The Bangkok Asset: A novel by John Burdett Read Free Book Online Page B

crossing the road. I still believe in enlightenment. It only takes about twenty years on minimal rations, five hours’ sleep per night, possessions reduced to one change of robes, one alms bowl, and an umbrella, unlimited concentration on emptiness, then a good monk can return to the Infinite at will. He sees everything, understands everything, is everything. That’s what Dr. Supatra’s
mordu
did more than half a century ago, but he is Khmer and ordained in Cambodia, which country he had to flee when Pol Pot made life impossible. In Thailand he formally disrobed and hung up his shingle as a know-all clairvoyant named Master Soon.
    Soon,
by the way, means
zero.
It was typical of Dr. Supatra to recommend him, for he is the most authentic and radical
mordu
in Bangkok, if not Thailand. Almost everything he predicts comes to pass. So, is his daily surgery filled with eager seekers after truth? Nope. People who claim to want to know their future avoid him like the plague. Women especially, who are the chief consumers of clairvoyant products in their endless search for emotional stability and amorous bliss and constitute eighty percent of the market nationwide, generally have nothing to do with him. He really does
see,
that’s his problem. His few followers hang around mainly to save him from starvation. Once I realized how unpopular he was, how close to total destitution, how even tough-minded macho types who have been to hell and back, or think they have, find him hard to hang out with, I knew he was the man for me. He just won’t tell fibs to make you feel good. No wonder he’s bankrupt. Now the lights have changed and we’re on our way.
    My first conclusion on my earlier visit was that his two decades in the robes in Cambodia did not include training in shack construction. Even I, who have seen more than my share of incompetent carpentry, was impressed by the way the uprights of his hut leaned, the corrugated iron roof sagged, crossbeams seemed to have been chosen for their crookedness, the door was permanently stuck half open, and he forgot windows. Outside a woman in her early thirties was sobbing uncontrollably.
    “I hope you haven’t come to see that bastard,” she managed. “I came for help and advice and he broke my heart in two minutes. He’s not a
mordu,
he’s a damned demon, that’s what he is.” More
boo hoo hoo.
    “What did he say?”
    A dam broke. “He said I wasted the best years of my life on useless handsome shits who were good in bed and flattered me when I could have married a boring, honest, ugly man who would have taken great care of me and my kids and now it’s way too late, and anyway, I still haven’t even begun to give up on admiring myself in the mirror even though my looks have melted, my tits and ass have sagged, and self-love has ruined my nerves so no one, not even an honest, boring, ugly man, could possibly live with me for long, and anyway, even if I could find one I’d make his life hell by taking the piss out of him behind his back and to his face because of my insufferable narcissism that even now that I’m no longer cute makes it impossible for me to feel compassion for my fellow human beings, especially if they’re not attractive.” She paused for breath. “I couldn’t believe it, the way he went on. He said what I called love was anything that made my pussy wet, I’d been masturbating since puberty and still couldn’t stop playing with myself every time I felt insecure, and the only thing that brought temporary relief was the ruthless lust of a man with a big hard cock.” She paused. “I mean, for a holy man he sure knows a lot about women and sex.” She wiped her eyes. “If he wasn’t so skinny, old, and weak, I would have kicked him in the balls. No wonder he’s a failure. Who’s going to pay good money for that kind of crap?” She glared. “And he knew it all in less than a second. He didn’t even look at me.”
    “Really?”
    “He was trying to fix a