Post by darkstar3 on Apr 12, 2011 15:15:54 GMT
King Magazine (Italy) 1991
JIM AND I FRIENDS UNTIL DEATH
by: Alain Ronay
Translated From Italian To English By: Joel Brody
Anything and everything has been written about the tragic end of the
Doors' leader. But what really happened on July 3rd twenty years ago,
no one has ever told. This is because Alain Ronay, Jim's photographer
friend who was the first to find the rock star in his apartment where
he lay in the bathtub without breathing, had always kept quiet. Now,
to defend Morrison's memory, Ronay speaks out. He tells King all the
details of that day, from the strange behavior of Pamela, Jim's
girlfriend, to the doctors' incompetence, to the superficiality of
the police in trying to hide the news of his death. He also remembers
the happy days spent with Jim in Paris, the anguish of the singer
poet, his desire to detoxify from alcohol and keep himself away from
heroin.
A Frenchman and naturalized American, Alain met Jim in California in
1964. Since then they became close friends.
Friday, July 2, 1971: Jim and I were taking a walk in the Marais
Quarter in Paris. The historic district served only as a backdrop for
our discussions which ranged from the Yoga teacher's visit (Jim had
asked me to be an interpreter for them - the topic of their
discussion: man as a tightrope walker heading towards death) to
analyzing Nietzche's opinions on suicide. Jim was obsessed by death.
Everyone knew this, but rarely did he bring up this topic with me.
That morning his words went back to that subject many times. I
succeeded in tearing him away from his deark thoughts with Oscar
Wilde.
Although neither of us had been particularly interested in him, Oscar
seemed to lift our spirits considerably. A month earlier, when Jim
and Pamela (Pamela Courson, Morrison's companion, editor's note) came
to visit me in London, I reserved a room for them at the Cadogan
Hotel near Sloane Square. I told them this was the place where Wilde
was arrested.
While we were walking a connection clicked in my mind: in Paris Jim
and Pam stayed in what they snobbishly called the Hotel.
"But, do you realize that Oscar Wilde lived here too? I said
thoughtlessly. There's even a plaque here near the door. I'm sure of
it. Didn't you see it?"
Jim didn't answer, so I added, "Watch out you don't follow too
closely in his footsteps - you could end up like him."
My words remained hanging in the air. Jim continued not to answer.
What could he say? My ideas were completely out of place and I felt
stupid.
Fortunately, a half empty store that faced a very narrow street
allowed us to change the subject. A hand-painted sign informed us
that we were at the Voix d'Orphee, but what this was really all about
was not very clear to us. Even if Orpheus' Voice didn't mean much to
me, it seemed however to interest Jim who insisted that I ask in
French what went on in there. His mood soared when I told him it was
a recording studio.
"Hey - It's almost a good omen, isn't it? I can finish my poetry
record righthere - that's exactly what I'm going to do. I've no
intention of leaving Paris. I'm happy here. I should get back to the
tapes of my poetry that I left at Village Recorders -I bet the
bootleggers have already pounced on them, and maybe they're not fit
for release-"
The stately houses and historic monuments disappeared when we got to
Rue des Rosieres, a very colorful street full of little stores run by
the most varied ethnic groups. While Jim was buying a pendant for
Pam, I noticed for the first time that he tried to appear happy while
I had the district sensation that he wasn't happy at all. There was
an indefinable anxiety in his gestures. I knew him too well.
There was something abnormal and wrong with his behavior. Something
incredible because Jim Morrison never begged anybody. He said
nothing. He tried to take his time, to find excuses for me to stay
with him. He was desperate. This, I saw clearly. But why? I didn't
ask. He would never have explained it.
In the past Jim was always successful in keeping his states of
anxiety under control, even though I was usually able to pick up on
them. However, towards noon there was no longer any need to guess. He
was not making any effort to camouflage his strong agitation: he was
shaken by a series of very powerful hiccups.
We ate in a restaurant specializing in Alsatian food. The fin de
siecle decorations exploded in arabesques and art nouveau
convolutions. Later in the afternoon we discovered a purveyor of
cinematographic rarities, among which were some of Fritz Lang's
films. We stopped in front of the shoemaker's where Jim had brought
his new boots to be made wider. They weren't ready yet. Every once in
awhile the hiccups returned to violently shake Jim's body. Apart from
this his agitation grew worse. His nerves were visibly shaking and
the reason for this was still unknown to me.
The state of his emotional upheaval reached its peak at his apartment
at about 5:30 PM when I had to leave to meet Agnes Varda.
"Don't go away" - he implored me. There was something
abnormal and wrong in all this. Jim never implored, it wasn't in his makeup. Then
he tried to take his time and his tactics were obvious but foreign to
his personality. As far as cheering you up and lifting your spirits
he is the cleverest person I have ever known.
He was desperate. But why? I never asked him because I knew he would
never tell me. First of all he wanted me to read the opening article
of Newsweek at all costs. He seemed very serious in asking me to do
this but I was already on my way out and I didn't even look at the
magazine cover. It took about half an hour before I managed to walk
down the stairs and leave. Jim still tried to keep me with the
pretext of a telegram he was supposed to send from the post office a
few blocks away. He wanted me to help him with the French.
Fortunately, a post office strike helped me in trying to get away,
but Jim asked me if he could at least come outside with me. Opposite
a cafe- in Place de la Bastille, Jim made his last appeal, -
"Come on Alain, stay- Stay at least for a short beer with me, what do you say?
Don't leave-stay with me. Do it for an old friend." - Hiccups
continually interrupted his pleading.
The show of this sudden and unexplainable change confused and upset
me, above all when compared to Jim's behavior during the month just
past which he spent with Pam. In that brief period he was happy, calm
and free. Paris was good for him. He had gotten rid of the damage
produced by fame and had found himself again. He wrote all the time,
he went around town and about his business without being recognized
and he had almost stopped drinking. He didn't take drugs yet.
Pam's habit hadn't yet gotten to him. She led her own independent
life in Paris and did not live with him. Therefore, with a few
exceptions, Jim and I spent almost the whole month of June alone
together. Our days were tranquil and were probably the best we
shared. Jim's repeated invitations to join him in Paris to
relive "the good old days"- implied that he fully intended to bury
the rock star in him. The promise was kept.
The purpose of the Paris vacation was to detoxify Jim of alcohol and
for him to forget the anguish that his fame as a rock star had
caused. In June of l971 Jim was very creative. He spent a lot of time
writing poetry.
We went into a cafe on Place de la Bastille. We ordered and I asked
the waiter to hurry. Jim suddenly closed his eyes while new waves of
hiccups went through him. He was thoroughly concentrated in his
efforts to get rid of them. When I looked at him I had the clear
sensation that his face had assumed the aspect of a death mask. The
feeling disappeared when Jim opened his eyes again. He scrutinized
me, and as if waiting for me to lie he asked, "What did you see?"
"Nothing Jim, nothing."
While we were ordering another round of beers, I realized that I
really had to leave and I said to him, "Forgive me but I really have
to go." I rushed out and stopped next to the nearby subway entrance.
I turned round to see him one more time. He was in profile and
suddenly, as if he felt me looking at him, he turned and stared at
me. All this lasted only a few seconds. Then I dashed down the stairs.
Agnes cast an impatient glance at me over the desk at which she was
seated and repeated, "And so it seemed to you to have seen a dead
man's face."
"Not a face," I corrected her, "what I saw was a death mask."
Agnes was busy looking, however superficially, for a letter in her
file. I needed to see her eyes which were hidden behind her black
bangs. I wanted to find out if she was indifferent, skeptical or if
she was making light of the whole issue to calm me down.
"Should I go on?" I asked.
"Of course," she answered impatiently, keeping her hand in the filing
cabinet as if it were a bookmark and staring at me.
"What do you mean by mask?" she asked.
"I mean the type of make-up that is applied to people after they're
deceased. Jim had one of these in his book on Francis Bacon. It was a
picture of William Blake's face. He had that book when we were
students and lived in my house years ago."
"Now I understand, that's curious"
"Curious - you could say something better than that - Looking at it
made me ill."
"I see that this has really made an impression on you."
"Jim knew that you and I were supposed to have dinner together, but
he continued to insist that I join him at the movies where I sent Pam
and him to see Mitchum's film."
Agnes gave me an encouraging smile and said, "If you want, we could
do without going to the Vietnamese restaurant - Go with them. Anyway,
I'm tired and I have to go over the text of Tango."
"Don't even mention such a thing. I don't want to go back. Let's go
and eat the Seven Spices or whatever the devil they call it."
Agnes closed the shutters, turned off all the lights and the TV. Then
she asked me almost incidentally, "Did he get rid of the hiccups?"
"What? No-not at all."
Early the next morning, (I was finally resting after a night of
insomnia), I got up with a start with the sensation that a telephone
was ringing. Since I was a guest I never answered. But I wasn't
completely sure that it was the telephone in the wing of the
apartment where Agnes slept that was ringing. I hurried across the
entrance to the living room where the other telephone was. The line
was free. A Calder mobile swung silently above my head while I looked
around to find a clock. Light was coming in from the garden. It must
have been about 6AM and I went back to bed with tense nerves
wondering if the telephone really had rung.
When I had awakened for the second time, I was sure I heard the
telephone ring. Outside the typical sounds of the market day could be
heard. I heard the thump of the mail that fell through the mail slot
in the door. This meant it was 8AM. The mail always arrived
punctually.
I got to the phone in time to say "Hello"- and hear the Yoga teacher,
Monique Godard, excuse herself for calling so early in the morning.
She was a nervous woman, smoked like a chimney, always wore very
short skirts and was tall and stylish enough to be a model.
Everything about her contradicted my knowledge of Yoga. Her ability
as a healer had earned her an incredible reputation among her
illustrious clients, the most exalted minds of Paris. She had great
influence on them and although I entertained serious doubts as to her
powers, I had contacted her hoping she would accept Pam as her
patient. Nothing that could help Pam could be done soon enough.
"I'm leaving town and I won't be back before you return to
California," she explained. "If your friend needs my help he must
first see a doctor. I want him to have a check-up. You can tell him
that. Does he have a history of drugs? Does he have circulatory
problems? I must know this."
"But I didn't get in touch with you for Jim's sake." I reminded her.
It's for Pam. I thought I made that clear. "Weren't you aware of this
the other day when we were in their apartment? God, she was in bad
shape."
"Who, her? I would never take her, never. But as far as your friend
is concerned, I want him to see a doctor immediately. I feel these
things. It could even be too late. Well, I've got to go."
"Wait- Are you hiding something from me? What-yes, well-all right,
all right."
"By any chance did you also call before? No? I thought it might have
been you. Do you have to hang up?"
"Please wait - then you will look after Jim - take care of him. I
won't be here and I've been worried about him since yesterday. Yes.
Thank you."
"Have a good trip."
This call upset me. I didn't know what to do. I was short on ideas.
A few minutes later the phone rang again. It was Pam. She usually
spoke in a soft tone of voice, but this time there was a note of fear.
"Can you speak a little louder?"- I shouted into the phone as if I
too had the same tone.
"Jim's unconscious and bleeding. Call an ambulance. You know I don't
speak French. Hurry up." - Pam was sobbing. Then, she added, "I think
he's dying."
I ran across the garden to the wing where Agnes was and knocked
repeatedly at the door. She immediately awakened. I didn't know how
to use the complicated Parisian phone system and I asked her to do it
for me. Agnes grabbed her orange telephone while saying to me, "I
don't know Jim's address. Write it on this paper - I'll take you
there, meanwhile, leave a message for the maid and Bernardo. Write
that I had to go out on an emergency."
"Why are you dialing the number over and over again? What's going on?"
"Be calm. We're not in the United States here. It takes time. Bring
your passport along, you'll need it."
I told Agnes not to give Jim's name, only the apartment number and I
ran back across the garden to my room. When I returned Agnes was
putting on a long madras dress over her nightgown while she talked on
the phone, "She is American. She doesn't speak French. Send someone
who speaks English - third floor, the door on the right."
In my mind I was already on the way. I was trembling and peeing in my
pants out of fright. Pam had always had a penchant for drama, but I
felt that this time it would be different.
Traffic was at a standstill near the Ile de la Cite, where some
students were demonstrating. They took advantage of the situation by
trying to explain their reasons for the protest to the motorists. I
tried to close the car window in the face of flyers they were trying
to stuff into the car, but Agnes talked me out of it saying that it
was getting unbearably hot.
