Cities of the Red Night

by William S. Burroughs

  “I used the same method of projecting myself into a time when my mind seemed empty of words. This I would do while walking in the woods or paddling on the lake. Once again, I waited some time for results. One day as I was paddling on the lake and about to put out fishlines, I felt the weakness in my chest, silver spots appeared in front of my eyes with a vertiginous sensation of being sucked into a vast empty space where words do not exist.”

  * * *

  My time is divided between the library and the gun shop. The library is well stocked with books on weapons, fortifications, shipbuilding, and navigation and has also a large number of maps indicating the number of Spanish troops stationed in different locations, the nature of fortifications, and the Spanish sea routes with approximate times when they are in use.

  It often happens that quite practical inventions are for some reason not developed. Here are plans for a repeating gun with a number of barrels rotating by means of a hand-turned crank. A repeating gun is one of my dreams but first there is some basic improvement required in the gun itself.

  Hans and I, wearing only shorts, are reading the same book, our knees touching. Here are plans for a grenade—simply a metal sphere filled with powder ignited by a fuse, and a mortar that shoots large grenades for a considerable distance. I feel a sudden quickening of interest and a prickling sensation in the back of my neck. Hans seems equally affected. He is breathing through his teeth, eyes boring into the paper as if he were studying an erotic drawing.

  We look at each other and stand up, our shorts sticking out at the crotch. We strip off our shorts and Hans grins and brings his finger up in three jerks. I prop the book against the wall on the far side of the desk and bend over a chair. As Hans fucks me, the drawings seem to come alive belching red fire and just as I go off, Chinese children set off a string of firecrackers against the door and I see a huge firecracker blow the library to atoms as a gob of sperm hits the book six feet away.

  We sit down naked and Hans wipes his brow with one hand and says: “Wheeeeoooo!”

  I say: “Firecracker! That’s the basic exploding weapon. It’s all here, but they didn’t see how far it can be carried. Firecrackers … they can be of any size. Why not exploding cannonballs? One such projectile could sink a galleon.”

  * * *

  “Waring is expecting us.”

  Dink leads the way up a steep path. Waring’s house is on top of a hill in a grove of trees, concealed by vines. He receives us most cordially in a cool room furnished in the Moroccan style with a low table and settees. A tall aloof black serves mint tea, and Waring passes around a hashish pipe. Dink declines, since he never touches alcohol or any other drug.

  At a sign from Dink, Waring gets up and leads us into his studio.

  “While there is still light…”

  His paintings are unlike any I have ever seen, containing not one but many scenes, figures, and landscapes that flicker in and out of the canvas. I can see The Great White, Harbor Point, fleeting faces, islands, flying fish, and Indians rowing across the bay.

  Back in the sitting room candles have been lit, and there is a partridge pie with flaky pastry and a wild turkey tagine on a low table. I do not remember much of what was said during dinner.

  At one point, Waring looked at me quizzically and said: “What you are doing is against the rules. Be careful you don’t get caught.”

  It was quite late when we left. Back in the hut, Dink rolled out the pallet and I fell into a deep sleep.

  In a dream I see Dink standing over me with the most perfectly formed erect phallus I have ever seen. Now he is fucking me with my legs up and as I wake up ejaculating, I find that he is fucking me. I can feel his face in mine and for a split second he disappears and I hear his fourteen-year-old voice in my throat: “It’s me! It’s me! It’s me! I made it! I landed!”

  * * *

  We can hardly wait to get back to the shop and set all hands to work. In a week, we have several different devices ready for testing. I have made a number of arrows, the heads of hollow iron filled with powder; grenades, with a shaft to be launched from a flintlock rifle; several mortars; and a projectile for a cannon, designed to explode on contact. The nose of this projectile, which is not round but shaped like a short cylinder, is of softer metal packed with flint chips and iron filings so that, being violently depressed on contact with ship or rigging, it explodes the powder charge. Inside, the cylinder is lined with Greek fire—that is, pitch mixed with finely powdered metal, this being separated from the powder charge by a layer of paper.

