Bangkok Haunts sj-3

by John Burdett

  I'm at the Kimsee, drinking. Come join me.

  The Kimsee is a Japanese restaurant on Sukhumvit, opposite the Emporium and under a Skytrain bridge. It looks as if it were carefully removed from somewhere quaint in Tokyo and reconstructed here in Bangkok under strict Japanese quality control. I've been there a couple of times, and apart from the Thai waitresses everything about the place strikes me as authentic Nippon, including the heavy-drinking salary-men who all have their own reserved bottles of best sake with their names printed on them, waiting on a high shelf.

  Yammy's is not waiting, though. It started out as a liter but has lost half its contents. As I sit down at the dark-stained wooden table, which perfectly matches the dark-stained wooden decor, Yammy beckons to one of the waitresses, who comes to pour some of the sake into a stone jar for heating. A few minutes later it comes back warm, and she pours a couple of shots into the tiny mugs. Yammy is halfway through his bento box, gloomily picking at yellow tofu with his wooden chopsticks.

  "I don't think I can go on any longer, Sonchai," he says in that soft California accent. "This is it, I resign."

  "Okay," I say, taking a slug of the sake. "I'll speak to the boss."

  I cannot tell yet if this is the correct strategy. Maybe he's too far down the line with his depression to be tricked out of it? He gives me a sly glance. "The third movie in the series is only one-half shot. You'll have to find someone to take it over."

  "Right."

  Peering over his chopsticks: "You don't care? The whole contract is at risk."

  "I realize that, Yammy, but you're an artist-you're temperamental. If the working environment is not right for you, you cannot work. Vikorn will have to understand that."

  "He won't snuff me?"

  "He might. But we already know you have no fear of death. After all, you were on death row for a while, and we practically had to beg you to leave jail."

  He manages a smirk and drops the pretense. "Look, I'll finish this one and do the other ten, but after that-"

  "Yammy, forget it. If you want to be difficult, Vikorn will dump you anyway. Maybe he'll kill you, or maybe he'll send you back to jail. Maybe you really do have that kind of integrity, but so what? The movies are going to get made, Yammy, if not by you then by someone else. I'm only afraid Vikorn will want me to take over the production."

  He hadn't thought of that. He lays down his chopsticks to stare at me. "You? You don't know scat about making a movie."

  "I agree. Just think how awful they'll be if I make them. How is an amateur like me going to get a penis to slide into a vagina? It must take decades of practice."

  He maintains radio silence for about ten minutes-at least, that's what it feels like. Finally, forcing me to stare back into those bottomless pits of morosity: "You have to babysit me, don't you? That's your job. So, we're going to get drunk." He tosses back some sake and nods at me to do the same. I'm still nursing guilt and mourning Nok and cannot think of a better thing to do. I'm not sure how many times we knock back the rice wine, but the sake bottle with Yammy's name on it in elegant Japanese calligraphy is empty by the time we leave. Outside it is early evening. On the street, with the Skytrain rattling overhead and the static traffic chugging out airborne poison down below, the cooked-food stalls of the day, with their hundred varieties of sweet snacks, have been replaced by more serious stalls serving noodles and other dishes suitable for hungry commuters on their way home. Generally speaking, though, the landscape is more fluid than I remember. Yammy is in worse shape and can hardly stand. He claws at my left arm, which he is using to support himself. "You think it's so easy to slide a penis into a vagina, when neither bit belongs to you? It's not as easy as you think. You know who are the biggest prima donnas in the porn industry? The studs, my friend, the studs. One harsh word, and they droop."

  "But you have Jock?"

  He grunts. "If not for him, I really would resign."

  That night Chanya surprises me. We are in bed together with my hand on the Lump, and I have just finished telling her how Nok died. I was expecting another fear reaction, followed by a demand that I listen to Vikorn and forget Nok. Chanya, though, is quiet for a long time. Finally she says, "Do what you have to do, Sonchai."

  "But what about you and the child?"

  "We'll have to take our chances. Too many people in Thailand are in denial. Keeping quiet in the Thai way doesn't work anymore. Maybe one day a rich man will decide to rape and kill me, then pay off the police. Change has to start somewhere."

