by Cleo Odzer
No. Someone saved me. It was my old friend, Inspector Navelcar. "I know her," he said as he came in and looked at the mob.
He spoke to the others in Konkani, the local language, then motioned that I could go.
"I can go?"
He shook his head Indian style, signalling yes.
Wow. I couldn't believe it. As I left the police station a free person, I felt reborn. The green of the palms looked greener as relief swept through me. I took a deep breath. Close one! I turned to Inspector Navelcar to thank him.
And I remembered Neal.
The last time I'd seen Inspector Navelcar was when I'd gone to Panjim to ask him to have Neal arrested.
"My friend died," I said to him. "It's your fault."
"Pardon?"
"Neal died and it's your fault."
"Who died? What is my fault? What are you talking about?"
"You killed my friend. Remember I asked you to have him arrested and put in a hospital? Well, you didn't and he died."
"I remember now. I thought you simply had an argument with some one. You never returned. I thought the matter was finished."
"You killed him."
"I did not know he was indeed sick, and we had nothing to arrest him for. I am very sorry your friend died."
"Murderer."
"Perhaps if you had returned and told me again about your friend?"
"MURDERER!!"
Now Inspector Navelcar just wanted to get away from me. He looked around as if searching for an escape and crossed the road. "I am very sorry about your friend, but there was nothing I could do."
"MURDERER," I shrieked at his back. "YOU KILLED MY FRIEND. It’s ALL YOUR Fault!"
He moved quickly in the direction of the flea market. I followed, my eyes filling with tears. Neal was gone! My Neal was gone! It was the policeman's fault. It was somebody's fault.
"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"
The tears fell and more surged from the edges of my eyes. Inspector Navelcar no longer answered me; he kept walking.
"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"
Parked outside the market were dozens of motorcycles. Their drivers clustered nearby smoking beedies, waiting for passengers. The inspector strode briskly among them. I followed a few feet behind.
"MURDERER! I BEGGED YOU TO HELP MY FRIEND, IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT HE DIED."
The roughneck bike drivers jumped out of my way. Leaving me space. After a decade of Freaks in Goa, the natives knew to flee the path of a crazed one. A man selling lemon soda peered at me through his tent vent.
"MURDERER!"
As we neared the market, more and more people knotted the way. Women carrying baskets of fruit turned to watch the man and the shrieking foreigner chasing him. A taxi stopped and a head popped out of the window.
"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"
Tears poured nonstop down my cheeks. The inspector half ran into the crowd, not daring to look behind. I followed.
"YOU KILLED HIM. YOU KILLED HIM."
As I entered the market, the sound of bongo drums and flutes wrapped around me. The inspector hid himself. I'd lost him. I stopped and cried and yelled in all directions.
"NEAL’S DEAD. MY FRIEND IS DEAD. YOU KILLED MY FRIEND."
I could hardly see through the wall of water between me and the world. Eventually I ran out of energy and returned to the road.
The motorcycle drivers saw me coming and hopped out of my way again. I found my driver sitting on his bike. He threw his half-smoked beedie to the ground at my approach.
"I go home now," I told him.
When I arrived at the house I instructed the driver to come back Monday morning. I had no idea why I needed a motorcycle Monday morning, but I had the weekend to figure it out. In the evening Straightish delivered the things I'd left at the flea market.
"Oh, thanks. I thought I'd lost everything," I said.
"I packed your stuff when I realized you'd disappeared. Where'd you go, anyway?"
As it turned out, nothing had been stolen after all.
I spent the next two days crying for my dead friend. Neal was gone. I'd no longer find him on my doorstep shaking his bangs, giggling, and saying "Hi, cutie." No more Neal to run to with a piece of gossip. Or a problem. Or a secret. No more clicking noises. No more stories. How could there be a Goa without Neal?
Late Sunday I realized what I'd done to Inspector Navelcar. Oh, shit—I'd gone Coke Amuck on the poor inspector. Poor guy. And after he saved me from who-knew-what kind of fate. What had I called him? A murderer? He wasn't to blame for Neal's death. It was me. It was my fault. Not Inspector Navel car's. He hadn't deserved such a scene.
The motorcycle was coming in a few hours! Good. I could go apologize.
The bike ride to Panjim took fifty minutes. When Inspector Navelcar saw me climbing the worn steps to his floor, he looked scared. I must have really shaken him.
"Sorry," I said to him. "Those words weren't for you. They were for me. I blame myself for Neal's death. Not you. Forgive me?"
He seemed relieved but not totally convinced I wouldn't go berserk there in his office. I thanked him for coming to my rescue.
"How's that man I hit on the head?" I asked.
"He is fine. Just a nasty bump."
