Painted Black (21 page)

Arnello righted the plane. The door swung shut again and the handle clicked. Spangler slid the lock in place. He was shaking with gratitude.

“I'll find out who it is, Mr. Arnello, and who put the contract out on Jones.”

“Find out more about this secret group that wants to kill rock stars. My kids love that shit. Me? I don't hear it, but if there's a conspiracy I want to know.”

“I'll do whatever you want, Mr. Arnello.”

“I know you will, Spangler. I know you will. Because you know I'm serious.”

The 747 touched down as soft as a kiss on the runway in Tangier–Ibn Batouta Airport. Bobby stared out the window at the foreign world outside. He'd been absorbed in a lengthy article in the onboard magazine. The article described Morocco's legendary racing pigeons. Strong, intelligent, and brave, they'd been bred for generations to do amazing things. During WWII, the pigeons flew with honor through the skies of North Africa. Some historians surmised that the Germans, who resented having “dumb animals” carry their most secret messages back and forth, may have actually won the war in the desert had they embraced Morocco's ancient warfare traditions. The Allies did.

Before they left, Bobby and Cricket agreed to talk on the phone twice a week on Tuesday and Thursday while the men were in Morocco. The only problem was that when they traveled to Joujouka in the Rif Mountains, there would be no phones or electricity. Bobby said he would find a way to keep in touch when they left civilization behind.

Brian, Clovis, and Dust Bin Bob set out for another adventure. Brian stuck to his story that he was going to the Rif Mountains to record the Master Musicians of Joujouka. He needed no special visa to record there.

As the passengers left the plane and walked down the movable steps across the tarmac, Clovis could see a few reporters in the arrival lounge. They were pointing at Brian and talking excitedly.

“Look who's here.”

“The tabloids? Big deal. We'll tell them the truth.”

Bobby grabbed Brian's arm. “Hold on. These guys don't print the truth. The truth is boring. They want sensationalism.”

“Okay, we'll tell them we're recording in the nude!”

“Get serious, Brian,” Bobby said. “We're supposed to be looking after you. Let's just avoid the reporters altogether.”

The heat in North Africa can be debilitating. It shimmers in the afternoon like ghosts hovering above the stones. Clovis couldn't take it and told Brian so, but he just laughed that soulful laugh of his and pointed at the hookah. “That's what that's for.”

“Oh …” said Clovis. “In that case …”

Brian lit a big wooden match on the side of the table and fired up the bowl of fragrant brown hashish. The smoke billowed across the room. Brian coughed violently.

“Steady there,
kemosabe
. Take it easy.”

Brian smiled, his eyes watery and far away. “I shall never take it easy, Clovis. It's not part of my code. Life is too bloody short for that kind of thinking.”

Clovis leaned forward, took a short pull on the pipe, and sat back, his head spinning. He let a lazy, blue cloud of smoke drift from his mouth. Nothing tastes quite like hash. Pungent and mysterious, stinking of dreams, it's the very essence of Morocco. A waiter brought more room temperature tea, and they sipped it to cool their throats. Brian shook his head.

“This is the first place I came after Keith stole Anita from me. The rotten bastard took half the dope and half the records, too.”

“It could have been worse. He could have taken it all.”

The bags under Brian's eyes quivered. “He must have had a rare attack of conscience. But the fact remains, he might have taken only half the stash, but he took
all
of Anita. And that's what really hurts.”

Brian had been an emotional train wreck following the first trip here, and Clovis knew those wounds were still fresh. The complex relationships that swirled around the Stones and their women made for the worst kind of decadent rock and roll soap opera.

Bobby returned from the hotel where he'd been taking care of registration for the group and sat down with them.

“Everything's set up. I got a rental car—a Land Rover, rigged for desert driving. This is going to be a hell of an adventure.”

“I can't wait,” Brian said.

Bobby worried about Brian. Mick and Keith had taken over every aspect of the group, and Brian had become the odd man out. He wasn't driven the way they were. He wasn't as obsessed with keeping up with the Beatles as they were. He reacted to Mick and Keith's musical activism by staying zonked out on drugs most of the time. Bobby could see their point. The Stones were a business, one of the two great bands of their era, and they had to deliver every time out. Brian lived up to his nickname “Liability” Jones.

