Chiun was wrong when he advised Remo to know what he could do and what he could not do. He was wrong in limiting his vision to doing what his father had done before him. That was the Oriental mind. Remo was American. There were new horizons, especially for brilliant and cunning people. How Chiun was afraid for people who thought they were brilliant.
‘When you think you are brilliant, my son,’ he had said, ‘that is the beginning of stupidity, for you shut out all those senses that tell you of your weaknesses. And he who does not know his weaknesses cannot feed the babies of Sinanju.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hurricane Megan had passed and Miami Beach basked again in tropical mellowness. The Master of Sinanju sat on his balcony, warming himself in the dying sun, contemplating the disaster of someone with skills, Sinanju skills, lowering himself to politics. It was not a pleasant contemplation.
In his life, he had had two pupils. One, although Korean, a relative, and a villager of Sinanju, had been a complete loss. The other had proved to be a pleasant surprise, a white man, an American white man who had learned with exceeding swiftness the teachings of Sinanju.
And Chiun had taught him thus. He had taken a white man and made him almost worthy to assume the role of Master of Sinanju. With a Japanese, it would have been almost impossible, but with a white man, it was unthinkable, yet Chiun had done this thing, teaching his pupil to know the forces of man and nature, and to assume the responsibility for feeding Sinanju when the time came for its current master to return his body to the waters of time.
Now this pupil was to become a salesman of people. The thought made Chiun very unhappy. It was as if a beautiful swan were to try to burrow through the mud like a worm. He would have to tell Remo that, but Remo still had a way of not listening.
The doorbell buzzer interrupted the thoughts of the Master of Sinanju and he left his balcony to answer it. It was Ethel Hirshberg with her friends. They had come to keep him company.
Chiun liked these women, especially Mrs. Hirshberg, who had come to his rescue at the baggage rack at the airport. They knew how to understand tragedy and mourning. They appreciated what it was like to have children who did not appreciate what their parents had done for them. They appreciated the great daytime television dramas, the finest art form of the western world. And they played Mah Jongg.
That the woman did not know they were in the presence of the deadliest single killer in the world was not due to a lack of perception. People only understand what they already know, and seeing this frail old man with such sensitive features, hearing him talk of the babies of Sinanju, they naturally believed he raised money for babies, because they, in their lives, had spent much time raising money for such causes. They did not know that the babies of Sinanju were fed by deaths, performed for salary by the Master.
Such was their concern and affection for Chiun that when a mugger was reported in the building the night before, they all ran out with pots and pans to save Chiun, because they knew he was taking his evening stroll at the time. Fortunately, the mugger was found in a stairwell. Police theorized that he had been hit with a sledgehammer in the chest, although no sledgehammer was found and although the coroner privately pointed out that to inflict so much damage, the sledgehammer would have had to be dropped from a height of four miles. But the coroner said nothing publicly, since a mugger was a mugger was a mugger, and however they were gotten rid of was a benefit to mankind, in his opinion.
In the opinion of the ladies of the apartment building, it was goodness coming to goodness that Chiun had been spared.
Now they had a surprise for him. One of the ladies’ sons was a writer for the most successful adventure show of the season. And wouldn’t Chiun be happy to know it was about an Oriental?
‘It’s coming on now,’ squealed Mrs. Hirshberg.
Chiun sat on the large sofa between Mrs. Hirshberg and Mrs. Levy. He watched the opening credits tolerantly, as the hero of the series trudged across the desert sand. But he moved forward on the couch to watch an opening flashback when the hero relived his childhood in the Orient and his training in the arts of combat.
He sat that way, shaking his head, through the entire show, and as soon as it was over, he bade the women good night because he was tired.
He still sat on the sofa when Remo came home.
‘There was a very evil thing on the television tonight,’ he said as Remo came through the door,
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, an evil thing.’
‘Oh. Am I allowed to know what this evil thing was?’
‘A program told of the Shaolin priests, as if they were wise and good men.’ Chiun said this in a voice that reached for outrage, then looked to Remo as if for solace.
‘So?’ Remo said.
‘The Shaolin were chicken thieves, who took refuge from the police in a monastery. And because it was better to have them in a monastery than in the countryside stealing chickens, they were allowed to live there and to masquerade as priests.’
‘I see,’ Remo said, although he did not see at all.
‘You do not see at all,’ Chiun said. ‘It is evil to deceive people into believing well of people of whom only ill should be thought.’
‘It’s only a show, for crying out loud,’ Remo said.
‘But think of the people it can mislead.’
‘Well, then, write a letter to the producer and complain.’
‘Do you think that will do any good?’
‘No,’ Remo said, ‘but it’ll make you feel better.’
‘Then I will not do that. I will do something else.’
Remo showered. When he came out, Chiun was seated at the table in the kitchen, pencil in hand, paper in front of him.
He looked up at Remo.
‘How do you spell Howard Cosell?’ he asked.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Of course, Willard Farger remembered Remo. How could he ever forget such a good interviewer? No, no, no, he wasn’t nervous; he always sweated in the spring heat of Bade County. Certainly. Even in his air-conditioned home.
‘That’s good,’ Remo said. ‘A little sweat is good for a man who’s going to be the next mayor of Miami Beach.’
Farger looked at Remo closely to see if he were joking, then thought it over for a full tenth of a second and smiled because the thought gave him pleasure, then shook his head in resigned sadness. ‘Maybe someday, but not this year.’
‘Why not?’ Remo said.
‘It’s too late. The election’s next week. There’s no way to get on the ballot this year.’
‘No way?’
‘No way,’ Farger said. ‘I made my move too late.’ He was beginning to relax just a little, as each passing second made his assurance grow that Remo was not, for the moment, going to bury him in a swamp or bury an ice pick in his head.
‘Could you replace a candidate if one, say, dies?’ Remo asked coldly, and Farger stopped relaxing. He sat up straight in his chair.
‘No. I’m the fourth deputy assistant commissioner of elections. I know the law. There’s no way.’
Remo leaned back on Farger’s living room couch and propped his feet up on a plastic tile coffee table.
‘Okay, then., If you can’t be mayor, you’ll make a great campaign manager. Who do we support?’
Farger took a deep breath. Without even thinking, he started off, ‘That’s where I draw the line, Mr. Remo. I have supported Mayor Gartwright since he first sought public office; I have no intention now of deserting his leadership, doubly so since it is now under attack by an insidious encroachment of the federal…’
‘Do you want to join your car?’ Remo interrupted.
Farger shook his head.