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?'

Serge's smile widened as I demonstrated the excellence of my security system by yanking on the safe's metal handle. 'How did you get the Goans to do that?' he asked.

'It wasn't easy—they'd never heard of such a thing. See how burglar proof it is?'

'Miss Cleo,' he said, taking my arm and pulling me close. 'Would you be still a moment.' I stopped yanking and looked up at him. Black kohl, the Indian cosmetic, outlined his eyes, exaggerating their size. 'At least slow down enough so I can kiss you,' he added, laughing.

We swayed across the inch separating us. I loved the feel of his satin vest.

'Hmmm. Very nice, Miss Cleo,' he said when we broke apart. 'I think by now our coffee water must have boiled into evaporation.'

By the time we returned to the living room, many people had left. Mental was still there. He was injecting powder into his arm. Though in the past the Goa Freaks had disparaged needle use, lately it was becoming more tolerated, especially for coke.

'Where'd you get the coke?' Serge asked Mental in an annoyed tone.

'I had some of my own, tee hee.'

'And yet you let me be the one to turn everyone on?'

'You have so much,' Mental answered, absorbed in watching blood flow into the syringe.

'Let's go up,' I said, taking Serge's arm and leading him to the stairs. 'That's typically Mental.'

'I don't like when people take advantage of my generosity. It isn't my coke either.'

We passed through the 'boudoir' to the bedroom. In one motion I removed my dress and turned to watch Serge disrobe. He threw his pink scarf over a Balinese statue and smiled down at me lying on the bed.

'I bought this canopy in Laos,' I said, painting to the fringed thing hanging overhead. 'It's supposed to be for wedding ceremonies. What's that string?' I asked noticing one around his waist.

'This was given to me long ago. I never take it off.'

'Never?'

He laughed. 'Once in jail in Kabul they made me, but that doesn't count.' He leaned over and we kissed.

'Ow. What's that?' I objected to something digging into my chest.

He lifted to reveal the silver phallus he wore around his neck. 'A shiva Unigram.'

'I suppose you never take that off either?'

'No, if it bothers you, remove it.'

'Let's just slide it to the back.'

I pulled the charm across its chain and held it behind his head as we kissed deeply. After a while, as things heated up, I forgot and let go. I wasn't concerned when the silver Unigram started banging against my forehead, matching Serge's sexual movements stroke for stroke. But later, postorgasm, with Serge collapsed on top of me, I noticed an ache not only on my forehead but again at my breast bone, against which the damn thing was now crushed.

Serge laughed when I complained, saying 'Pardon me.'

A few hours into daylight Serge had to leave. 'Business. I have to make up for the coke we consumed last night.'

So walked Petra's present to the door. A handful of people still lounged downstairs, one asleep on the top of the platform. 'Well, ciao. Have a nice day.'

'You too. Bye, Miss Cleo.'

As I closed the door, Doctor Bo approached me. Doctor Bo, an American, was a real doctor—though a doctor of what, nobody knew. 'I think I should tell you Mental's been freaking out and making a mess,' he said.

'Oh, no! Where is he?'

'In the dining room.'

I rushed to the back of the house. 'Oh, god!'

I didn't find Mental, but I found his trail of destruction. The lid of a plastic water-tank had been removed, and water was everywhere.

'He freaked out with the water,' said Doctor Bo.

Pieces of things lay strewn about. 'My Kashmiri boxes! My cassette tapes! Look what he did to the broom! He shredded it!'

'This is his wallet,' said Doctor Bo, holding up a soggy rag. 'Here's his passport. Look at these pictures— they're tom to bits.'

'Uh-oh, I better find him.'

I followed the signs of Destructo and panicked as I saw them lead up the stairs. 'My movies!' I dashed up,