"Just as long as you understand that your decision affects more than you alone. If you make the wrong decision, little Freya is an orphan-and I am once again sitting at the bottom of Mount Paektusan, a stubborn and childless man."
"I'll let you know, Little Father," said Remo. "You know what hurts the worst? The last time I saw Mah-Li alive, it wasn't her. It was that bastard Purcell."
"And my son was dead even as I berated him in my mind for his failure. We have that emptiness in common, you and I."
And Chiun walked off, grateful that whatever Remo decided, he had once again called him Little Father. It still felt good, even after all these years.
Remo watched the Master of Sinanju go and turned his attention to the house. He had built it bare-handed, breaking the bamboo with deft chops, splitting it with his fingernails to make the floor. It was only a shell. It had never been more than a shell, roofless and solitary. Like my life up to now, Remo thought bitterly.
Remo kicked at one wall. It wobbled, then crashed mushily. He attacked the remaining walls, tearing them apart, ripping up the floor and hurling shoots of bamboo high into the air. One by one, they splashed into the barren waters of the West Korea Bay and were borne away like the fragments of a dream. His dream.
When he was done, Remo stood on the bare earth where the house no longer existed. The tears came then. Finally. They flooded out and he sank to the ground sobbing.
When they stopped, Remo got up and scuffed the dirt smooth until there was nothing to show that a dream had ever been built on the site.
Remo took the shore path, back into the village of Sinanju. Everything was clear now.
Chapter 31
Sunrise found the Master of Sinanju inscribing a fresh scroll. He heard Remo Williams climbing the hill, and noticing his firm and confident step, continued writing.
"I've decided," Remo said from the open door.
"I know," replied the Master of Sinanju, not looking up from his calligraphy.
"I'm going back to America," Remo announced.
"I know," said Chiun.
"You couldn't know that."
"I knew it a year ago."
"No way," said Remo. "Don't try to con me with that tired Oriental-wisdom routine. That went out with Charlie Chan. You couldn't know."
"Remember a day last year when you barged in on my meditation? You had great plans for Sinanju, you said. You wanted to put in electricity, running water, and-ugh!-toilets. "
"I thought they were improvements. There's plenty of gold. The village can afford it."
"For thousands of years the village of Sinanju has been considered the pearl of Asia," Chiun recited. "Long before there was an America. Men have come here seeking power and gold and jewels. Instead, they find a ramshackle fishing village where the men do not fish, the woman are no better than scullery maids and the children uncouth. They find squalor. And they move on, convinced that the legends are false or that the true Sinanju lies beyond the next horizon. And so my people and my treasure have remained safe for centuries. "
"Thanks for the lesson, but that doesn't explain how you could know a year ago that I would decide to return to America. "
"By the very act of intending these so-called improvements, my son, you were showing me that you were already homesick. It was your intention, whether you realized it or not, to remake this village in the image of your place of childhood, Newark, New Jersey." Chiun's nose wrinkled distastefully. "How clever you are. If there is a less desirable spot on the crust of the earth than my little village, it is there."
Remo considered. "Improvements," he said at last.
"I will not argue. You wish to return to America. Is that all?"
"The Dutchman said he killed Smith. I want to know if it's true. I owe him for that, as well as for Mah-Li. Then I'm going to bring him to American justice."
"Sinanju justice is more absolute."
"I'll only kill him if I have no choice."
"Why don't you simply sit down and slit your throat? You will be dead, and the Dutchman, being entwined with your destiny, will die. This will save you a long journey, not to mention plane fare."
"After I take care of the Dutchman," Remo went on, "I'm going to ask Jilda to marry me."
"I doubt that. After you take care of the Dutchman you will be dead. Even if a dead man can propose marriage, I doubt a living woman will accept. But she is white. Who knows? You can still hope."
"What about you?"
"What about me? I am like an onion that awaits peeling. There are so many fascinating layers. Where shall I begin?"
"You can come if you want. To America, I mean."
"Why would I want to? I have already carried one dead son home to Sinanju. I think that is my allotment in life."
"Well, if you don't want to . . ."
"I did not say that," Chiun said abruptly, putting down his quill. "I asked. It was a rhetorical question."
Remo's face brightened. "Then you're coming?"
"Only to see if Smith is in truth dead. It is a minor fact, but necessary if I am to finish the scrolls pertaining to my service in America."
"Whatever," Remo said nonchalantly. He pretended to examine a Persian wall hanging so that Chiun could not see his relieved expression.
"But I have another, more important, reason."
"Yeah? What's that?" Remo asked.
"You are an orphan."
"What kind of cockamammie reason is that?"
"The best kind. Who else is there to bury your miserable carcass after you have squandered your life?"
"Oh," said Remo: After a pause he said, "I'd like to leave as soon as possible."
"What is stopping you?"
"Don't you have to pack?"
"I have been packed for the last year, in anticipation of your decision. You will find my steamer trunks in the storage room. Be so good as to carry them to the edge of the village. A helicopter from Pyongyang is already on its way to transport us to the airport. I have purchased the airline tickets with my own money. First class for me and coach for you."