A week went by, then another two. We forgot all about Aunt Sathe in our psychotic cocaine ecstasy. Life grew wetter and then darker as one by one the lamps ran out of kerosene. At first Serge filled them from plastic bottles he found in the kitchen. When those ran out, he used the kerosene from the stoves. Then we made do with less and less light. On rare occasions, if someone remembered to ask, and if Apolon agreed to do it, the Goans filled the bottles. But as their field work became more time consuming, and as we grew crazier than ever, they stopped coming altogether.

For the most part, the house was now lit solely by three blackened lamps. Serge had one on his ledge. Neal and I had one on the other side of the living room, and the bathroom had the third.

Even though I was 'with' Serge, it seemed I spent more time with Neal. Serge had rented a motorbike and would leave periodically to do I didn't-know-what I-didn't-know-where. I always forgot to ask. I knew he ate. In spite of everything, he seemed to be keeping himself in better condition than Neal and I were. When he was in the house, he spent the time at his window ledge with his syringe, fixing one shot of coke alter another. When he wasn't at the ledge, he soon fell asleep. So, although I more or less hated Neal (who could remember?), I usually awoke to find myself lying next to him. Well, Serge always fell asleep in the middle of the room! And at the wrong time!

One day I woke up on the floor with a hole in my chin. OW! Pain and my cry had woken me. Alerted by my yell, Neal peeped over the platform edge. (I guess I'd fallen asleep next to him again.)

'What happened?' he asked. 'What are you doing down there?'

'OOOOOOOOw.' I tried to hoist myself off the floor, but raising my head made me dizzy.

Neal giggled at me. 'You fell off the platform in your sleep?'

'It hurts. OOOOW. I just woke up. I don't know what happened.' He climbed down. 'Here, let me look.'

'I can't move my head. I'm dizzy.'

'One second. Let me see!'

'OOOOWWWWW.'

'You cut your chin. You must have hit a corner of the step on your way down.'

'My head. It's killing me. Where's my smack?'

Neal brought my stash while I bled on the Rajasthani rug. 'Maybe you should have stitches.'

'NO. I don’t trust those Indian doctors. I'd be scarred for life.'

'You might have a scar anyway.'

'Oh, no. Get me a mirror.'

Serge was out. By the time he returned, I lay propped on an elbow, unable to straighten my head. When he saw my bloody face, he rushed to my side.

'What happened?' he asked anxiously.

'I fell off.'

'No.' Almost laughed. 'How did you do that?'

'I don't know. I woke up on the floor.'

'Why are you tilting your head?'

'It hurts and makes me dizzy if I hold it straight.'

His concern grew when he saw my chin. 'You should go to the hospital and let a doctor look at you.'

'I don't want to go to the hospital.'

The pair increased as I tried to sit up. Serge's face filled with worry. 'I think you should go.'

'I’M NOT GOING.'

'Yes, you are, Miss Cleo. I'm leaving right now to find a taxi.'

'NO!'

But he rushed out and sped away on his motorbike.

'I'm not going anywhere,' I told Neal.

Half an hour later Serge returned. 'I brought you a taxi. The road's washed out, so it's on the other side of the paddy field. Let's go. I'll take you across on my bike.'

'Absolutely not.'

'You're going whether you like it or not.'

'I'm not getting on that bike.'

He kneeled in front of me. 'Look at you with your cockeyed head. You may have really hurt yourself.' He kissed my hair. 'I'm worried about you. I'd never forgive myself if you were seriously hurt. Please.'

'No.'

He smiled at me. 'Well, if you won't go on your own I'll have to carry you.' Amid my screams, he picked me up.

'LET ME DOWN. I DON’T WANT STITCHES!'

He carried me out of the house yelling at the top of my voice. It was pouring outside. The Goans across the way came to their window to investigate. Nothing the crazy foreigners did surprised them anymore, but we were good entertainment. Hanging over Serge's back, I pounded him with my fists.

'LET ME GO. LET ME GO.'

He carried me across the paddy field and dumped me in the back seat of the taxi. Neal climbed in too, and we were off to Mapusa and the Catholic hospital.

Barefoot, hair in a rat's nest, and wearing a sopping pink-and-bite checked skirt pulled over my chest, I was placed, still kicking, on the emergency table. I barely let the doctors touch my chin and told them I didn't want stitches. They didn't argue about that, but seeing my emaciated form, they suggested I be admitted. They weighed me.

I weighed seventy-eight pounds—thirty pounds less than when I modelled.

Neal wasn't much heavier, and he was given the bed next to mine in the double room. Nurses immediately hooked us up to a glucose I.V.

Serge slept in my bed. That first night we were visited by every nurse in the hospital. We were a great attraction.

'Welcome,' Neal would declare in the tone of a gracious host as yet another nurse popped her head in the doorway. 'Do come in and sit down.'

None of them accepted his often [?]