  "That's not the way you talked last time Tanakan's name came up."

  "I know. Now another woman is dead. Perhaps our Buddhism has made ordinary Thais too humble."

  "And the others too arrogant," I mumble.

  21

  All serious crime starts with a plausible excuse: terrible childhood, fell down the stairs at a tender age, emerged from urban squalor, et cetera. The one I plan to commit needs nothing more than the murder of Nok, Pi-Oon, and Khun Kosana qua motivation; let's not dwell on any residual outrage I may feel at the manner of Damrong's demise. Nok, at least, did not conspire with her killer. I want Tanakan's head, and to hell with Vikorn. I shall have to be a fox, though, if I am to survive. I have grudgingly to admit that it must have been precisely my connection with Vikorn that saved my life: if Tanakan bumped me off, the nature of his deal with the Colonel would alter in Vikorn's favor; the Colonel would, of course, have shown no mercy.

  I don't have much of a plan as yet, which puts me in one hell of a mood. All I can think of is to grab the footman at the Parthenon on some pretext and do whatever is necessary to get him to talk, but if I do that, Tanakan will find out and snuff me. Anyway, that man does not fear death or jail; Tanakan holds his women, who are everything to him. He won't talk unless he wants to. Sometimes I envy my Western counterparts the simplicity of their lives; presumably they have no care in the world beyond bringing perps to justice? A little schoolboyish, though, and lacking in moral challenge. I doubt you can burn much karma that way.

  Still furious, I decide to take a walk around the block. I'm in no mood for social niceties when the Internet monk manages to get in my way as I'm crossing the road. I glare and pass on.

  It is about eleven-thirty, the time when all good hawkers get cooking in readiness for the midday rush. They have set up their stalls opposite the police station especially for cops and staff, which earns them a special dispensation from arrest. You can tell what they are selling depending on the utensils: a simmering brass basin probably means a beef-based soup; a big enamel basin will have pigs' legs simmering in it; a dark brown burnt-clay mortar with wooden pestle will produce wickedly hot somtan salad; a wok over charcoal means a fry-up, and so on.

  I've cooled down a bit by the time I'm returning to the station, and I'm wondering if this might be the time to bring the monk in for questioning when he reappears out of the Internet cafe just as I am passing and bumps into me all over again. I turn on him with a sarcastic comment on my lips but freeze because he is standing with his hands in the air, palms facing me. The expression on his face is quizzical, almost amused. Mad monks are as common in Buddhism as in other monastic traditions. I think he must be really crazy, though, when he maneuvers to stay in front of me until I can find a way around him. I'm still thinking about him when I reach my desk and Lek joins me.

  "D'you know what that Internet monk just did? He deliberately bumped into me and went like this." I hold up both hands, palms toward Lek.

  "He did the same thing to me yesterday." I've noticed that Lek is less keen on the monk than he once was. "Maybe he is nuts. Did he show you his scar?"

  "What scar?"

  "I thought that was why he was holding his hands up. He has this scar on his wrist, like he once tried to commit suicide or something and maybe now he's obsessing in some way."

  "But the bracelets?" I say.

  "Maybe he's giving bracelets to everyone he meets. Maybe there is no connection."

  "He didn't give me
one."

  Actually, I did see the scar but paid it no attention. We both shrug. Nobody wants to be the one to get a monk put away in a mental asylum. It's a shame, though, for one so young to be in such decline. I dismiss him from my thoughts as I refocus on how to pot Tanakan, whether Vikorn likes it or not. I don't think about the monk at all for the rest of the morning, and it's only when Lek and I are sitting at a cooked-food stall for kong kob kiao, something to chew, that I think of him again. I am holding half a dozen fish balls on a stick, which I put down on the table.

  "The scar," I's'ay.

  "What scar?"

  "On the monk's wrist."

  "What about it?"

  "I want you to check the Internet cafe to see if he's still there. I'm going back to the station. If he's in there, ask him if he wouldn't mind coming up to see me at his convenience. Be polite."

