When the customers left I locked the door and wouldn't open for anyone else. I needed to think. Was I suicidal? Was I punishing myself for Neal's death? Was I trying to send myself a message? I sat under the platform with Bach in my lap, and I thought.
By the next day I had arrived at a conclusion. I had to leave India. I knew it now. Oh, I hated the notion. This place was my dream. I would never find one I loved as much, or that I could belong to as wholeheartedly. Goa was home.
I squeezed Bach so tightly that he squirmed away and went to the other side of the room. How could I leave India?
But I couldn't stay either. Lino had stopped asking for the rent money. As a matter of fact, not only had he stopped asking for the rent, he'd had to pay my last month's electric bill himself. Next year I wouldn't have a house. No, I couldn't keep it up any longer. I was falling apart. Everything was falling apart—my house, my hopes, my mind. If I didn't leave soon, I might the like Neal. And Gigi. Or end up like Mental, in jail. Or Greek Robert—dead in jail. My brain wasn't working right anymore. Look what it did to poor Inspector Navelcar. I could no longer trust it with a scam. I couldn't trust it to pay bills. I couldn't trust it to enact plans for saving a friend's life. And now it was trying to burn down the house.
It wasn't just the coke, I had to admit. It was the smack too. While Coke Amuck took me to the stage of lunacy, smack eroded caution, good sense, control, and initiative. I could see that now. I had to change my life. If I continued living this way, I wouldn't last very long, and the end wouldn't be pleasant.
I had to leave.
The only person I told was Canadian Jacques.
"This is my last season in Goa," I said when we were alone. "What do you mean? What about your house?"
"I’m giving it up. Or it's giving me up. I can't pay the rent anymore."
"Surely something will come up this monsoon. Don't say that."
"No, I have to go. I'm falling apart here. Look at me. I've been in trouble with the police three times in the last year and a half. The next time will be the big one, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life in jail. I can't trust myself anymore. My brain isn't working right. I have to stop using drugs. Forever."
"I thought you said you'd never quit. Remember? You said never."
"I wouldn't, if I had a choice. I have no choice." I sighed. "No drugs, no India—my life is over."
I still had half a season left, though—my last season in Goa.
Each sunset was precious now. I watched them as if I were going to the soon, which was how I felt. I didn't know if I wanted to five without Anjuna beach. On my return from Gregory's restaurant I'd stop halfway across the paddy field. I'd sit on the dry red dirt and catch Bach as he came bounding over to see why I'd stopped walking.
"Oh, Bach. I have to leave. What will I do with you? I'll have to leave you too."
He wasn't sympathetic. He'd wiggle out of my arms and run a few steps before turning, surprised to see me still sitting on the road. Then he'd run back and stop short in front of me, sending up a dust cloud. After a few ticks at my face, he'd sneeze at the unwelcome, salty taste of tears. A few more runs down the road and a quick look around . . .
"Oh, okay! I'm coming, Bach. But how will I five without you? And how will I five without Goa?"
The Saloona was on its last legs, barely scraping by. I hardly did coke at all anymore. It was hard enough to afford smack. I had some pretty strange customers, though usually only one at a time. A German woman came every day and fixed a hit of coke before leaving with her packet. She was cute, with a turned-up nose and a turned-up top Tip. She also, typically, had a terrible time spearing a vein. To swell it with blood, she'd swing her arm round and round like the Ferris wheel at Coney Island. Then she'd stop and take a peek. No, not yet. Another few windmill swings. Nope, almost. More swinging. When she finally saw a vein popping out, I was as relieved as she. An adorable Italian also came every day, but he stayed for hours. Apparently somewhere on the beach he had a wife and child, though I never saw them. An ideal customer, he always treated me to half his stash. A benefit of dealing dope was the license to scrounge. Customers didn't mind providing a free taste to the provider.
Other Goa Freaks scrounged that year. No matter how little I had, when friends dropped by I'd courteously offer a bhong. Many hungry friends visited. Texas Jack came often, always making me promise I wouldn't tell he'd been there. On other days Cecile came, making me promise not to tell Jack. Norwegian Monica dropped in to sit around till I offered her a bhong. As did Cindi, Liverpool Sandy, Graham . . . Even Alehandro drove up now and then on his leopard-skin motorbike, waking me early in the morning and asking outright for a bhong.
Rumor had it that Trumpet Steve, father of Anjuna, scrounged not only the beach but the hotel rooms of Bombay for the next bhong, the next great scam, and that perfect deal that wasn't happening for us Goa Freaks anymore.
Ho, ho—and Narayan! Narayan—who'd been so against smack that he'd tossed my pound of it in to the ocean of Bali—Narayan now lived on the other side of the paddy fields, perpetually stoned on opium! What delicious news.
"Hoo, boy—have you seen Petra?" Monica asked one afternoon as she waited for my adorable Italian customer to pass her a bhong.
"No, not for years," I answered. "Why?"
"She's here."
Petra! I couldn't wait to see my friend. After making Bach's tail a bright shade of pink, I dressed in a pink elephant outfit and ran out the door. At Joe Banana's I began the process of tracking her down.
"She is staying in Junky Robert and Tish's old house," said Joe Banana.
"She's out," said someone sitting on Junky Robert and Tish's old porch. "Try Alehandro's."
"Left an hour ago," said Hollywood Peter as he held a lighter to Alehandro's bhong. "Went that way. Try Georgette's."
"Just left for the Monkey chai shop," said Georgette.
"Petra!" I exclaimed, finding her at last. One of her huge sleeves knocked a French fry off her plate as she spread her arms for an embrace.
She looked as flamboyant as ever, still in black, with silver jewellery, silver braids, silver bangles hanging everywhere. A silver headband dangled silver baubles around the back of her head and dropped a crystal teardrop between her eyes.
"Hebshen! I was HOPing you'd still BE here."
I learned the details of the gossip I'd heard about her over the years. Yes, she'd inherited a fortune, but no, she wouldn't collect it, for that would entail remaining in Germany, "That would RUin my life," Petra declared. "My free SPIRit would be BROken. I couldn't surVIVE. My happiness is more important than chandeliers and chauffeured LImousines. I had a DREADFUL time during the months I STAYED there taking care of the will."
Would that happen to me when I left India, I wondered? Would my life be ruined? Would my free spirit be broken by conformity and tradition?
Yes, Petra continued, she'd had a car accident and had been in the hospital. She could walk now, but the doctor had told her to stay off her feet. Rehabilitation required swimming, hours of swimming.
"I had a HUT built for me on the BEACH," she said. "I don't know HOW I will STAND it. I haven't had the COURage to move in yet." She made a dramatic shiver, hunching her shoulders and lifting a hand expressively to her forehead. "Can you Picture me. You KNOW I've never been a BEACH person. That SAND. I like the MOUNtains."