So now Brian, Clovis, and Dust Bin Bob sat in a café in Tangier waiting for writer/artist Brion Gysin, a friend of Brian's. They'd only been here two hours and Brian was anxious to get out in the field. Clovis brought a pair of portable battery-powered Uher tape recorders, the best money could buy, and a selection of microphones to make sure they got every note. The machines were only two-tracks, but Brian assured Clovis there would be no overdubs.

“These guys play live, all-in, one take. You gotta be ready, man.”

Clovis would be, if the equipment worked. They'd have to lug it on their backs across the barren landscape, which was probably the real reason Brian brought Clovis and Bobby in the first place. It was worth it. Clovis had never seen Brian happier.

“This place is magical. You can smoke dope right out in the open. I love it.”

“Do you know where we're going?”

Brian shook his head. “Brion Gysin actually knows these Joujouka guys. He hangs out with them in their little village up in the mountains. He'll take us there. Without him, we would never find them.”

Brian busied himself with another match, another toke. This time the others shook their heads when the pipe was offered.

“I'm stoned …” Clovis said. “That's some strong shit, man.”

Brion Gysin entered the café looking like something out of a Hollywood biblical epic. He was dressed in a long white robe and sandals.

“Going native?” Brian said as they shook hands. “You look more Moroccan than the Moroccans.”

Gysin was deeply tanned and wore a small fez on the crown of his head. His piercing blue eyes sparkled.

“When in Rome, dear boy …”

“These are my colleagues Clovis Hicks, recording engineer, and Bobby Dingle, photographer and antique dealer.”

“This is Mahmoud, my house boy.”

They shook hands. Gysin and Mahmoud pulled up chairs. Gysin ordered strong Turkish coffee and sweet Moroccan pastries. The hash pipe came to life again, and the air turned thick and lazy.

Gysin said, “I am prepared to take you to record the Master Musicians of Joujouka. You're in fantastic luck, because the Pipes of Pan Festival starts this weekend.”

Brian gave the thumbs-up.

“We've got portable recording equipment. We're ready to rock, man. Now, just exactly where is Joujouka?”

The way Gysin looked directly into your eyes when he spoke was somewhat disconcerting, and Bobby could see Brian squirm under his unblinking gaze.

“Joujouka is in the Rif Mountains, about sixty miles south of here. Deep in the country, my friend. I took William Burroughs there, and it blew his mind. And Bill's mind is hard to blow. It's like going back four thousand years.”

“And the music?”

Gysin smiled.

“Trancelike. Passionate. Extraordinary. The pieces rise and fall, reaching crescendo after crescendo. Sometimes one song can last indefinitely.”

“I hope we can fit it all on one reel.”

The coffee arrived at the table. Gysin spooned in some sugar and stirred. His voice was soft. One got the feeling that he'd given this speech before.

“The Master Musicians of Joujouka all come from one incredibly huge, ancient family. Their music has been handed down for generations, from father to son. It's amazing when you think about it. Bill Burroughs called them the world's only four-thousand-year-old rock band.”

Brian sniffed.

“Kinda makes the Stones and the Beatles seem somehow … insignificant.”

“A man named Hadj Abdessalam Attar is their leader. I know him. He's a good person. I'm sure he will cooperate with the recording. He worked with Ornette Coleman when he came here several years ago.”

A disturbance in the streets outside caused them to look out the window. An old man beat a young boy with a cane. Mahmoud thought the kid had stolen a piece of fruit.

“That's a serious crime if the both the boy and shopkeeper are Moslem.”

By now, a crowd had gathered, and the kid was being dragged away by the wrists. The boy fought violently. Excessive force subdued him.

“What are they gonna do, cut off his hands?” Clovis asked, half-jokingly.

The somber expressions of Gysin and Mahmoud silenced him. Brian turned away from the window and swatted a fly off his cup.

“What kind of place is this?”

Gysin used his hands when he spoke, illustrating the sentences with elaborate gestures.