Then Agnes managed to find a space between two buses that she could
pass through with her old Volkswagen and in a flash we arrived on the
Right Bank. She passed all the cars along the way weaving through the
traffic, losing time only in the little one way streets around the
Bastille. I wasn't able to hold myself back from asking her, "In your
opinion can there be a scientific basis to the fact that persistent
hiccups are a sign of imminent death?"
"Where did you hear that?"
"My father told it to me when he got them in the hospital."
"It's not true. Don't worry."
"Well he died a few hours later and I never found out if it was a
coincidence or not. I didn't even think of it yesterday. Damn, it
only I had."
We saw the ambulance in front of the building and passersby were
coming from other crowded streets to follow the unfolding drama. An
official held back the crowd and escorted us to the front entrance.
"Is he all right?" I asked.
"You must inquire upstairs. I'll take you there now," he answered
when Agnes was already on the stairs. The standers by were pushed
back and had formed a human barrier on the landing. I questioned
their faces to discover if there were any news, but I saw nothing.
I had a flashback: While I was coming up to the landing, just last
week, Jim let a bundle of firewood fall (we had just bought wood for
the fireplace). He was winded and couldn't get his breath back. He
complained staying that he needed the firewood to keep warm, in June.
"But do you feel OK?" I asked him. "Look at me, I'm ten years older
than you and not exactly in such terrific shape, but I'm not winded
either."
The third floor door was flung wide open. I saw Pam standing all
alone at the end of the entrance corridor, but I couldn't see too
well because of a group of officials standing in the way. They moved
out of the way when I tried to reach Pam who told me that Jim was
dead.
"My Jim is dead, Alain, he left us, he's dead." She added, "I want to
be alone now, please leave me alone."
I didn't know where to go, so I waited for her to make the first
move. She did so by going into the kitchen and leaving me in the
foyer to realize what she had just told me.
I felt and thought nothing. A moment of impasse. Stunned as if
boredom had assaulted me, I looked around trying to concentrate on
something else. My glance fell on Jim's boots which were standing
erect in the other room. The right boot was slightly ahead of the
left as in walking. I felt as if I had entered a state of deja-vu
made possible by years of rehearsing the same script, a gift of Jim
Morrison, rock singer, dramatic actor-friend.
Thanks for having prepared me to all this, Jim. It's really been a
great help.
Fuck you, Jim.
Agnes was at the entrance asking the official in charge if he was
really sure that Jim was dead. He very courteously replied that they
were unable to do anything for him since they had arrived at least an
hour too late.
I saw Pam go into his room and didn't trust leaving her alone so I
asked Agnes to stay with her. "Do you know where her clothes are?
She's all wet", Agnes asked me a few minutes later. I showed her the
closet near the entrance close to where an official was standing.
When she moved towards the other people I whispered to her, "Don't
tell them who you are or who Jim was. Let me do the talking. If they
discover you're a director they could get suspicious. We must let Jim
pass for a normal American citizen."
"But do you seriously think they'll know who I am? Believe me, they
don't have any idea my films exist."
"You were on TV recently. Agnes Varda is about to become a very
familiar name to everyone."
"Don't exaggerate." Agnes concluded going back toward Pam's room.
I heard that they defined me as an American friend of his, in the
living-room and I drew close in order to eavesdrop. There was a newly
arrived police inspector who had come to find out how Jim was found
in the bathtub. He was coming close to the bedroom.
I promised myself not to listen to anymore details in an effort to
eliminate all information that would have made that death more real.
"The condominium's concierge told me that you have lived here for
over a month and that you too are American." the inspector told me
right away.
"I moved a few days ago to stay with another person."
"How come you speak French so well?" he asked suspiciously.
"Because I was born in Paris, but I am a naturalized American
citizen. Can we get this over with soon? I'm a little upset and I
would like to."
"Give me your particulars, those of your friend, and also of his girl
friend - nationality, occupation - I would like to find out if he was
using drugs.
He would find this out anyway when the medical examiner arrives." He
turned and asked the paramedic to fill out a complete report. The
pause gave me time for an idea: Inverting Jim's two names would have
momentarily taken them off the track. For the moment it was all I was
able to do.
"My friend's name was Douglas James Morrison. He was American and a
poet.." I waited until he had finished writing, then I added, "He was
an alcoholic but he didn't use drugs."
Even if Jim's death were to have been described by the medical
examiner as that of a young American found dead in his bathtub, the
newspapers would have reported the item anyway. And even if Jim's
names had not been reversed, there would have been readers astute
enough to decipher the true identity of the deceased in question. His
presence in Paris was no secret and this touch of deceitfulness was
on the lowest level.
"Usually poets don't have a luxurious life-style, monsieur," the
inspector observed. "How could he afford and apartment like this?"
"You see, he was a poet, but he had many business ventures."
"Come on now, Victor Hugo was hardly born with a white beard and
Rimbaud didn't have one when he died." I exclaimed. "Can we stop for
a moment, all of this is making me feel ill-I would like to join my
friends for a moment." "That's all for now," he assured me, "and if
the district medical examiner makes a satisfactory report, we will be
able to issue a death certificate and a burial permit. Otherwise
other doctors will be called in to work on the case."
"How many others?"
"Many."
The sign on Jim's door read, "I'm sleeping don't disturb" in Arabic
and French. My glance lingered interminably on the door handle,
before I decided to give it a half turn to open the door. I didn't
want to see Jim dead. The last time, when I saw him at the cafe -
that's the way I wanted to remember him. (So that's the way
everything has to end. What a squalid ending.)
Unexpectedly, the last of the policemen left the room where Jim was,
leaving the door open. From my line of vision I was able to see his
foot well. This last sad sight, framed by the doorway, replaced the
memory of the cafe.
Pam stayed beside me and held my arm. She wore a white djelaba, a
souvenir from their last trip to Morocco, that gave her a ghost like
look.
"Did you give them Jim's real name?" I asked her.
"No, and how could I have?"
"I just gave Jim's name backwards. I mean I put Douglas first, then
James. It could put them off the track for a while. Now hurry up and
tell me how he died. We won't be alone much longer."
Methodically tearing the silk threads from the embroidery on her
sleeve, Pam began to tell the story. "The other night we can home
right after the movie. When we arrived we immediately begain to sniff
heroin and Jim began to play his songs. He played all of them, one
after another, even The End. Then we went to bed. Jim asked me to
give him some more stuff, that's how it happened that he took much
more than me, especially since he'd taken some on his own during the
day. We also did a little on the night before."
"Who had it - you, Pamela?," Agnes asked.
"Of course, I'm the one who keeps it." Pam said these words in an
unexpected singing tone, reaching almost falsetto, only to become
normal when she turned to me and said, "Alain, you haven't seen him
yet. My Jim is so beautiful-go, go and see-Go."
"And then what happened?" I asked, ignoring her suggestion.
"We fell asleep. I didn't know what time it was when Jim's heavy
breathing woke me up. He was still asleep, but the poor guy had
problems in breathing. I tried to wake him up but he didn't react. I
panicked and began to cry and hit him. I hit him hard once, twice,
three times- nothing happened. I slapped him a couple of times. Then,
he came to, but he didn't seem much like himself. I was very tired
but just the same I was successful in dragging him to the bathtub."
The whistle of the teakettle gave Agnes a momentary pause to run out
only to return a few minutes later with a glass and a spoon for
Pam. "It's hot cammomile tea. It will do you good." I watched Pam sip
slowly before asking her, "By the way, who opened the bathtub faucet?"
"I don't remember. I woke up later in a cold sweat. Jim was not in
bed with me. I found him in the bathtub, unconscious. Blood was
running down his face, then he had those red marks on the right side
of his chest. Suddenly, he began to vomit into the tub. Then, I ran
to the kitchen to look for a basin. I went back to him and in the
basin I saw little pieces of pineapple that we had for dinner and
then blood. I had to empty and wash the basin three times. The third
time I noticed a blood clot. I was so tired and he told me he felt
better or something like that, so I went back to bed and fell asleep
again."
"What can you tell me?", the medical examiner asked me. "That he
didn't even smoke marijuana, not even in LA where joints are as
common as cigarettes. And it's only last night that"- I suddenly
stopped talking. My nerves were shattered. I couldn't even
think. "I'm sorry." the doctor informed me, "I can't sign the
certificate for natural death."
Agnes reached out to caress her hand and told her that the paramedics
had said that Jim had been dead at least an hour before they got
there. Pam didn't answer. She tore yet a few more silk threads from
her sleeve and returned to telling the story, "He had such a serene
expression. His head was slightly reclining and the water came up to
his chest, up to here - he was smiling a little. If it hadn't been
for all that blood, he...."
"You know that bleeding to death is completely painless." Agnes
interrupted her. "He couldn't know what was happening to him."
At that point the telephone rang. But, before Pam grabbed it, Agnes
warned her that it could be tapped. Therefore, all our conversations
had to be from a public phone. I wondered if it could be the young
count with whom Pam had run away at the beginning of the year,
leaving Jim in Los Angeles. Pam had never named him directly while I
lived with them. Every time she saw her Parisian friends, Jim and I
withdrew to the most remote corners of the house until they all left.
We never spoke about it and little by little I became convinced that
Jim really didn't care. His attitude was also consistent with his
advice to me: he told me not to worry if Pam threatened to commit
suicide. Looking back at the whole thing made me shudder. He made a
deliberate effort to get away from her and vaguely, paraphrasing a
line that he used in one of his concerts, he said, "There are only
two choices you can make: each of us had made it. You and I are on
the side of life, she is on the side of death. Neither you nor I can
do
anything about it. Don't worry about her."
"But Pam has threatened to fill the house up to the ceiling with
heroin-the Marseille affair. Did she really do it? Where could she
get the money -from the count? Tell me."
"I told you to fucking forget about it. Enough. I make it."
After buying cigarettes I went back, making my way through the crowd
picking up words like "death" and "young" and a word with which the
Parisians label their xenophobia, "etranger", which means foreigner.
But I didn't hear Jim's name, nor his profession. For the moment the
secret had been kept and the need for it to remain so increased when
I looked at the greedy faces of the crowd waiting for some cheap
thrills.
Going back toward the apartment, I saw two youths whose faces were
vaguely familiar to me. Their tailors deserved to be spanked. I
didn't like them from the very beginning. I didn't like anyone who
never threw rocks at the police in '68, and they were exactly the
type that didn't. I had hardly closed the door behind me when the two
guys rang the bell. The tall one introduced himself as Jean, the
short one as Jean-Louis. They asked for Pam. I explained to them that
Pam couldn't see anyone and I advised calling her the next day.
"Look, she was the one who called me." Jean said aggressively. "I
know everything. I really do."
My silence was accompanied by some piano exercises. The notes came
from the courtyard. I felt as if I were on stage in a play, exactly
at the moment when the booing makes them bring the curtain down in a
hurry. Agnes appeared stormily as deus ex machina. As his opening
line Jean immediately said, "I lived with Pam for six months."
"All right, but now you must leave." Agnes answered back with the
speed and precision that had earned her legendary reputation from the
Venice Film Festival to the stage at Venice, California.
She would have thrown them out right away if Pam hadn't intervened by
calling Jean, telling him to come in. Pam and Jean were sitting on
the bed that I had slept on when I lived there. They chatted quietly
together. I knocked. "Please go away." I told him nervously. "Don't
endanger the situation. You mustn't be here when the medical examiner
arrives with the police. Please don't say anything to anyone. Do it
for Pam. Terrible trouble could happen."
On the landing, Jean told me that he was leaving for Marakesh, where
he had a house. He would have arranged everything in case Pam had
wanted to join them there. In case it should become necessary he
would even make his London apartment available. In exchange, I
promised to keep him informed of further developments.
"I can't believe she has friends like them." Agnes said shaking her
head and closing the door after them. "They're drug dealers."
"A count?"
"Why not? What do you think? Just because someone's a count should he
win a prize for virtue? Tell me, do you believe what Pamela goes
around saying? I think that it's a classic case of the drug addict
that casts her own companion in the same role."
I wasn't able to answer. Pamela had joined us.
"Pam, is there any stuff left in the house?" I asked.
"No," she immediately protested. "The first thing I did was to flush
everything down the toilet. There's nothing left."
"Agnes just told me that Jean found a hashish pipe under the carpet
in the
foyer. If he took it with him we must be very careful."
