'Doesn't she Look beautiful?'

'Robert, wake up!'

Then we dispersed to comb the area for kindling.

Returning with armloads of driftwood and coconut husks, Jacques and I ran into others carrying similar burdens. 'Tee hee, I found this on the beach, but it's wet,' said Mental, smiling at me. I smiled back. Goa Freaks didn't hold grudges long. We belonged to a intimate community, and communal feelings overcame petty resentments.

'Then it's not going to burn, Mental,' said Jacques, 'but add it to the pile anyway. The important thing is that there's a piece from each of us.

Near sunset, Pharaoh placed Shere on a wooden platform. He applied light; the fire caught. Since his house was situated on Joe Banana's hill, the smoke and flames could be seen throughout Anjuna Beach.

The Goa Freaks were satisfied. We'd prevented the government from shipping her back. Later Pharaoh threw Shere's ashes in the air, letting them blow over the beach she had called home. He kept the baby and took responsibility for Shere's two sons.

A few days later, while shopping at Paradise Pharmacy, I noticed a stock of plastic glucose bags, used in hospitals for intravenous drips. A brilliant idea zapped me.

'Jacques, Jacques,' I said, excitedly pulling on his velvet sleeve. 'How about a glucose party?' He shot me a French (French-Canadian) frown. 'No, really,' I continued. 'Everybody looks so skinny lately and so droopy. This is just what they need!' I paused and added, 'I don't want to go to another cremation.'

I bought fifteen bags of the stuff—as many as Jacques and I could carry. I also bought the long needles and other paraphernalia, such as the cotton and alcohol. This would be a grand event. Maybe I couldn't afford a cocaine party, but I could still do something spectacular. Though glucose wouldn't make us stoned, it might improve our health. I’d amuse friends with the novelty of growing healthy together.

Back at the house I planned the party for the bedroom because, though the roof slanted to a point high above, horizontal beams crossed only seven feet from the floor.

Jacques didn't share my enthusiasm for the project. 'You're serious about this glucose party? I don't know. I don't think anybody will show up.'

'Sure they will. You'll see; this will be fantabulous.'

Despite his lack of faith, Jacques helped me hang the glucose bags from a beam, placing them between the Laotian mobiles and the Laotian wedding canopy. We arranged fifteen pillows beneath the bags. I invited my guests—only those with intravenous experience. Let's see, who used needles? Junky Robert, yes, but Tish, no, so I didn't invite them. Eve, yes, but Neal was against needles, so I didn't invite them either. Norwegian Monica, no. Sasha, yes. Mental, of course. Jacques never used them, but he'd help host; and as hostess, I wouldn't participate either.

Jacques shook his head. 'A glucose party! Nobody will come,' he repeated.

But they did. Not one Person turned me down. A glucose party—an Anjuna Bach first. The affair was to last the three hours it took to drip a bag of glucose into one's vein. I moved the stereo upstairs. I had snacks catered from the chai shop.

Small problem—unlike a syringe, the L.V. setup was not structured to register a vein was hit (or maybe we just didn't know how it worked). You couldn't pull back a plunger to see if the needle had reached blood; the liquid went in one direction only—OUT. To make matters worse, since the bags hung seven feet overhead, by the time the glucose reached the needle, it was travelling fast. Very fast.

'Hey, Pin getting a bump!' said a guest as liquid surged into his arm, missed the vein, and collected under his skin.

'Tee hee, me too.'

'How can you tell when you're in the vein?'

'I don't know WHERE this glucose is going, but it's definitely NOT going in my vein.'

'Hey, this bump is growing really big!'

'Shit, man!'

'How do you stop this thing?'

Only Alehandro bit his vein. The rest of my party went home.

Later that night Jacques asked me, 'So what will you do with all this glucose hanging from your rafters?' He could barely restrain the smile on his face.

I fervently wished I could afford coke.

And then the miracle of electricity happened. Workers brought power lines across the paddy fields to my little village. Though they'd already installed lines on Joe Banana's hill and the inland area, I didn't think they'd reach my secluded patch of sand, which held only eight houses and two  chai shops. But they did. Lino, the landlord, supervised as a wire was attached directly to myhouse. Graham, my English neighbour, and the Goans across the way assembled to watch the event. Jacques and I held hands.

When the man climbed down the ladder, we clapped.

The next day, Lino sent an electrician to hook up the inside of the house. Since ours was the last area to receive power lines, the current came on shortly after. Graham came by to inform me.

'Have you tried it yet?' he asked.

'The electricity? It's on? Yippee!' I skipped to the switch in the two story-high living room and flicked it on, but nothing happened. Graham, Jacques, and I stared at the bulb, as if encouraging it. 'It doesn't work,' I said finally in disappointment.

'Mine does,' said Graham, gazing up with his neck craned back. 'Your lights are so far away.'

'It's the ceiling that's far away.'

'I think it IS on,' argued Jacques, who'd climbed the stairs to check the bulb from a closer spot. Graham and I joined him on the second floor landing. 'See?'

'See what? I don't see anything.'

'Look closely. See the orange line? That's the filament glowing.'

'Yay! It works. I have electricity!'

I whooped and danced down the stairs. Graham made us bhongs in celebration.

When my elation had subsided, I noted, 'Not terribly useful, though, is it? It doesn't do what it's supposed to—provide light.'

'Well, there's only a tiny power plant, and everyone on the beach probably has their lights on. It might be better at night.'

I rushed to Mapusa for new bulbs. I replaced the thirty-watt bulbs they'd installed with two-hundred- watters. It didn't make a difference. From nightfall till midnight, the electricity was useless. Only the slight orange glow in the centre of the bulb verified the presence of current. It gave no light whatsoever. After midnight, though, it grew stronger and stronger, and in the wee hours of morning the house radiated. Before midnight I needed kerosene lamps, but after midnight I had electricity. Immediately I converted the boudoir to a theatre. I painted a white rectangle in the centre of a blue wall to act as a screen and added more blue and green jungle-print mattresses. I placed the projector on a blue table. So far I'd only shown the movies in Bombay.

Since I'd stopped distributing coke to every visitor, the multitude of eager noses had stopped visiting. I missed the attention. Why not have a Movie Night?

I invited everyone—even Narayan. With Narayan and I living on the same beat. It, I decided to treat him as a friend—or pseudofriend at least. Besides, this way I could show him the house.

'Hi, Narayan. Welcome to Movie Night,' I said as I opened the door for him.

'Friend?' he asked hesitantly.

'Friend.' I took his hand. 'Come see my flush toilet.' I pulled him through the crowd and took him on a tour. I showed him the toilet and the safe behind the painting. 'This is where I keep my drugs. Protected and cool, out of harm's way.' I didn't open the closet door that exposed the blowtorched hole in the safe; I whisked Narayan upstairs to point out the linoleum. I struck a Momsy pose. 'Isn't it beautiful?' I asked. 'What kind of floor do you have?'