Cities of the Red Night by William S. Burroughs Page A

nodded.
    â€œWell, a modest consumption of one nude hanging a year during the spring festivals … such festivals, within reason, could serve as a safety valve.… After all, worse things happen every day. Certainly this is a minor matter compared with Hiroshima, Vietnam, mass pollution, droughts, famines … you have to take a broad general view of things.”
    â€œIt might not be within reason at all. It might become pandemic.”
    â€œYes … the Aztecs got rather out of hand. But you are referring to your virus theory. Shall we call it ‘Virus B-23’? The ‘Hanging Fever’? And you are extrapolating from two cases which may not be connected. Peter Winkler may have died from something altogether different. I know you do not want to entertain such a possibility, but suppose that such an epidemic does occur?” He paused. “How old was Winkler?”
    â€œIn his early fifties.”
    â€œSo. Jerry was a carrier of the illness. He did not die of it directly. Winkler, who was thirty years older, died in a few days. Well … there are those who think a selective pestilence is the most humane solution to overpopulation and the attendant impasses of pollution, inflation, and exhaustion of natural resources. A plague that kills the old and leaves the young, minus a reasonable percentage … one might be tempted to let such an epidemic run its course even if one had the power to stop it.”
    â€œColonel, I have a hunch that what we might find in the South American laboratories would make the story we heard from Adam North sound like a mild Gothic romance for old ladies and children.”
    â€œExactly what I am getting at, Mr. Snide. There are risks not worth taking. There are things better left unseen and unknown.”
    â€œBut somebody has to see and know them eventually. Otherwise there is no protection.”
    â€œThat somebody who has to see and know may not be you. Think of your own life, and that of your assistant. You may not be called upon to act in this matter.”
    â€œYou have a point.”
    â€œHe sure does,” said Jim.
    â€œMr. Snide, do you consider Hiroshima a crime?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWere you ever tempted to go after the higher-ups?”
    â€œNo. It wasn’t my business.”
    â€œThe same considerations may apply here. There is, however, one thing you can do: find the head and exorcise it. I have already done this with the body. Mr. Green agreed to burial here in the American cemetery.”
    He walked across the room to a locked cabinet and returned with an amulet: runic lettering on what looked like parchment in an iron locket. “Not parchment—human skin…” he told me. “The ceremony is quite simple: the head is placed in a magic circle on which you have marked the cardinal points. You repeat three times: ‘Back to water. Back to fire. Back to air. Back to earth.’ You then touch the crown of the head, the forehead, and the spot behind the right ear, in this case—he was left-handed—with the amulet.”
    There was a knock at the door, and a middle-aged Greek woman with a mustache wheeled in the dinner of red mullet and Greek salad. After dinner and brandy we got up to take our leave.
    â€œI have said you may not be called upon to act. On the other hand, you may be called upon. You will know if this happens, and you will need help. I can give you a contact in Mexico City … 18 Callejón de la Esperanza.”
    â€œGot it,” said Jim.
    â€œMy driver will take you back to the Hilton.”
    *   *   *
    â€œNightcap?”
    â€œNo,” Jim said. “I’ve got a headache. I’m going up to the room.”
    â€œI’ll check the bar. See you very shortly.” I had seen someone I knew from the American Embassy. Probably CIA. I could feel that he wanted to talk to me.
    He looked up when I walked in, nodded