Remo The Adventure Begins

by Warren Murphy

  He let Remo climb the obstacle course in the room, chairs on their sides, brooms to be balanced on, the unsure footing where a man had to sustain the balance he achieved by proper breathing.

  It was this harmony that made Sinanju. Some men, even sons of some Masters of Sinanju, never achieved a glimmer of it. There was no shame of course to the family, just a funeral. When one lost his balance on the heights one lost his life.

  There was a saying in Sinanju that one should never love a child training to be a Master until manhood, when it was assured he would live a long time.

  “Off the broom to the chair,” Chiun said. He watched the bristles touching the floor as Remo jackknifed his body off it onto a chair, without pressing the bristles too hard. His movement had that wonderful look of effortlessness, the look of purity. Was it in this man? That glimmer he had seen of that far-off star in this white’s eye . . . was he seeing it in the performance of the body?

  There were many stages in a person’s life, and the difference between a Master of Sinanju and the normal person was that the untrained never knew when one stage began and another ended. The crossroads of their lives were only apparent in memory. The great power of the Masters of Sinanju was they could perceive these stages as they happened.

  This white man with this white name was at the threshold of a new life. Should training proceed, and if he were properly trained—which of course could not be a question with Chiun—this white man without mother and father would become Sinanju. Not for years would this happen, of course. This was not some silly little instant teaching from the west where they called people trained at thirty. At thirty a man began to grope with his skills. At forty he began to suspect what he did not know, and only in the latter fifties did real skill begin to show.

  Chiun had gotten this one late. Who knew how long it would take? Right now, he still had that problem with heights. He could be killed. And then where would Chiun’s training be? Remo would be dead, and Chiun would have wasted the best of Sinanju.

  And then of course there were the problems with the crazies. The entire nation, most of all Smith, was mad. True, Smith had delivered the gold properly, so there was some intelligence there. But the claim that his fondest hopes were that his nation would live safely under a form of government stolen from the Greeks, and that he had no personal ambitions himself, was not something the mature mind could take seriously.

  So what were Smith’s plans? Why did he want one of his own to be a personal assassin? Smith might be just like the cunning pharaoh of the fourth dynasty in Egypt, who had attempted to swindle Master Toksa and Sinanju. That too had been a training mission, so very rare in all history. The underhanded plan was for the pharaoh’s nephew to become Sinanju, destroy the priests of Karnak vying to control the Nile, and then eliminate the Master of Sinanju, saving the treasury the rightful tribute to Sinanju.

  That plan was easily foiled by showing the young man how to eliminate his uncle, but when the youngster assumed his divine office of pharaoh, he too refused payment, saying he had not been fully made Sinanju.

  Master Toksa explained to the pharaoh that no one outside Sinanju could ever be Sinanju but that the pharaoh would always have the services of Sinanju.

  “I was promised to be trained. You did not train me.”

  “I trained, lord of the Upper and Lower Nile, master of Thebes, son of Ra, blessings upon this sacred presence. You received training. You were never promised to be Sinanju. But you were given the throne. That is the best an assassin of Sinanju can give.”

  Master Toksa did not mention, of course, that there were many kings in the world—every spit and jottle of a country had one—but there was only one Master of Sinanju. The secret to dealing with emperors was to let them continue to believe how important they were. And in their own limited lands all of them were.

  But this pharaoh, twelve years of age, lacked judgment.

  “Here I am lord. And I decree what is fair payment. When you make me as good as you are, then I will pay you.”

  “O great pharaoh, lord of the Upper and Lower Nile, master of Thebes, son of Ra, blessings upon your sacred presence, we of Sinanju are a poor village. We live by the services of the Masters of Sinanju. If the pharaoh decrees a change of payment, such is your fame that lesser lords will attempt to do the same and then kings and satraps and chieftains will withhold payment also. And we cannot afford that.”

  “Is this a threat I hear, yellow-skinned of the slanted eyes?”

  Many in the court of the pharaoh laughed. It sounded strange, Master Toksa would record, because their heads were pressed to the polished floor.

  “Sinanju does not threaten, O lord of the Upper and Lower Nile, son of Ra, whose sacred presence blesses us all.”

  “Some misjudge me because I am twelve in age,” said the pharaoh. “I know your powers. But they are useless. The only purpose to kill a pharaoh is to replace him with another. But you do not have another. And of course no yellow-skinned can be a real ruler. One must have the skin colored of the mud of the Nile.”

  The pharaoh chuckled. The court laughed.

  “Admit it, you of the funny eyes. I have outwitted you.”

  Master Toksa rose from his formal bow.

  “You will not see thirteen,” said the Master.

  “I thought you never threatened.”

  “I don’t,” said Master Toksa and he walked directly to the throne, snapping the chest bones of the two foolish guards with fast enough reflexes to slow him down, and cracked the young skull of the pharaoh.

  Then the Master of Sinanju laughed, and then the court was silent. There was no pharaoh in the land of the Upper and Lower Nile.

  But that was not the business of Master Toksa.

  Of course, no one could allow it to be known that a pharaoh had been dispatched with the ease one might use to crush a grape. In Egypt there was little trouble in hiding it, however, since the people always knew the priests and the pharaohs were struggling for power. Pharaohs as well as priests died suddenly without the populace being any the wiser.

  And of course, another pharaoh was found equally divine, for the truth was, there is always another emperor, but only one Master of Sinanju.

  Only when the pharaoh’s mummy was discovered by Englishmen, in the western century numbered nineteen, did they find out that Tutankhamen had been killed by a blow to the head.