“Tangier? It's a beautiful anarchy, my friend. There are three official languages; French, Spanish, and Arabic, but most people speak a little English. Two official currencies, the peseta and the franc, but dollars and pounds are welcome, too. Almost everything is legal—drugs, prostitution, homosexuality. Legend has it that Hercules killed the giant Antaeus and buried him here. Apparently, he had the hots for Antaeus's wife and she for him. Antaeus is the god of losers. Tangier has always been an open city. Matisse lived here at one time.”

Brian raised an eyebrow.

“I had no idea.”

“This is a very old town. The foundation of the building you're sitting in dates back to the time of the Roman Empire.”

Clovis looked at the floor.

“Jeez …”

Gysin continued. “The music can be traced all the way back to ancient Egypt. These people still worship the great goat-god Pan whose followers stretch back into the dawn of antiquity, centuries before Christ.”

The crowd outside dispersed as the heat pressed down on them.

“That's some mighty old shit.”

Gysin laughed. “Yes, some mighty old shit, indeed.”

Brian cleared his throat.

“Will we be able to communicate with them? Can we jam? What language do they speak?”

“Slow down. One question at a time. Even though there are three official languages, Morocco actually has eleven languages, two of them nearly extinct. In the section of the Rif Mountains where we're going, they speak Ghomara, one of the almost extinct languages. Luckily, Mahmoud speaks Tarifit, which is quite similar to Ghomara. Hadj speaks a little English, plus some standard Arabic, so we'll get along just fine. Besides, once the music starts, there is only one language.”

“I can't wait to get started.”

Gysin grinned.

“A Rolling Stone and the Pipes of Pan. This, I'd like to see.”

“What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?” Brian said.

Bobby said, “I've got to see someone about a pigeon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The famous Moroccan racing pigeons. The son of one of our English diplomats raises these racing pigeons right here in Tangier. His name is Kevin Cheswick and he's the son of Sir Alfred Cheswick. They live in the British mission right here in town.”

“Why on earth would you want a racing pigeon?”

Bobby smiled.

“That's my secret. Now tell me about that auction.”

“A local shaman died, the last of a very long line of shamans. His estate is being auctioned to pay creditors. I think there might be some rather esoteric, one-of-a-kind items available. Care to view the merchandise with me?”

Bobby said, “Absolutely. I'm on a buying trip while I'm here.”

“Then you should come along.”

Clovis shook his head. “I think I'll skip the auction. You guys go and have your fun. I'll see you when you get back.”

One hour later, Brian Jones, Brion Gysin, and Dust Bin Bob were at the auction house—a huge, smoky room full of sweaty men of all nationalities. A large water stain on the ceiling resembled a map of Sri Lanka. Business was conducted in rapid-fire French and moved quickly. Items they had viewed earlier were brought out and placed upon a table where a one-armed auctioneer presided.

Bobby bid on several ornamental boxes, rugs, and tapestries, purchasing all of them. Gysin did the same. Brian, on the other hand, seemed bored. He wasn't really keen on any of the stuff and acted indifferently throughout.

That is, until an odd little mirror went on the auction block. Bobby noticed it at the viewing. It was about the size of a standard eight-by-ten photograph. A frame of black, polished stone, carved with tiny hieroglyphs, surrounded a rectangle of smoky, uneven glass. When Brian looked into it, the reflected image was slightly distorted.

“That's that weird little mirror you were looking at,” Bobby said. “Might be a valuable antique.”

Gysin gripped Brian's arm.

“That's a very special mirror. Buy it.”

Brian raised his hand, and the auctioneer began babbling incomprehensible phrases at warp speed. The veins on his neck stuck out like vermicelli. Brian, with Gysin's help, outbid three other guys and bought the mirror.

“What did you mean, special?”

“Magic,” Gysin whispered. “Ancient, beautiful, actual magic. That mirror is for gazing; scrying some call it. It's a form of meditation. It's said to open the third eye and cause the gazer to see amazing things. Some believe that Nostradamus was a mirror gazer and wrote many of his quatrains after gazing into the glass. Mirrors like that have been found in tombs over a thousand years old.”