Wednesday
April 15 1992 - Mustique
'There's no time to lose' I heard her say
Catch your dreams before they slip away
(RUBY TUESDAY)
Wednesday APRIL 15 1992
It was the 80th anniversary of the sinking of the
Titanic. I was traveling under two names- that’s what tipped them off. I wasn't
trying to trick people. Anne McLean was my real name.
Ann Diamond was the name I wrote under.
It never occurred to me that this was a problem.
I had never concealed the fact that Ann Diamond was just a pseudonym that sounded better than Anne McLean. Being Canadian I had no idea there was a
famous Anne Diamond over in England that everyone had heard of, a daily presence
on daytime TV, which I never watched to begin with.
It's in these little details that the devil resides.
So here I was on Bequia, April 14 1992. I had
arrived on the ferry from Barbados. So far my first trip to the Caribbean had
been effortless and magical, a frangipani coconut dream.
Now the challenging part was about to begin.
Finding a pay phone near the beach in the dark,
dialing the number for Basil’s Bar - that part was easy.
Friends in Montreal – musicians -- had given me
the number and told me not to worry . “It’s the bar on Mustique he half owns
with a guy named Basil. It’s where he gets his mail. Just phone and leave a
message that you’re coming.”
They knew the scene having been down at Christmas
when Bowie and Mick performed and invited them back to the house for the party.
They made it seem like the easiest thing in the world – just show up and join the fun.
So I phoned the number on Mustique thinking I
would leave a message for Mick Jagger. Let him know I was coming to his island.
If he was really there, which I doubted, he might get it. Likely it would never
reach him, and if it did he could just ignore it. Meanwhile I would have done
my best to fulfil my mission. It made perfect sense since my mission was to
bring him a message from a deceased Tibetan lama who had been yelling at me for
weeks to "go to Mustique, go at Easter, he’ll be there..."
Who was I to argue with forces beyond my understanding or control?
“Basil’s Bar – how can I help you?”
When the bartender answered my heart did a flip.
I had to say something. I said. "Hi, my name is Ann Diamond. I'd like to
leave a message for Mick Jagger."
There was a pause.
"Okay I can't take no message but I'll
connect you to his house."
I hear distant ringing. The same tipsy bartender
comes back on the line.
"He's refusin to take de call."
Somewhere in the dark out there, on the next
island over, Mick Jagger was refusing my call.
"Of course he's refusing! I didn't ask you
to connect me! I just asked to leave a message!"
Deep breath as I tell him what to write down:
"Ann Diamond will be at the bar tomorrow
between 12 and 2."
"Okay, I'll give him the message."
The waves were crashing like drunken boats down
the beach in the moonlight. I felt like going for a naked swim
Stripping to my undies I realized I should have slammed
the phone down and not left that message. Just gone bashing about my invisible
business in ignorant bliss. But I was on a mission and couldn’t turn back now.
I had a boat to catch in the morning. I had already
prepaid the captain with traveller's cheques made out in my real name of Anne
McLean.
It’s in these details that the Devil resides in his toll booth, waiting to nab us at the border.
Next day April 15 1992 was the 80th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic and my ship was about to go down in the Grenadines.
***
The next day the police got involved.
We landed at the Cottonhouse Hotel beach after a two hour sail in bright sunshine and heavy humidity. Putting down anchor a few
meters from shore, we slithered over the side and waded the rest of the way.
The first thing I glimpsed among the palms up ahead was a skinny brown haired
man in white shorts, descending the steps between the hotel and the sand. He
was clutching a cricket bat as if late for a match. He was squinting in my
direction and didn’t look happy at all.
Somehow I had imagined our meeting – if it ever
were to happen—would be accidental and light-hearted like the time he and Keith gave me
a lift in their van and we went for a joy ride before crashing into a stone
wall. But that was a dream while here in tropical daylight Mick looked annoyed
and alert. As if he had seen his share of bitterness up to now and I
was the latest black cat to cross his path.
Arne the tall Danish boat captain was giving me
directions to Basil's Bar --
"Cross the little parking lot then turn
right on the dirt road. It's about a mile - you can't miss it."
He was facing out to sea, unaware of Mick peering from the embankment.
I kept glancing over his shoulder at the man just meters away lurking behind sunglasses which did nothing to disguise the fact he was very upset about something.
It couldn't be about that phone call last night,
could it?
Turning on his heel he stalked over to the area where his white electric jeep was
parked. That's when I noticed he was limping slightly.