Jim's desk in the other room was wide open until Pam jammed all his
papers into it, including a whole bunch of prints of An American
Prayer. She locked it ceremoniously and inspected the room, looking
for anything that could have something to do with Jim. In her
circular movement, her stare cut through me like a laser beam. I
realized that she could even have accused me of theft. It would not
have been a surprise and considering the stress she was under, who
knows what she was capable of doing. I could have considered myself
fortunate that she had locked everything up in front of Agnes.
Agnes' interest in the whole matter showed no signs of abating, but
it would have been compromising for her to stay, and I didn't want
her to get involved in all of this. After a few objections, Agnes
resolved to leave.
She told Pam that she would prepare a bed for her at her house.
While Pam was leaving the room, I looked out the window. The crowd
was slowly dissipating. I noticed a plaque to Victorien Sardou
affixed to the opposite building. Captured by the imaginary rivalry
between the playwright and Jim, I wondered if they would hang a
plaque for him too. And how would they have defined him? Poet or
singer? I would have to go back after a few years to find out - I
must stay, I thought. I'm flipping out.
"Burn them in the fireplace, quick", Pam told me, rushing into the
room and handing me a pack of letters.
"We can't. The police would smell the burning. It's the hottest day
of the year."
Pam set fire to an envelope to light the fireplace and went out
immediately afterwards to get more letters. Upon throwing the second
batch of letters on the fire, she put it out. At that moment, I
noticed that the letters had her handwriting. I wondered what she had
written.
"Drug stories," Pam said, reading my thoughts, "drugs and me,
naturally, but this, this is about Jim and it's better that they
don't see it. Here, read
it."
I took the Los Angeles police report, two photocopies yellowed with
age. Jim was caught on the balcony of the Hyatt Hotel on Sunset
Boulevard. Babe Hill was also involved in the matter and the police
found some marijuana.
"Was the 'stuff' Jim's?"
"No, it was Babe's," Pam replied, while she picked up some 8mm film
from the floor. "Last night we watched all the rolls of film taken on
the trip: Granada, Morocco, Corsica. We also sang the sound track for
it. What do you call those songs of Jim's that goes, "run with me"
and "let's run" - You know which ones."
"I don't remember either ... you didn't tell me what you thought of
the film I sent you to see."
Pam smiled at the memory and said, "What a rascal. It's really us,
the two of us."
A few letters that Pam was holding in her hand fell to the ground
where they came to life lifted by the breeze from the window. They
began to circle around the room. Finally, Pam was successful in
finding what she was looking for at my feet.
"Do you think they will believe it, if I tell them that this is my
marriage certificate? I don't think they know English."
"It won't work. You can see that it's a request to make a marriage
contract. The same word exists in French."
"We did this in Denver, but we never 'consummated' it," she said,
smiling to herself as if sharing an intimate joke.
I noticed the book and the magazine that I had left there the day
before and I explained that Jim had given me the opening article of
Newsweek to read (here copy garbled unable to translate) I asked
permission to take them. Pam answered me and began to clumsily leaf
through the pages of the magazines, while I happened to (glance) at
the cover for the first time. The title Plague of Heroin. What To Do
about it.
What happened next was.. (garbled) ( Pam went and got a coat, I
believe a fur coat and put it on) Alain says "Whose is it?"
"It belongs to a friend of mine, the owner of this place. Look,
she'll never give back the money that I paid in advance for the rent,
therefore...."
"Come on Pam, take it off. Put it back. You can't go around
confiscating other people's things. I beg you, don't do it. You'll
look ridiculous in that in Los Angeles. You're really in trouble
here, can you imagine were the police to suspect you of foul play or
homicide? Put that fuckin' fur away. Did you hear me?"
Pam took off the fur and quietly finished her work of research and
destruction. I asked myself for how much longer could I put up with
her.
The whistling stopped only an instant before the doorbell rang. I guy
stood there giving his personal contribution to the speculations of
the neighborhood: he had announced himself with the Aria Vissi d'arte
from Tosca.
The district medical examiner was a stocky man but he wore his
clothes in a most elegant style. His black case made introductions
unnecessary.
The Police Official had a very dry manner and he didn't offer the
least bit of sympathy for the situation in which we had found
ourselves. He was completely amazed by the fact that the medical
examiner had given us permission to leave the house. "Don't think
that this is a game," he admonished with a very serious demeanor.
"Where's the corpse?" he asked.
I pointed out the closed door, "There".
He went ahead, stopped and turned impatiently, "Come on, Let's go,
You've got to come with me to lay out the body. This is the
procedure."
"I can't. I've decided not to see my friend dead. I don't want to
remember him that way. I beg you, please do it alone."
"No," he insisted with authority.
Pam joined us. She seemed to be in a trance and her voice had an
artificial sound.
"This is my very beautiful man, sir," she said introducing him into
the bedroom. She seemed so sad.
The doctor completed the exam in a few minutes and then returned to
the
living room.
"Madame does not speak French. May I answer eventual questions?" I
asked.
"Of course. How old was he? Did he take drugs?"
"Twenty-seven. No, he absolutely did not take drugs," I replied
rapidly. Then I added, "In fact, he didn't even smoke marijuana, not
even in Los Angeles where joints are smoked like cigarettes. No,
truly. Absolutely out of the question.. In fact it was only yesterday
that he..."- I suddenly stopped talking. My nerves were gone. I was
losing control. Why had the doctor spent so little time? Was the case
already closed? In our favor, or against us? I just couldn't get it
together.
Suddenly, I began to talk again as if I had been forced, "You should
know that my friend was very pale the last time I saw him, a few
hours before he died. He had hiccups that wouldn't go away. I wanted
to be sure to tell you this. He went to the doctor's a month ago when
he was in London and the doctor said..."
The doctor made a vigorous gesture with his hand to stop me. "All
right, I understand" he exclaimed, handing me an address and an
envelope. "Take this to the municipal building of the fourth
arrondissement and go to the Civil Register department. They will
give you a death certificate."
It was lunchtime when we reached the municipal building and the
concierge told us to come back around two o'clock. We went to the
closest cafe and ate lunch in silence. I was overcome by a sense of
tenderness and my hand reached out to take Pam's. I felt a strong
sense of support for her and I kissed her wonderful red hair. She
wiped her eyes and gave me a smile that could knock you out. The
atmosphere was strongly perplexing.
"Pam, I don't know how to tell you this. You are Jim's heir. You have
to go on for him. We need you. You've got to take care of yourself.
Don't do anything foolish. You know what I'm talking about. You know
that I love you. I know it sounds corny, I'm sorry."
She looked at me fleetingly with a dazed expression. Then, her eyes
suddenly left mine to look up at the clock on the bell tower in front
of us.
"What time must it be in Los Angeles?"
"Almost five in the morning, why?"
"Wait before you call anyone. Wait until everything is done." I said.
"I have to call my sister, Judy. I want her to run to the Doors'
cutting room to steal the earnings from Friends Party. It's in the
Clear Thoughts Building, opposite Electra. You know she's just had a
baby and she's poor. I'll offer her fifty dollars. She'll do it.
After all, she's my sister."
"But this is obscene, Pam."
"Why? She needs money. Monday, during the screening of Jim's film I
will go there alone. You can't come."
Since it was Saturday, there was only one woman in the civil register
department of the municipal building to take care of this work. It
didn't take her long to examine the contents of the envelope. The
reason was simple: the death certificate due to natural causes had
been denied.
The clerk made a telephone call and handed me the receiver, "It's the
chief. He needs to talk with you, monsieur."
"I'm giving you ten minutes to return to the place of the deceased,"
he told me. He was furious. "Who gave you permission to run around
Paris, huh?"
"Give us fifteen minutes-the traffic is crazy." I tried to add
something but
I didn't get an answer.
Pam was next to Jim when the police arrived. The chief had no
intentions of dismissing the case. His manner was fry and there was
not one shred of sympathy for our situation. He was amazed, as was I
that the medical examiner had sent us to the municipal building. The
medical examiner of the Arrondissement (really, an area larger than a
district) would come to make sense of the situation.
After having asked a couple of general questions, the chief had the
apartment inspected. I looked at the fireplace and the surrounding
floor in order to find eventual traces of Pam's burning spree.
With sudden inspiration, I ran out of the room ad asked permission to
use the bathroom. Once inside, I made sure that nothing was left,
despite Pam's "clean-up operation." There was not even a speck of the
stuff.
The chief was inspecting the bathtub. I avoided looking at it and
stared straight ahead. "We would like to know when to remove the
body," I said.
How horrible, I thought to myself, thinking of the events of a few
days earlier, while I was describing the end of a play to Jim, a play
for which he didn't want to stay to see the end. "It was the best
part," I told him. "Bob Wilson constructed the set in such a way that
the audience had to stand up and go to it in order to see nude actors
strewn here and there, pretending to be dead. In the middle was an
old style bathtub in which there was somebody impersonating the David
painting, the one about the assassination of Marat...What a scary
touch, a 'tableau mourant' so to speak."
"I don't want to discuss the body now," answered the chief, bringing
me back to reality. "Moreover, get out of here, I have to do some
important work here. Do you think this is a game?"
Even if a rock magazine was to later define Jim's apartment as
luxurious, Pam was sitting on the only decent piece of furniture. We
remained in silence until the chief joined us to tell us that nothing
new had come up, and that if the new doctor were to give the go
ahead, we would really be able to have the death certificate and the
burial permit.
"Monsieur, what do we now do with Jim's body?" I asked very
cautiously.
"Forget about the body," he said .. "I asked you not to talk to me
about it. And, if we have to send it to the police lab for final
analysis the corpse will remain here until further instructions. The
only problem will be the heat of the next few days."
"The only problem - the next few days - What the hell are you talking
about?" I exclaimed, "Listen, you would hardly want to impose cruelty
of that kind on madame? No, never."
"Tell me what's happening," Pam wanted an answer.
"All right, monsieur. Now I've had enough. Please, both of you come
with me, now."
During the brief trip to the Quartier de l'Arsenal police station, I
urged Pam to cry, to abandon herself to hysteria, in short, to do
whatever she could to prevent herself from answering, thus
contradicting whatever I would have said in French. To our advantage
was the fact that she was always in a sate of stress. Even if they
had tried to read her expressions, they wouldn't have succeeded.. She
knew how to disguise her emotions perfectly well. If only I had been
able to do so - The greatest threat was inherent in my face: whatever
I was experiencing could be seen immediately.
The chief inserted the form in triplicate into the typewriter and
prepared
to listen to Pam.
"May I help you by interpreting?" I asked only too hastily.
His answer was terrifying. "That won't be necessary. I understand
English. Now, please be calm. Thank you."
While I was trying to remember what he could have heard of the
dialogue between Pam and me of a little while earlier, (did we
say "Jim" by accident?) she was giving some dangerously detailed
answers. For the moment, she hadn't yet contradicted my version. But,
a certain inconsistency lingered on her whole story, arousing the
chief's suspicions, especially in the part where Jim was throwing up
in the bathtub.
The chief asked, "So, you abandoned Douglas to empty and wash the
basin three times?" Bending over and resting his hands on his knees,
he continued, "And where did you empty and wash the basin?"
There was only one place where she could have done it (strange that
she didn't understand that she would have had to go to the toilet
that was separated from the bathtub, and moreover quite far). Pam
answered, pronouncing the words syllable by syllable. "I used the
sink in the bathroom."
Surely, my thoughts were traveling in tandem with those of the chief.
The blood clot and pieces of food should have clogged up the drain.
Why would she have used the sink? I held my breath. Then, something
incredible happened. The chief skipped over her answer and asked me
to act as interpreter in order to finish sooner.
Everything was going smoothly until Pam described the way she had
slapped Jim to wake him up. The vehemence that Pam put into her
telling of the story, added to the series of emotions she evoked,
make the chief reflect. A siren rang out in the silence, while Pam
and I avoided looking at each other.
"What relationship did Madame Courson have with the deceased?"
"I don't know how to say it in French. She is practically his real
wife."
"I understand. She was his concubine."
"Come on, be serious!" I protested with a bewildered smile. "Isn't
there another way to define her position?"
"Did she have sexual relations with the deceased last night? Before
he died, obviously."
"You have no right to ask that. It sounds rather ambiguous and
disgusting, don't you think?"
The chief didn't react and I calmed down. So, I asked Pam who
answered me, "No."
Fortunately, a clerk interrupted the questioning and told us to
immediately return to the apartment. The second medical examiner was
on his way.
