by Cleo Odzer
"You said just one!"
"One more. This is the last one, come on."
"I don't like string beans."
"No string Deans? Okay, I got rid of the string beans. Now open your mouth."
He also tried at every opportunity to get me off dope. "You have to stop taking smack, Miss Cleo. It's not good for you. Look how skinny you are."
"That's because of the coke, not the smack."
"Then you must stop that too."
"What? Look how much you do."
"Yes, but I can handle it. I eat."
He never stopped lecturing me about smack, and periodically he wore me down and I'd half-heartedly agree to stop. Once, when I was trying to block the uncomfortable feelings of withdrawal, I took half a dozen Mandrax—the English equivalent of the sleeping pill Quaalude, sold over the counter in any Indian pharmacy—and a few packets of Valium. Serge left on his rounds and, stumbling along incoherently, I was found by the maid, who thought that something was terribly wrong with me. Afraid I was sick and dying, she and her father, Apolon, who owned the chai shop next door, loaded me into a taxi and sent me to the private Catholic hospital in Mapusa. The doctors didn't know what to do with me, so they put me in a bed and, because I was so thin, they gave me glucose intravenous drip.
Within a few hours worried Serge arrived. "What happened?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"From what Apolon told me, I thought you'd be dead."
"No, I'm just miserable without the dope."
"Now, now. You're doing great, Miss Cleo. You don't want any smack. You'll see, in a few clays you’ll be fine."
"I'm so blah. This is depressing."
"Actually, this hospital is a brilliant idea. You can stay here until you get straight. Three meals a day—fatten you up. Yes, this place is ideal for you. Keep you away from temptation."
"I want to go home. I don't like it here. A bunch of people prayed for me."
"No, really?" He laughed.
"Five of them stood around the bed with prayer books and chanted at me."
Serge tilted his head back as he laughed aloud. "Seriously," he said, "I think you should stay a few days."
"How long?"
"Until the smack leaves your system, maybe a week."
"A WEEK! I'll go crazy here a week."
"No, you won't. I be with you every day."
"You won't. You'll be with your business. Or your other women."
He smiled. "I promise to be here as much as I can. I'll go now and put things in order and then come back. The business can hold without me a day or two. And you know I don't think of other women when I'm with you, Miss Cleo. Will you stay?"
"Well. . . I don't know. I'll try, but if I can't stand it, I'm going to leave."
"It won't be so bad, you'll see."
Shortly after he left, Neal came. "What are you doing in the hospital?"
"OOOOOh, I took a bunch of mandies and Apolon thought I was dying."
He lay next to me. "Move over a bit. So, why are you still here?"
"Serge thinks I should stay and get off the smack."
"Good old Serge. Then I guess you don't want this line I'm making you." CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
"No, no. I mustn't. Hey, you know what they gave me a while ago—a glucose drip. It was nifty, had stuff to make me healthy. You could use one; you're as skinny as I am."
"It does sound good. I always forget to cat. Do you think they'll give me one?"
"Sure, why not? I ring for the nurse."
"Wait a minute, how long will it take? I was planning to drop acid and he in the sun."
"Only an hour," I'll go get her."
I ran down the hall and brought back a sister-type nurse. She couldn't speak English, and we had to tell her what we wanted by pantomime. She shook her head as if she understood and then left the room. Neal and I lay side by side on the bed and waited.
And waited.
"I don't think she understood," said Neal after a while.
"Has she been gone that long?"
"Too long just to get a drip."
"Wait a little longer. She’ll come."
"It will be too late. I come back tomorrow and do it then."
"Just a few more minutes."
"I'm going to take the acid now so it'll come on by the time I get to the beach."
"Aw, don't go."
Not three minutes after he took the acid, the nurse arrived with the intravenous apparatus.
"Oh, no! I can't do that now. I don't want to be hooked up to that thing when the acid hits!"
I smothered my head in the pillow laughing. "I told you she'd be back. Go on, do it. It doesn't take much time."
"How long did you say? An hour?" The nurse motioned for him to he on the other bed. "Should I do it?"
"Now or never."
