I had just read The Western Lands, brilliant, his greatest novel. His 80th birthday party was held at the Limelight, a recently opened club in what was formerly a church.
The Limelight was the epitome of the decadent, swinging Manhattan of the early 80s. The stained glass windows were in tact; the massive organ pipes painted and lit in strong, vibrant colours. Allen Ginsberg sat at our table; later I was introduced to Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe, whom I would get to know better, later.
I needed to go the loo, which was on a scaffolding high up in the club. As I entered the toilet, Burroughs came out, buttoning up the fly of his trousers.
Only he and I up there. No one else.
So what does one say, could I say?
“Hallo”, I mustered.
“Hallo”, he answered.
A few days later I flew to Los Angeles and was invited to Timothy Leary’s house, who was giving a party to honour Burroughs 80th birthday. Leary was a charming host. I had met him in the 70s, in Afghanistan, whilst he was on the run from the FBI. Lauren Hutton and another model, who I now cant recall were sitting on the floor, smoking a joint. Barbara Leary took Nathalie and myself into the kitchen and brought out some hash cookies from the fridge.
The evening progressed, but there was no Burroughs. “He is probably having difficulty finding a vein’, Barbara quipped.
Nathalie’s toothache was bothering her and she wanted to go home.
We opened the door and one of those strong winds blew up the valley into the Beverley Hills. And there he was, as if being blasted by the wind, surrounded by about six young men, in billowing flamboyant clothes. A modern version of Satyricon.
I let Nathalie go home alone and stayed.
For what happened after that you will have to wait for my memoirs.