  Lek shrugs. Maybe I'm the one who will soon end up in the nuthouse.

  I watch from the window next to my desk while Lek emerges from the Internet cafe, pushing his hair back with both hands. He appears at my desk a few minutes later, alone.

  "Well?"

  "He said he would be delighted to come and see you here in about an hour. He is going to the wat to meditate for a short time."

  I feel a twinge of annoyance, then let it pass. I remember that no one is more meticulous than a fraud. I'm recovered by the time he does show up, only to get irritated all over again at his self-conscious monk-at-the-shore-of-nirvana posing. I have to take myself in hand not to use an aggressive interrogation technique. Since he likes to wear monk's robes, he obviously enjoys seeing others grovel.

  "Phra-I'm sorry, I do not know your Sangha name."

  His sangfroid is imperturbable, I have to give him that. "It doesn't matter. From the look on your face, I suppose you believe I do not have a Sangha name. Is that not so?"

  Irritated all over again, I ask, "How many precepts do you follow?"

  "What a childish question, Detective. You know very well every monk must follow two hundred and twenty-seven precepts."

  "I'm sorry," I say, "foolish of me." I am taken aback at the educated quality of his Thai. I expected a lost, unlettered young man from the poor north.

  "I understand. You think that I have not been behaving like a monk, therefore I cannot be one. This is called clinging to fixed images or, more generally, ignorance. Do you always behave like a detective, Detective?"

  The elegance of his answer startles me into playing a poor hand. "For a monk you spend an awful lot of time in an Internet cafe. Are you a modernist Buddhist?"

  A smile-not quite patronizing, but close. "Of course not. Modernism is largely a form of entertainment, and a superficial one at that. It doesn't survive environmental disasters or oil shortages. It doesn't even survive terrorist attacks. It certainly doesn't survive poverty, which is the lot of most of us. One flick of a switch, and the images fade from the screen. Ancient questions begin to torment us all over again: Who am I? Where do I come from? Where am I going? But without wisdom, these questions turn toxic. Confusion seeks relief in bigotry, which leads to conflict. One high-tech war, and we're back to the Stone Age. This is the connection between modernism and Buddhism. In other words, there isn't one unless you posit the latter as a cure for the former." A sudden charming smile: "On the other hand, it's convenient to download Buddhist texts without having to spend hours searching for them in a library. Until recently I'd had no idea how limited Theravada is. If I were to ordain today, I think I would do so in Dharamsala, where the Dalai Lama lives."

  I push my chair back. It has dawned on me that the case has taken an unexpected, even a shocking turn. In my surprise I find I am mesmerized by this young phra, whose true identity seems to grow more elusive whenever he opens his mouth. Have I mistaken his mannerisms for those of a fraud exactly because he is so advanced that he is no longer conscious of the effect he has on others? Perhaps he doesn't give a damn. Real monks don't.

  "I'll take you to a private room."

  In our smallest interrogation room I say, "You have been watching me for more than a week now. Why?"

  "I wanted to tell you about my sister," he says with that same balance of compassion and detachment that may or may not be authentic.

  My tension collapses in a grateful sigh. "You sister's name is Damrong?"

  "Yes. You guessed anyway from the scars. I made it obvious enough."

  "You have information regarding her death?"

  "No, none at all."

  "So why come to me?"

  "Because she has information she wants to give you. She visits me every night. Her soul is not at rest."

  I take a moment to absorb this forensic bombshell. "Why play games? Why not come to see me like a normal person?"

  "I am not a normal person. I am a monk."

  "Or does it have something to do with that?" I point to his left wrist, where a short white scar exactly replicates the scar on Damrong's wrist.

  "Not what you think," he says with a smile. "A teenage prank, nothing more."

  I grunt in resignation. "Please tell me all you know," I say with a sigh.

  "Not here," he says, looking a little fastidiously around the small bare room. "I prefer the outdoors. I think you do too, is that not so?"

  He leads, I follow, out into the blinding light and the never-ending business of the street. I remain half a step behind him, as protocol requires. We keep pace with a man in a straw hat pulling a cart piled high with brushes, brooms, and dustpans while I bend my ear to catch the monk's every ward.

