Bangkok Haunts

years already.
    S.K.:
Shit, man, I don’t know if I can do that again today. Just tell me how much you want. I’ll borrow the dough.
    Monk:
Let’s say I’m a collector of stories of cause and effect. Let’s go back to that moment—that white-out we’re calling it, I believe—when you were, how old?
    S.K., with a reluctant grunt:
Thirteen. Yeah. I was pubescent all over. I finally knew what I was. A prick. A big, hard—
    Monk:
But why?
    S.K.:
I told you, sport was the only official way out, but I wasn’t any good at it. Gigolo was the only role left. It was the Columbine syndrome.
    Monk:
Deeper, Stan, please.
S.K.:
Deeper? What can be deeper than that?
    Monk:
Was that the moment you decided there was no morality in the world?
    S.K.:
Yeah, that was it. I didn’t really give it a second thought. I would have had to get into some born-again racket if I wanted to do moral. For what?
    Monk:
I think there was something else.
    S.K.:
What else?
    Monk:
I think there was a certain taste of nausea. Wasn’t there?
    S.K.:
Nausea? You mean like after sex with a bad performer?
    Monk:
More like a feeling of despair, but actually in the stomach.
    S.K., surprised:
Yeah, I remember that. How’d you know? Nauseous, yeah, that’s how I felt most of the time in a small town in Kansas. It disappeared the day I hit L.A.
    Monk:
How was it, this nausea?
    S.K.:
Everybody knew about it. We called it small-town blues, but it was more than that.
    Monk:
Something missing inside?
    S.K., nodding:
Yeah. A vacuum on Main Street as far as the eye could see.
    I realize I have underestimated the monk’s electronic prowess. He has edited the interview at least to the extent that it is in two parts. We jump now to the second part. Kowlovski is quite transformed, sweating, extremely nervous. A dozen twitches work his face. He gives the impression of a man in a state of chronic terror.
    Monk:
It’s okay, you’re still here, aren’t you?
    S.K.:
No. I’m not still here. I’m in a thousand pieces. You’ve fucked my head, man.
    Monk:
Did I? What did I fuck it with?
    S.K.:
My crime, fuck it, my crime. How in hell did you find out? How?
    Monk:
You really want to know?
    S.K.:
Yeah, I really want to know.
    Monk:
Are you sure you really want to know?
    S.K.:
Fuck you.
    A long pause.
    Monk:
She was my sister. Before she died, she sent me an e-mail with the names and addresses of all the major players.
    S.K., aghast but disbelieving:
No!
    Monk:
Here, this is a snapshot of her in her prime, aged about twenty-four.
    The monk hands over a passport-size photo. The masked man stares at it.
    Monk:
Of course, her neck is in a lot better condition than when you last saw it.
    Screams come from Kowlovski. Then the picture dies.
    Miraculously the camera switches on again. It is impossible to know how much time has passed, perhaps a minute, perhaps hours, but the sequence makes a kind of emotional sense. Kowlovski is slumped on that cheap sofa. He seems quite exhausted, but there is no peace in his baby-blue eyes. They dart from one place to another even while his body rests immobile.
    “How often did you work with her?”
the monk’s voice asks.
    “That was the only time.”
    “Is that the only snuff movie you ever made?”
    “The only one. I don’t do that kind of stuff. I don’t even understand it. Someone was squeezing me.”
    “Who?”
    “You have the list, don’t you? She sent you a list of all the major players.”
    “Names only. I’m a simple monk—how do I know what these names represent?”
    “Well, that’s one question I can answer. Big, is what they represent. Power. Money. Not them, but what stands behind them. The invisible men.”
    “Invisible men?”
    “Sure. Why else would the world be so fucked up?”
    “Ah! You only recently began to think like that, am I right?”
    “You and her—you’re so alike, you could be the same person.”
    “So you did talk to her before you strangled her?”
    “Don’t keep saying that. If you’d seen the movie, you would know.”
    “Know what?”
    A pause while Kowlovski licks his dry lips.
“She had to encourage me. I was permanently on the point of chickening out. We were supposed to film the thing in under two hours, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t control my bowels, and I had to take so much Viagra I couldn’t stop farting. I had this ridiculous erection I was too stressed to use. I kept bursting into tears, and I kind of collapsed, and they seemed to think about abandoning it