Since last night's phone debacle I knew he was on the island but I would not be bumping into him. He would naturally avoid the bar during the hours I had mentioned in my message, 12-4 or whatever.
Yet here he was.
To get to the road I had to walk through the same parking lot he was now circling in his jeep. Coming alongside, he scowled at me through his window. He looked like he'd had a few sleepless nights lately.
A faint voice in my head said "Hop in!" but it just didn't feel right to grab the door handle and slide into the front seat next to him. Had he smiled i might have but I was confused by his being there at all.
This cannot be happening. I'll just ignore it. Keep walking. Shouldering my bags, I turned onto the road that led to Basil's Bar as the jeep pulled past stirring up a cloud that covered me in fine white dust. In the rear view mirror I glimpsed a face glaring back at me.
I should have just jumped in while I’d had the chance. “First thought, best thought,” as those Tibetans used to say. Too late now. Instead of cruising along in the jeep with Mick I was plodding towards the Bar.
When I arrived at Basil's it was not lunchtime yet so I ordered an orange
juice and sat down near the sea where I could watch the waves hitting the sand
of the beach next door.
It wasn’t yet full tourists hoping to catch a
glimpse of someone famous -- David Bowie or Christina Onassis or Princess
Margaret or even Mick. In fact I was all alone with my two bags including my
purse where I had my notebook with empty pages on which to write him a note which I would rip out and hand over to the bartender to give to Mick. I fumbled
around for the notebook and couldn't find it. Strange. I knew I had packed it that morning but now it was missing.
When the friendly waiter brought me my drink I asked to borrrow some paper. He gave me two sheets of bright yellow foolscap. “Will that be enough for you, Miss?"
Chewing my Bic I got down to writing. Dear Mick... I'm sorry to have bothered you last night. That was a mistake. I have always loved your music since i first saw you on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1964 as a high school girl age 13.
I ended on an encouraging note. "You still
have so much to do. Don't give up music." Or something to that effect. I
folded up the letter and slipped it into my purse. By now it was noon but the
bar was still almost empty except for a trim looking man about 45 in a red
alligator shirt sitting near the toilet.
"Is your name Diamond?"
"Yes it is. Am I in a lot of trouble?"
This was Ken, the chief of Security on Mustique.
"Not yet. Why don’t you sit down." He motioned to an empty chair.
"Do you mind answering a few questions, Miss Diamond"
"I would love to answer some
questions." It was almost a relief to speak, even to a cop.
"Mick is upset."
I nodded.
"He is very upset."
"Yes I noticed that. I didn’t mean to phone
his house last night."
"You don't understand, Miss Diamond- I've
never seen him this upset."
"Really. Wow.”
“Yes.”
“But how well do you know him?"
"We’re a close knit community here on this
island and I know Mick well.”
“I’m so sorry. The bartender -"
He cut me off.
“So why are you here, Miss Diamond?”
“I was asking myself the same thing.”
“Before we start, would you like something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Just here for the afternoon.”
He asks me what I do in life.
“I’m a writer. Back in Canada. You've never heard of me.”
“Mick tells me you've been writing him letters.”
“That’s true. I just wrote him another.”
“I saw you were doing that. Mick says your letters don’t really
make sense.”
“That’s because I'm half French Canadian.”
Ken appeared puzzled.
"You're not looking for sex, by any chance,
Miss Diamond? A lot of women come here for that."
"Oh no, I have a boyfriend." More like a roommate but he doesn’t need to know that.
He asks me where I’m staying and I say Lower Bay
Guesthouse, for a few more days.
One or two extra questions, and Ken stands up to
leave.
"And is there anything you'd like me to
bring to Mick?"
Well. As a matter of fact…
I run back to my seat and bring him the shopping
bag with my novels and the hand written letter.
Ken takes it and thanks me. “I cant promise he’ll
read all this…”
“It’s just my life work. He can toss it in the
trash.”
He smiles. We shake hands.
"One more thing. Mick wonders why you seem
to know some very personal things about him."
"What personal things?"
He hesitates.
"He says you mentioned 'Buddhists' - are you
a Buddhist, Miss Diamond?"
"Not really, but I've studied Buddhism. And
I'm a friend of Leonard Cohen who would probably say the same."
"I see."
He rumbles away in his electric jeep and I feel
faint thinking of Mick holding that bag and reading my letter.
Meanwhile back at my table the blond Norwegian captain is throwing a fit. He’s just spent his morning at the cop shop answering questions.