Pam, who managed to contain herself all this time, blurted out on the
street, "You will no longer speak in a language that I can't
understand, all right? You could say anything and I wouldn't
understand it. I'm sorry, but how can I understand you? I want to
know everything you'll say from now on, every word."
I just had time to say, "You've got to trust me", before bumping into
the man who was coming. He was carrying a black leather bag.
The new doctor radiated affability. Even his handshake raised my
spirits. Once inside, he immediately went toward Jim's room, only to
come out just as quickly, just as the other doctor had done. He
examined the bathroom and finally joined us in the dining room. He
told us that it was rather strange that a young man should die in the
bathtub and added that he was in excellent physical condition, just
like someone who was used to playing sports.
He was completely off the track. Jim was a loner. He had never joined
a sports club- he swam rarely. His excellent physical condition
probably derived from the fact that often, during his work, he would
fall off stages or throw himself off roofs or out of windows that
were part of stage sets. Even though Jim had never been vain, this
posthumous complement would surely have pleased him.
Recently he had lost weight, especially because he had stopped
drinking.
"Monsieur, what will we do now with Jim's body?" I asked. "Forget
about the body, I told you." I told you not to discuss this problem.
It's possible that the police have to subject it to analysis.
Therefore, the body is to remain in the (bedroom??) (bath tub??),
just where it is now."
"But, what are you saying," I shouted. "You can't impose that kind of
cruelty on madame."
I observed this vivid, ruddy complexion and I hurried to say what I
had not said before, that Jim liked to drink alcoholic beverages. He
immediately reassured me, saying that in France, very many people
drink. I told him about Jim's recent experience with doctors: the
nighttime call to the doctor from the London hotel because he had
breathing problems, the medicines for asthma that were prescribed for
him by the doctor (even if it hadn't been diagnosed), the coughing
fits that had gone on for the whole preceding month and his difficult
recovery period.
He smiled to me paternally and said, "We, too, want to resolve this
matter. Now, I'll go to the police station where I'll write the
report. You both look very tense. Rest for half an hour or so, then
join me. I will tell them you're coming later."
Pam joined us and he said, "Au revoir, madame. I beg you to accept my
most sincere condolences." He shook her hand, then took her wrist to
feel her pulse. He made an affirmative gesture with his head to
communicate that all was going well. Then, he left. Poor Pam began to
cry. Until that moment, nobody had shown her care. This had done her
good.
Then she dried her tears and changed her attitude.
"I want Xanax. Give them to me now!" she yelled.
"I got rid of them so they wouldn't find them."
"You have no idea of the face you make when you lie. All right, I
don't care. Anyway, I still have some hidden someplace or other. I
have to calm down, you see? It's so simple."
She had become frenetic and began to run from one room to another,
searching at random. I figured that she was looking for her pills,
but I couldn't make sense of the jar she had in her hand. In Jim's
study, she found a fifty franc note and stuck it into the jar. Then,
she spotted Jim's shirt hanging on the door handle and rummaged
through the pockets, fishing out a few coins that she put in the jar,
while she looked at me triumphantly. When she finished her tour, the
jar was still half empty.
"In all, I have only two hundred dollars," she announced. "Usually, I
call Los Angeles when we need money. How will I pay for Jim's
cremation? I'll ask Agnes- she already offered, even though I'm not
sure I want to go to her house tonight."
"As you know, I don't have cash on me. But, if they accept credit
cards, and I think they do, we can use mine. Do me a favor. Don't ask
Agnes for the money."
"Why, don't you trust me?"
"Of course, I trust you," I told her with little conviction. "Now,
it's nine o'clock on Saturday morning in America, and the banks will
be closed. Let's see-Oh, shit!- They'll be closed until seven o'clock
Tuesday morning, Paris time. You know that Sunday's the fourth of
July, don't you? Therefore, the banks are closed also on the next
day, aren't they? You can consider yourself lucky if you'll be able
to have the money by Wednesday afternoon, For God's sake!"
Pam had a sudden idea which it up her face, "We can ask Bill Siddons
to bring the money here personally. After all, the Doors' manager
must be good for something. I know Bob, the accountant, but he would
never send me the money. He doesn't like me and what's more, I don't
like him either. Of course, I could also tell him that Jim asked for
the money."
"But, do you realize that Jim's estate will be frozen? Why don't you
talk to Max Fink, the lawyer, and let him explain to you how things
work in cases like this - the legal documents and all the rest? Jim
always trusted him, and we can count on the fact that he will
maintain professional ethics of secrecy about Jim's death."
"I don't like him much either." said Pam, even though she would
change her mind later.
"I beg you not to speak to anyone except Max. And remember - a minute
ago you talked about cremation. Well, don't even think of it. Here in
France, it's like admitting you know something about a crime. Here,
they usually don't give permission for it and, worse yet, they would
request an autopsy. There for-forget about it. And if you're thinking
of sending the body to the United States, the law provides for a
casket that is to be opened for inspection and other hassles. I know
this because I had my father's body shipped across the ocean in order
for it to be buried.
Pam did not want to grasp this.
"I want to disperse his ashes in a wonderful place. A place he would
have loved. I will ask Agnes to show one to me. After all, she's a
director."
"Enough, I beg you- Listen, we've got to bury him and we've got to do
it in a hurry, before the press gets wind of what is going on.
Otherwise, we are in deep shit. By the way, Agnes knows one of the
most important big shots of the European press, and I think if she
were to ask him, he would keep everything quiet. No, better yet- It
just occurred to me that once I took this guy's wife to a Doors'
concert. I took her backstage and introduced her to Jim who was
really nice to her. She adored him. I bet she would help us. Maybe we
could be successful in manipulating the press."
I stopped for a moment to make sure Pam was following me.
"I'm thinking of Pere Lachaise, the cemetery where Chopin, Delacroix,
Piaf and Isadora Duncan are buried. Even Alice B. Toklas is there.
You see Pam in this country, people have respect for artists. Even
Jim was really respected. He was not just a rock idol. He would
finally have ended up in the Larousse or in the Guide Michelin, not
on one of those idiotic maps they sell on Hollywood Boulevard. He
wouldn't even have been part of those guided tours of the stars'
tombs."
"Is Rimbaud there too?"
"I don't know - I don't think so. Didn't he disappear in Africa?"
"You know, I think perceptions remain in the body after death. So, if
they should bury him, Jim would feel the earth falling on top of him.
He would even be able to hear what people were saying around his
tomb..."
I didn't have the slightest idea of how to answer such a statement.
"So, what's wrong with that?" I asked her. "We wouldn't say anything
bad about him."
While I was waiting for Pam's approval, another reason occurred to me
for wanting Pere Lachaise. "I have to tell you about something that
happened a week ago," I told her. "Jim and I were walking when all at
once he saw a distant hill and pointed it out he asked me to go
there. When we arrived, we realized that it was the cemetery, and
that it had just been closed."
"What a pity"- I said. "I wanted to see it for a long time."
"Right,"- he told me. "I will come back."
Why, I asked myself, had he used the singular and placed so much
emphasis on it? I had no intention of leaving Paris at that time.
"Maybe he was trying to tell us something." Pam said.
"Do you know what to do to get in touch with the Morrisons? It would
be the thing to do - even to get their permission."
"We don't have to worry about that."
"Poor Andy, I would like him to find out about his brother from me,
rather than from a newspaper."
"Don't worry about him. It's OK. He's a big boy now."
The rapid unfolding of events didn't give me time to really think of
all the details. For the moment, the only important thing was to give
Jim a quiet burial far from the "Big Top." Meanwhile, the story that
Pam had told me was just a story and I couldn't figure out how much
truth there was in it. Maybe she had contributed to Jim's death. Not
only her. There were probably also some other factors. If drugs had
killed him, I didn't want it to be found out. I was ashamed of it
and, as I had occasion later to explain to Pam, there was something
else: I didn't want Jim to become a myth to follow. The mystery that
we built around Jim's death, his legend, suited me more than fine.
A few minutes later, Pam began to rummage through the last drawer of
a small piece of furniture.
"It was Jim's" she explained. "But he didn't care for it too much."
I was behind her and I could see that she was looking at the few
photographs of Jim. I looked away from the pathetic inventory of
souvenirs ... all the memories he and I had shared. I remembered them
all very well and began to cry.
"Hey, we've got to go back to the police station. Look at what time
it is," Pam reminded me.
"Please give me Monsieur Morrisons' passport," our old friend
told us
as his welcoming statement. "I must send it to the American Embassy.
It's just a formality."
The chief was therefore about to discover the exact sequence of Jim's
name. We had to avoid giving him the passport.
"We left it in the apartment. I would have to look for it," I
cautioned him. "Do you feel like waiting for me or do you prefer that
we bring it there in person? In any case, the Embassy offices are
closed until Tuesday since we're celebrating Independence Day.
Besides which, it's late. Don't you have to go home for supper?"
"All right, you can do it yourselves and as a matter of fact, it is
late.. I'll be at your place again tomorrow morning. Try to be there.
Until then you can do what you like."
"Monsieur," I said suddenly, "and the body?"
"I had asked you not to talk about the body yet- Leave it where it is
for now."
We had just arrived home, when Pam went to see who had rung the
doorbell. A minute later she shouted to find out if I had ordered
that ice cream.
"No, and I don't think it can be done in Paris. Why?"
"Please come here and talk to this guy."
I was surprised by that man's extraordinary look. Only the little
moustache, the walking stick and the oversized shoes were missing for
him to become the exact impersonation of Charlie Chaplain. His
clothes and hat were just right and his face was exactly the same.
"It's not ice cream"- were his first words. "It's only ice, dry ice.
And it's not for you-it's for the corpse"
I looked at him with wide open eyes and invited him to enter.
"Come in. It's back there in that room."
When what's his name left the room, he handed me his card and
said, "I will keep you informed about the schedule of my visits. Let
me know how the situation is tomorrow. Believe me, I'll do my best,
but this heat is against us."
I told him that Pam intended to spend the night next to Jim.
"Based on my many years of experience," he said, "I really advise
against that."
The Ice Man returned several times on Sunday and informed us that on
Monday, the situation would be almost impossible to sustain.
Pam seemed exhausted, but her determination made her go on. She
insisted that having Jim in the house gave her a feeling of security.
She told me that if it were up to her, she would keep it like this
forever.
On Monday, after some new ice was put in place, we received a phone
call from London. Some rumors were circulating, something to do with
Marianne Faithfull's statements, something to do with Jim's death.
Pam, who had answered, said nothing.
The party was about to begin.
There was no time to lose. Agnes' connections with the press would
continue to keep the newspapers quiet. Meanwhile, I made an
appointment with a well known lawyer, in case unfortunate
complications with the police should arise. Luckily, growing pressure
forced Pam to make a decision. She gave approval for burial.. To Pere
Lachaise's.
I organized everything with the span of a day.
Meanwhile, I could no nothing to change her mind - Pam slept with Jim
every night. She was stubborn. I hated to imagine the whole scene and
the effect this could have had on her. Moreover, another thing
happened to complicate matters. She was beginning to get nasty with
Agnes, who treated her like a daughter. As far as I was concerned,
Agnes was of immeasurable help.
"Remember," I said to Pam, "Agnes hardly knew Jim - They never saw
each other alone and she has always been very correct. Do you
remember when Jim told you that Agnes would probably be your only
friend in Paris if something difficult should come up. What a
prophecy..."
"I will never set foot in that woman's house again," were Pam's last
words.
The Bigot Funeral Parlor, located on the street next to Notre Dame,
was so close to the great cathedral that it could almost be taken as
a part of it. Even if this very crowded place seemed to be the same
age as its venerable neighbor, it certainly didn't make it seem any
better. The cathedral's shadow made it a dark place - and what's more
there was a single low wattage light bulb in use. It all suited my
mood which was particularly black at that moment.
Monsieur Guizard, the owner, quickly took care of the formalities
with highly professional expertise. At this point, I'd come to
believe that he took care of everything there was to do there, when
his assistant arrived. His appearance, his broken nails, led me to
suspect that he personally took care of the burial work. He had a map
of the cemetery so that he could choose the location for the tomb.
"Everybody wants to be buried at Pere Lachaise's. There's hardly any
room left. What was your friend? A writer, wasn't he?"
"Well really, he was a poet."
"Ah, in that case, we are in luck. Believe it or not, there is still
room in Division 89, where another famous American writer is buried.
His name is Oscar Wilde. Do you know him?"
"No I beg you. Not next to Monsieur Wilde. Isn't there another place?"
"Here. But it isn't really in a beautiful position."
