They listened to him in silence, motionless, their quiet expressing their respect and their awe. They loved him for the legend that he had become in their country, the Living Reed, and for what he was now, heroic, selfless, a tall powerful man, worn with suffering, his face noble and bold but lined too early with pain, his thick dark hair already gray. Suddenly Liang spoke.
“Uncle, I told Sasha that she was going to the United States with letters. Did I do wrong?”
“You did very wrong,” Yul-chun exclaimed. Then realizing what he had said, he turned to Mariko. “My son is not evil. I am sure he is not evil. He has not lived in his own country and now he seems somewhat lost here. We must win him to our family. Liang, I cannot blame you, but—”
The door to the right opened, and as though he had heard his name Sasha came in. He was dressed in western clothes, a hat in his hand, a coat over his arm. He looked at the three, surprised. Or was it pretense at surprise? Liang could not decide. Yul-chun spoke immediately and too quickly.
“Come in, my son. Liang has told you. We are sending the letters. I have made them very brief but firm, very firm. As for example, to the President I — this is the copy, I kept it for our own records. Now that you know — I am very glad you know — Liang, I change my mind, it is well that you told him. I would like Sasha to become part of us—”
Yul-chun was fumbling among papers in the secret compartment. “Yes, here it is. Yes! To the President as follows—”
And again Yul-chun lifted the paper and read in his loud clear voice. “We in Korea have been deeply disturbed for the past two years. Those few words agreed upon by you, Sir, and the British Prime Minister and the Nationalist Chinese ruler Chiang, haunt us day and night. I repeat them, Sir, lest you have forgotten what we can never forget. ‘The aforesaid Powers, mindful of the enslavement of Korea, are determined that in due course Korea become free and independent.’ These words, Sir, are carved into our hearts and they bleed. ‘In due course.’ Sir, in the space of these three small words Korea is doomed.”
When he heard this, Liang had one of his moments of foreknowledge. He could not explain the prophetic weight, he tried to escape it, he shrugged it off. He rose and walked about the room, but could not escape. Doom! The heavy word resounded in his ears as though he heard near him the single heavy beat of a great bass drum, and the echoes reverberated into the future.
Behind him, afar off, he heard Sasha’s voice. “I am going into the city, Mariko. The carriage is at the door. Come with me.”
Liang turned. Mariko rose, unwilling, and looked from one to the other bewildered. Her asking eyes rested on Liang’s face. He nodded as though she had spoken and she bowed to Yul-chun and followed Sasha from the room.
“But here are the letters,” Yul-chun exclaimed.
“I will take them to her tonight,” Liang said. “It is better that she does not have them with her now—”
… She was in the house directing the packing of her costumes for her tour when he went to her that evening. Japanese kimono, narrow Chinese robes slit boldly up the thigh, French evening gowns, English tweed suits and Russian furs were piled on the mat-covered floors. Three maids worked silently and without rest under her command. She sat in a deep chair, frowning with decisions made quickly and without argument. At the sight of Liang she rose and went to the other room and closed the wall screens.
“But at last,” she exclaimed when they were alone. “Where have you been? I thought I would have to leave without seeing you.”
“I came by horseback,” he said. “The snow is a foot deep. I inquired at the airport to know if the planes were stopped, but they are not.”
“Are you coming to the theatre tonight?”
“Yes, but not to your room. And not to the airport. We shall not meet again until you return.”
She stood motionless as a deer stands, suddenly afraid. “How has Sasha so much money? Those new clothes!”
“I do not know.”
“Are you afraid of Sasha, too?”
“No, I am afraid of no one.”
“Why, oh why did you let him take me away?”
“It is not the time to quarrel with him. And you must not be afraid. You are an artist. No one can destroy you unless you destroy yourself by fears.”
“Let us not speak of Sasha,” she said with resolution. “Have you the letters?”
“Yes.” He took them from his pocket and she thrust them into the bosom of the Japanese kimono.
“Tell Sasha not to come to the theatre!”
“If I see him.”
They stood looking at each other, suddenly speechless, the abyss of being parted already between them.
“When you come back …” he said and stopped.
“When I come back,” she repeated. “Oh when I come back — yes — yes — yes—”
“The war may be over. And we—”
“Yes!”
The word was a yearning sigh. He put out his hands and she clasped them in hers and then loosed them and pressed herself against him. He bent his head and kissed her deeply. They stood for a long moment, until the maid called from behind the wall screen.
“Mistress, shall I put the gold dress into the box for Paris, or is it to be worn in New York?”
She tore herself away, gave him a pleading look, and left him, and he knew he would not see her alone again.
… Whether Sasha went to the airport Liang did not know. He did not see his cousin at the theatre and he returned to the hospital. The next day he performed a difficult and new operation alone for the first time, the American doctor at his side but taking no part. The necessity for concentration helped the hours to pass, and Liang finished his task at noon, his patient still alive and likely to live.
“Good work,” the American exclaimed. “I thought for a moment that the artery might slip from your hand. But you’re a born surgeon. I never saw better hands for it.”
The patient was a young man who had been stabbed, the lung pierced and the heart damaged. Liang knew how it had been done. He recognized the man as a leader of the new terrorists. Now he would live again to kill others!
Liang pulled off his rubber gloves. “Thank you, sir,” he said to the American. “You have taught me all I know.”
“I’d like to send you to Johns Hopkins,” the American said warmly. “Some such great hospital, anyway. Techniques for heart surgery are improving every day. Say, I never saw an artery tied like that, though!”
“A Korean knot,” Liang said, taking off his white coat. “It holds fast, but a touch can release it — if you know the touch!”
“You sure have the touch.”
The American clapped him on the shoulder and Liang smiled and went to his office.
By now Mariko must be nearly halfway to New York. The first letter would soon be safely out of her hands. Those little hands, so supple, so graceful in the dance! On that last night she had made her farewell program of old Korean folk dances, the Sword Dance, the climax of the evening. All knew that it was not by chance that she had chosen to perform the story of the famous boy dancer of the ancient Silla Kingdom who perfected himself in a dance, holding a sword in each hand. His fame spread over the whole peninsula until he was summoned to appear before the King of Paekche, the enemy of Silla. There before the throne he danced so well that the audience cried out, beside themselves with pleasure, and the King rose from his throne. At that moment the dancer leaping forward thrust his sword into the King’s heart He was killed, of course, but by his courage he had inspired his own people in Silla and in his memory they preserved the Sword Dance. Mariko had performed it with classical style, even to wearing the mask of a boy’s face, her dance-swords, the blades connected by wires to the handles, striking in rhythm with her flying feet. When she had finished, the audience rose shouting to its feet. She had snatched off her mask to show her own lovely face, and bowed again and again, her eyes fixed, as Liang knew, upon his face. Then she had run away, the ends of her wide golden sash flying behind her, and he saw her no more.