We were in love. We fell into a routine. We were together every day, dawdling the afternoon in my house, going to Gregory's restaurant for dinner, Joe Banana's for mail, maybe Norwegian Monica's for a visit. He'd spend the night at my place.

And once a day Neal and I would go check on Eve and the baby.

It was usually late at night when we'd begin the trek across the paddy fields. Over the sun-parched earth we'd go. Neal carried a flashlight and followed the foot-worn path. I climbed the mounds between the fields and tried to keep my balance as I walked in the dark. I'd grown to enjoy the dark and rarely carried a light anymore. Half-way across, we'd stop for a coke break and prepare for the visit. He'd sit on the ground and take out his glass block and razor blade and, with the flashlight between his knees, he'd begin the line-making process. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. I'd perch beside him on a mound, and we'd tell each other our secrets.

'I wanted to be a writer,' he told me. 'That's all I ever wanted to do. That's why I left Washington, to write.'

'Did you?'

'Not really, except for political commentaries in my activist days. But I never started the novel.'

'Couldn't get it together, huh?' I asked.

He gazed at the sky, shook the bangs off his forehead, and giggled. 'I guess not. There was always something. Maybe one day I will stop taking smack. Soon, I'm stopping soon. I'm quitting for good. Maybe next week.'

Neal always claimed to be on the verge of quitting. Nobody paid attention anymore to his declarations of impending abstinence.

'What would you write about?'

'I don’t know.' CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. 'Maybe this.'

'What?'

'Goa.'

I laughed. 'No one would believe it.'

When he passed me the block, I knew we'd soon be moving on to Eve's. I wanted to stall. It was so nice there in the open field, just the two of us, so many stars in the sky, the sound of party music in the distance. I touched his thigh through purple satin pants and pulled his shaggy hair.

'Shall we go?' he asked.

'Ohhh, no.' I laid my head on his shoulder.

I didn't want to leave our sacred spot in the paddy field. We always stopped at the same place, though it was hard to tell one dry, cracked field from another. Flat earth stretched to the swaying panes on the horizon. I descended the dark hump of the hill to Baga. I didn't want to leave our flashlight refuge to go to Neal's house. For me, Neal's house was hell.

Eve had found herself a friend, an American guy into needles. Neal never stuck a needle in his arm—that was for junkies. What differentiated a 'junky' from a person who used junk was a question of money and sometimes style. Those with little money had to inject their drugs, since less was required that way. This wasn't true of coke, though, for fixing coke would soon lead to shooting great quantities compulsively, and therefore required either a lot of money or a talent for sophisticated hustling. Eve and her friend fixed smack and coke, both supplied by Neal. Often we'd arrive to find both of them nodded-out on the porch, one asleep on the concrete bench, the other on a mat on the floor, the baby playing by herself nearby.

Our visits to Neal's house quickly became a dilemma for me. They went on and on and on. Two hours, three hours, six hours, seven hours. On and on. Eve would stare strangely into corners and talk in that soft, quiet voice of hers.

'Hi, how are you?' she'd whisper as we arrived. Eve had a collection of objects—ceramic heads, blown-glass animals, jade Buddhas—that she paraded for us. She'd caress them and move them around. Everyone knew they were stolen, of course. Everyone could even identify who in each piece had been stolen from. One of my Kashmiri leopards, which had disappeared the month before, sat on display right there on a shelf.

The hours would drag by in the dirty room. No matter where I'd sit, I'd have to place my limbs around the ants that formed a perpetual trail on the centre table and across each mattress. I wouldn't mind the first hour, or even the second. Neal loved the baby, Mahara. He'd stare at her as if marvelling that he'd created such a thing. He'd play with her hands and feet and make noises against her head. It was cute to watch, even though, as Petra would say, I love children.

It wasn't so much the visits I loathed; but the way Neal handled them. I would tell me we'd leave as soon as the baby fell asleep, but hours after the baby had closed its eyes, we'd still be there. Despite klepto Eve, Neal was the most-loved character on the beach. He'd helped everybody at one time or another with drugs and money. People dropped in by the dozens. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. Neal was a great storyteller too. He'd been on the scene for so long, he knew old-time stories about all the major Anjuna figures.

'You should have seen Alehandro in Kandahar back then.'

What drove me crazy was that Neal seemed to enjoy my growing anger as two or three hours passed after he told me we were leaving 'right now.'

'Neal, let's go.'

'Okay, one minute. When Graham appeared in Kandahar . . .'

'Neal. . .'

'I'm ready, we're going.'

Then Neal would take Eve somewhere for a talk—into the other room, to the porch, the garden, anywhere. It seemed he waited until I was fuming with impatience before he remembered some urgent thing he had totell Eve. Time would pass. I'd have to go find them.

'Neal!'

'I'm coming.'

It would be another hour till he returned to the living room. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. More stories. Then another hour would pass before he was ready to go again. Then Neal would have a long discussion with Eve over how much dope and coke to leave her.

After a few weeks I was convinced he used Eve and his visitors as a tool to manipulate my feelings. I tried letting Neal go to the house by himself. But then, despite his promise to be back in an hour, end up trekking across the paddy fields half a day later to get him. The crowd would smile as I stormed in. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. I'd stand in the doorway with my arms crossed.

'Hi, cutie,' Neal would say. 'I'm just leaving. Sit down a minute.'

So I'd sit, and more people would arrive, and the stories would go on, and I'd he trapped there for hours again.

When I did finally get him home, we'd fight—mostly with me shrieking and Neal serenely chopping coke. The madder I became, the calmer he grew. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. When I was absolutely furious with rage, he'd appear the epitome of peace and satisfaction. A well-fed cat dozing on a cashmere sweater could not have seemed more content.

'I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! YOU SAY YOU’LL BE BACK IN A FEW HOURS AND A DAY GOES BY. DON’T TELL ME YOU’LL BE RIGHT BACK IF YOU DON’T INTEND TO RETURN FOR A WEEK! THAT’S ALL I DO THESE DAYS IS WATT FOR YOU TO RETURN. I’M SICK OF IT. I WON’T DO IT ANYMORE.' Too much coke. Not enough sleep. No food. 'IT’S OVER. GET OUT. GO. GOODBYE.'

'Come here and do this nice big line.'