  The time is now ready for testing. There is a stranded ship two hundred yards off the coast a mile down from our station. We proceed to the testing site with our bows and rifle grenades, mortars, and one cannon. Everyone is there: Strobe, the Iguana twins, Nordenholz, even Waring.

  Ten arrows and ten rifle grenades are dipped into the fire. Bow is drawn, the head ignited from a torch, and the arrow launched, the same procedure being followed with the rifle grenades, which are of course much larger. The missiles streak towards the ship and in a few seconds are exploding on the decks, in the rigging, and against the sides, starting fires from one end of the boat to the other. Then mortars are launched, and though some fall short or overshoot, those that land cause great damage.

  Time now for the cannon: a perfect hit with a ten-pound projectile at the waterline. The explosion tears a gaping hole in the hull and wraps the boatside in fire. There is no doubt as to the deadly effectiveness of these weapons. We are congratulated by Nordenholz and Strobe and the Iguana twins.

  Waring smiles and says: “Nice toys. Nice noisy toys to scare the ghosts away.”

  * * *

  The plans are sent along by courier to the other settlements and we busy ourselves bringing the fortifications of Port Roger up to date. The Indians are offered good pay to work in our ever-expanding shop and are learning how to make these devices.

  Soon we have a fair stockpile of shells sufficient to pour a deadly fire into the bay from both sides. We have mounted gun towers around the walls of the town with cannon that can reach the bay or be lowered to fire directly down on any forces laying siege to Port Roger.

  Nordenholz is supervising the construction of special boats designed to operate near the coasts. These are about fifty feet long, mounted on two pontoons. They will draw only a few feet of water and can be used in rivers and quickly launched or concealed. They will carry the maneuverable cannons and a good stock of mortars and grenades. He calls them Destroyers, since they have no other purpose. No provisions need be carried, just guns and gun crews, and the Destroyers will be so much faster than a galleon that they can easily avoid the fixed cannons.

  I now turn my attention to improving the flintlock. My dissatisfaction with this weapon derives from an incident that occurred in a waterfront tavern in Boston. This place was near our gun shop, and we were accustomed to take a beer there after work. One evening I was there with Sean Brady when a man came in who had been dismissed by my father for his drunken, lazy, quarrelsome habits and had stomped out, vowing vengeance on all of us.

  There he stood at the bar, weaving and glaring at us with bloodshot eyes, and let loose a string of vile oaths and insults. Brady told him to mind his mouth or lose his teeth, whereupon the man pulled a flintlock pistol from his side pocket, leveled it at Brady’s chest, and pulled the trigger. At this precise second the bartender, who was standing behind the ruffian and to one side, spat a stream of beer straight into the pan, causing the weapon to misfire. We then beat the man unconscious and threw him into the harbor and watched him sink.

  Of what use are flintlock weapons with a driving rain behind you? And the length of time taken to reload far exceeds the firing time. The weapon lacks firing power—that is, the number of projectiles that can be fired in a given length of time. So back to the library.

  I note that early cannons were breech-loading, and feel once again the admonitory prickling in the back of my neck. At that very moment a hand t
ouches the nape of my neck. It is the Iguana who has come in silently with her twin. I look up at her.

  “It’s there in my head, but I can’t quite get it out where I can see it.”

  “Well, how did you see the exploding cannonball?”

  Hans and I look at each other and grin.

  * * *

  Waring has told me about Hassan i Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, who terrorized the Moslem world for years with a few hundred assassins. I pointed out that holding a single fortified position—as Hassan i Sabbah did at Alamut—is no longer possible, owing to improved weapons that I have already perfected and which will inevitably, in the course of time, fall into the hands of our prospective enemies. We need now a much wider area of occupation. Waring said cryptically: “Well, that depends on what you are trying to do.”

