"Oh. Okay. How's this? 'The turtle ducks.'"
"Why do you introduce turtles into a poem about-"
"Because 'ducks' rhymes with 'sucks,'" Remo said, "Rhyming is for Greeks and children. We do not rhyme. You must try again."
"Try this. 'The flower waits.'"
"What kind of flower awaits?"
"Is that the third line?" Remo asked.
"No!"
"Don't get upset. It was just a question."
"You must specify which flower. 'Flower' means nothing. Would you ask for fruit when you desire pear?"
"'The tulip awaits,' then," Remo said hastily.
"Tulips are not Korean."
Remo sighed. "Why don't you take my turn?"
"Very well. 'The chrysanthemum trembles like a shy maiden.'"
"Nice image. I add, 'The bee stings.'"
"What does this bee sting?"
Remo shrugged carelessly. "Whatever he wants. It's my turn so it's my bee. Your turn now."
"No, you must specify. Why can you not specify? Ung poetry is very specific. Image is all. Meaning is what is gleaned from the image."
"Okay, 'The bee stings you.'"
"Why me?"
"Because you're annoying me with this dippy Ung stuff."
"What means 'dippy?'"
"Silly. Stupid. Take your pick."
And the Korean drew himself to his feet. His face became a thunderhead. "But I am Master Ung. To insult the purity of my poems is to challenge me. Prepare yourself, ghost-face."
Remo backed off fast. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. Tell you what. I'll take the next three lines. How's that?"
"No, you will stand quietly while I recite the next three thousand lines."
Remo's face fell. "Three thousand lines?"
"Because I am angry," Ung said in an injured tone, "I can recite only a short Ung poem."
And in his dream, Remo groaned while Master Ung said, "Chrysanthemum petals fall from a celadon sky" three thousand times, varying in the intonation each time but leaning toward angry nine falls out of ten.
A STEELY VOICE BROKE the endless rain of petals. "It is time to face the wrestler."
Remo shot up out of bed, bathed in sweat.
The Master of Sinanju stood like a stern idol by his tatami sleeping mat. His face was in shadow and unreadable.
"Christ, Chiun-what time is it?" Remo asked. "Midnight approaches."
"Midnight! Feels like I just closed my eyes."
"You may sleep again after you have faced the most fearsome foe you have ever faced."
"I don't want to face any foe, fearsome or otherwise."
Chiun clapped his hands peremptorily. "You have your duty to the House."
Remo pulled the sheets over his head. "Make me." Something that felt like a red-hot needle touched Remo's elbow. It connected with his humerus. He snapped up again.
"Ow! What did you do?" Remo demanded, rubbing his elbow.
"I merely grazed what you whites call your funny bone."
"It doesn't feel very funny to me," said Remo, willing the pain up his arm and into his central nervous system, where it diffused and left his body tingling mildly.
Chiun turned abruptly. "Come. Your foe awaits." On the way through the darkness of the seacoast south of Tokyo, Remo tried to keep the fishy smells wafting into the cab from clogging his lungs.
"I had another freaking dream," he volunteered. "They are the only kind you have been having of late," Chiun said with no touch of interest in his voice. "Don't you want to hear about it?"
"No."
"I dreamed of Ung."
"Goody for you."
"We had a poetry face-off."
"I assume Ung won."
"He buried me in chrysanthemum petals."
Chiun flicked a speck off his silken lap. "There was no Master greater than Ung. Unless it was Wang. Or possibly myself."
"Says you," said Remo, rubbing his still-tingling elbow.
By the beach there were squid drying in lines strung between bamboo poles, their triangular heads flat as tapeworms. The breeze coming in from the Pacific made their tangled tentacles wriggle fitfully. They reminded Remo of the Greek octopuses drying in the sun, but for some reason their flat, dead eyes made him shiver deep inside.
"Why do squid suddenly make me feel creepy?"
"Because squid are creepy."
"I hate octopi, but I've eaten squid in the past and they never bothered me before."
"The octopus is harmless. But the squid is a fearsome creature, for they grow to great size."
"Everywhere we go lately, I see tentacles."
"Did I ever tell you how the sumo came to be?" Chiun asked suddenly.
"Not that I can remember."
"Good."
"That's it? Good?"
"Yes."
"Why is it good that you never got around to telling me how the sumo came to be?"
"Because it is."
Remo eyed Chiun. "Well, aren't you going to tell me now?"
Chiun's almond eyes grew heavy and hooded. "Beg me."
"I am not going to beg you to tell me about the sumo," Remo scoffed.
"Good."
"Not if we both end up on a deserted isle, just the two of us, a sick monkey and a coconut palm for entertainment, will I ask you how the sumo came to be."
"I accede to your wishes."
Remo returned to staring out the cab window. "Fine. Good."
Silence filled the car. Patterns of light and shadow cast by passing street lamps whipped through the cab's interior, making their stiff faces come and go by turns.
"So why'd you bring it up?" Remo asked after a long time.
Chiun began to hum. It was a contented hum. But as Remo listened, it grew more and more to sound like an I-know-something-you-don't-know hum. But he couldn't be sure, so he kept quiet during the rest of the cab ride.
"Is it important that I know how the sumo came to be?"
"I do not know," Chiun said vaguely.
"Am I going to meet any sumo?"
"You might. You might not."
Remo folded his lean arms defiantly. "Well, I pity the sumo I meet in the bad mood I'm in right now. He gives me any lip, and I'll roll him around the block for exercise."
"Sumos do not give lip," said Chiun.
"Good for them," said Remo.
"They are very polite. They give hip."
"Hip?"
Chiun nodded. "Hip."
"Hip, hip, hurray for the sumo," Remo said sourly.
THE CAB LET THEM OFF before a great Japanese-style house on a low hillock, and the Master of Sinanju led Remo through a gate into a walled courtyard where stunted bonsai trees crouched in perpetual agony. In the center of the courtyard lay a circular clay spot. A shinto-style roof protected the clay from the elements.
Warm amber light came from the closed screen of the house that faced the roofed courtyard.
"What's this?" Remo asked, enjoying the faint scent of cherries in the night air.
"The ring in which you will fight your fearsome foe."
"What foe?" asked Remo, looking around warily. And suddenly something as large as a baby elephant appeared on the other side of the screen, cutting off almost all trace of the warm amber light.
"That looks like a sumo's shadow to me," Remo said.
The screen slid aside and out stepped a great pink hulk, naked except for a cotton loincloth, his head shaved all around a ponytaillike topknot. He resembled nothing so much as an overweight baby who had outgrown his Pampers.
"Quick," urged Remo, "tell me how the sumo came to be."
"It is too late. I must instruct you in the rules of sumo."
"Shoot."
"You face your foe in the clay circle. There is no hitting with the closed fist or below the belt."
"Got it."
"You must not inflict harm or mortal injury on your foe."
"Does Baby Huey know this?"
"You may ask him after the bout."
"The winner is decided when one opponent is forced out of the circle or if any part of the body touches clay but the soles of the naked feet."
"My feet aren't naked," Remo stated.