Bangkok Haunts

window next to my desk while Lek emerges from the Internet café, 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 café. 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,