  * * *

  As I was returning from the library this afternoon, a red-haired child of twelve or so popped out of a doorway, aimed a small pistol at me and pulled the trigger.

  “Bang! You’re dead.”

  I had seen these toy pistols many times before and never concerned myself to find out exactly how they functioned, just as I had seen firecrackers without realizing the potentials of that toy. The child was reloading.

  “Let me see that,” I demanded.

  The child handed me his pistol, which had a flat hammer. The report resulted from the hammer’s striking a little blister of powder glued between two pieces of paper. Suddenly I had the solution: firing device, charge, and ball in one unit, to be inserted and extracted through the breech. I bent down and the boy jumped up on my back, and I carried him into the gun shop as he fired his pistol in the air.

  * * *

  We are working round the clock on this design. Pallets are on the floor, and we take turns sleeping. We are producing double-barreled guns in both rifle and pistol form, for increased firepower.

  In a week we have two rifles and two pistols, with a number of cartridges ready for testing. The test is carried out in the gun shop, since secrecy must be observed. A man-sized target is set up at one hundred feet. “Pow Pow”—two bullets on target.

  After the test I present the red-headed boy, whose name is Chan, with a rifle and give Strobe a pistol. At this Strobe is somewhat piqued. I retain the remaining two weapons for my own use. Plans are immediately dispatched by courier to all the settlements in these locations: on the Pacific side of the isthmus of Panama opposite the Pearl Islands; two settlements inland from Guayaquil in a heavily wooded and mountainous area; and settlements above Panama City on both the Atlantic and Pacific sides and in the mountainous interior.

  Production of the weapons is now standardized and we have fifty Indians working under our supervision. As soon as they learn how to assemble the guns, they are sent back to their villages and jungles since decentralization is a keynote of our strategy. Instead of one central factory, there are a number of small shops that can turn out a few guns a day. We are distributing guns through the store in Port Roger. Arming the native population is another essential step. The cannon that protect Port Roger are being converted to receive breech-loading shells.

  NECESITA AUTOMÓVIL

  I hadn’t been in Mexico City in fifteen years. Driving in from the airport I could hardly recognize the place. As Dimitri said, a selective pestilence may be the only solution. Otherwise, they will multiply their assholes into the polluted seas.

  Kiki, Jim, and I checked into a small hotel off Insurgentes, which was a few blocks from John Everson’s Mexico City address. Then we split up. Jim and Kiki went to John Everson’s address to see what they could pick up from the landlady and the vecinos. I went to the American Embassy, found the Protection Department, and sent in my card. I saw the girl hand it to a man at a desk. He looked at the card and looked at me. Then he did something else. I waited twenty minutes.

  “Mr. Hill will see you now.”

  Mr. Hill didn’t get up or offer to shake hands. “Yes, Mr. uh…” He glanced down at the card. “… Snide. What can I do for you?”

  There is a breed of State Department official who starts figuring out how he can get rid of you without doing whatever it is you want done as soon as you walk into his department. Clearly, Mr. Hill belonged to this breed.

  “It’s about John Everson. He disappeared in Mexico City about two months ago. His father has retained me to locate him.”

  “Well, we are not a missing-person service. So far as we are concerned, the case is now with the Mexican authorities. I suggest you contact them. A colonel, uh…”

  “Colonel Figueres.”

  “Yes, that is the name, I believe.”

  “Did John Everson pick up his mail at the embassy?”

  “I uh don’t think … in any case, we don’t encourage…”

  “Yes, I know. You are also not a post office. Would you mind calling the mail desk and asking if there are any letters there addressed to John Everson?”

  “Really, Mr. Snide…”

  “Really, Mr. Hill. I have been retained by an American citizen—rather well connected, I may add, working on a U.S. government project—retained to find an American citizen who is missing in your district. So far, there is no evidence of foul play but it hasn’t been ruled out.”