"No, it's all right. It's OK. Thank you."
END.
JIM AND I FRIENDS UNTIL DEATH
by: Alain Ronay
Translated From Italian To English By: Joel Brody
Anything and everything has been written about the tragic end of the
Doors' leader. But what really happened on July 3rd twenty years ago,
no one has ever told. This is because Alain Ronay, Jim's photographer
friend who was the first to find the rock star in his apartment where
he lay in the bathtub without breathing, had always kept quiet. Now,
to defend Morrison's memory, Ronay speaks out. He tells King all the
details of that day, from the strange behavior of Pamela, Jim's
girlfriend, to the doctors' incompetence, to the superficiality of
the police in trying to hide the news of his death. He also remembers
the happy days spent with Jim in Paris, the anguish of the singer
poet, his desire to detoxify from alcohol and keep himself away from
heroin.
A Frenchman and naturalized American, Alain met Jim in California in
1964. Since then they became close friends.
Friday, July 2, 1971: Jim and I were taking a walk in the Marais
Quarter in Paris. The historic district served only as a backdrop for
our discussions which ranged from the Yoga teacher's visit (Jim had
asked me to be an interpreter for them - the topic of their
discussion: man as a tightrope walker heading towards death) to
analyzing Nietzche's opinions on suicide. Jim was obsessed by death.
Everyone knew this, but rarely did he bring up this topic with me.
That morning his words went back to that subject many times. I
succeeded in tearing him away from his deark thoughts with Oscar
Wilde.
Although neither of us had been particularly interested in him, Oscar
seemed to lift our spirits considerably. A month earlier, when Jim
and Pamela (Pamela Courson, Morrison's companion, editor's note) came
to visit me in London, I reserved a room for them at the Cadogan
Hotel near Sloane Square. I told them this was the place where Wilde
was arrested.
While we were walking a connection clicked in my mind: in Paris Jim
and Pam stayed in what they snobbishly called the Hotel.
"But, do you realize that Oscar Wilde lived here too? I said
thoughtlessly. There's even a plaque here near the door. I'm sure of
it. Didn't you see it?"
Jim didn't answer, so I added, "Watch out you don't follow too
closely in his footsteps - you could end up like him."
My words remained hanging in the air. Jim continued not to answer.
What could he say? My ideas were completely out of place and I felt
stupid.
Fortunately, a half empty store that faced a very narrow street
allowed us to change the subject. A hand-painted sign informed us
that we were at the Voix d'Orphee, but what this was really all about
was not very clear to us. Even if Orpheus' Voice didn't mean much to
me, it seemed however to interest Jim who insisted that I ask in
French what went on in there. His mood soared when I told him it was
a recording studio.
"Hey - It's almost a good omen, isn't it? I can finish my poetry
record righthere - that's exactly what I'm going to do. I've no
intention of leaving Paris. I'm happy here. I should get back to the
tapes of my poetry that I left at Village Recorders -I bet the
bootleggers have already pounced on them, and maybe they're not fit
for release-"
The stately houses and historic monuments disappeared when we got to
Rue des Rosieres, a very colorful street full of little stores run by
the most varied ethnic groups. While Jim was buying a pendant for
Pam, I noticed for the first time that he tried to appear happy while
I had the district sensation that he wasn't happy at all. There was
an indefinable anxiety in his gestures. I knew him too well.
There was something abnormal and wrong with his behavior. Something
incredible because Jim Morrison never begged anybody. He said
nothing. He tried to take his time, to find excuses for me to stay
with him. He was desperate. This, I saw clearly. But why? I didn't
ask. He would never have explained it.
In the past Jim was always successful in keeping his states of
anxiety under control, even though I was usually able to pick up on
them. However, towards noon there was no longer any need to guess. He
was not making any effort to camouflage his strong agitation: he was
shaken by a series of very powerful hiccups.
We ate in a restaurant specializing in Alsatian food. The fin de
siecle decorations exploded in arabesques and art nouveau
convolutions. Later in the afternoon we discovered a purveyor of
cinematographic rarities, among which were some of Fritz Lang's
films. We stopped in front of the shoemaker's where Jim had brought
his new boots to be made wider. They weren't ready yet. Every once in
awhile the hiccups returned to violently shake Jim's body. Apart from
this his agitation grew worse. His nerves were visibly shaking and
the reason for this was still unknown to me.
The state of his emotional upheaval reached its peak at his apartment
at about 5:30 PM when I had to leave to meet Agnes Varda.
"Don't go away" - he implored me. There was something
abnormal and wrong in all this. Jim never implored, it wasn't in his makeup. Then
he tried to take his time and his tactics were obvious but foreign to
his personality. As far as cheering you up and lifting your spirits
he is the cleverest person I have ever known.
He was desperate. But why? I never asked him because I knew he would
never tell me. First of all he wanted me to read the opening article
of Newsweek at all costs. He seemed very serious in asking me to do
this but I was already on my way out and I didn't even look at the
magazine cover. It took about half an hour before I managed to walk
down the stairs and leave. Jim still tried to keep me with the
pretext of a telegram he was supposed to send from the post office a
few blocks away. He wanted me to help him with the French.
Fortunately, a post office strike helped me in trying to get away,
but Jim asked me if he could at least come outside with me. Opposite
a cafe- in Place de la Bastille, Jim made his last appeal, -
"Come on Alain, stay- Stay at least for a short beer with me, what do you say?
Don't leave-stay with me. Do it for an old friend." - Hiccups
continually interrupted his pleading.
The show of this sudden and unexplainable change confused and upset
me, above all when compared to Jim's behavior during the month just
past which he spent with Pam. In that brief period he was happy, calm
and free. Paris was good for him. He had gotten rid of the damage
produced by fame and had found himself again. He wrote all the time,
he went around town and about his business without being recognized
and he had almost stopped drinking. He didn't take drugs yet.
Pam's habit hadn't yet gotten to him. She led her own independent
life in Paris and did not live with him. Therefore, with a few
exceptions, Jim and I spent almost the whole month of June alone
together. Our days were tranquil and were probably the best we
shared. Jim's repeated invitations to join him in Paris to
relive "the good old days"- implied that he fully intended to bury
the rock star in him. The promise was kept.
The purpose of the Paris vacation was to detoxify Jim of alcohol and
for him to forget the anguish that his fame as a rock star had
caused. In June of l971 Jim was very creative. He spent a lot of time
writing poetry.
We went into a cafe on Place de la Bastille. We ordered and I asked
the waiter to hurry. Jim suddenly closed his eyes while new waves of
hiccups went through him. He was thoroughly concentrated in his
efforts to get rid of them. When I looked at him I had the clear
sensation that his face had assumed the aspect of a death mask. The
feeling disappeared when Jim opened his eyes again. He scrutinized
me, and as if waiting for me to lie he asked, "What did you see?"
"Nothing Jim, nothing."
While we were ordering another round of beers, I realized that I
really had to leave and I said to him, "Forgive me but I really have
to go." I rushed out and stopped next to the nearby subway entrance.
I turned round to see him one more time. He was in profile and
suddenly, as if he felt me looking at him, he turned and stared at
me. All this lasted only a few seconds. Then I dashed down the stairs.
Agnes cast an impatient glance at me over the desk at which she was
seated and repeated, "And so it seemed to you to have seen a dead
man's face."
"Not a face," I corrected her, "what I saw was a death mask."
Agnes was busy looking, however superficially, for a letter in her
file. I needed to see her eyes which were hidden behind her black
bangs. I wanted to find out if she was indifferent, skeptical or if
she was making light of the whole issue to calm me down.
"Should I go on?" I asked.
"Of course," she answered impatiently, keeping her hand in the filing
cabinet as if it were a bookmark and staring at me.
"What do you mean by mask?" she asked.
"I mean the type of make-up that is applied to people after they're
deceased. Jim had one of these in his book on Francis Bacon. It was a
picture of William Blake's face. He had that book when we were
students and lived in my house years ago."
"Now I understand, that's curious"
"Curious - you could say something better than that - Looking at it
made me ill."
"I see that this has really made an impression on you."
"Jim knew that you and I were supposed to have dinner together, but
he continued to insist that I join him at the movies where I sent Pam
and him to see Mitchum's film."
Agnes gave me an encouraging smile and said, "If you want, we could
do without going to the Vietnamese restaurant - Go with them. Anyway,
I'm tired and I have to go over the text of Tango."
"Don't even mention such a thing. I don't want to go back. Let's go
and eat the Seven Spices or whatever the devil they call it."
Agnes closed the shutters, turned off all the lights and the TV. Then
she asked me almost incidentally, "Did he get rid of the hiccups?"
"What? No-not at all."
Early the next morning, (I was finally resting after a night of
insomnia), I got up with a start with the sensation that a telephone
was ringing. Since I was a guest I never answered. But I wasn't
completely sure that it was the telephone in the wing of the
apartment where Agnes slept that was ringing. I hurried across the
entrance to the living room where the other telephone was. The line
was free. A Calder mobile swung silently above my head while I looked
around to find a clock. Light was coming in from the garden. It must
have been about 6AM and I went back to bed with tense nerves
wondering if the telephone really had rung.
When I had awakened for the second time, I was sure I heard the
telephone ring. Outside the typical sounds of the market day could be
heard. I heard the thump of the mail that fell through the mail slot
in the door. This meant it was 8AM. The mail always arrived
punctually.
I got to the phone in time to say "Hello"- and hear the Yoga teacher,
Monique Godard, excuse herself for calling so early in the morning.
She was a nervous woman, smoked like a chimney, always wore very
short skirts and was tall and stylish enough to be a model.
Everything about her contradicted my knowledge of Yoga. Her ability
as a healer had earned her an incredible reputation among her
illustrious clients, the most exalted minds of Paris. She had great
influence on them and although I entertained serious doubts as to her
powers, I had contacted her hoping she would accept Pam as her
patient. Nothing that could help Pam could be done soon enough.
"I'm leaving town and I won't be back before you return to
California," she explained. "If your friend needs my help he must
first see a doctor. I want him to have a check-up. You can tell him
that. Does he have a history of drugs? Does he have circulatory
problems? I must know this."
"But I didn't get in touch with you for Jim's sake." I reminded her.
It's for Pam. I thought I made that clear. "Weren't you aware of this
the other day when we were in their apartment? God, she was in bad
shape."
"Who, her? I would never take her, never. But as far as your friend
is concerned, I want him to see a doctor immediately. I feel these
things. It could even be too late. Well, I've got to go."
"Wait- Are you hiding something from me? What-yes, well-all right,
all right."
"By any chance did you also call before? No? I thought it might have
been you. Do you have to hang up?"
"Please wait - then you will look after Jim - take care of him. I
won't be here and I've been worried about him since yesterday. Yes.
Thank you."
"Have a good trip."
This call upset me. I didn't know what to do. I was short on ideas.
A few minutes later the phone rang again. It was Pam. She usually
spoke in a soft tone of voice, but this time there was a note of fear.
"Can you speak a little louder?"- I shouted into the phone as if I
too had the same tone.
"Jim's unconscious and bleeding. Call an ambulance. You know I don't
speak French. Hurry up." - Pam was sobbing. Then, she added, "I think
he's dying."
I ran across the garden to the wing where Agnes was and knocked
repeatedly at the door. She immediately awakened. I didn't know how
to use the complicated Parisian phone system and I asked her to do it
for me. Agnes grabbed her orange telephone while saying to me, "I
don't know Jim's address. Write it on this paper - I'll take you
there, meanwhile, leave a message for the maid and Bernardo. Write
that I had to go out on an emergency."
"Why are you dialing the number over and over again? What's going on?"
"Be calm. We're not in the United States here. It takes time. Bring
your passport along, you'll need it."
I told Agnes not to give Jim's name, only the apartment number and I
ran back across the garden to my room. When I returned Agnes was
putting on a long madras dress over her nightgown while she talked on
the phone, "She is American. She doesn't speak French. Send someone
who speaks English - third floor, the door on the right."
In my mind I was already on the way. I was trembling and peeing in my
pants out of fright. Pam had always had a penchant for drama, but I
felt that this time it would be different.
Traffic was at a standstill near the Ile de la Cite, where some
students were demonstrating. They took advantage of the situation by
trying to explain their reasons for the protest to the motorists. I
tried to close the car window in the face of flyers they were trying
to stuff into the car, but Agnes talked me out of it saying that it
was getting unbearably hot.