Though I never went to another flea market, I managed to sell things. The oil painting from Bali went first—the one whose bamboo holder I'd planned to bash over Narayan's head. That painting had been hanging in my movie room. The empty space created by its absence stared at me forlornly every time I passed. I'd loved that painting. In my images of the Future it had always been with me. Its loss was significant.
One day I opened the door to find Kadir on the doorstep. "Shambo, Cleo, man."
"KADIR!" I jumped into his arms.
Kadir had been jailed in Germany for two years. "I just got out, man," he said.
We went inside and shared lines of coke, along with our feelings about Goa and Anjuna Beach. We both loved the place. Kadir had longed for it every hour of his incarceration. But he found it different from when he'd left.
"Where is everybody, man?" he asked. "Nobody's here anymore."
"Who do you mean?"
"Anybody, They're all gone, man. Dayid and Ashley. Giuliano . . ."
"Giuliano's in jail in Rome."
"Greek Robert . . ."
"He’s dead."
"Gigi and Marco . . ."
"She’s dead."
"Neal. . ."
"Him too."
"Mental . . ."
"In jail."
"Georgette . . ."
"She's here! I saw her the other day at Joe Banana's."
"And what happened to the beach parties, man?"
"There's a party tonight, I heard."
"Not on Anjuna Beach. It's at the music house on the Chapora road. The parties used to be HERE every night."
"I know. I guess people prefer staying homo with the bhong. I haven't been to a party in ages myself."
"Anjuna Beach is nothing like I remember. I hear people call it the Smack Beach. Man, nobody wants to come here."
Bach dragged his stuffed elephant to me, gripping its ear with his teeth. He wanted to play. I hugged him. I showered Bach with the leftover love from vacated parts of my heart. Little Bach, at least I have you.
"Anyway, so how are you doing?" I asked Kadir.
"Not good, man. I'm broke."
Kadir needed the money I owed him from the silver jewellery of his I'd taken to sell. Ooops. That had been so long ago. I hadn't been able to sell it, and meanwhile, over the years, boyfriends and friends had chipped away at the treasure trove of silver goodies.
"I still have the belt," I told him and ran to fetch it from a drawer.
The other things, though, the ivories and silver amulets, had long since disappeared. I apologized. I wished I could repay him. He was an old friend returning from an agonizing two years away from the home he loved. I wanted to welcome him back in a joyous, generous manner. Alas, in poor straits my
self, I couldn't. I felt terrible.
Another day, who should appear on my doorstep but Lila, the runner Neal and I had sent on the doomed trip to Bermuda. During her eighteen months in jail, I'd written and promised to pay her for the scam anyway. Oh, shit, free she was, and I didn't have enough money to keep my toilet filled with water I had a hard time facing both Lila and Kadir when I ran into them.
Late one night a customer entered my upstairs rooms. He had no reason to be up there, since I now restricted the Saloona to the ground floor.
"You know, you almost set your house on fire," he said, descending the stairs a while later. "Look at this." He was holding an aerosol can whose half melted cap had curled into a twisted shape. "Good thing I went up there—the cap was on fire! These things are flammable, you know. You should be more careful."
Holy shit.
I was shocked. I'd left a burning candle glued to an aerosol can and had forgotten about it! Me, who was so afraid of fire I used to sleep with a fire extinguisher. How was it possible I had done a thing like that?
I handed someone the wrong change as my mind clung to the image of the fire I'd started. I didn't know for sure if the aerosol can would have exploded the way the label warned. Or if the saris hanging from the ceiling would have caught the fire and caused the house to burn down. It didn't matter. What mattered was that I'd left a candle burning unattended on the can in the first place. I'd never done that before. Something had to be wrong with me. I had to figure out what it was before I succeeded in another, equally destructive act.
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."
Her condition was serious, though, and if she didn't take care of her legs, she might be crippled for life. She shouldn't walk much. She had to swim to exercise the wounded joints. But Petra—a Kathmandu Freak, a mountain person—living in a hut on the beach? Definitely not her style. Had anyone ever seen Petra without her heavy boots? She was depressed over the prospect. I had an idea.
I'd decorate her hut as a surprise.
After Petra told me the hut's location, I excused myself on a pretext and sought out the miserable palm-frond affair to check its dimensions. It was the only hut by the water's edge. I knew Petra the Kathmandu mountaineer had to hate it. Twelve feet by eight, it leaned against the rock face.
I ran home to fill a gigantic suitcase and three bags. A Goan helped me carry the load.
In no time the pathetic hut looked like a sheik's tent. A Kashmiri carpet hid the bumpy sand. Against the rock I placed a satin-covered mattress piled high with velvet pillows. Carved wooden tables sat on either side of the bed, one holding a kerosene lamp, the other a dancing Nataraj. I set another lamp on a rock ledge and shrouded the palm-frond wall with Laotian embroidery. In the doorway I hung sari material, over which I added chimes to tinkle in the wind. As a finishing touch I left her my bottle of insecticide.
