"I know. But he still makes me nervous," would be the response. And Bach hated him. So Indian Man had to go.
I'm so tired. Exhausted. Where's my coke? I need another line.
It's remarkable how much coke and dope one can consume when the supply is unlimited. I shrunk to skinniness again. How long had it been since my last period? Two years? I did manage alternate daily injections of vitamin B complex and calcium, though; and because it was so smooth, I drank glasses of the Electrolyte mixture. I did TRY to eat, but coke had so constricted my throat that solid food didn't want to go down. The only substance I could tolerate was Gregory's creamy mousse, with which he competed against The Three Sisters' chocolate pudding. Oo, the mousse felt wonderful as it slid coolly and soothingly down. Since I couldn't leave the Saloona, I sent a motorcycle driver to Gregory's restaurant every day. Unfortunately Gregory had instituted a policy of not serving his much-desired desserts without a main course. So, to acquire the two or three mousses, I had to order two or three main courses. That was okay—Bach loved Gregory's prawns in wine sauce.
Bach lived the good life in Anjuna Beach. The animal hospital in Bombay had cured him of his ills, and he thrived on the two or three servings a day of prawns in wine sauce or sirloin buffalo steak. The maid and her family called him Fatso. Bach had a routine. He'd wake up while it was still dark and nudge me until I let him out. Then he'd be gone for hours, running with his gang of strays. Around 11 A.M. he'd bark at the door. Since this was when I'd be desperately trying to sleep. I'd ignore him as long as I could, but eventually I'd drag myself to the door and let him in for his drink of water. After that he'd rest peacefully beside me until the first wake-me-up customer came pounding at the door, at which time he'd go out again. For the rest of the day he'd be within calling distance, and whenever he wanted to come in, he'd bark once and I'd obediently open the door.
During February my dope den changed—people switched from snorting lines and smoking bhongs to shooting up. Apparently many Goa Freaks were now into fixing. Some fixed only coke, but others, doe to a shortage of funds, fixed dope in order to do less and make it last longer.
The end of the season was the time when personal stashes and monetary funds ran low. The people fixing smack simply bought it and left. Those fixing coke bought it and stayed. They stayed for hours and hours and HOURS.
Moving with the trend, I added a new line of products to my inventory. I sold needles for five rupees and syringes for forty. I also rented syringes, carefully boiling them between rentals. An ampoule of distilled water cost five rupees. I stockpiled vitamin B ampoules, which I tried to push instead of the water.
"Why don't you dilute your drugs with this vitamin B complex instead of water?" I'd say. "It costs a few rupees more, but it's GOOD for you. Look how skinny you are. I bet your body is craving a little B. It'll give you a nice rush too."
"Won't it mess up the coke rush?"
"Not at all. It adds to it, I promise. You won't believe the head this gives you! And it'll make you healthy at the same time."
"Nah, just give me the water."
I was surprised by how many people turned down the vitamin B. When I promoted it seriously, some agreed to try it but acted as if they were doing me a big favour. They rarely asked for it again.
"Well, then, how about a nice shot of calcium?" I'd offer next. "This is intramuscular and doesn't give you a head, but it will restore the calcium that coke depletes from your body. I give you the shot myself. How 'bout it?"
Needless to say, the health supplies were not my most popular items.
One day I noticed that people who fixed their drugs created a different atmosphere than those who smoked or sniffed. While smokers and sniffers were more social and interactive, fixers were more introverted. They were preoccupied with their sets of paraphernalia, their arms, their rushes. If a smoker or sniffer was wandering about when one of the fixers peaked, it caused a startled jump. So—eager to please my clientele—I separated them and provided a special area for fixers. For this I had to use the second floor. I set up blue and green velvet mattresses around a blue and green rug to create a haven in the bedroom. The three windows encircling the northern extension of the room let in the breeze from the sea; that first rush of coke could sure bring on a heavy sweat.
I provided everything. I distributed cut-up strips of satin for tying arms. I bent every kitchen spoon I owned into the shape convenient for mixing coke with water, and I laid out metal bottle openers for breaking the glass tops of distilled-water ampoules. Scattered among the Kashmiri tables were champagne glasses filled with water for cleaning syringes. In the centre of the space I placed a pot with a sign saying SQUIRT HERE. This was to prevent people from squirting bloody water into ashtrays. There's nothing uglier than cigarette mucus swimming in ashes and blond.
Paradise Pharmacy in Mapusa became my best customer. The pharmacy was notorious for selling morphine, Mandrax, Valium, and whatever. When I went there soliciting cocaine, the owner jumped at the opportunity. Apparently he was deluged with requests for it. On my weekly trips to Mapusa to deliver him a dozen grams, I would stock up on distilled water and new needles.
As the season progressed and the Goa Freaks' cash dwindled, the smokers and sniffers trickled away, leaving me with two rooms of fixers upstairs. At Joe Banana's one day someone asked me, "What's this I hear—you have a shooting gallery in your house?"
"A shooting gallery!" I'd never heard the expression before and thought it wondrously clever. "Hey, that's cute."
Among the new fixing clientele was a gorgeous blonde German with a marvellous body. He would arrive early in the afternoon and, buying half grams at a time, would fix one shot after another until late at night. We liked each other. However, with all the drugs I ingested, sex was the last thing in the world I wanted. Sex ranked alongside jail and chewy foods—unthinkable! He, meanwhile, was totally preoccupied with his rushes. Our moments together consisted of snatches of my spare time intersecting with his calmer interludes—perhaps as he cleaned his syringe.
"No, no! Not in the ashtray!" I'd exclaim. "Here, see it says SQUIRT HERE." For a moment our eyes communicated feelings our bodies couldn't.
"Oops, I did that again? I'm sorry. So when am I going to teach you to windsurf?"
"Soon."
The gorgeous German had brought to Goa the first wind surfboard anyone had seen. I couldn't imagine when he had time to ride it, though, since he sat in the Saloona. Every day, all day.
Also among the new group of fixers was Marco. For years Gigi and Marco had lived in a yellow-tiled mansion on the road to Calangute. Their successful hash import-export business had made them the centre of the chic and popular Italian group. It ended, though, with Gigi's death. Now here was Marco— or rather the ghost of Marco.
When Gigi maxed-out on coke and dope in Bombay, Marco had been jailed in Europe; he had missed her death and funeral. Now he seemed to be following her footsteps to doom. As Marco fell apart, so did his business, his finances, his circle of friends. He'd lost the house, sold his possessions, and existed somehow, here and there, with his daughter. Formerly elegant and stylish, he now epitomized the slimy junky—dirty, lying, hustling, stealing whatever wasn't tied down, and fixing anything he could lay his hands on.
At first I felt terrible for him. Over and over we watched my movie of their wedding—ravishing Gigi, brown hair gliding over her laughing face as she climbed into Greek Robert's jeep for the ride to Hanuman ice cream shop in Mapusa. We watched as she and Marco listened to the ceremony in the government office. Marco stared at the movie in fascination. Over and over. The jeep ride, the ice cream, the government ceremony.