elephant outfit and ran out the door. At Joe Banana's I began the process of tracking her down.
'She is staying in Junky Robert and Tish's old house,' said Joe Banana.
'She's out,' said someone sitting on Junky Robert and Tish's old porch. 'Try Alehandro's.'
'Left an hour ago,' said Hollywood Peter as he held a lighter to Alehandro's bhong. 'Went that way. Try Georgette's.'
'Just left for the Monkey
'Petra!' I exclaimed, finding her at last. One of her huge sleeves knocked a French fry off her plate as she spread her arms for an embrace.
She looked as flamboyant as ever, still in black, with silver jewellery, silver braids, silver bangles hanging everywhere. A silver headband dangled silver baubles around the back of her head and dropped a crystal teardrop between her eyes.
'Hebshen! I was HOPing you'd still BE here.'
I learned the details of the gossip I'd heard about her over the years. Yes, she'd inherited a fortune, but no, she wouldn't collect it, for that would entail remaining in Germany, 'That would RUin my life,' Petra declared. 'My free SPIRit would be BROken. I couldn't surVIVE. My happiness is more important than chandeliers and chauffeured LImousines. I had a DREADFUL time during the months I STAYED there taking care of the will.'
Would that happen to me when I left India, I wondered? Would my life be ruined? Would my free spirit be broken by conformity and tradition?
Yes, Petra continued, she'd had a car accident and had been in the hospital. She could walk now, but the doctor had told her to stay off her feet. Rehabilitation required swimming, hours of swimming.
'I had a HUT built for me on the BEACH,' she said. 'I don't know HOW I will STAND it. I haven't had the COURage to move in yet.' She made a dramatic shiver, hunching her shoulders and lifting a hand expressively to her forehead. 'Can you Picture me. You KNOW I've never been a BEACH person. That SAND. I like the MOUNtains.'
Her condition was serious, though, and if she didn't take care of her legs, she might be crippled for life. She shouldn't walk much. She had to swim to exercise the wounded joints. But Petra—a Kathmandu Freak, a mountain person—living in a hut on the beach? Definitely not her style. Had anyone ever seen Petra without her heavy boots? She was depressed over the prospect. I had an idea.
I'd decorate her hut as a surprise.
After Petra told me the hut's location, I excused myself on a pretext and sought out the miserable palm- frond affair to check its dimensions. It was the only hut by the water's edge. I knew Petra the Kathmandu mountaineer had to hate it. Twelve feet by eight, it leaned against the rock face.
I ran home to fill a gigantic suitcase and three bags. A Goan helped me carry the load.
In no time the pathetic hut looked like a sheik's tent. A Kashmiri carpet hid the bumpy sand. Against the rock I placed a satin-covered mattress piled high with velvet pillows. Carved wooden tables sat on either side of the bed, one holding a kerosene lamp, the other a dancing Nataraj. I set another lamp on a rock ledge and shrouded the palm-frond wall with Laotian embroidery. In the doorway I hung sari material, over which I added chimes to tinkle in the wind. As a finishing touch I left her my bottle of insecticide.
'What have you DONE,' she exclaimed, entering as I finished. 'You DEAR!'
I couldn't spend time with Petra the following months, though. I couldn't afford to miss the business I had left. She, in turn, couldn't visit me because she wasn't supposed to walk. As it was, she walked too much, and everyone worried about her. She suffered painfully.
Meanwhile the Saloona suffered also. The Sikh
I sold more of my belongings. Strangers now wandered through my hallowed rooms as if I were having a garage sale.
'How much do you want for this?' asked an unknown person pointing to my beloved Laotian marriage canopy.
'Four hundred rupees,' I said.
'I’ll give you fifty.'
Fifty! What did I Look like? A fishwife? Did they expect me to bargain over cherished possessions? At first I would walk away without answering. But as the weeks went by I hesitated more and acquiesced with greater frequency. Bit by bit I sold the things that defined my Goa Freak existence.
New Year's Eve 1980. In four months would be my thirtieth birthday. By then I’d have nothing left. The waterbed was gone. The downstairs stereo. The hanging chair. The rocking chair. The cuckoo clock. I rubbed a band over the empty spaces they'd left, massaging the ghosts of once-loved objects. Serge used to sit in that hanging chair, I thought as I looked at the hook from which it had hung. Alehandro had sat in the rocker the time he'd guarded Mental as he cowered beneath the mattress. Maybe soon I'd have to sell the mattress too.
'I'll give you one rupee for this Jefferson Airplane tape,' said a browser.
That had been Neal's favourite tape. 'Okay,' I answered numbly.
To the fence in Mapusa I brought two rings from an old teenage romance and the silver Aries spoon that had been a birthday present from Dayid in Montreal.
Then I discovered a convenient method of business-I joined forces with the Sikhs. When a customer came I'd take his or her money, go upstairs, slip out the bedroom door, and dash to the Sikh place to buy from them. This strategy solved the Problem of insufficient funds to buy stock. In three minutes I could be descending the stairs without anyone suspecting I'd left the house. Though everybody knew the Sikhs sold drugs, 'purists' refused to deal with them and preferred to buy from their own kind. They came to me.
Collaborating with the Sikhs offered another advantage—their willingness to exchange things for dope. They soon possessed my tape machine and a fan. They even accepted the old useless kilo of border hash I'd had for years.
One day I heard that Eve and Ha were in Goa. Rumor said they'd been having a hard time, struggling to live in different peoples huts. Searching for them, I followed a trail of horror stories and a variety of sleazy people, until finally someone directed me to a Jesus Freak community on the other side of the paddy fields.
Four white-robed devotees were sanding wood outside the house and blessed me as I approached.
'Peace,' said a bearded man sitting on the front steps. 'Have you heard the good news?'
'Uh . . . yes. Thank you. I'm looking for . . . '
'Jesus is back and he's calling for you.'
'Well, that's very nice, but I'm looking . . .'
'He loves you, you know.'
'Uh, I'm . . . happy to hear that . . . Do you know Eve?'
'He's watching you all the time. He's looking out for you.'
'Eve has a little girl about four years old?'
'I LOVE JESUS!' he suddenly sang, and a voice somewhere nearby joined in with a 'HAIL, MARY!' I stepped around his robed knee, which blocked the way, and proceeded up the stairs. 'God bless you,' he said to my departing form.
On the porch I found a Westerner sweeping the floor. A Westerner doing housework! What an unheard-of thing in that land of cheap labour. His 'Welcome, sister,' discouraged me from further inquiry. I entered the house and succeeded in searching three rooms before being confronted head-on by another person in white with a smooth senile.
'Welcome, sister,' she said, clasping her hands together. 'Can I help you?'
'I'm looking for someone named Eve. She has a daughter Mahara. About this high.'
'Oh, yes. She came to us a week ago.'
The woman led me out the back door, and I found Eve outside putting dishes on a table.
'Eve!' I kissed her and turned to Ha. Neal's little girl sat stiffly on the wooden table. She looked at me but