Then Agnes managed to find a space between two buses that she could
pass through with her old Volkswagen and in a flash we arrived on the
Right Bank. She passed all the cars along the way weaving through the
traffic, losing time only in the little one way streets around the
Bastille. I wasn't able to hold myself back from asking her, "In your
opinion can there be a scientific basis to the fact that persistent
hiccups are a sign of imminent death?"
"Where did you hear that?"
"My father told it to me when he got them in the hospital."
"It's not true. Don't worry."
"Well he died a few hours later and I never found out if it was a
coincidence or not. I didn't even think of it yesterday. Damn, it
only I had."
We saw the ambulance in front of the building and passersby were
coming from other crowded streets to follow the unfolding drama. An
official held back the crowd and escorted us to the front entrance.
"Is he all right?" I asked.
"You must inquire upstairs. I'll take you there now," he answered
when Agnes was already on the stairs. The standers by were pushed
back and had formed a human barrier on the landing. I questioned
their faces to discover if there were any news, but I saw nothing.
I had a flashback: While I was coming up to the landing, just last
week, Jim let a bundle of firewood fall (we had just bought wood for
the fireplace). He was winded and couldn't get his breath back. He
complained staying that he needed the firewood to keep warm, in June.
"But do you feel OK?" I asked him. "Look at me, I'm ten years older
than you and not exactly in such terrific shape, but I'm not winded
either."
The third floor door was flung wide open. I saw Pam standing all
alone at the end of the entrance corridor, but I couldn't see too
well because of a group of officials standing in the way. They moved
out of the way when I tried to reach Pam who told me that Jim was
dead.
"My Jim is dead, Alain, he left us, he's dead." She added, "I want to
be alone now, please leave me alone."
I didn't know where to go, so I waited for her to make the first
move. She did so by going into the kitchen and leaving me in the
foyer to realize what she had just told me.
I felt and thought nothing. A moment of impasse. Stunned as if
boredom had assaulted me, I looked around trying to concentrate on
something else. My glance fell on Jim's boots which were standing
erect in the other room. The right boot was slightly ahead of the
left as in walking. I felt as if I had entered a state of deja-vu
made possible by years of rehearsing the same script, a gift of Jim
Morrison, rock singer, dramatic actor-friend.
Thanks for having prepared me to all this, Jim. It's really been a
great help.
Fuck you, Jim.
Agnes was at the entrance asking the official in charge if he was
really sure that Jim was dead. He very courteously replied that they
were unable to do anything for him since they had arrived at least an
hour too late.
I saw Pam go into his room and didn't trust leaving her alone so I
asked Agnes to stay with her. "Do you know where her clothes are?
She's all wet", Agnes asked me a few minutes later. I showed her the
closet near the entrance close to where an official was standing.
When she moved towards the other people I whispered to her, "Don't
tell them who you are or who Jim was. Let me do the talking. If they
discover you're a director they could get suspicious. We must let Jim
pass for a normal American citizen."
"But do you seriously think they'll know who I am? Believe me, they
don't have any idea my films exist."
"You were on TV recently. Agnes Varda is about to become a very
familiar name to everyone."
"Don't exaggerate." Agnes concluded going back toward Pam's room.
I heard that they defined me as an American friend of his, in the
living-room and I drew close in order to eavesdrop. There was a newly
arrived police inspector who had come to find out how Jim was found
in the bathtub. He was coming close to the bedroom.
I promised myself not to listen to anymore details in an effort to
eliminate all information that would have made that death more real.
"The condominium's concierge told me that you have lived here for
over a month and that you too are American." the inspector told me
right away.
"I moved a few days ago to stay with another person."
"How come you speak French so well?" he asked suspiciously.
"Because I was born in Paris, but I am a naturalized American
citizen. Can we get this over with soon? I'm a little upset and I
would like to."
"Give me your particulars, those of your friend, and also of his girl
friend - nationality, occupation - I would like to find out if he was
using drugs.
He would find this out anyway when the medical examiner arrives." He
turned and asked the paramedic to fill out a complete report. The
pause gave me time for an idea: Inverting Jim's two names would have
momentarily taken them off the track. For the moment it was all I was
able to do.
"My friend's name was Douglas James Morrison. He was American and a
poet.." I waited until he had finished writing, then I added, "He was
an alcoholic but he didn't use drugs."
Even if Jim's death were to have been described by the medical
examiner as that of a young American found dead in his bathtub, the
newspapers would have reported the item anyway. And even if Jim's
names had not been reversed, there would have been readers astute
enough to decipher the true identity of the deceased in question. His
presence in Paris was no secret and this touch of deceitfulness was
on the lowest level.
"Usually poets don't have a luxurious life-style, monsieur," the
inspector observed. "How could he afford and apartment like this?"
"You see, he was a poet, but he had many business ventures."
"Come on now, Victor Hugo was hardly born with a white beard and
Rimbaud didn't have one when he died." I exclaimed. "Can we stop for
a moment, all of this is making me feel ill-I would like to join my
friends for a moment." "That's all for now," he assured me, "and if
the district medical examiner makes a satisfactory report, we will be
able to issue a death certificate and a burial permit. Otherwise
other doctors will be called in to work on the case."
"How many others?"
"Many."
The sign on Jim's door read, "I'm sleeping don't disturb" in Arabic
and French. My glance lingered interminably on the door handle,
before I decided to give it a half turn to open the door. I didn't
want to see Jim dead. The last time, when I saw him at the cafe -
that's the way I wanted to remember him. (So that's the way
everything has to end. What a squalid ending.)
Unexpectedly, the last of the policemen left the room where Jim was,
leaving the door open. From my line of vision I was able to see his
foot well. This last sad sight, framed by the doorway, replaced the
memory of the cafe.
Pam stayed beside me and held my arm. She wore a white djelaba, a
souvenir from their last trip to Morocco, that gave her a ghost like
look.
"Did you give them Jim's real name?" I asked her.
"No, and how could I have?"
"I just gave Jim's name backwards. I mean I put Douglas first, then
James. It could put them off the track for a while. Now hurry up and
tell me how he died. We won't be alone much longer."
Methodically tearing the silk threads from the embroidery on her
sleeve, Pam began to tell the story. "The other night we can home
right after the movie. When we arrived we immediately begain to sniff
heroin and Jim began to play his songs. He played all of them, one
after another, even The End. Then we went to bed. Jim asked me to
give him some more stuff, that's how it happened that he took much
more than me, especially since he'd taken some on his own during the
day. We also did a little on the night before."
"Who had it - you, Pamela?," Agnes asked.
"Of course, I'm the one who keeps it." Pam said these words in an
unexpected singing tone, reaching almost falsetto, only to become
normal when she turned to me and said, "Alain, you haven't seen him
yet. My Jim is so beautiful-go, go and see-Go."
"And then what happened?" I asked, ignoring her suggestion.
"We fell asleep. I didn't know what time it was when Jim's heavy
breathing woke me up. He was still asleep, but the poor guy had
problems in breathing. I tried to wake him up but he didn't react. I
panicked and began to cry and hit him. I hit him hard once, twice,
three times- nothing happened. I slapped him a couple of times. Then,
he came to, but he didn't seem much like himself. I was very tired
but just the same I was successful in dragging him to the bathtub."
The whistle of the teakettle gave Agnes a momentary pause to run out
only to return a few minutes later with a glass and a spoon for
Pam. "It's hot cammomile tea. It will do you good." I watched Pam sip
slowly before asking her, "By the way, who opened the bathtub faucet?"
"I don't remember. I woke up later in a cold sweat. Jim was not in
bed with me. I found him in the bathtub, unconscious. Blood was
running down his face, then he had those red marks on the right side
of his chest. Suddenly, he began to vomit into the tub. Then, I ran
to the kitchen to look for a basin. I went back to him and in the
basin I saw little pieces of pineapple that we had for dinner and
then blood. I had to empty and wash the basin three times. The third
time I noticed a blood clot. I was so tired and he told me he felt
better or something like that, so I went back to bed and fell asleep
again."
"What can you tell me?", the medical examiner asked me. "That he
didn't even smoke marijuana, not even in LA where joints are as
common as cigarettes. And it's only last night that"- I suddenly
stopped talking. My nerves were shattered. I couldn't even
think. "I'm sorry." the doctor informed me, "I can't sign the
certificate for natural death."
Agnes reached out to caress her hand and told her that the paramedics
had said that Jim had been dead at least an hour before they got
there. Pam didn't answer. She tore yet a few more silk threads from
her sleeve and returned to telling the story, "He had such a serene
expression. His head was slightly reclining and the water came up to
his chest, up to here - he was smiling a little. If it hadn't been
for all that blood, he...."
"You know that bleeding to death is completely painless." Agnes
interrupted her. "He couldn't know what was happening to him."
At that point the telephone rang. But, before Pam grabbed it, Agnes
warned her that it could be tapped. Therefore, all our conversations
had to be from a public phone. I wondered if it could be the young
count with whom Pam had run away at the beginning of the year,
leaving Jim in Los Angeles. Pam had never named him directly while I
lived with them. Every time she saw her Parisian friends, Jim and I
withdrew to the most remote corners of the house until they all left.
We never spoke about it and little by little I became convinced that
Jim really didn't care. His attitude was also consistent with his
advice to me: he told me not to worry if Pam threatened to commit
suicide. Looking back at the whole thing made me shudder. He made a
deliberate effort to get away from her and vaguely, paraphrasing a
line that he used in one of his concerts, he said, "There are only
two choices you can make: each of us had made it. You and I are on
the side of life, she is on the side of death. Neither you nor I can
do
anything about it. Don't worry about her."
"But Pam has threatened to fill the house up to the ceiling with
heroin-the Marseille affair. Did she really do it? Where could she
get the money -from the count? Tell me."
"I told you to fucking forget about it. Enough. I make it."
After buying cigarettes I went back, making my way through the crowd
picking up words like "death" and "young" and a word with which the
Parisians label their xenophobia, "etranger", which means foreigner.
But I didn't hear Jim's name, nor his profession. For the moment the
secret had been kept and the need for it to remain so increased when
I looked at the greedy faces of the crowd waiting for some cheap
thrills.
Going back toward the apartment, I saw two youths whose faces were
vaguely familiar to me. Their tailors deserved to be spanked. I
didn't like them from the very beginning. I didn't like anyone who
never threw rocks at the police in '68, and they were exactly the
type that didn't. I had hardly closed the door behind me when the two
guys rang the bell. The tall one introduced himself as Jean, the
short one as Jean-Louis. They asked for Pam. I explained to them that
Pam couldn't see anyone and I advised calling her the next day.
"Look, she was the one who called me." Jean said aggressively. "I
know everything. I really do."
My silence was accompanied by some piano exercises. The notes came
from the courtyard. I felt as if I were on stage in a play, exactly
at the moment when the booing makes them bring the curtain down in a
hurry. Agnes appeared stormily as deus ex machina. As his opening
line Jean immediately said, "I lived with Pam for six months."
"All right, but now you must leave." Agnes answered back with the
speed and precision that had earned her legendary reputation from the
Venice Film Festival to the stage at Venice, California.
She would have thrown them out right away if Pam hadn't intervened by
calling Jean, telling him to come in. Pam and Jean were sitting on
the bed that I had slept on when I lived there. They chatted quietly
together. I knocked. "Please go away." I told him nervously. "Don't
endanger the situation. You mustn't be here when the medical examiner
arrives with the police. Please don't say anything to anyone. Do it
for Pam. Terrible trouble could happen."
On the landing, Jean told me that he was leaving for Marakesh, where
he had a house. He would have arranged everything in case Pam had
wanted to join them there. In case it should become necessary he
would even make his London apartment available. In exchange, I
promised to keep him informed of further developments.
"I can't believe she has friends like them." Agnes said shaking her
head and closing the door after them. "They're drug dealers."
"A count?"
"Why not? What do you think? Just because someone's a count should he
win a prize for virtue? Tell me, do you believe what Pamela goes
around saying? I think that it's a classic case of the drug addict
that casts her own companion in the same role."
I wasn't able to answer. Pamela had joined us.
"Pam, is there any stuff left in the house?" I asked.
"No," she immediately protested. "The first thing I did was to flush
everything down the toilet. There's nothing left."
"Agnes just told me that Jean found a hashish pipe under the carpet
in the
foyer. If he took it with him we must be very careful."
