I fell back in laughter and knocked the bhong over.
Neal's visits definitely brightened my day.
modelling composite from a talent agency
A soft drink ad featuring Cleo
Cleo's Car
Cover
Taking sannyas with Bhagwan
Watching movies in the theatre
Cleo in Goa
Graham playing backgammon in the dining room
December consisted of constant partying. Music wailed nightly on the beach and continued till the next afternoon, when people went home to sleep. Since no one kept track of days, Christmas went by without felicitations, though Alehandro wished me "Happy New Year" at, or near, the correct date.
Petra lived in a house not far from mine, and she too dropped by every day to say hello. "Ou, it's so nice and COOL in here," she said, raising her arms as if standing under a waterfall. She leaned an elbow on the four-foot high platform the carpenter had made for me. "What IS this thing?" she asked.
"Do you like it? I designed it myself. Sometimes I like to be up high, so I sit up there. Other times I like to crawl into a little space, so I sit underneath."
Like Neal, Petra smiled tolerantly at my enthusiasm. She looked inside the satin surrounding the platform and commented, "Interesting."
Petra came often to keep me company while I worked.
One afternoon she and Neal visited at the same time. It was the day the Goans started the bathroom. We watched as three locals laid bricks across a doorway to convert it to a window (I didn't need a door going outside from the bathroom!). A few feet away, three others planned the wall that would divide the kitchen in two. While Neal told stories and made lines of coke, Petra flashed me disapproving looks. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
When Neal left, she coaxed me away from the renovation site for a moment.
"My dEAr, what is GOing ON between you and NEAI?"
"We're friends."
She raised one eyebrow and lowered the other in the most disbelieving Look I'd ever seen. "Is thAt so?" She put one hand on her hip and tossed her head dismissively. "Neal is a suPERB man. I met him years ago in Kathmandu—beFORE he was into smack. BeFORE he got everybody ELSE into smack too." She lowered her eyebrow again. "And before he had EVE and the BAby. Just be CAREful, my dear. Are you getting enough SLEEP with all this COKE?"
No, I wasn't getting enough sleep. I'd be up for days, coked-out, spaced-out, designing weird things. I hadn't been eating much either. Who needed sleep and food? All I needed was coke and a pencil.
A few days later, as I tried to figure out what colour to paint the front room, a voice called through the open window. "Are you Miss Cleo?" I turned to see a pretty face surrounded by black curls. "I heard you might be interested in buying coke," he stated.
"Actually, I don't have money on me at the moment," I answered. "I'm going to Bombay tomorrow to pick some up. Maybe next time."
Again I'd run out of money. I'd bought a colossal amount of coke since I'd been in Goa. That, plus smack, plus the construction, had really swallowed my finances. Living in Goa could be stupendously inexpensive. Food and rent cost little and I paid the Goan maid twenty-two dollars a month for coming in seven days a week and doing everything.
Drugs were the main rupee eaters. I loved playing benefactor. It was exhilarating to slip a spoonful under everyone's nose. I loved having people flock around me, nostrils twitching, waiting expectantly.
Later that day Petra came by to ask, "Did you receive my PREsent?"
"Present? No. What was it?"
"Aw, I TOLD him to come here. This DARling boy knocked on my door selling coke. He was STUNning. I thought you'd LOVE him so I told him to come HERE, that you were SURE to want some."
"Oh, yes! He was here. But I didn't have money on me."
"He looked your TYPE, THAT'S why I sent him Over." Then she added. "To keep you out of TROUble."
Keep me out of trouble? To keep me away from Neal, she meant. Unfortunately, I had a feeling it was already too late for that.
Bombay was crowded with late-season arrivals. I stayed in town only long enough to stop at my safety deposit box, change money on the black-market, visit my favorite opium den in Chor Bazaar, leave a few rolls of movie film to be developed, buy a dozen fancy doorknobs at Crawford Market, and gorge on Dipti's jackfruit and ice cream.
When I returned to Anjuna Beach, I searched for the pretty boy who'd been sent as a present by Petra. He was easy to spot at parties. He always wore white on the bottom and red on top, and he cruised the crowd slowly, making himself visible to potential customers. His name was Serge, and he was French-Egyptian. He'd grown up in Egypt but went to college in England, which accounted for his impeccable British English. He and his English wife had been living for years on Colva Beach, two hours from Anjuna, with their son. During the last monsoon, his wife had made a scam, bringing three kilos of coke from Bolivia to India. It had been her trip—her money, her connections. Serge had had nothing to do with it. Now, in Goa, if he wanted to share the profits, it was his job to sell the powder while his wife stayed in their isolated Colva home.
I became a regular customer of Serge's at parties. Tish and I began each night by splitting a gram, and we'd buy second and third grams as the night progressed. Besides business transactions, though, and my filming his prowl through the crowd once, I never had much contact with him. Then one evening I saw him at Gregory's restaurant, stated at a nearby table.
"Hi, Serge," yelled Mental, an American with wavy, dark hair hanging to his waist. "Tee hee, how's it going?"
"He's gorgeous," I whispered to Mental. By then I was so enthralled with Serge I could barely aim the forkful of buffalo meat at my mouth. "I've been trying to get to know him for weeks now."
Thinking more of scamming free coke than of doing me a favour, Mental asked me, "Why don't we all go to your place after dinner, tee hee?" He addressed our table, "Wanna come to Cleo's? Hey," he shouted to the other tables, "Cleo's house, tonight." Then he went personally to invite Serge. Serge accepted.
We left Gregory's restaurant in a group.
"Thanks, Mental," I said to him as we crossed the paddy field.
It turned out to be a small party that went on most of the night. Serge supplied coke for everybody. I sat next to him and monopolized his attention. Just before dawn he went to the kitchen to make coffee. I never used the stove, especially with Goans around to do those stores. Serge was a gourmet cook, chummy with kitchens, and the Goans were asleep.
"This kitchen is amazing for Goa," he said. "I've never seen chimneys here before."
"I had them made. I designed everything. This whole back area was one room until I had the wall put in." Serge's eyes twinkled as he watched me skip excitedly, exhibiting my creations. I pointed out the snake-head doorknob on a closet, then said, "Come look at this," as I took him to the hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom. I stopped by a painting hanging there and explained, "This is my fantasy house. I'm fulfilling my childhood wishes. The canopy over my bed, the stairs, the hammock, and this." I lifted the painting off its hook to reveal what lay beneath. "I've always dreamed of having a safe behind a painting—like so. Just like in the movies, huh?"