"You’re traveling under two names and phoned
Mick Jagger's house last night. “Do you realize I could lose my license?”
He orders more coffee and works himself into a
rage. “The last thing celebrities want is tourists coming to this island to
gawk at them,” he informs me.
I try to calm him down by being a sympathetic
listener. Meanwhile over his shoulder once again I catch sight of Mick who has
just walked in the door where he pauses, looks over at me and strikes a pose.
The lunchtime crowd has noticed a rock star and
the atmosphere livens up.
The boat captain is still fuming, oblivious to
the goings on at the entrance.
No way am I leaving my seat with the captain
yelling in my face while Mick goes and hides behind some bamboo.
“People like you just ruin it for everyone.”
I panic. I could still cross the floor and go talk to him but I’m frozen with fear. What if he yells at me and I burst into tears?
The moments are ticking away and with them my chances of meeting Mick, although I'm not sure I want to. After ten minutes he emerges from wherever he's been and pauses again at the exit, flipping his hand once or twice as if to say "Well?"
I stay glued to my chair opposite the captain as the other passengers from this morning start to arrive. They’ve been to the beach where they saw some cool parrots.
I say “I saw Mick Jagger.”
We reboard the Sunflower and sail back to Bequia,
the sun and wind somersaulting on the waves. My mind is so
empty and full I cant do anything but lie collapsed against the rail as Mustique disappears in
the distance. The captain takes our bags and stores them securely in the cabin, as he did on
the way over, to keep them dry.
Back in my room in Lower Bay I find my travel diary, missing earlier, now back in my handbag where i'd packed it that morning. It dawns on me I was the object of a police operation that began with the call to Mick’s house.
The police called the captain, who went through my purse on the voyage and found my diary.
The cops and Mick must have scanned it for clues.
Now Mick will know I’ve been dreaming about him…
I get into bed and switch off the light as the crickets make music in the dark outside.
That night alone in my bed in the guest house I
have the most amazing sex of my lifetime, lasting till dawn. I am awake the whole time until the sun flooded my room.
****
Later
over coffee Arne the boat captain apologizes. "They're paranoid over
there. A few weeks ago a kid was caught on the road to Jagger's house. He was
carrying weapons."
So they thought a woman phoning the bar might be a
terrorist. And woke the boat captain in the middle of the night to question him
about a passenger. And found out I had two names.
Surely women must phone all the time and try to leave
messages. Maybe not all of them travel under two names or call themselves
"Ann Diamond" -- maybe Mick was upset that a British television
presenter had turned up so rudely at a very bad time in his marriage.
But it didnt quite explain why he showed up in person twice,
on the beach or later at the bar.
Maybe Mick was just a friendly guy who liked meeting people
who bothered him. Or maybe it was because I had mentioned Leonard Cohen and
Chogyam Trungpa.
None of it quite added up,
but I had had fun and learned to snorkel. When
I got back to Canada I told my friends of my adventure.
A few months later Mick released a solo album Wandering
Spirit... and I heard things in the lyrics that surprised me. They seemed
almost like references... vague but nevertheless haunting.
Two years later in
1994 comes the Voodoo Lounge album and the images I left behind on Mustique in
a shopping bag stare back at me from the cover.
Inside there was a song about that day in the
bar, with Mick imitating Leonard Cohen, and one or two references to things in
my notebook.
I try to tell a friend but she thinks I’m crazy.
Since nobody believes me I stop talking about it.
****
The dreams are always very intense and realistic
but not really sensual or erotic
Mostly we traveled around together including
across the universe at the speed of light to another galaxy. We met Chogyam
Trungpa, who told me he and Mick were very much alike. Sometimes we talked.
Mick told me about his life, his children, his marriage, his projects and plans
for the future. In one dream he acted out a series of multiple personalities -
accumulated over many lifetimes – admitting his inner fragmentation was a
source of a lot of suffering as well as creativity.
In these dreams he always treated me as a close
friend and confidante- almost like a younger sister.
Some dreams were funny like the dream where he
and Keith picked me up in their brown van and we went for a wild ride -- Mick
at the wheel , Keith in the passenger seat, me seated on the gear box between
them. Jamming his foot down, Mick lost control and we rammed at full speed into
a stone wall. My nose hit the windshield but I was unharmed. Mick and Keith,
looking ancient and rugged, laughed as if to say “Stick with us, babe -- we do
this all the time."
