"Not to drink," said Remo.
"Sinanju is blessed with the sweetest rain," Chiun said, making fluttering motions with his fingernails. "You have only to set out your pots to collect your fill."
"I was thinking about putting in toilets."
Chiun made a disgusted face. "Toilets are a European confidence trick. They promote sloth and laziness."
"How so?"
"They are too comfortable. They are indoors, where it is warm. This encourages people to sit on them too long, reading mindless magazines, ruining their minds and posture."
"There isn't even a decent outhouse in the entire village. Everybody uses chamber pots or goes behind a rock. After a big feast, the air is unbreathable."
"It is the natural way. Fertilizer. It helps the crops."
"The only crops in Sinanju are mud and rocks," Remo said flatly. "The people are so lazy even the rice has to be trucked in."
"Do not insult my people, Remo," Chiun warned.
"What's insulting about good hygiene? I know you have a toilet in this house," Remo pointed out.
"This house was built by the finest Egyptian architects," Chiun said loftily, "back when Egyptians were good for something more than losing wars and dusting the ruins of their ancestors. It contains many curiosities. Somewhere in it there is a European water closet, I am sure. An antique."
"I hear it flush from time to time."
"It is necessary to keep even antiques in proper working order," Chiun sniffed.
"Chiun, you've got tons of gold just sitting here doing nothing and your people are living like . . . like . . ."
"Like Koreans," supplied Chiun.
"Exactly."
"I am glad we understand one another."
"No, we don't," Remo said. "If I'm going to live here the rest of my life, I want to do something constructive. These people don't need more gold or more security. They need a better standard of living."
"The people of Sinanju have food," said Chiun slowly. "They have family. they have protection. Even Americans have not that. Americans are subject to all manner of brutality from other Americans. In Sinanju, as long as there is a Master of Siilanju, no one need fear theft."
"That's because no one has anything worth stealing."
"They have me. I am their wealth. They have the protection of the awesome magnificence that is Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. They know that. They appreciate that. They love me."
Just then there was a knock on the door. "Enter, beloved subject," said Chiun loudly. Pullyang, the caretaker, scuttled into the room. He came to Remo's side and whispered into his ear. He took no notice of Chiun.
"Three," said Relno.
Pullyang doubled over with laughter. He ran out into the night. Rcmo heard him repeat his answer over and over. Other laughter welled up into the night.
"He didn't wait for the punch line," said Remo. "That wasn't even the funny part."
"What did Pullyang ask of you?" demanded Chiun.
"He wanted to know how many Pyongyangers it takes to change a light bulb."
"That was my joke!" Chinn hissed. And with a furious swirl of sleeves and skirts he leapt to his feet and bounded to the door.
"It takes three Pyongyangers to change a light bulb," Chiun shouted into the night. "One to change the bulb and two to shout encouragement while he does this!" The laughter died abruptly.
Chiun slammed the door and returned to his throne. "I don't understand the Korean sense of humor," said Remo.
"That is because you have none yourself. You are like all Americans, who turn the relieving of bodily wastes into a leisure activity. If I let you get your way now, you will next litter my poor village with condoms."
"What's this?"
"Condoms," repeated Chiun. "They are another American confidence trick. The tall buildings in which there are many rooms and each person owns a different room. But actually they own only the empty space within those walls, which is to say they own nothing."
"Those are condos," Remo corrected.
"And this is the treasure house of Sinanju. The house of my ancestors, and the house of all future Masters of Sinanju. Including you. Is it not good enough for you, toilet-loving American white?"
"I like it fine."
"Good. Then you will live here."
"When I am head of the village, yes," said Remo. "But until then, Mah-Li and I will live in the house I am building with my own hands."
"So be it," said Chiun, coming to his feet. "I have given you everything and you have spurned my best. Take your filthy belongings and go sleep on the beach."
"What belongings?" said Remo. "I'm wearing everything I own."
Chiun's fingernails flashed to the mahogany floor and speared the slip of paper on which Remo had written his list of improvements for the village of Sinanju.
"This filthy belonging," said Chiun, lifting it to Remo's hurt face. "I will have no toilets or condoms in Sinanju."
"Have it your way, then," Remo said unhappily.
He plucked the list and walked out of the House of the Masters without a backward glance.
Chapter 5
Dr. Harold K. Smith was a simple country doctor. The people of Oakham, Massachusetts, liked Dr. Harry, as he was called. He made house calls. No doctors made house calls anymore. Not when there was so much money to be made off the sick, and the most efficient way was to jam them into the office waiting room with plenty of waiting.
Dr. Harry had been making house calls for nearly forty years. He liked the homey touch. It was a nice, stress-free way to practice medicine. It filled his sixty-nine-year-old soul with peace. And even at his age, peace was what he most yearned for.
Dr. Harry might never have taken this route in life, but upon his graduation from Tufts Medical School, he was drafted. That was in 1943. Dr. Harry spent the next two years as a combat medic with the First Attack Squad, A Company, as they liberated France.