Amid my giggles, Neal climbed on the other bed and let her stick the needle, with its trailing tube, into his arm.
Of course it took longer than an hour. The yellow liquid in the container hanging above him was barely a third gone when the acid hit full force.
"Wow, look at those wavy lines in the ceiling. Hey, I can't stay like this forever," Neal exclaimed, checking his vein, which was swollen with needle and glucose juice. "It's been longer than an hour. Hasn't it been longer than an hour? This is not the best place to spend a trip, you know?" He looked at me hiding my laughter with a starched-too-stiff sheet. "Where’s the nurse?" he asked. "I'm going to tell her to get me out of this contraption. How do I ring for her?"
"Your glucose isn't finished," I managed to say between guffaws. "You can't stop in the middle."
"Will you ring for her? Listen, I've got to get out of here. Ring for her, okay? Stop laughing. It's not funny. I want out of here."
Eventually I did ring for the nurse, but by the time she arrived she found the needle out of Neal's arm and swinging an inch above the floor.
"Thank you," he said to her. "That was delicious." He kissed me goodbye. "I'll see you later."
"Neal, wait. Give me some smack, I'm coming with you."
He giggled. "You want to leave? Serge will be angry with me."
*
And so I went back and forth between them. When I got fed up with chasing Neal across the paddy field, I'd look for Serge, who’d immediately feed me. He filled my stoves with kerosene and my shelves with spices, and he cooked me delicious dishes, including one called Beef with a cream sauce dyed blue. His cheese omelette was my favourite, it was his last resort when trying to seduce me into putting something in my stomach. The trouble with Serge was that he nagged me over the smack and, too frequently, convinced me to cut down.
Serge now stayed with me nearly all the time, though once a week he drove to Colva to see his wife and son. Since he'd told me about the arrangement at the beginning of our relationship, I accepted the situation. As time went by, though, it disturbed me that I wasn’t the only one in his life. And so, when I felt neglected by Serge or fed up with his doctoring, I'd go back to Neal.
My monetary situation looked bleak as February and then March came along. The money I spent fixing the house was nothing compared to what I spent on dope and coke. Every trip to Bombay drastically reduced my cash stash. I didn't want to use it all. I needed to save enough to fund a scam for the monsoon.
Finally, on yet another trip to Bombay, I decided I could NOT take any more money out of the bank. That was it. Somehow that last withdrawal had to last till the end of the season.
It didn't, of course.
"I can't take one more rupee out of my safety deposit box," I told Serge one night. "I have to think of a way to pay for another month or so down here."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, maybe I could sell something."
"I don't think you'd be good at dealing drugs; you'd consume more than you'd sell."
"Hah! Some faith. What can I do then?"
He shrugged. "You could design clothes like Gavroche does."
/> "I don't sew. And I don't want to learn, either."
"You can't cook and open a restaurant like Brigitte. Can you do anything?"
"Like cook and sew? No. Come on, there must be something else."
"How about selling hash at the flea market, since you don't like smoking it."
"No, what else?"
"Can you play poker? You could try to win money."
"Hmmm. Know what? Dayid once asked if they could have their poker games here. Said he'd give me a part of each pot."
"You want to host a poker game?"
I jumped up excited. "Not an ordinary game, how about a CASINO! I could have different things going on at the same time. This place is big enough." I paced the room as grand visions filled my brain. Cocaine was great for inspiration. "Poker games last for days, right? Well, I'll supply everything. Food. Cigarettes. Services. There's room if anybody wants to sleep. They can take showers. What else?"
"I'll be here to sell coke."
"Yes, yes, perfect! Our own resident coke dealer, I love it! It'll be the best poker game ever." I ran to find pen and paper to write a List of what I needed. "What else? I want the casino to be so spectacular they'll never have their games anywhere else. Opium! I can turn a room into an "0" den. They'll feel frazzled from playing for days in a row, and after they take your coke, they'll need a way to relax. I'll go to Bombay and bring down an opium baba and the smoking stuff. Maybe I can pick up a roulette wheel. Green felt for a crap table."
"I'll make the food."
