Now the boy stands in a monk’s robe, seeming to challenge the only possibility left for his recovery. “I know where to sell it,” he offers. “I mean I know who to take it to. Someone who’ll probably pay more than fifty dollars . . .”
The abbot waits, saying nothing, his gaze at once gentle and unwavering. He seems to think it best to let the boy finish his thoughts.
“I-I’ll bring back the money,” Makara stutters, unable to keep still, body twitching, like someone about to have a seizure.
Finally the abbot says, “There’s no need for your involvement, my dear samanae.” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, his face lights up. “Your mother was just here! She’s brought you some fried noodles, along with some other snacks. She’s left the tiffin with one of the nuns in the kitchen. Go and see. Perhaps you can have a nibble before dinner. Discreetly, of course.”
Though monks are not allowed to take any food past noon, the Old Musician remembers that an exception is made for Makara, as the abbot believes the boy needs all the nourishment he can get to rebuild his strength and recover.
Makara fidgets and, after a moment, as if unable to bear the abbot’s kind gaze, excuses himself: “Kanah.”
Once the boy is out of hearing range, the abbot turns to the Old Musician. “Ah, the tricks one must resort to in order to turn the mind of a youth!” He glances at the revolver on the mat, and the Old Musician notices for the first time how strained, how uncharacteristically discomposed, the old monk appears, despite his cheerful words. Perhaps this discovery bothers him more than he initially let on. “I wasn’t at all sure what to think when Sok came and said there was a gun. It was all he could tell me.”
“My apologies, Venerable, but I’d sent the boy to fetch you so as to give him some distance from the weapon. He was quite upset by its presence.”
“Yes, he was obviously distressed. Hopefully, some calm has returned to him. I gave him a new English phrase to recite. A breath in, a breath out, each breath a journey all its own . . . I’ve found, even for myself, this often works better than chanting the ancient sutras.” As if to prove the point, the abbot inhales and exhales slowly, repeating the cycle a few times. “Ah, I feel better already . . . Now, how did this come into our possession?”
The Old Musician quickly summarizes what transpired at the river, while the abbot listens, thoughtful in his disquiet. “We’ve poisoned our rivers with all sorts of pollutants,” he laments when the Old Musician has finished.
“One hopes, Venerable, that it fell into the river accidentally, or if thrown there, that it was done with good intention, by someone who understood the harm such a weapon could cause.”
“But,” the abbot proffers tentatively, sensing the unspoken, “you imagine a more complicated journey for the gun?”
The Old Musician nods. “You read my thoughts, Venerable.”
“Go on . . .”
“It’s pure conjecture, of course, but it’s just as probable that someone tossed the weapon into the river, perhaps in a moment of fear, or remorse for some crime committed. Given its value, an innocent handler would simply sell it if he wished to be rid of it. Fifty dollars—if the boy’s right, it may be worth more—that’s a month’s wage for most, and one does not throw away that kind of money. Again, it’s a leap, on my part.”
The abbot sighs. “Well, your leap might be quite close to the truth, given the reality we live in . . . The question now is, how can we end its journey?”
“We cannot turn it in to the authorities, Venerable.”
“Absolutely not,” the abbot agrees, sounding forcefully adamant. “We can’t count on them to keep it out of the wrong hands.” In a calmer voice, he asks, “Do you recall the death of a young girl in the karaoke bar in Chruay Chongvar some while ago?”
The Old Musician nods. “It was all over the news, Venerable.” A beer girl, they called her, killed by a highly decorated police officer because she was too slow bringing drinks. Barely fifteen, she was made to dress in an outfit suggesting she was as much for sale as the alcohol she offered to entice the male customers. Like most of her peers, she’d come from her village to the city hoping to earn money to support her family back home. Her family did indeed receive money, not through her work but through her death. And her life? Worth no more than a few bottles of Hennessy, which the police officer and his friends drank in abundance that afternoon he shot her. The officer paid the family to keep them from pressing charges, and they had no choice but to accept this “grief money” because even if they had gone to court, it would have come to nothing. A police officer of his rank has khnong, as they say, the backing of someone more powerful.
“Has something happened?” the Old Musician ventures, when the abbot appears suddenly lost in thought. “Has the family decided to press charges after all?”
“I wish it were something as valiant as that.” The abbot shakes his head and lets out another melancholic sigh. “There’s been yet again a fatal incident with the police.” He inhales deeply. “And this time, it’s brought us a dilemma . . . Along with the gun, we now have a girl.”
“A girl?” The Old Musician frowns in confusion.
“Like so many in the city, she will be abandoned . . .”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Venerable.”
“Her mother was killed recently, and this morning a friend of the slain woman—someone who comes now and then to our temple—pleaded with me to take the girl in.”
“You don’t think . . .”
“No, no, the two things—the girl, and this gun you’ve found—are not connected.”
The Old Musician lets out an audible breath. He listens patiently as the abbot struggles to explain.
“The friend, an older woman in her late fifties, has acted as the girl’s temporary caretaker. But, impoverished herself and with hardly a home, she will not be able to keep the child much longer . . .” The abbot gazes into the distance, his mind wandering, searching.
“What happened, Venerable?”
“I’m sorry . . .” The abbot recollects his thoughts. “Yes. Well, the child’s mother was a dancer—a classical ballet dancer trained at the School of Fine Arts—but, like so many artists, could not find work and had to settle for performing at a hotel. It seems there she caught the eye of a VIP guest—a captain in the National Police Bodyguard Unit—and became his mistress. The wife of the police captain found out, and rather than confront him, she hired a gunman to kill the young woman.”
A beautiful young woman is forced by a powerful man who desires her, or by her own dire needs, into becoming his lover. Whether she’s a bar girl or a ballet dancer, her beauty is both an asset and a curse, drawing jealousy and danger. The city is full of accounts like these, of lives as brief and extinguishable as incense flames. But there is more to this story, and the Old Musician is beginning to discern the heart of it. “Is the little girl his?” he asks.
“Yes, the little girl is the daughter of the slain dancer and the police captain.”