When Serge returned that night, the relationships were set. I was with Serge. I knew it. Serge knew it. I guess Neal knew it.

It didn't matter anyway. As soon as Serge returned to sell us four ounces, the three of us divided the house into three separate realities. The otherworldliness of the extreme weather warped even further the eeriness of our already-strained perceptions. It was like being in another dimension—soft, cloudy, speedy, and of course wet. It was hard not to notice the wetness of the cushions, the soggy saris hanging from the ceiling, our clammy clothes. In that respect, our three universes shared a common element. Nothing stayed dry during the monsoon. Even the wood of the stairs and the tile of the floor felt damp. And shortly, everything assumed another monsoon characteristic—mouldiness. Everything, everything, everything was damp and mouldy.

Serge took over a window ledge under the stairs. He filled it with coke paraphernalia—his needle and syringe; my soup spoon, now best into a silver twirl; a champagne glass of water. Serge stayed at his window ledge fixing one shot after another after another after another. Sweat poured from his temples and blood ran down his arm. Obsessed with the surge of coke as he squeezed the liquid drug into a vein, he never noticed the Hood of water outside the window inches from his face. The tie wrapped around his arm was held down by his foot at one end and pulled out by his teeth at the other. Serge exclaimed 'Oh, wow' regularly, like a stoned cuckoo clock marking time. There was a rhythm to them. As soon as he withdrew the emptied syringe from his arm, he'd draw water from the champagne glass to clean it out. This he'd squirt in an ashtray, and then he'd begin the process again—coke in the spoon, a dash of rain water, stir with the end of the needle, into his vein . . . 'Oh, wow.'

His preoccupation was okay, though. I hardly missed him. I'd be crouched in coke-fantasy delight on a four- foot-square world map. Foot on Bolivia, once over Antarctica, I would sail my finger on the Pacific as my eyes scanned for land. 'Where's Tahiti? I can't find it! Where's Tahiti?'

For hours, days and weeks, with Serge riveted to his window ledge, I planned my next scams—the ones that would go down as soon as we heard from Aura Sathe and Lila.

'We need a midway stopover so Customs doesn't get suspicious,' I said. 'Where is Tahiti?'

Neal would be nearby chopping coke. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, CLICK, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. His limp satin pants clung to his legs as he lay stretched out in his own coke rapture, leaning on an elbow. He'd use the rusty mirror to scratch his beard as he told stories nobody was listening to. '. . . remember Petra in Venice,' he said. 'I think that was here she met . . . or was he there writing poetry? . . . Well, one day . . .'

'Here it is!' I exclaimed. 'I found Tahiti. Look, it's over here by the States.  This is perfect. I'll take the cases to Tahiti, coming from over this way. Then you rake those dumb cruises out of L.A. and meet . . .'

'Oh, wow.'

' . . . Petra performing at that time . . . ' CLICK, SCRAPE, CLICK, SQUEAK.

'Oh, wow.'

SCRAPE, SCRAPE.

'. . . nobody would suspect anyone coming from Tahiti . . .'

'Oh, wow.'

SQUEAK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.  '. . .  gondola capsized . . . '

'. . . or let Aunt Sathe . . .'

'Oh, wow.'

The air was hick with humidity and coke rainbows. Every day brought a new insect—one bigger, stronger, and moving in a different way than the old insect it had consumed. It marked the passing of time. 'What kind of bit:; Co we have today? Does it crawl on my map? Hop on my lap? Slither under my knee?

'. . . and then Blind George showed up . . .'

'. . . and then we visit these Islands here . . .'

'Oh, wow.'

CLICK, SQUEAK, SCRAPE. Something jumped on Neal's glass block and landed in the coke. 'Hey! Look at this. Powered beetle! Whoa, little fellow, having fun in there?' It didn't hedge. 'Look at him. It’s stoned! Immobilized.' Neal pushed the insect with his finger.

'. . . go through Alaska next? It's up here . . .'

A drop of sweat fell unnoticed from Serge's hair and landed on his nose, where it slid to join the previous drops in the wrinkles of his harem pants. He let the tie slip out of his mouth as another syringeful soused his brain. 'Oh, wow.'

'Look at this bug go. He's staggering!'

'. . . Alaska is good because it's part of the U.S. Once you get in there, you're in. Who would search anyone going to Alaska? . . .'

'Oh, wow.'

'Watch him waggle! Hey.' Neal leaned over and put the glass block between me and the North Pole.

'Want to go to Alaska?' I asked as I took the line of coke. Our eyes met.

'How're you doing?' he asked. I smiled.

'Oh, wow,' came Serge's muffled voice.

I jumped up. 'I need a super line to get me to the bathroom and back.' I scraped a pile of coke to the centre of the glass block and snorted.

I started to hand the block to Neal, but pulled it back. 'Wait. One more. The bathroom's so far away.'

After snorting the second mound, I strode unsteadily to the door. As I passed Serge, I caressed a handful of his hair. 'Oh, wow,' he said, staring his arm.

To reach the bathroom, I had to pass the dining room and the kitchen. Water had leaked in from the side door, and a stagnant Pool covered most of the dining-room floor. I walked a few feet through water my wet footprints followed me into the bathroom.

I really had to do something about the toilet. The tank on the roof was empty, so the toilet couldn't flush. At least two weeks' worth of business had accumulated in the bowl. Pew! Maybe I should remove the cover from the tank and let the rain fill it. I'd be taking a chance, though, because if a leaf blew in, it might wreck the delicate system. I had to think of something soon. The smell was inching its way to the rest of the house. Without the maid coming every day, entropy was setting in.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Mistake. Oh, look at me! I moved a hand to my tangled head. What a mess. I grabbed a brush and matte a half-hearted swipe at some hairs. Impossible. I'd never get those knots out. I threw the brush down and contemplated the pile of clothes that covered the table, the chair, and a corner of the floor. I took off the blue dress I'd been wearing for who-knows-how-many-days and put on a red velvet one. I dropped the blue dress on the floor.

I looked round the dim room. Smoke clouded the glass of the kerosene lamp. I opened a cabinet but could hardly see inside. I closed the cabinet and opened a drawer. Birth-control pills. Still hadn't gotten my period. I closed the drawer and slid open the sliding door of the closet. It was filled with the clothes I never wore. Or at