During the long pause I’m trying to think of what to say. It’s hard to say nothing, but he’s too smart, too mentally advanced, for any normal condolence. He saves me by speaking again: “There’s a picture.”

“What do you mean?”

“Of him being crushed by the elephant.”

“Who took it?”

“Who do you think? Actually, there are lots of pictures. She used up a whole roll of film. I’ll scan a few and send you a sequence.”

29

He sent me the pix by e-mail. I was expecting a few amateurish snaps in which an out-of-focus elephant steps on something indistinguishable. Not so. Whatever camera she used, it had an impressive zoom. Here’s Jumbo close up, sniffing around a gigantic bamboo latticework ball with a clearly discernible human form inside. Now she’s homed in on her dad, all trussed up. He was naked apart from a baggy pair of shorts; his elaborate esoteric tattoos are clearly visible. Now here’s a cruel sequence: the elephant with trunk upraised; elephant bringing trunk down on helpless human; close-up of helpless human’s big terrified eyes; split-second snap of furious elephant with trunk raised high in the air; trunk splintering the ball with bamboo shards flying; right foreleg lifted as high as it can manage; right foreleg squashing human.

I cross-examine myself thus: You of all people must have seen some clue, some pattern of behavior, that would have revealed her true nature. You, who have spent your whole life with women, who understand women better than you ever understood men, who have been known to cause hardened prostitutes to fall in love with you exactly because you’re the only man they ever meet who does understand them, you of all people: why couldn’t you read her?

Because I was in love is a pathetic reply, but it is probably no more than the truth. We didn’t talk much, few thoughts and feelings were shared, but she did not give the impression of a bored professional going through a pantomime of love. She was interested in me; with hindsight I guess the interest was that of a praying mantis for her doomed lover. She was interested in me as food; I invented a heart for her.

After sex, usually, when she had really made an effort to deliver the experience of a lifetime-not for my benefit, of course, but with exactly the same meticulous self-criticism a world-class ballerina might apply when dancing in front of a mirror-her long black hair would end up tangled and wild. She could get wild-eyed too with the frenzy of sex, and I have a snapshot of her in that state: black hair flying, madness in her eyes, naked, hunched like a witch over her breasts, her brown skin glistening with sweat, the room redolent with the stench of our lovemaking-even at such times to deny her power would have been as futile as denying our pagan origins. A hundred thousand years our ancestors spent carefully adding to the stock of irresistible allurements in the collective subconscious: her real art was to take men back to that forbidden jungle of lethal pleasure. Choosing the most vulnerable men was easy after a lifetime of practice.

Generally I was too intimidated, too concerned that my performance was not up to scratch-terrified, I guess, that she would come out with some cutting remark, some comparison with another lover that would destroy my face. She never did-she merely had to look as if she were about to.

This morning, in addition to the elephant pix, the monk sent the DVD of his conversation with the masked man.

The scene is Stanislaus Kowlovski’s apartment in Phnom Penh where he killed himself; I recognize the rip in the sofa. I think Phra Titanaka bought a DVD camera with his new wealth and learned to screw it to a tripod. It does not move throughout the interview, so that the monitor is full of our handsome buck, who is no longer so handsome after however many hours and days spent with a merciless interrogator of the soul. It is impossible to know if the camera is hidden or not. Perhaps the monk didn’t read the handbook too well, because the disk seems to begin in the middle of the interview. Phra Titanaka’s English is surprisingly grammatical, although his accent is thick Thai:

S.K.: I want to know how you found out about me, how you knew where to contact me in L.A. You still haven’t told me.

Monk: I have contacts on the other side.

S.K.: Oh, yeah, we’re not getting into that spiritual thing again are we?

Monk: Not necessarily.

S.K., shaking his head: This is weird, man, very very strange. First I thought you were putting the squeeze on me. That’s how you got me here. You know stuff about me, but I don’t know how much you know. Let’s say you convinced me it was in my best interests to get a plane to Phnom Penh. Then I thought you were going to kill me. Then I thought just for a moment you wanted to save my soul-you are wearing a monk’s robes after all.

Monk: Why would I want to kill you? You’ve been dead for a thousand 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 LA.

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.