"Ohh! This will be great. With your scrumptious meals, my casino will go down in the history of Anjuna Beach." I skipped around the room, tapping the pen against my hip.
"Hold your horses, Miss Cleo. I don't want to be in the kitchen all day."
"Well. . . okay, we'll have one far-out time the first night, before the playing starts. How's that? In the morning I can order eggs from Apolon."
I began preparations immediately. Putting aside for the moment the idea of a roulette wheel and a crap table, the biggest problem was getting the Opium from Bombay, plus the baba to make pipes. I decided to put the baba in the front room. I set up mattresses there, forming a square so several people could he around the "den." I'd have to lock the front door and use the side entrance; wouldn't want people walking back and forth, making the baba nervous. Hearing that Bernard and Sima were going to Bombay for a few days, I asked them to buy me a pipe and the smoking utensils. Later, I'd figure a way to bring the baba down.
With everything in motion, I paid a visit to Dayid and Ashley and told them the plan.
"Sounds quintessential!" said Dayid. "Do you know, there's a town in Southern Italy named Cassino. Spelled with two esses. It experienced heavy fighting during World War II."
We set a date for the game the following week.
Serge planned the menu. Anjuna would never see something like this again—three courses of the best cuisine France had to offer, limited only by the availability of fancier items.
"I can't cook on this puny kerosene burner," Serge said. "You call this an oven? How am I supposed to know how hot it is?" The oven was one I'd bought at Crawford Market in Bombay, the Goa kind being made of rocks and wood. Mine at least had four metal sides and a door. It didn't heat itself, though, but rested on top of a kerosene stove, which meant there was no way to control the temperature. "I'll have to borrow mine from the house in Colva," Serge continued. "I'll need more burners anyway for the different dishes and sauces."
Since the dining room table could seat only twenty comfortably, we restricted the dinner's guest list to the players and their mates. This itself was unusual—Anjuna events were open to everybody.
Serge and I spent hours checking details. They seemed endless, and my casino took an improbable proportions as I figured out more and more ways to create something special.
"How about a masseur?" I asked. "Sitting in a chair for hours, the players will develop cramps. I could have an Indian in the bedroom giving massages. What do you think?"
My most ambitious project, though, was turning the Goans into butlers. I wrote step-by-step instructions on how to serve the meal. Serve from the left; remove plates from the right; check for empty wine glasses, even planned finger bowls.
"Finger bowls!" laughed Serge. "You're not serious. Miss Cleo?"
I was no longer merely earning money to last the season—I was creating a gala event. Bernard and Sima brought me the opium equipment from Bombay, but I had no baba. I tried making pipes myself, but it was complicated and resulted in more opium on the floor than in the pipe. I gave up. I did find an Indian masseur, though. I fixed up the front room for him, instead.
For the opening of Cleo's Casino, the players and guests arrived in the early evening. Serge and a dozen Indians crowded into the kitchen. "Why are so many Goans here?" I whispered to Serge.
"I suspect they're plain curious. News of your dinner is all over the beach."
As I'd expected, too many people came, but it sorted itself out, with some uninvited leaving and others sitting at tables against the wall. I sat at one end of the main table, and Serge—who ran back and forth to the kitchen—sat at the other. After we consumed the appetizer, which had been waiting an the table, I grandly rang the brass bell I had bought for the occasion. Expecting one Goan to come through the swinging doors (made at my design by the carpenter), I was aghast when no fewer than eight, of all ages, dashed into the room, picking plates from whichever side was closest and plopping down the next course.
Oh, no! I wanted to the. Hadn't they read my instructions? Arid crushing chaos, I flew into the kitchen crying. "Serge! Did you see that? An army charged in with the next course!"
"Miss Cleo, everything's fine. This is Goa, not Las Vegas. Relax. Here, taste this."
And so passed the first formal dinner on Anjuna Beach. Though I couldn't eat more than a bite, Serge's Boeuf Bourguignon was supreme, and everyone agreed it was a Goa first. During dessert, I sensed the players were antsy to start the game. They retreated to the boudoir-turned game-room upstairs, where I had everything arranged on a green tablecloth to match the green walls. The others moved to the living room, where a party began. Frantically I ran around coddling guests.