Jim's desk in the other room was wide open until Pam jammed all his
papers into it, including a whole bunch of prints of An American
Prayer. She locked it ceremoniously and inspected the room, looking
for anything that could have something to do with Jim. In her
circular movement, her stare cut through me like a laser beam. I
realized that she could even have accused me of theft. It would not
have been a surprise and considering the stress she was under, who
knows what she was capable of doing. I could have considered myself
fortunate that she had locked everything up in front of Agnes.
Agnes' interest in the whole matter showed no signs of abating, but
it would have been compromising for her to stay, and I didn't want
her to get involved in all of this. After a few objections, Agnes
resolved to leave.
She told Pam that she would prepare a bed for her at her house.
While Pam was leaving the room, I looked out the window. The crowd
was slowly dissipating. I noticed a plaque to Victorien Sardou
affixed to the opposite building. Captured by the imaginary rivalry
between the playwright and Jim, I wondered if they would hang a
plaque for him too. And how would they have defined him? Poet or
singer? I would have to go back after a few years to find out - I
must stay, I thought. I'm flipping out.
"Burn them in the fireplace, quick", Pam told me, rushing into the
room and handing me a pack of letters.
"We can't. The police would smell the burning. It's the hottest day
of the year."
Pam set fire to an envelope to light the fireplace and went out
immediately afterwards to get more letters. Upon throwing the second
batch of letters on the fire, she put it out. At that moment, I
noticed that the letters had her handwriting. I wondered what she had
written.
"Drug stories," Pam said, reading my thoughts, "drugs and me,
naturally, but this, this is about Jim and it's better that they
don't see it. Here, read
it."
I took the Los Angeles police report, two photocopies yellowed with
age. Jim was caught on the balcony of the Hyatt Hotel on Sunset
Boulevard. Babe Hill was also involved in the matter and the police
found some marijuana.
"Was the 'stuff' Jim's?"
"No, it was Babe's," Pam replied, while she picked up some 8mm film
from the floor. "Last night we watched all the rolls of film taken on
the trip: Granada, Morocco, Corsica. We also sang the sound track for
it. What do you call those songs of Jim's that goes, "run with me"
and "let's run" - You know which ones."
"I don't remember either ... you didn't tell me what you thought of
the film I sent you to see."
Pam smiled at the memory and said, "What a rascal. It's really us,
the two of us."
A few letters that Pam was holding in her hand fell to the ground
where they came to life lifted by the breeze from the window. They
began to circle around the room. Finally, Pam was successful in
finding what she was looking for at my feet.
"Do you think they will believe it, if I tell them that this is my
marriage certificate? I don't think they know English."
"It won't work. You can see that it's a request to make a marriage
contract. The same word exists in French."
"We did this in Denver, but we never 'consummated' it," she said,
smiling to herself as if sharing an intimate joke.
I noticed the book and the magazine that I had left there the day
before and I explained that Jim had given me the opening article of
Newsweek to read (here copy garbled unable to translate) I asked
permission to take them. Pam answered me and began to clumsily leaf
through the pages of the magazines, while I happened to (glance) at
the cover for the first time. The title Plague of Heroin. What To Do
about it.
What happened next was.. (garbled) ( Pam went and got a coat, I
believe a fur coat and put it on) Alain says "Whose is it?"
"It belongs to a friend of mine, the owner of this place. Look,
she'll never give back the money that I paid in advance for the rent,
therefore...."
"Come on Pam, take it off. Put it back. You can't go around
confiscating other people's things. I beg you, don't do it. You'll
look ridiculous in that in Los Angeles. You're really in trouble
here, can you imagine were the police to suspect you of foul play or
homicide? Put that fuckin' fur away. Did you hear me?"
Pam took off the fur and quietly finished her work of research and
destruction. I asked myself for how much longer could I put up with
her.
The whistling stopped only an instant before the doorbell rang. I guy
stood there giving his personal contribution to the speculations of
the neighborhood: he had announced himself with the Aria Vissi d'arte
from Tosca.
The district medical examiner was a stocky man but he wore his
clothes in a most elegant style. His black case made introductions
unnecessary.
The Police Official had a very dry manner and he didn't offer the
least bit of sympathy for the situation in which we had found
ourselves. He was completely amazed by the fact that the medical
examiner had given us permission to leave the house. "Don't think
that this is a game," he admonished with a very serious demeanor.
"Where's the corpse?" he asked.
I pointed out the closed door, "There".
He went ahead, stopped and turned impatiently, "Come on, Let's go,
You've got to come with me to lay out the body. This is the
procedure."
"I can't. I've decided not to see my friend dead. I don't want to
remember him that way. I beg you, please do it alone."
"No," he insisted with authority.
Pam joined us. She seemed to be in a trance and her voice had an
artificial sound.
"This is my very beautiful man, sir," she said introducing him into
the bedroom. She seemed so sad.
The doctor completed the exam in a few minutes and then returned to
the
living room.
"Madame does not speak French. May I answer eventual questions?" I
asked.
"Of course. How old was he? Did he take drugs?"
"Twenty-seven. No, he absolutely did not take drugs," I replied
rapidly. Then I added, "In fact, he didn't even smoke marijuana, not
even in Los Angeles where joints are smoked like cigarettes. No,
truly. Absolutely out of the question.. In fact it was only yesterday
that he..."- I suddenly stopped talking. My nerves were gone. I was
losing control. Why had the doctor spent so little time? Was the case
already closed? In our favor, or against us? I just couldn't get it
together.
Suddenly, I began to talk again as if I had been forced, "You should
know that my friend was very pale the last time I saw him, a few
hours before he died. He had hiccups that wouldn't go away. I wanted
to be sure to tell you this. He went to the doctor's a month ago when
he was in London and the doctor said..."
The doctor made a vigorous gesture with his hand to stop me. "All
right, I understand" he exclaimed, handing me an address and an
envelope. "Take this to the municipal building of the fourth
arrondissement and go to the Civil Register department. They will
give you a death certificate."
It was lunchtime when we reached the municipal building and the
concierge told us to come back around two o'clock. We went to the
closest cafe and ate lunch in silence. I was overcome by a sense of
tenderness and my hand reached out to take Pam's. I felt a strong
sense of support for her and I kissed her wonderful red hair. She
wiped her eyes and gave me a smile that could knock you out. The
atmosphere was strongly perplexing.
"Pam, I don't know how to tell you this. You are Jim's heir. You have
to go on for him. We need you. You've got to take care of yourself.
Don't do anything foolish. You know what I'm talking about. You know
that I love you. I know it sounds corny, I'm sorry."
She looked at me fleetingly with a dazed expression. Then, her eyes
suddenly left mine to look up at the clock on the bell tower in front
of us.
"What time must it be in Los Angeles?"
"Almost five in the morning, why?"
"Wait before you call anyone. Wait until everything is done." I said.
"I have to call my sister, Judy. I want her to run to the Doors'
cutting room to steal the earnings from Friends Party. It's in the
Clear Thoughts Building, opposite Electra. You know she's just had a
baby and she's poor. I'll offer her fifty dollars. She'll do it.
After all, she's my sister."
"But this is obscene, Pam."
"Why? She needs money. Monday, during the screening of Jim's film I
will go there alone. You can't come."
Since it was Saturday, there was only one woman in the civil register
department of the municipal building to take care of this work. It
didn't take her long to examine the contents of the envelope. The
reason was simple: the death certificate due to natural causes had
been denied.
The clerk made a telephone call and handed me the receiver, "It's the
chief. He needs to talk with you, monsieur."
"I'm giving you ten minutes to return to the place of the deceased,"
he told me. He was furious. "Who gave you permission to run around
Paris, huh?"
"Give us fifteen minutes-the traffic is crazy." I tried to add
something but
I didn't get an answer.
Pam was next to Jim when the police arrived. The chief had no
intentions of dismissing the case. His manner was fry and there was
not one shred of sympathy for our situation. He was amazed, as was I
that the medical examiner had sent us to the municipal building. The
medical examiner of the Arrondissement (really, an area larger than a
district) would come to make sense of the situation.
After having asked a couple of general questions, the chief had the
apartment inspected. I looked at the fireplace and the surrounding
floor in order to find eventual traces of Pam's burning spree.
With sudden inspiration, I ran out of the room ad asked permission to
use the bathroom. Once inside, I made sure that nothing was left,
despite Pam's "clean-up operation." There was not even a speck of the
stuff.
The chief was inspecting the bathtub. I avoided looking at it and
stared straight ahead. "We would like to know when to remove the
body," I said.
How horrible, I thought to myself, thinking of the events of a few
days earlier, while I was describing the end of a play to Jim, a play
for which he didn't want to stay to see the end. "It was the best
part," I told him. "Bob Wilson constructed the set in such a way that
the audience had to stand up and go to it in order to see nude actors
strewn here and there, pretending to be dead. In the middle was an
old style bathtub in which there was somebody impersonating the David
painting, the one about the assassination of Marat...What a scary
touch, a 'tableau mourant' so to speak."
"I don't want to discuss the body now," answered the chief, bringing
me back to reality. "Moreover, get out of here, I have to do some
important work here. Do you think this is a game?"
Even if a rock magazine was to later define Jim's apartment as
luxurious, Pam was sitting on the only decent piece of furniture. We
remained in silence until the chief joined us to tell us that nothing
new had come up, and that if the new doctor were to give the go
ahead, we would really be able to have the death certificate and the
burial permit.
"Monsieur, what do we now do with Jim's body?" I asked very
cautiously.
"Forget about the body," he said .. "I asked you not to talk to me
about it. And, if we have to send it to the police lab for final
analysis the corpse will remain here until further instructions. The
only problem will be the heat of the next few days."
"The only problem - the next few days - What the hell are you talking
about?" I exclaimed, "Listen, you would hardly want to impose cruelty
of that kind on madame? No, never."
"Tell me what's happening," Pam wanted an answer.
"All right, monsieur. Now I've had enough. Please, both of you come
with me, now."
During the brief trip to the Quartier de l'Arsenal police station, I
urged Pam to cry, to abandon herself to hysteria, in short, to do
whatever she could to prevent herself from answering, thus
contradicting whatever I would have said in French. To our advantage
was the fact that she was always in a sate of stress. Even if they
had tried to read her expressions, they wouldn't have succeeded.. She
knew how to disguise her emotions perfectly well. If only I had been
able to do so - The greatest threat was inherent in my face: whatever
I was experiencing could be seen immediately.
The chief inserted the form in triplicate into the typewriter and
prepared
to listen to Pam.
"May I help you by interpreting?" I asked only too hastily.
His answer was terrifying. "That won't be necessary. I understand
English. Now, please be calm. Thank you."
While I was trying to remember what he could have heard of the
dialogue between Pam and me of a little while earlier, (did we
say "Jim" by accident?) she was giving some dangerously detailed
answers. For the moment, she hadn't yet contradicted my version. But,
a certain inconsistency lingered on her whole story, arousing the
chief's suspicions, especially in the part where Jim was throwing up
in the bathtub.
The chief asked, "So, you abandoned Douglas to empty and wash the
basin three times?" Bending over and resting his hands on his knees,
he continued, "And where did you empty and wash the basin?"
There was only one place where she could have done it (strange that
she didn't understand that she would have had to go to the toilet
that was separated from the bathtub, and moreover quite far). Pam
answered, pronouncing the words syllable by syllable. "I used the
sink in the bathroom."
Surely, my thoughts were traveling in tandem with those of the chief.
The blood clot and pieces of food should have clogged up the drain.
Why would she have used the sink? I held my breath. Then, something
incredible happened. The chief skipped over her answer and asked me
to act as interpreter in order to finish sooner.
Everything was going smoothly until Pam described the way she had
slapped Jim to wake him up. The vehemence that Pam put into her
telling of the story, added to the series of emotions she evoked,
make the chief reflect. A siren rang out in the silence, while Pam
and I avoided looking at each other.
"What relationship did Madame Courson have with the deceased?"
"I don't know how to say it in French. She is practically his real
wife."
"I understand. She was his concubine."
"Come on, be serious!" I protested with a bewildered smile. "Isn't
there another way to define her position?"
"Did she have sexual relations with the deceased last night? Before
he died, obviously."
"You have no right to ask that. It sounds rather ambiguous and
disgusting, don't you think?"
The chief didn't react and I calmed down. So, I asked Pam who
answered me, "No."
Fortunately, a clerk interrupted the questioning and told us to
immediately return to the apartment. The second medical examiner was
on his way.
Pam, who managed to contain herself all this time, blurted out on the
street, "You will no longer speak in a language that I can't
understand, all right? You could say anything and I wouldn't
understand it. I'm sorry, but how can I understand you? I want to
know everything you'll say from now on, every word."
