drove off and abandoned us here. I think he must have had some trouble with the Himmers because he said: “From here on you walk or you pay me fi’ ten fitteen thousand dollars apiece for the car.” The girls argued and I argued that the Himmers would undoubtedly pay him anything within reason to deliver us at their door but he picked up a whip that leapt into his land like a snake. Even Karl Barx, who is panting in the intolerable heat, here beside us, cringed and slunk out of the Landrover. Mohamed was out of range before Ana Lyse thought to pull out of her corsage a little pearl-handled revolver. It is a mere.22 caliber but I will handle it from now on.

“Malamut” floats out there on the perfectly round milky horizon like a mother-of-pearl Buddha on a tray of quicksilver. Ana Lyse assures me that what we see is the rock of Cape Noon, Heaven Rock, blasted with dynamite and rebuilt into an immense statue of Princess Mya, turning her back on us. All we have to drink is a hairy guerba, a goatskin of water tasting of goat and tar. Even Karl Barx refused it until we poured some down his throat. This is no place for a dog.

Hamid bounced back, having organized everything for our departure, as if “Malamut” had belonged in the palm of his hands for years.

“I am berry sorry, my dear,” he announced, “but in this place is no keef.”

“Hamid, I will not go another round of this unvarnished tale without I get some keef.”

“Take some more Borbor the lady fix herself. Berry good Borbor, same-same all Arab womens give their mens.”

“Hamid, I know that whole Borbor bit perfectly well and will you stop talking that awful pidgin you picked up in the port. I put you down here speaking almost perfect English. Besides, I know how Borbor feels, if anyone does. I am full of her Borbor: I’m under her spell, right now. I should be as mad as hell at her for slipping me the stuff — but I am and I’m not. Or, am I? Let’s see. … You say no keef? Walloo? No keef at all? You’ve turned out the seams of your pockets?”

“I have just this one Casa Sport cigarette left over from Tanja I empty out and am filling with keef. Together, we smoke.”

“But, Hamid, you know how wasteful that is! Haven’t you got a pipe?”

“And we drink some champagne,” he grinned, pulling out an already broached jeroboam from under the skirts of his jellaba.

“You know I don’t drink warm champagne if I can help it. Besides, if Mya opened that bottle, it’s probably borborized.”

“But, of course! There is Borbor in every little thing here, my dear. There is plenty Borbor even in me and I like it. It feels berry good. Borbor kif walloo! Like nuttin! How many Berber girls give me Borbor, before? Borbor is no more bad than Bebsi-Cola, unless the woman say the Words.”

“What words, Hamid?”

“The donkey words. One Arab man buy one berry good Arab girl guarantee birgin he see the first time that night. Old women already tell that girl what she do: You put this Borbor in his chow and you treat him good, berry good. When that man slob on on you, you push him away and you say: Rrrrrah! like you say to one donkey to drive him. Next thing, you wind your legs around his neck and you make him carry you piggyback. When that woman is up on that man’s back, she use the donkey words. That man, he finish: he through. He can carry that woman from the bed to the bucket the rest of their days. When a man marry, he got only one thing to do and when he do it he say to his wife: ‘I’ll kill you if I ever catch you using those words.’”

“But, Hamid, what words?”

“Like I telly you: Giddy-ap! Gee! Haw! Whoa, there! and, Whoa! ”

“But Mya can’t use words like that on me! Besides, she’s much too heavy for me to carry around on my back.”

“You juss keep your ears open, you!”

“I’ll be growing long asses’ ears, Hamid: Hee-Haw! ”

“Halloo Yass Halloo!” he bawled; jumping up and pulling my ears, to yank me back into Present Time, I suppose.

In Present Time, we are installed inside the stainless-steel shell of Star Citadel. It is rather like a projected installation on the far side of the moon but it is a Chinese moon. I find it very disturbing to be locked in these stainless-steel cells. The military mind, and the Chinese military mind at that, has, quite simply, added another dimension of terror to the Sahara I know. Violence, as they like to say, marked our arrival on this scene. That dumb dog belonging to Ana Lyse Africanus sparked it off. She is one of those compact frizzy blondes, dark at the roots, with big boobs, no neck and shoe-button eyes. I can see what Hamid sees in her, all right. She is a bit better than the newspaperwoman, who is as gray and grainy as repulped newsprint. We flew in at night, so I saw nothing of the Sahara and too much of them and I am getting bum kicks from the Borbor , all this time.

The daily sun came up like a big orange bomb as we touched down at Tam. Olav opened the door of the plane as soon as we landed and out bounded Karl Barx, as big as a young calf. He made straight for Captain Mohamed, who was waiting for us on the field. Not unnaturally afraid for his life, the captain yanked out a Luger and blasted Karl Barx in the head. Whereupon, the Little White Reindeer let loose with a volley from a toy pistol belonging to Ana Lyse with which he managed to wound the captain in the elbow. Mya flew to the rescue to give him first aid: three little drops of Borbor, of course. “Hello Yes Hello and How are you feeling, Mohamed?” That’s all there was to it. Like that, we were In.

Mya immediately took command of the fort and started snapping out orders. Thay was disposed of in the iron lung, with the help of everybody but me. I was just wandering off to look for the Communications center — where else? — when Mya spotted me.

“Whoa, there!” she cried. “And where do you think you are going with that UHER? Just hand that over, please. … I’ll be needing that. Hanson, I want you to jump on that electric typewriter, over there. … I’ll be wanting some transcripts made of what I record on this.”

Mya had stabled me in this cellular underground air conditioned office just big enough for one ass. I am chained, at least figuratively, to this twitching monster of a machine. The dam electric typewriter shies away at my lightest touch and balks like a mule when I lay hands on it. I’m learning to ride it. Right this minute, my UHER is recording under the bed in which his twin sister, Freeky Fard, is nursing the famous Amos. “I demand to see the Management!” I cry, but I have not laid eyes on him, yet. I begin to suspect, therefore, that all this lot of people I do see, here, are just Players and Amos-Soma may be the director of this operation. Certainly, he threw himself in here first. Mya must be wanting to keep an eye or an ear on her employees. She can’t just be wanting to know what it felt like to be tortured by Captain Mohamed, last night.

The gallant captain, by the way, insists Dr. Fard operate on him without any anesthetic: that’s his problem, I guess. Mohamed became even more of a hero in his own eyes when he saw his arm in a sling. He went around braying with asinine laughter every time Mya gave an order around here. In the end, she detailed him off to Mag Media, who fell around his neck like a mangy old lioness goes in for the arts, all jangling with bracelets and beads. He better get in his kicks while he can, is all I can say. Some sort of awful reaction has begun to set in on me. If I could only get hold of some keef.