These dreams happened every month or so, and
relieved the monotony of my life as a teacher and freelance writer
My next door neighbour, whom I rarely saw, was
Leonard Cohen. We were no longer really on speaking terms. There was gang
stalking going on in that neighborhood and I often felt surrounded by
criminals. But there was music—a Senegalese drummer lived across the alley. An
Irish band called the Wastrels practiced in the yard next door. And my upstairs
neighbour was Michel Pagliaro, the King of Quebec Rock.
I had no reason to think these dreams of the
Stones were anything other than dreams until early 1992 when Mick appeared on
the cover of Vanity Fair, looking old and wise. The article contained several facts that
I knew only from dreams: that he and Keith while touring shared a brown van and
drove around in it together. That Mick's young son Jimmy had started playing
guitar and was thinking of becoming a singer. That Mick had plans to start
making movies. He had shared all these things with me in dreams.
It was around that time- early January 1992 -
that I began hearing the voice of the late Tibetan guru Chogyam Trungpa in my
head, telling me to go find Mick on his island.
"Go! Go in April! He will be there! Buy your
ticket!" These instructions were accompanied by stabbing headaches.
Miraculously, a royalty cheque arrived in the mail for $1200 - enough for the
flight and (if I was frugal) a couple of weeks in a cheap hotel. As soon as I booked
my ticket the headaches and voices completely stopped.
But I still needed to write to Mick and let him
know I was coming. I thought the best way to introduce myself was to mail him a
copy of my poetry book, A Nuns Diary, about a group of nuns living in the south
of France with God as their psychiatric patient. That ought to grab his
interest. But where to send it? I plodded over to McGill University and asked a
Librarian who looked up the Rolling Stones Fan Club address in New York. I
fired off a letter and the next day I realized it would likely never reach him.
That's when coincidence took over in a manner
that was so off the charts, I was afraid to talk about it later for fear of
being thought crazy. I walked to the corner bakery to buy milk, and standing
there was a tall red head with a Glasgow accent, an old acquaintance from the
local music scene, whom I hadn't seen in years, who sang in a Celtic band
called Borealis. Munching a croissant she asked what I was up to these days and
I said "well to be honest, I'm trying to write Mick Jagger."
She takes a step back, and says "well just
coincidentally, Kirk and I were down on Mustique over Christmas and New Years,
playing in the bar, and Mick was there and we all got invited up to David
Bowie's house."
She takes down my address and says she'll send her husband Kirk around in an hour with all the details on how to write Jagger. And he shows up at my door in the snow -- and tells me the address. "That will definitely reach him." I thanked him and was at my computer minutes later banging out my letter to Mick which I posted that day with A Nuns Diary enclosed.
The clerk at the post office said it would take about eight days to make the journey to the tiny island of Mustique down there in the Grenadines.
Eight days later I vividly dreamed that Mick had received my book, but had a few questions about the author and her story. Of course he never wrote back but I wasn’t deterred.
In early April my French roommate drove me to the airport. While the plane idled on the runway, waiting permission for takeoff, the captain turned on CBC news and there were Mick and Keith, sitting in the Caribbean, talking about the new IMAX film of their Steel Wheels tour.
From takeoff to landing in Barbados, everything seemed effortless, as if I had an escort directing my moves every step of the way, right up until I landed on the beach at Mustique and saw Mick coming down the stairs to meet me.
None of this really explained why Mick was so upset. Or why Ken the police chief told me "I've never seen him so upset. Do you know why, Miss Diamond?"
No, nor would I find out for another 27 years.
****
Returning to Mustique years later on another
catamaran, I take a walk to the beach at the far end of the island. On a road
leading down to the sea through a lush growth of palms and flowering trees, I
come upon a small table for two, two chairs, two wine glasses, and an empty
bottle all laid out and waiting in the middle of nowhere.
On closer inspection the table shows signs of
having stood there bleached and deserted for years.
Above on a cliff stands a house, barely visible
behind flowering bushes.
Someone up there revs up a spectacular sound
system. Céline Dion's soaring soprano belts out The Power of Love.
Had Mick been reading the travel diary of Ann Diamond aka Anne McLean wondering if she was the same little girl he had met in 1956 when he was in a special program developed out of London's Tavistock Institute?
If he remembered little Anne McLean he must also have been thinking about the last time he'd seen her just after she turned 14...
April 23 1965
The day the Rolling Stones played Montreal.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hH28_9Bpj0U
