flea market entailed. As I took the backgammon board out of my bag, a middle-aged Goan grabbed it.
'Oh, wait—I'm not ready yet,' I said. 'Would you mind coming back in a few minutes?' Either she didn't understand or she pretended not to. She proceeded to open the board and raised her eyebrows in surprise as she saw the unfamiliar numbers on the betting cube, which she probably mistook for a the. Chips tumbled to the ground. 'Oh, wait! You dropped my . . .'
Before I knew it, three more Indians flocked over. I snatched the chips from under their Feet and continued unpacking. I pulled out a Nepalese dancing mask; someone grappled it from my hand. The Indians watched hungrily as I reached in for more. An old man tugged at the bag's flap for a view inside.
'Uh, would you all mina coming back in five minutes, please?' I said. 'Let me set up first.' The man inserted his arm in the bag. 'Wait a minute! Not ready vet. Five minutes. Wait five minutes.'
Nobody listened. A woman bent to examine the iron. Three men rummaged through my tapes.
'How much this?' one of them asked.
'What this?' asked another.
'I give ten rupee for two?' said a third.
'Those are ten rupees each. But, please, if you give me a minute write the prices.' They didn't give me a minute. I hadn't taken out half my stock before the Indians swamped me, wanting to know what everything was and how much it cost.
'WAIT A MINUTE! Will you wait a minute!' Indians had surrounded me, and when I managed to peer past two of them, couldn't see Straightish, for there was another mob around him. 'WATT!' I yelled. 'Stand back a bit. I'm suffocating here. Look, you're standing on my cloth! Back. Back. Move back.' I waved my arms. They ignored me.
'What this?' three people asked at the same time, holding different objects under my nose.
'How much?
From beneath my skirt I retrieved the wallet tied around my waist. I opened a paper package of coke and snorted a couple of fingernails full.
'What this?' said a Goan woman, probing a Thai box in the shape of a turtle. The top fell off and someone stepped on it. I did three more nails-full.
'What this?' I did one more.
'ALRIGHT!' I shouted. 'NOW WAIT! I'm going to write price tags, see, and they're going to say exactly what everything is and how much it costs.'
'I give five rupee for this.'
'No! No bargaining. Now everybody stand back and let me finish. And you, GET YOUR FOOT OFF MY CLOTH!
They allowed me a foot of space when I yelled, but within seconds they had closed in again. I snorted more coke and refused to answer anyone. I jotted prices. Tapes, ten rupees each. Blender, three hundred rupees. Iron—
'What this?'
'How much?'
I glared ferociously. 'READ THE TAG!'
More coke.
As soon as I finished the price tags I realized they wouldn't work. I had no adhesive tape for affixing them. No one bothered to read them, and whatever the Goans picked up to examine they put down in another spot, far from its informative tag. Soon I had a collection of little tags that weren't near anything. Someone placed the four hundred rupee iron near a five rupee tag.
'Five rupee this?'
'NO,' I shouted, my fists clenched and fury in my voice. 'FIVE RUPEE THAT!' I plunked the rightful object near its price tag.
More coke.
Nobody bought anything. Apparently Indians enjoyed investigating foreign things. They hadn't the least desire for actual purchase. They crowded around, exploring, touching, opening, discarding, and asking questions.
The piecework pillow I'd brought from Laos appeared half an inch from my chin. 'How much this?'
'READ THE TAG!'
Things worsened as the afternoon progressed, and in exasperation, aggravation, and Coke Amuck rage, I lost the ability to talk in a normal tone of voice.
TEN RUPEES, YOU MORON! What this? GET YOUR FOOT OFF MY CLOTH! I give you three rupees. NO BARGAINING! You from America? What this? GET BACK! What this? (more coke) GET OFF THE CLOTH! How much? STAND BACK! (more coke) What this? TEN RUPEES! TEN RUPEES! CAN’T YOU READ? How much? (more coke) WHERE’S THE PILLOW? What this? DID YOU PAY FOR THAT? (more coke) WI TO TOOK THAT PILLOW? (more coke) GIVE BACK THAT TAPE IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BUY IT. (more coke) STAND BACK!!!
All of a sudden someone ran away with my iron. HEY, COME BACK WITH THAT . . . If I chased the thief, my unguarded things would be stolen, but if I remained seated. I'd lose the iron.
In need of immediate action, I seized the nearest thing—the hammer I had never had a chance to use. I jumped up, bounded into the air after the villain, and bashed him over the head.
Oh, my god. What have I done?
He fell, he seemed to take forever to crumple to the ground, and I had a long time to appraise the situation.
Holy shit.
Layers of Indians surrounded me. They were looking at me or were in the process of turning toward me. Sound blurred. Voices, bongo drums, and the crunch of feet blended into a noise that sounded like the rumble in a seashell. As I glanced around, expressions changed from curiosity to surprise, shock, anger, and then—as they all swiveled to face me—murderous.
I was a foreigner in an ocean of natives, one of whom I'd just knocked unconscious. Oh, shit. My life was over. I was sure of it.
In slow motion they came at me from every side. I clearly saw homicide in the eye of the woman who grabbed my left arm, and the man who grabbed my right one, and the person who grabbed my hair, and the two who took hold of my shoulder, and the one at my elbow. The seashell sound became a giant curse uttered by my captors. I was positive my life was over.
Then suddenly they were gone. Four policemen herded away the lynch mob.
I found out that the man I had hit was a policeman, an undercover Customs officer. Apparently a team of them patrolled flea markets to prevent Westerners from selling taxable items. The officer had taken my iron to investigate its status.
I was led through the mass of angry faces to the Calangute police station. As usual there were no facilities for women, and I was once again kept in a bathroom. An Indian woman sat with me. I went to the toilet to excavate the stash from beneath my dress and snorted a large amount of coke. Then, thinking I should probably calm myself down, I snorted a large hit of dope. On the other hand, I needed to cheer up from that harrowing experience, so I did more coke. Oh my god. Had I killed a policeman?
No, I found out he wasn't dead. He'd been taken to the hospital in Panjim. What would become of me? Would I be imprisoned forever for assaulting an officer of the law?
No. Someone saved me. It was my old friend, Inspector Navelcar. 'I know her,' he said as he came in and looked at the mob.
He spoke to the others in Konkani, the local language, then motioned that I could go.
'I can go?'
He shook his head Indian style, signalling yes.
Wow. I couldn't believe it. As I left the police station a free person, I felt reborn. The green of the palms looked greener as relief swept through me. I took a deep breath. Close one! I turned to Inspector Navelcar to thank him.
And I remembered Neal.
The last time I'd seen Inspector Navelcar was when I'd gone to Panjim to ask him to have Neal
