When he got to his feet, a firm push opened the door. A wave of must and candlewax rolled out to greet him. Wiping his sandals at the threshold, he stepped inside. No one must know he had been here.
The white man looked around the room. Moonlight, coming through the open door, cast irregular shadows, causing the stacked gold ingots inside to gleam and striking fire off the open jars of cut jewels.
The white man disturbed none of these things. He desired no treasure. Not all the money in the world would have mattered to him. It was too late for money, for anything. He walked into an inner room where there was no available light, disdaining the unlit tapers on the floor. He needed them even less than he desired the wealth of Sinanju.
In this central room lacquered trunks lay about in profusion. He fell to his knees beside them, swiftly lifting each lid.
The scrolls were in the fourth trunk.
Carefully he lifted one out, undoing its gold ribbon. The parchment unrolled stiffly. He read the ideographs at the head of the roll. It was an old one, describing Mesopotamia thousands of years ago. He wanted the more recent scrolls. Squatting on the bare mahogany floor, the white man with the uncut yellow hair carefully opened scroll after scroll, reading and retying the ribbons until finally he found the ones he sought.
He read them slowly, knowing that he had all night. The purple birds would keep the villagers away.
After he had read the scrolls through, he took paper and pen from his yellow sash and, referring to the scrolls often, wrote a letter. Then he copied the text of the first letter exactly, but changed the salutation.
With great care he retied the scrolls and restored them to the lacquered trunk.
He stood up. His eyes were bright, like blue neon. He had succeeded. No one would know he had been here. Not even the Master of Sinanju.
In his hands he held the letters containing the secrets of the present Master of Sinanju. All that remained was to mail them. And sign them. He had not signed them yet.
Struck by a sudden inspiration, the man with the yellow hair pressed the letters to a wall and wrote one word at the bottom of each.
The word was "Tulip".
He reset the door mechanism on his way out.
And then he disappeared down the shore road, past the Horns of Welcome, which awaited the rising of the sun, naked and forbidding. The snakes did not reemerge from their holes until long after he had gone.
Chapter 2
His name was Remo and he was trying to catch the fly with a set of chopsticks.
Remo sat in the middle of the room in which he had lived for nearly a year. He sat completely still, because he knew that the fly would not come near him if he moved. He had not moved in more than an hour. The trouble was, neither had the fly. It clung to the windowpane. Remo wondered if it was asleep. Did flies sleep?
The room had bare beige walls, a television and videorecorder setup on the floor, and a sleeping mat in one corner. Remo sat on a sitting mat, which was thinner and made of reed. A small eating taboret stood before him and on it rested a bowl bearing the remains of Remo's most recent meal, duck in orange sauce. Remo had deliberately left it there to attract the fly, but the fly didn't seem interested.
Remo could have gotten up and moved to the window faster than the fly could react to him. Before the fly's multifaceted eyes could register his presence, Remo could easily swat him. But Remo did not want to kill the fly. He wanted to catch it alive between the wooden chopsticks which he held in one hand.
Eventually the fly stirred, spun on its multiple legs, and after brushing its wings clean, lifted into the air.
Remo smiled. Now he would get his chance.
The fly was fat, black, and flew silently. It looped around Remo and settled on the rim of the bowl filled with duck remains.
Remo allowed the fly enough time to get comfortable. He carefully separated the chopsticks with his fingers.
The door suddenly opened and the fly jumped. Remo's hand was already in motion. The chopsticks clicked shut.
"I did it!" Remo said, bringing the chopsticks to his face.
"What is it that you have done?" asked Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. He stood on the threshold to Remo's room. He was a birdlike Korean in a canary-yellow suit with bell-shaped sleeves, very old, but with very young hazel eyes watching curiously from a face which might have been molded from Egyptian papyrus. What little hair he had collected in white tufts above his ears or trailed from his chin.
Remo looked closer. The chopsticks grasped air. He frowned. "Nothing," he said unhappily. The fly was circling the ceiling.
"So it appeared to these aged eyes," said Chiun.
"Could you please close the door, Little Father?"
"Why?"
"I don't want the fly to escape."
"Of course, my son," said Chiun amiably, complying with Remo's request. The Master of Sinanju stood quietly, his head cocked to one side as Remo tracked the fly with his deep-set eyes, careful not to move unnecessarily. The chopsticks hung poised in the air.
The fly looped, dipped, and circled Remo curiously. "The poor fly," said Chiun.
"Shhh!" hissed Remo.
"Alas for the fly. It is hungry."
"Hush!" said Remo.
"If you would not sit so still," continued Chiun, "the fly would be able to distinguish you from the other garbage. Heh, heh. Then it could eat its fill. Heh, heh, heh."
Remo shot Chiun a withering look. Chiun ignored him. Instead, the Master of Sinanju dug into a pocket of his suit and pulled out a handful of cashews. He ate one, chewing it as thoroughly as if it were a tough morsel of steak, and sampled another.
Remo watched the fly as it spiraled down toward the bowl. The Master of Sinanju balanced a cashew on the index finger on one long-nailed hand. He raised the hand slightly, squinting at the fly with a single bright eye.
When the fly was almost to the bowl's wooden rim, the Master of Sinanju sent the cashew flying with a flick of his thumb.
Simultaneously, Remo's hand flashed out.
"Got it!" Remo shouted, standing up. "Look, Little Father. "
The Master of Sinanju hurried to Remo's side.
"Let me see, Remo!" he said. "Oooh, how clever you are. "
"Thank you," Remo said, holding the chopsticks so that he wouldn't crush the object in their grasp. "Not many people could catch a fly on the wing like that, huh?"
"Not many," agreed Chiun, smiling benignly. "And you are not one of them."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Look closer, O blind one."