Читать книгу Nova Express - William S. Burroughs - Страница 12

So Pack Your Ermines

SO PACK YOUR ERMINES

“So pack your ermines, Mary—We are getting out of here right now—I’ve seen this happen before—The marks are coming up on us—And the heat is moving in—­Recollect when I was traveling with Limestone John on The Carbonic Caper—It worked like this:: He rents an amphitheatre with marble walls he is a stone painter you dig can create a frieze while you wait—So he puts on a diving suit like the old Surrealist Lark and I am up on a high pedestal pumping the air to him—Well, he starts painting on the limestone walls with hydrochloric acid and jetting himself around with air blasts he can cover the wall in ten seconds, carbon dioxide settling down on the marks begin to cough and loosen their collars.”

“But what is he painting?”

“Why it’s arrg a theatre full of people suffocating—”

So we turn the flops over and move on—If you keep it practical they can’t hang a nova rap on you—Well, we hit this town and right away I don’t like it.

“Something here, John—Something wrong—I can feel it—”

But he says I just have the copper jitters since the nova heat moved in—Besides we are cool, just rolling flops is all three thousand years in show business—So he sets up his amphitheatre in a quarry and begins lining up the women clubs and poets and window dressers and organizes this “Culture Fest” he calls it and I am up in the cabin of a crane pumping the air to him—Well the marks are packing in, the old dolls covered with ice and sapphires and emeralds all ­really magnificent—So I think maybe I was wrong and everything is cool when I see like fifty young punks have showed in aqualungs carrying fish spears and without thinking I yell out from the crane:

“Izzy The Push—Sammy The Butcher—Hey Rube!”

Meanwhile I have forgotten the air pump and The Carbonic Kid is turning blue and trying to say something—I rush and pump some air to him and he yells:

“No! No! No!”

I see other marks are coming on with static and camera guns, Sammy and the boys are not making it—These kids have pulled the reverse switch—At this point The Blue Dinosaur himself charged out to discover what the beef is and starts throwing his magnetic spirals at the rubes—They just moved back ahead of him until he runs out of charge and stops. Next thing the nova heat slipped antibiotic handcuffs on all of us.

NABORHOOD IN AQUALUNGS

I was traveling with Merit John on The Carbonic Caper—Larceny with a crew of shoppers—And this number comes over the air to him—So he starts painting The D Fence last Spring—And shitting himself around with air blasts in Hicksville—Stopped ten seconds and our carbon dioxide gave out and we began to cough for such a purpose suffocating under a potted palm in the lobby—

“Move on, you dig, copping out ‘The Fish Poison Con—’”

“I got you—Keep it practical and they can’t—”

Transported back to South America we hit this town and right away being stung by the dreaded John—He never missed—Burned three thousand years in me playing cop and quarry—So the marks are packing in virus and subject to dissolve and everything is cool—Assimilate ice sapphires and emeralds all regular—So I walk in about fifty young punks—Sammy and the boys are all he had—One fix—Pulled the reverse switch—Traveling store closing so I don’t work like this—John set my medications—Nagasaki in acid on the walls faded out under the rubber trees—He can cover feet back to 1910—We could buy it settling down—Lay up in the Chink laundry on the collars—

“But what stale rooming house flesh—”

Cradles old troupers—Like Cleopatra applying the asp hang a Nova Rap on you—

“Lush?—I don’t like it—Empty pockets in the worn metal—Feel it?”

But John says: “Copper jitters since the space sell—The old doll is covered—”

Heavy and calm holding cool leather armchair—­Organizes this wispy mustache—I stopped in front of a mirror—Really magnificent in a starched collar—It is a naborhood in aqualungs with free lunch everywhere yell out “Sweet Sixteen”—I walked without Izzy The Push—

“Hey Rube!!”

Came to the Chinese laundry meanwhile—I have forgotten the Chink in front—Fix words hatch The Blue Dinosaur—I was reading them back magnetic—Only way to orient yourself—Traveling with the Chink kid John set throat like already written—“Stone Reading” we call it in the trade—While you wait he packs in Rome—I’ve checked the diving suit like every night—Up on a high pedestal perform this unnatural act—In acid on the walls—Set your watch by it—So that gives us twenty marks out through the side window and collars—

“But what in St. Louis?”

Memory picture coming in—So we turn over silver sets and banks and clubs as old troupers—Nova Rap on you that night as we walked out—I don’t like it—Something picking up laundry and my flesh feel it—

But John says: “Afternoon copper jitters since the caper—Housebreaking can cause this—”

We are cool just rolling—when things go wrong once—show business—We can’t find poets and organize this cut and the flesh won’t work—And there we are with the air off like beached idiots—Well I think maybe kicks from our condition—They took us—The old dolls on a train burning junk—Thawing flesh showed in aqualungs—Steam a yell out from the crane—

“Hey Rube!!”