  He was also the type who backs down under pressure. He reached for the phone. “Could you tell me if there are any letters for John Everson at the desk.… One letter?”

  I slid a power of attorney across the desk which authorized me among other things to pick up mail addressed to John Everson. He looked at it.

  “A Mr. uh Snide will pick up the letter. He has authorization.” He hung up.

  I stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Hill.” His nod was barely perceptible.

  On the way out of the office I met that CIA punk from Athens. He pretended to be glad to see me, and shook hands and asked where I was staying. I told him at the Reforma. I could see he didn’t believe me, which probably meant he knew where I was staying. I was beginning to get a bad feeling about the Everson case, like gathering vultures.

  I waited almost an hour to see Colonel Figueres, but I knew he was really busy. He’d been a major when I last saw him. He hadn’t changed much. A little heavier, but the same cold gray eyes and focused attention. When you see him he gives his whole concentration to you. He shook hands without smiling. I can’t recall ever seeing him smile. He simply doesn’t give himself occasion to do so. I told him I had come about the Everson boy’s disappearance.

  He nodded. “I thought you had, and I’m glad you are here. We haven’t been able to give enough time to it.”

  “You think something may have happened to him?”

  Figueres doesn’t shrug. He doesn’t gesticulate. He just sits there with his eyes focused on you and what is being discussed.

  “I don’t know. We have checked Progreso and all surrounding towns. We have checked airports and buses. If he had gone off on another dig, he would be that much easier to locate. A blond foreigner off the tourist routes is very conspicuous. We have also checked all the tourist places. Apparently he was a level-headed, serious young man … no indications of drug use or excessive drinking. Is there any history of amnesia? Psychotic episodes?”

  “None that I know of.”

  Dead end.

  Back at the hotel, Jim and Kiki had turned up very little from questioning the landlady and the neighbors. The landlady described Everson as a serious polite young man … un caballero. He entertained few visitors and these were also serious students. There had been no noise, no drinking, no girls.

  I sat down and opened the letter. It was from his twin sister in Minneapolis. It read:

  Querido Juanito,

  He has visited me again. He says that before you receive this letter He will have contacted you. He says you will then know what has to be done.

  Your Ever Loving Sister,

  Jane

  At three o’clock, I called Inspector Graywood in New York. “Clem Snide here.”


  “Ah yes, Mr. Snide, there have been some developments in Lima. A boy did come to call for another crate and was seen to brush against the duplicate head crate. He was followed to a bicycle rental and repair shop in the Mercado Mayorista. Police searched the shop and found false identity papers in the name of Juan Mateos. The proprietor has been arrested and charged with possession of forged papers and with conspiracy to conceal evidence of a murder. He is being detained in isolation. He claims he did not know what was in the crate. He had been offered a fairly large sum to pick up the crate after it had cleared customs. The crate was to have been brought to his shop. Someone would arrange to pick it up there, and he would be paid an additional and larger sum. The customs agent who passed the crate has also been arrested. He has confessed to accepting a bribe.”

  “What about the boy?”

  “There was no reason to hold him in connection with this case. However, since he has a record for petty theft and a history of epilepsy, he has been placed in a rehabilitation center in Lima.”

  “I wish I could be on the scene.”

  “So do I. Otherwise, I doubt if any important arrests will be made. In a country like that, people of wealth are virtually untouchable. People like the Countess de Gulpa, for example.…”

  “So you know about her?”

  “Of course. The description of the man who contacted the customs broker tallies rather closely with your Identikit picture of Marty Blum. I have sent a copy to the Lima police and informed them that he is also wanted in connection with a murder here. Benson, it seems, was a pusher, small-time … a number of leads but no arrests as yet. Have you found the Everson boy?”

  “Not yet and I don’t like the looks of it.”

  “You think something has happened to him?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I believe you have a contact from Dimitri.” I had said nothing about this contact when I told my story in O’Brien’s office. “Perhaps it is time to use it.”