  Damrong, according to her brother, was something of a female arhat, or Buddhist saint. Born with the name of Gamon, now using the Sangha name of Phra Titanaka, he was a sickly child. Even at that time their mother was a yaa baa addict and losing her mind, given to sudden bouts of irrational violent anger. Their father was a career criminal whose body was covered in tattoos bearing magical incantations in khom, the ancient Khmer script, who was ritually murdered by local police when Gamon was seven years old. Both parents were Khmer refugees, who fled after Nixon bombed the eastern half of their country and destabilized the whole of it. Both children were born in a refugee camp on the Thai side of the border. His reverence for his sister is impressive.

  "I would never have survived without her. She took all my beatings when our father was still alive-she wouldn't let him touch me. She was so fierce, he was afraid of her. And she saved me from our mother too."

  "She paid for your education?"

  "Yes. All of it"

  Our eyes meet. My own education was funded in the same way. I cannot help asking, "You knew where the money was coming from?"

  "Not at first. Of course, I grew up and could not help knowing."

  His discipline is excellent. The single trickle down his cheek from his left eye must surely cause an itching sensation, but he makes no attempt to wipe it away. From his level, even his emotional anguish is simply another misleading phenomenon, like everything else in the world. He is amused that I admire him. He has no idea how tempted I used to be, perhaps still am, by the monastic life. I spent a year in a forest monastery in my midteens. It was the most peaceful year of my life, and the simplest.

  We stop at a crossroads to let a motorcycle trolley pass; it is festooned with lottery tickets and brightly colored magazines, to the extent that the guy riding it is invisible. The cop in me has a cruel question: "Do you know how good she was at what she did?"

  He suppresses a shudder. "Of course. She was very beautiful and had a brilliant mind. That's how she paid for my education, from the time she reached sixteen and could sell herself. The way she saw it, she could provide me with the chance she never had. But I was never that clever. I think in another country, or if she had been born into a different class, she would have been a great surgeon."

  "A surgeon?"

  "She had a natural healing gift and was a supremely unselfish person. She learned about nutrition and drugs so she could stop our mother from killi
ng me." He allows himself a gulp. "She was very gentle."

  "When did you hear of her death?"

  A shrug. "She came to me in a dream."

  Since his information is voluntary, I have no way of forcing him. I am intrigued, though.

  "There is nothing more you can tell me? You've gone to a lot of trouble to check me out."

  "I needed to know if you would be receptive. I'm overjoyed to have found such a devout man as you."

  A thought wings its way into my mind, perhaps originating in his. "You knew she was dead because she came to you as a ghost. How could you be so sure?"

  He has turned to face me, with exactly the same abstract elegance as all his other movements. "I have said enough for the time being. I came to make contact."

  "How shall we proceed?"

  "When I have more information, I will find a way of telling you. I would not like to meet at the police station again, though. We shall meet at the local wat, if you don't mind." I experience a sense of loss, a fear I might not see him again. He offers a compassionate smile. "Don't worry-whom the Buddha intends to bring together, nothing can keep apart."

  I smile, quite seduced by this extraordinary saint. "That's true," I say enthusiastically. Then the cop within starts with his annoying doubts, which I suppress.

  It is pathetic, but I cannot help wanting this young man's approval. Nor can I help feeling the need for some kind of absolution. "Did you know your sister worked at my mother's club for a while? We knew each other, Damrong and I."

  My question seems to cause a shift in his consciousness. There is a contraction of his brow, a frightening concentration at the chakra between his eyes. His look is quite merciless, and there is no need for him to say, I know everything.

  "She said you were a holy fool," he mutters before he crosses the road.

  Only when he has gone do I realize I forgot to ask which monastery he ordained at. I call Lek to ask him to check with the Sangha. Half an hour later he arrives at my desk to tell me the Sangha have never heard of Gamon, aka Phra Titanaka. Lek's manner is ambiguous as he plays with his yaa dum stick, then pushes his hair back with both hands. He coughs.