'Oh. . .'

'He told us about your girl who went down. Sorry to hear about it.'

'What girl? Lila? Did she go down?'

'You don't know about that? She went down in London. They busted her at Heathrow—pulled her out of transit. She's in Flolloway Prison.'

'OH, NO!'

'They got everybody going that route,' said Monica. 'I was the last one to make it through. Everyone passing through London after me got caught. They know about Goa. Don't ever transit in England. Heathrow's hot.'

'I can't believe it! Lila's been in jail all this time? I thought she stranded my Aunt Sathe in Bermuda and ran away with my money.'

'Nope. They arrested her.'

'That was my trip. I should have been the one in the transit lounge. Yippy! if I'd gone, they'd have ME! Oh!'

'They stopped everyone coming from the East.'

The thought of Lila in jail stayed with me as my dinner companions exchanged tips regarding borders, airlines, and transit Lounges: 'Switzerland has the best transit. You can rent rooms in the woman's nursing area and do your dope in private. They wake you up in time for your connecting flight . . .'

'Do you think I should get Lila a lawyer?' I asked Monica.

'Too late now. You should've done that when she was arrested. Once someone is sentenced, that's it.'

'I feel so bad. I should have bailed her out so she could have left the country before the trial. I should have done something. If I'd only known!'

'You can write her and let her know how you feel. So she doesn't think she's been forgotten.'

'Do you think they interrogated her?'

'Sure. They wanted to know who sent her.'

'Do you think she told them?'

'No. Don't worry about that. Goa Freaks never inform on each other. She didn't tell.'

'So what happens when she gets out?' I asked. 'What are we supposed to do when this happens? I guess I should still pay her something.'

'That's fair. Goa Freaks must take care of each other.'

'I'll give her what she would have made on the trip—five thousand dollars.' I liked the thought of paying Lila the money though the scam fell through. Goa Freaks belonged to a special community, and providing for each other was an important aspect of it.

After taking a snoot, Monica passed me the turquoise box of smack that was circulating the table. 'I must kick this soon,' she said. 'They don't call me Norwegian Monica anymore. Now they call me Smack Monica.'

'I'm never quitting,' I told her. Over the summer in Canada, I'd come to a decision about smack. I loved it. I didn't want to stop using. This was my way of life now—I was a Goa Freak and I used smack. I would not torture myself again by trying to stop or letting myself run low. Why would I want to be straight, anyway? 'I love this life,' I said. 'I never want to quit. I love being different from the boring nine-to-five robots. Did I tell you about Mental in the health-food store . . . ?'

I knew I had to beware of the coke, though. I could not let myself go Coke Amuck like I did in the house with Neal and Serge. I'd have to be careful. I'd eat. I'd sleep. No more coked-out sleepless weeks. I'd take vitamins and remember to brush my hair. Drugs and Goa generated a wonderful way of life as long as you took care of yourself and exerted control. I could do that.

JOY WELLED UP IN ME at the thought of seeing my house. Not even the lawyer's preposterous bill could mar my happiness.

As usual, on the first trip of the year into Anjuna, I was overcome by the wonder of such a Freak haven, and I burst with emotion at my good fortune in being part of it. I whooped out the window, 'HELLO, ANJUNA BEACH. I'M BACK!'

Then anxiety grew as I crossed the paddy fields. What would I find at the house? The walls torn down? Everything gone? I ran the last few yards to the front door and darted around the sides. No holes. Every wall stood as I'd left it! Not a scratch.

However, if the police had found the porno film, that meant they'd entered not only the house but also the safe. I rushed to unlock the door and dashed through the front room, the living room, the dining room. I stopped short in the kitchen. The picture was off the wall and lying on the floor, but the safe itself seemed otherwise intact—as securely closed as when I'd left. I explored the surrounding wall, turning the corner into the bathroom —everything looked normal—and then the kitchen. What's this? I peeped through the half-opened closet door. Argh! Oh, tortured metal! Unable to get in the safe from the front, the police had blowtorched their way through its corner, which protruded into the closet. Thick steel, bent grotesquely out of shape, curved in abstract directions, as if a bomb had exploded inside my precious strongbox.

MY MOVIES!!

The movies were gone! They hadn't just taken the old, dumb porno; they'd taken them all. Oh, no!

They'd left everything else, though. The Opium rested undisturbed next to expired passports and special letters. They even left the hash, the morphine, and the acid.

Lino came by for the rent and explained why he'd let the police in the house.

'I'm glad you did,' I told him. 'You've no idea how relieved I am you had a key.'

The tiles of the floor were cool under my bare feet. I felt like kissing the sari-covered walls, the platform, the four-foot-high pile of mattresses. I climbed to the top and hugged a musty cushion to my breast. Home.

The maid and her family helped me unpack, and by the next day we had the house set up. Once again the bhong occupied a revered spot in the living room.

Sooner or later. I'd have to go to the police station, but for the moment I just wanted to bask in the feeling of being back on Anjuna Beach. I picked up four months of mail at Joe Banana's, ate a plate of Gregory's buffalo