Giuliano was in the process of reconstructing a suitcase. His plan entailed building the secret compartment to hold the smack, then going to Thailand together to buy dope. Hiding the dope in the suitcase would be a simple procedure, after which we'd fly to Europe. Meanwhile, the case sat on a chair in the centre of the bathroom, occupying the entire space. Giuliano kept it there so it wouldn't be spotted by the room-service waiters whom he called constantly to the room. Tubes of glue formed stacks of the toilet seat, lining material draped the bathtub, and tools lay scattered on the sink and floor. Using the toilet required acrobatic feats, and baths had to be taken in another room.

When friends came to the door in the continuous stream typical of Bombay, Giuliano gave them a tour of the bathroom so they could admire his craftsmanship.

'Shambo, man, how're you doing?' said Kadir when Giuliano opened to his knock.

'Ciao, Kadir. Have you seen my suitcase yet? Come this way, I will show you.'

'Mm, very nice.'

'Thank you.'

When Kadir heard I was headed west, he suggested I take some of his silver jewellery to sell for him. I would receive a percentage of the profit. I agreed, and he returned later with five pounds of silver and ivory trinkets.

Giuliano worked on the suitcase every day. During periods of glue drying, we partied. Though I made an effort to sleep every now and then, this activity didn't interest Giuliano in the least. The flow of visitors continued nonstop, twenty-four hours a day. When I felt I should no longer stay awake, I'd swallow my magic dose of Valium and Mandrax and come into bed. Needless to say, the bright lights never ceased glaring down at him, and no fewer than two people sat on the edge of my bed at all times, In spite of everything, I somehow managed to snooze a few hours a day.

'Morning, cutie,' said Neal one evening as I awake from ti Tour-hour nap. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. I le headed me the glass block. 'Here's breakfast. Are you taking your vitamins?'

'Yeah, but in tablets,' I answered. 'Can't go through airports with needles and a syringe. I'm gaining weight. Look at this arm. It doesn't look like it came from Biafra anymore. Must be the Peach Melba from room service. How are you?'

Neal shook his hangs in the manner I found adorable. 'Dandy,' he said, 'but I'd be happier with you.'

I knew I wouldn't be happier with him.

After another week in Bombay, Giuliano actually did buy tickets to Thailand. Hallelujah! I'd begun to doubt any of us would get out of India that year. Giuliano and I were more-or-less clean, and after I took the nose pin out of my nose, we left together and sat together on the plane. How exhilarating to land in Bangkok. I was actually doing something! And I'd broken away from Neal!

I missed him terribly.

Upon our arrival, Giuliano and I split and went to different hotels. It would be better if we weren't connected. The Malaysia Hotel was definitely out—too hot to do business from that place. Nevertheless, Bangkok was so full of Freaks that it soon became another party scene.

Thailand at that moment had political problems and was under martial law. Anyone found on the streets between midnight and 6 A.M. would be shot. At first I thought it would dampen the nightlife. But instead of everyone going home early, we stayed out all night. A Goa Freak rented an apartment, and it was packed with friends during curfew. Martial law's taboo time was electric. In the hour before midnight, we'd scramble to dress, leave, then dash back to the hotel room at the last second for a forgotten object. In the apartment we'd bump, shuffle, and bop while occasionally peering through the curtain at the deserted street and the patrolling soldiers. Hey, martial law was fun!

'Who has the mirror?' someone would ask.

'Over here. What's the soldier doing now?'

'Standing in the same spot. Picking his nose.'

'Close the window! You're letting out the air conditioning.'

In the afternoon, I'd visit Giuliano. Time was passing, and again I seemed to be stuck. No longer doing coke, Giuliano now spent his days smacked-out and nodding off. He worried me. One had to be careful in Thailand. This was not India. Thais were strict about drugs. Serious penalties existed. Thailand was one of those countries where, if they arrested you, you disappeared. They were especially concerned with smack trafficking. If you were caught with any quantity, you were executed within five days. No embassy could help. There was no time to write a Senator.

However, by following basic guidelines, it was relatively easy to avoid hassle. You had to act like a tourist. Simple. Carry a camera. Dive in the Pool once a day. No problem. Then there were situations to be staunchly avoided. Most important: DO NOT HANG OUT ALONE IN YOUR HOTEL ROOM ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT. Only junkies did that. It was common knowledge that Thai hotel employees received bonuses for reporting drug suspects. Loose tobacco in an ashtray, a cigarette filter lying around, or, worst of all, a piece of cotton or a bent room- service spoon—forget it. Next thing, you knew, there'd be a knock on the door. These little things could be watched out for, though. All it took was a quick inspection of the room before leaving and the barest awareness of appearances.

But Giuliano was not concerned with precautions. He never left his room. Every time I went there it seemed I'd just woken him up. Often, he ordered room service and let the waiter into a room that was so dark, the waiter could hardly find a table on which to set the tray. In the middle of the afternoon! And Giuliano never went to the pool. With his skin so pale, he looked albino next to everybody's tans. He was skinny. He looked like a junky. No question. Someone seeing him for the first time would never mistake him for a tourist.

I, meanwhile, had gamed enough weight to look like a normal person. My period even returned. I must have been too debilitated in Goa to menstruate. I also had enough sense to realize that the arrangement with Giuliano was another bad one. Oh, no—would I have to make another getaway?

Yes. Heroin—I'd decided to carry heroin! I could not do that with a nut case. Better to be adrift penniless in Bangkok than in jail. To continue to associate with Giuliano was suicide. I had to disengage from him too.

I wondered how these nutty people succeeded in the Goa life when theyseemed disarrayed. Though periodically scatter beamed, they reunited from the monsoon to five like fat cats. How did they manage it? I didn't ponder the question too deeply. I accepted the paradox as validating the superiority of our chosen path. That's what I cherished most about the Goa Freaks—their abstract extremism. We were interesting, tolerant, exotic, and lucky. We were the Goa Freaks.

But I knew I had to be careful and not be too wacky. I'd allowed myself to go Coke Amuck in the monsoon with Neal and Serge. Now I had to consolidate my wits to protect my future. I had to take care of myself and watch my step.

I moved to another hotel, a cheap guest house, and sent Giuliano a message that I was out of his scam.

My third escape of the season: first from Neal, then the Birmingham Boys, and now Giuliano. Terrific—a free person, but bankrupt in Bangkok. What would I do for food?

Could I sell Kadir's silver?

I took to the streets with it. Alas, Thailand had its own hill-tribe handicrafts, and nobody cared much for my wares. One sidewalk vendor bought two rings. Another made a lengthy examination of every item before deciding he wasn't interested. When I returned to the guest house, I discovered three earrings and an ivory Ganesh had been stolen.

Free but hungry, I worried for another week.

Then I met Canadian Mitchell, a Goa Freak I hadn't known before. I had recently arrived in Thailand and shared a room with, surprise, Giuliano. He too was planning a smack run and said Giuliano was helping him build his suitcase.

'You're staying with Giuliano!' I exclaimed. 'You'd better watch out. He's not sane these days.'