Three silver digits explode—Meanwhile I have forgotten streets of Madrid—And clear as sunlight pump some air to him and he said: “Que tal Henrique?”

I am standing through an invisible door click the air to him—Well we hit this town and right away aphrodisiac ointment—

“Doc goofed here, John—Something wrong—Too much Spanish—”

“What? It’s green see? A green theatre—”

So we turn the marks over and rent a house as old troupers—And we flush out this cool pure Chinese H from show business—And he starts the whole Green Rite and organizes this fibrous grey amphitheatre in old turnip—Meanwhile I have forgotten a heavy blue silence—Carbonic Kid is turning to cold liquid metal and run pump some air to him in a blue mist of vaporized flicker helmets—The metal junkies were not making it—These kids intersected The Nova Police—We are just dust falls from demagnetized patterns—Show business—Calendar in Weimar youths—Faded poets in the silent amphitheatre—His block house went away through this air—Click St. Louis under drifting soot—And I think maybe I was in old clinic—Outside East St. Louis—Really magnificent for two notes a week—Meanwhile I had forgotten “Mother”—Wouldn’t you?—Doc Benway and The Carbonic Kid turning a rumble in Dallas involving this pump goofed on ether and mixed in flicker helmets—

“He is gone through this town and right away tape recorders of his voice behind, John—Something wrong—I can pose a colorless question??”

“Is all right—I just have the silence—Word dust falls three thousand years through an old blue calendar—”

“William, no me hagas caso—People who told me I could move on you copping out—said ‘Good-Bye’ to William and ‘Keep it practical’ and I could hear him hit this town and right away I closed the door when I saw John—Something wrong—Invisible hotel room is all—I just have the knife and he said:

“‘Nova Heat moved in at the seams—Like three thousand years in hot claws at the window’—

“And Meester William in Tétuan and said: ‘I have gimmick is cool and all very technical—These colorless sheets are the air pump and I can see the flesh when it has color—Writing say some message that is coming on all flesh—’

“And I said: ‘William tu es loco—Pulled the reverse switch—No me hagas while you wait’—Kitchen knife in the heart—Feel it—Gone away—Pulled the reverse switch—Place no good—No bueno—He pack caso—William tu hagas yesterday call—These colorless sheets are empty—You can look any place—No good—No bueno—Adios Meester William—”

THE FISH POISON CON

I was traveling with Merit Inc. checking store attendants for larceny with a crew of “shoppers”—There was two middle-aged cunts one owning this Chihuahua which whimpered and yapped in a cocoon of black sweaters and Bob Schafer Crew Leader who was an American Fascist with Roosevelt jokes—It happens in Iowa this number comes over the car radio:: “Old Sow Got Caught In The Fence Last Spring”—And Schafer said “Oh my God, are we ever in Hicksville”—Stopped that night in Pleasantville Iowa and our tires gave out we had no tire rations during the war for such a ­purpose—And Bob got drunk and showed his badge to the locals in a road house by the river—And I ran into The Sailor under a potted palm in the lobby—We hit the local croakers with “the fish poison con”—“I got these poison fish, Doc, in the tank transported back from South America I’m a Ichthyologist and after being stung by the dreaded Candirú—Like fire through the blood is it not? Doctor, and coming on now”—And The Sailor goes into his White Hot Agony Act chasing the doctor around his office like a blowtorch—He never missed—But he burned down the ­croakers—So like Bob and me when we “had a catch” as the old cunts call it and arrested some sulky clerk with his hand deep in the company pocket, we take turns playing the tough cop and the con cop—So I walk in on this Pleasantville croaker and tell him I have contracted this Venusian virus and subject to dissolve myself in poison juices and assimilate the passers-by unless I get my medicine and get it regular—So I walk in on this old party smelling like a compost heap and steaming demurely and he snaps at me, “What’s your trouble?”

“The Venusian Gook Rot, doctor.”

“Now see here young man my time is valuable.”

“Doctor, this is a medical emergency.”

Old shit but good—I walked out on the nod—

“All he had was one fix, Sailor.”

“You’re loaded—You assimilated the croaker—Left me sick—”

“Yes. He was old and tough but not too tough for The Caustic Enzymes Of Woo.”

The Sailor was thin and the drugstores was closing so I didn’t want him to get physical and disturb my ­medications—The next croaker wrote with erogenous acid vats on one side and Nagasaki Ovens on the other—And we nodded out under the rubber trees with the long red carpet under our feet back to 1910—We could buy it in the drugstore tomorrow—Or lay up in the Chink laundry on the black smoke—drifting through stale rooming houses, pool halls and chili—Fell back on sad flesh small and pretentious in a theatrical boarding house the aging ham cradles his tie up and stabs a vein like Cleopatra applying the asp—Click back through the cool grey short-change artists—lush rolling ghosts of drunken sleep—Empty pockets in the worn metal subway dawn—