"Will you calm down!" said Serge. "Relax and enjoy your party. It's sensational."
It really was sensational. People came and went all night. I limited the upstairs spectators so there wouldn't be too much noise. In the bedroom I laid out the opium, but the people who tried to smoke succeeded only in splattering brown goo on the linoleum floor. Egads, my linoleum! As prearranged, the masseur arrived in the morning. I had eggs and toast brought in for the interested people, while most of the players stayed upstairs with the game. For lunch I ordered a buffet placed within reach of the poker table, so nobody would be discouraged from nourishment by distance.
Late in the afternoon, Serge announced he was leaving for a while.
"Where are you going?"
"I have things to do. I be back."
"Ohhhhh, must you?"
As soon as he left I felt depressed. I was exhausted. My nerves were frayed from pre party anxiety plus a ton of coke. How could he leave me? Where was he going? To his wife? Another one of his girlfriends? I felt abandoned. SO tired.
After a last check for problems, I hung a blanket over the platform downstairs and crawled underneath to rest. Where was Serge? I hugged my knees and cried. Too much coke. Not enough sleep. No food.
Too wired to doze, I lay there miserable. Crowds no longer packed each room—almost everyone was upstairs, with one or two in the dining room and someone in the front room getting a massage. The house was quiet, with only an occasional curse from the game and murmurs filtering from the hack. I couldn't dose my eyes. They popped open and filled with tears. Giving up on sleep, I crawled out and wandered about feeling lost. I didn't offer dinner and stopped emptying ashtrays. Serge didn't return till morning.
Happy to see him, I couldn't be angry. As the game nea
red its final hours, I recorded the event with my movie camera. Doctor Bo, slightly Coke Amuck and paranoid, scowled at me through the viewfinder. I laughed. Another heap of coke and Serge's return had cheered me considerably. I didn't even mind trudging up and down the stairs to open the door, where my imported-from-Bombay doorbell now rang repeatedly.
"Shambo, Cleo, man," said Kadir, coming in. He had left the party a day and a half earlier. "So tell me, who lost money while I was away?"
Petra slunk in with one palm raised to her forehead like an Apache on the warpath. "WHAT'S going ON here. The WHOLE beach is Talking about it."
Serge went from nostril to nostril, dispensing snorts of coke. Ashley climbed on a table and fanned herself with an ostrich feather as she watched the end of the game. She placed herself in Dayid's line of vision to lend support during his bout of losing.
"ABOMINATION!" said Dayid forcefully, throwing down another hand of cards. "That onerous luck!"
That night, after everyone finally left. Serge and I lay downstairs under the platform, and I fell asleep in his arms.
Before he left, Dayid had handed me my share of the winnings—$ 465. That's all? It should have been more. Apparently, seeing how fast the money had been piling up, the players decided to stop putting aside a percentage for Inc. Not fair! With my habits, a few hundred dollars wouldn't last long at all.
"So when's the next game?" Serge asked when I woke up a day later.
I gave him a dirty look. "Please. I don't think I could five through another one of those." That was the last of Cleo's Casino.
*
As the end of the season came closer and closer, the weather grew hotter and hotter. Serge stopped visiting his wife every week. "Last time I went, I found her latest boyfriend using my toothbrush," he exclaimed. "My toothbrush! A dirty, creepy junky. She has no finesse!"
Then one day Serge left India to do business.
And once again I returned to Neal.
April brought my birthday. To celebrate, Neal and I taxied to the Fort Aguada Hotel, the fanciest in Goa, an hour's drive away. We ordered an exquisite dinner in the elegant dining room and snorted our lines of coke off the tablecloth. As usual we couldn't eat much, but we enjoyed the food tremendously by slinging it across the room from the ends of our forks. Afterward, we strolled through the Lobby and squeezed together on a chaise lounge by the pool, where we kissed and snuggled. For a birthday present Neal gave me a diamond nose pin. We joked over which side of my nose I should pierce. We didn't return to Anjuna till noon.