I just had time to say, "You've got to trust me", before bumping into
the man who was coming. He was carrying a black leather bag.
The new doctor radiated affability. Even his handshake raised my
spirits. Once inside, he immediately went toward Jim's room, only to
come out just as quickly, just as the other doctor had done. He
examined the bathroom and finally joined us in the dining room. He
told us that it was rather strange that a young man should die in the
bathtub and added that he was in excellent physical condition, just
like someone who was used to playing sports.
He was completely off the track. Jim was a loner. He had never joined
a sports club- he swam rarely. His excellent physical condition
probably derived from the fact that often, during his work, he would
fall off stages or throw himself off roofs or out of windows that
were part of stage sets. Even though Jim had never been vain, this
posthumous complement would surely have pleased him.
Recently he had lost weight, especially because he had stopped
drinking.
"Monsieur, what will we do now with Jim's body?" I asked. "Forget
about the body, I told you." I told you not to discuss this problem.
It's possible that the police have to subject it to analysis.
Therefore, the body is to remain in the (bedroom??) (bath tub??),
just where it is now."
"But, what are you saying," I shouted. "You can't impose that kind of
cruelty on madame."
I observed this vivid, ruddy complexion and I hurried to say what I
had not said before, that Jim liked to drink alcoholic beverages. He
immediately reassured me, saying that in France, very many people
drink. I told him about Jim's recent experience with doctors: the
nighttime call to the doctor from the London hotel because he had
breathing problems, the medicines for asthma that were prescribed for
him by the doctor (even if it hadn't been diagnosed), the coughing
fits that had gone on for the whole preceding month and his difficult
recovery period.
He smiled to me paternally and said, "We, too, want to resolve this
matter. Now, I'll go to the police station where I'll write the
report. You both look very tense. Rest for half an hour or so, then
join me. I will tell them you're coming later."
Pam joined us and he said, "Au revoir, madame. I beg you to accept my
most sincere condolences." He shook her hand, then took her wrist to
feel her pulse. He made an affirmative gesture with his head to
communicate that all was going well. Then, he left. Poor Pam began to
cry. Until that moment, nobody had shown her care. This had done her
good.
Then she dried her tears and changed her attitude.
"I want Xanax. Give them to me now!" she yelled.
"I got rid of them so they wouldn't find them."
"You have no idea of the face you make when you lie. All right, I
don't care. Anyway, I still have some hidden someplace or other. I
have to calm down, you see? It's so simple."
She had become frenetic and began to run from one room to another,
searching at random. I figured that she was looking for her pills,
but I couldn't make sense of the jar she had in her hand. In Jim's
study, she found a fifty franc note and stuck it into the jar. Then,
she spotted Jim's shirt hanging on the door handle and rummaged
through the pockets, fishing out a few coins that she put in the jar,
while she looked at me triumphantly. When she finished her tour, the
jar was still half empty.
"In all, I have only two hundred dollars," she announced. "Usually, I
call Los Angeles when we need money. How will I pay for Jim's
cremation? I'll ask Agnes- she already offered, even though I'm not
sure I want to go to her house tonight."
"As you know, I don't have cash on me. But, if they accept credit
cards, and I think they do, we can use mine. Do me a favor. Don't ask
Agnes for the money."
"Why, don't you trust me?"
"Of course, I trust you," I told her with little conviction. "Now,
it's nine o'clock on Saturday morning in America, and the banks will
be closed. Let's see-Oh, shit!- They'll be closed until seven o'clock
Tuesday morning, Paris time. You know that Sunday's the fourth of
July, don't you? Therefore, the banks are closed also on the next
day, aren't they? You can consider yourself lucky if you'll be able
to have the money by Wednesday afternoon, For God's sake!"
Pam had a sudden idea which it up her face, "We can ask Bill Siddons
to bring the money here personally. After all, the Doors' manager
must be good for something. I know Bob, the accountant, but he would
never send me the money. He doesn't like me and what's more, I don't
like him either. Of course, I could also tell him that Jim asked for
the money."
"But, do you realize that Jim's estate will be frozen? Why don't you
talk to Max Fink, the lawyer, and let him explain to you how things
work in cases like this - the legal documents and all the rest? Jim
always trusted him, and we can count on the fact that he will
maintain professional ethics of secrecy about Jim's death."
"I don't like him much either." said Pam, even though she would
change her mind later.
"I beg you not to speak to anyone except Max. And remember - a minute
ago you talked about cremation. Well, don't even think of it. Here in
France, it's like admitting you know something about a crime. Here,
they usually don't give permission for it and, worse yet, they would
request an autopsy. There for-forget about it. And if you're thinking
of sending the body to the United States, the law provides for a
casket that is to be opened for inspection and other hassles. I know
this because I had my father's body shipped across the ocean in order
for it to be buried.
Pam did not want to grasp this.
"I want to disperse his ashes in a wonderful place. A place he would
have loved. I will ask Agnes to show one to me. After all, she's a
director."
"Enough, I beg you- Listen, we've got to bury him and we've got to do
it in a hurry, before the press gets wind of what is going on.
Otherwise, we are in deep shit. By the way, Agnes knows one of the
most important big shots of the European press, and I think if she
were to ask him, he would keep everything quiet. No, better yet- It
just occurred to me that once I took this guy's wife to a Doors'
concert. I took her backstage and introduced her to Jim who was
really nice to her. She adored him. I bet she would help us. Maybe we
could be successful in manipulating the press."
I stopped for a moment to make sure Pam was following me.
"I'm thinking of Pere Lachaise, the cemetery where Chopin, Delacroix,
Piaf and Isadora Duncan are buried. Even Alice B. Toklas is there.
You see Pam in this country, people have respect for artists. Even
Jim was really respected. He was not just a rock idol. He would
finally have ended up in the Larousse or in the Guide Michelin, not
on one of those idiotic maps they sell on Hollywood Boulevard. He
wouldn't even have been part of those guided tours of the stars'
tombs."
"Is Rimbaud there too?"
"I don't know - I don't think so. Didn't he disappear in Africa?"
"You know, I think perceptions remain in the body after death. So, if
they should bury him, Jim would feel the earth falling on top of him.
He would even be able to hear what people were saying around his
tomb..."
I didn't have the slightest idea of how to answer such a statement.
"So, what's wrong with that?" I asked her. "We wouldn't say anything
bad about him."
While I was waiting for Pam's approval, another reason occurred to me
for wanting Pere Lachaise. "I have to tell you about something that
happened a week ago," I told her. "Jim and I were walking when all at
once he saw a distant hill and pointed it out he asked me to go
there. When we arrived, we realized that it was the cemetery, and
that it had just been closed."
"What a pity"- I said. "I wanted to see it for a long time."
"Right,"- he told me. "I will come back."
Why, I asked myself, had he used the singular and placed so much
emphasis on it? I had no intention of leaving Paris at that time.
"Maybe he was trying to tell us something." Pam said.
"Do you know what to do to get in touch with the Morrisons? It would
be the thing to do - even to get their permission."
"We don't have to worry about that."
"Poor Andy, I would like him to find out about his brother from me,
rather than from a newspaper."
"Don't worry about him. It's OK. He's a big boy now."
The rapid unfolding of events didn't give me time to really think of
all the details. For the moment, the only important thing was to give
Jim a quiet burial far from the "Big Top." Meanwhile, the story that
Pam had told me was just a story and I couldn't figure out how much
truth there was in it. Maybe she had contributed to Jim's death. Not
only her. There were probably also some other factors. If drugs had
killed him, I didn't want it to be found out. I was ashamed of it
and, as I had occasion later to explain to Pam, there was something
else: I didn't want Jim to become a myth to follow. The mystery that
we built around Jim's death, his legend, suited me more than fine.
A few minutes later, Pam began to rummage through the last drawer of
a small piece of furniture.
"It was Jim's" she explained. "But he didn't care for it too much."
I was behind her and I could see that she was looking at the few
photographs of Jim. I looked away from the pathetic inventory of
souvenirs ... all the memories he and I had shared. I remembered them
all very well and began to cry.
"Hey, we've got to go back to the police station. Look at what time
it is," Pam reminded me.
"Please give me Monsieur Morrisons' passport," our old friend
told us
as his welcoming statement. "I must send it to the American Embassy.
It's just a formality."
The chief was therefore about to discover the exact sequence of Jim's
name. We had to avoid giving him the passport.
"We left it in the apartment. I would have to look for it," I
cautioned him. "Do you feel like waiting for me or do you prefer that
we bring it there in person? In any case, the Embassy offices are
closed until Tuesday since we're celebrating Independence Day.
Besides which, it's late. Don't you have to go home for supper?"
"All right, you can do it yourselves and as a matter of fact, it is
late.. I'll be at your place again tomorrow morning. Try to be there.
Until then you can do what you like."
"Monsieur," I said suddenly, "and the body?"
"I had asked you not to talk about the body yet- Leave it where it is
for now."
We had just arrived home, when Pam went to see who had rung the
doorbell. A minute later she shouted to find out if I had ordered
that ice cream.
"No, and I don't think it can be done in Paris. Why?"
"Please come here and talk to this guy."
I was surprised by that man's extraordinary look. Only the little
moustache, the walking stick and the oversized shoes were missing for
him to become the exact impersonation of Charlie Chaplain. His
clothes and hat were just right and his face was exactly the same.
"It's not ice cream"- were his first words. "It's only ice, dry ice.
And it's not for you-it's for the corpse"
I looked at him with wide open eyes and invited him to enter.
"Come in. It's back there in that room."
When what's his name left the room, he handed me his card and
said, "I will keep you informed about the schedule of my visits. Let
me know how the situation is tomorrow. Believe me, I'll do my best,
but this heat is against us."
I told him that Pam intended to spend the night next to Jim.
"Based on my many years of experience," he said, "I really advise
against that."
The Ice Man returned several times on Sunday and informed us that on
Monday, the situation would be almost impossible to sustain.
Pam seemed exhausted, but her determination made her go on. She
insisted that having Jim in the house gave her a feeling of security.
She told me that if it were up to her, she would keep it like this
forever.
On Monday, after some new ice was put in place, we received a phone
call from London. Some rumors were circulating, something to do with
Marianne Faithfull's statements, something to do with Jim's death.
Pam, who had answered, said nothing.
The party was about to begin.
There was no time to lose. Agnes' connections with the press would
continue to keep the newspapers quiet. Meanwhile, I made an
appointment with a well known lawyer, in case unfortunate
complications with the police should arise. Luckily, growing pressure
forced Pam to make a decision. She gave approval for burial.. To Pere
Lachaise's.
I organized everything with the span of a day.
Meanwhile, I could no nothing to change her mind - Pam slept with Jim
every night. She was stubborn. I hated to imagine the whole scene and
the effect this could have had on her. Moreover, another thing
happened to complicate matters. She was beginning to get nasty with
Agnes, who treated her like a daughter. As far as I was concerned,
Agnes was of immeasurable help.
"Remember," I said to Pam, "Agnes hardly knew Jim - They never saw
each other alone and she has always been very correct. Do you
remember when Jim told you that Agnes would probably be your only
friend in Paris if something difficult should come up. What a
prophecy..."
"I will never set foot in that woman's house again," were Pam's last
words.
The Bigot Funeral Parlor, located on the street next to Notre Dame,
was so close to the great cathedral that it could almost be taken as
a part of it. Even if this very crowded place seemed to be the same
age as its venerable neighbor, it certainly didn't make it seem any
better. The cathedral's shadow made it a dark place - and what's more
there was a single low wattage light bulb in use. It all suited my
mood which was particularly black at that moment.
Monsieur Guizard, the owner, quickly took care of the formalities
with highly professional expertise. At this point, I'd come to
believe that he took care of everything there was to do there, when
his assistant arrived. His appearance, his broken nails, led me to
suspect that he personally took care of the burial work. He had a map
of the cemetery so that he could choose the location for the tomb.
"Everybody wants to be buried at Pere Lachaise's. There's hardly any
room left. What was your friend? A writer, wasn't he?"
"Well really, he was a poet."
"Ah, in that case, we are in luck. Believe it or not, there is still
room in Division 89, where another famous American writer is buried.
His name is Oscar Wilde. Do you know him?"
"No I beg you. Not next to Monsieur Wilde. Isn't there another place?"
"Here. But it isn't really in a beautiful position."
"No, it's all right. It's OK. Thank you."
END.