  These things were well remembered in the dirty air of the great city of the barbarian called New York. And as Chiun remembered this, and thought about Smith, and thought about Smith’s strange orders, Remo went through the proper lessons before Chiun’s exacting eyes.

  Remo was moving in harmony from the chair to a stacked box, to a tilted table and then back to the broom. He had learned far more than Chiun ever expected. To continue was to move him along the road to something Master Toksa could never give Tutankhamen, Sinanju itself.

  Remo alighted from the broom.

  “It felt right,” said Remo.

  “Hmmm,” said Chiun.

  “What are you thinking? You seem to be thinking something. I didn’t sense that you were with me.”

  “I think you listen too much to compliments from fools.”

  “You mean McCleary, the other day. It impressed him.”

  Chiun placed a delicate fingernail under the wisp of white beard.

  “Tell me, Remo, as we eat, about yourself.”

  “I am going to eat?”

  “The fat is gone,” said Chiun.

  Remo felt around his body. The skin was taut. “You’re right.”

  “You have moved into another stage.”

  “I didn’t notice it until now.”

  “That is because I show you and the stage is passed.”

  Remo didn’t understand what Chiun meant by that. He was too busy thinking about food. Even the rice Chiun had promised would be good.

  “I will be back with the food before you can say ‘Jack Robinson,’ ” said Remo.

 
Chiun was puzzled about this. Why would he want to say “Jack Robinson”? It wouldn’t help him find out if Remo had any plans to become some sort of emperor nor would it help Chiun explain that what Remo could have was far beyond what any common king might aspire to. Remo might become a true assassin.

  Remo did not find the kind of rice Chiun wanted in the grocery and he was referred to a health-food store on the Lower East Side. As night settled, New Yorkers disappeared from the streets, leaving them to the muggers, and occasional policemen trying to stay alive.

  Perhaps it was the training. Perhaps Remo’s desire to eat took away his awareness, but three tall black men, their hair hanging in dreadlocks, got close to Remo before he noticed they were there.

  They had been following him for blocks and now they had the jump, all three pushing him into an alley. They smelled as though they never took baths, just reapplied mud to their heads every day. But Remo was not bothered by the odor.

  One of them had a knife to Remo’s throat.

  “Okay, man,” another said in the sweet singsong of the islands. “Reach for your wallet nice and slow.”

  The man with the knife was even friendlier.

  “I don’t want to cut you, white boy,” he said.

  Remo felt his shirt being ripped open. A hand played around his neck. They were looking for a chain.

  Don’t panic. If you panic you can’t do anything, Remo told himself. But he was too light to fight his old way. He was too skinny to butt and bang and hit. And then he knew he was panicked. One of them yanked at his wrist. They got his new wristwatch, the one he had bought despite Chiun’s admonition against relying on time.

  “Shit, it’s a cheapy,” said one of them.

  A garbage-can lid came banging against the wall right next to Remo’s head.

  “You come here to score some smack, pretty boy?”

  Remo didn’t answer. The third assailant had a chain that swished viciously in the air.

  “Come on, man. Give us the cash.”

  Remo pulled one hand free and reached into his pocket, giving them the first thing he felt. It was a dollar. It was rice money, his meal money.

  One of the blacks looked at the dollar in the dim light.

  “Hey, man. That not funny. What you gonna buy wif a dollar?”

  “Rice.”

  “Hey, his old lady send him out for rice,” said one.

  “And he get lost,” said another.

  Remo did not know what happened at that moment. Perhaps his mind, seized in fear, had wandered. Perhaps he thought about Chiun. Perhaps he had noticed a star in the sky, but suddenly he was breathing, and more important, the breathing was happening. He was, at that moment, everything he was supposed to be.

  The three muggers did not notice that muscles no longer strained against their grip.

  “Actually, an old man sent me out for rice. Busts my ass all day working my fingers to the bone.”

  Remo penetrated the trashcan cover with a finger. Then he put three more holes in it, very loud. Like rifle shots. He felt the hands release him.

  “I climb walls a lot. Jump off buildings. You know that kind of stuff.”

  Remo grabbed the chain from the black man and spun it around. Then he held it in front of the three. Then he snapped it in two.

  One of the men suddenly felt his bladder give and urine ran down his pants leg.

  “You know how I did that? Breathing. That’s the most important thing. Lots of people don’t realize that,” said Remo.

  The man with the garbage-can lid suddenly realized he had a very important meeting at that very moment at the other end of Manhattan in Harlem. Since cabs were so negligent about picking up blacks at this hour, he decided to get there by running. And he left the garbage-can cover with the three holes in it because it would have slowed him down.

  Also wanting to make this late-night rendezvous in Harlem was the man whose bladder had decided that this was not the right time to hold in bodily liquid wastes. He took off admonishing, “"Feets, do yo thing.”

  The accent of the islands was gone.

  Only the man with the knife was left, and he had a very strong impulse to see that no one was hurt. Suddenly he felt a compulsion to explain to the white man, to establish a great bond of communication with him.

  “I close it now, man. Slow. See . . . now I put it away.”

  He slipped the knife into his pocket and smiled, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace and friendship. Then he backed out of the alley, laughing with the good-natured white man, knowing that this evening brotherhood had triumphed over a simple mugging. They were all friends after all. And when he reached the street, he gave a last warm smile, then ran for his life.

  “See ya,” said Remo.

  It had all worked. And it had worked under pressure. Remo bought his rice, and couldn’t wait to tell Chiun.

  “You know that thing where you taught me to put holes in a fingerboard? I did it under pressure.”

  But Chiun did not seem impressed. He did not even seem to care. He took the rice to a small wood stove he had insisted be built in the corner two days before.

  There he boiled water.

  “Remo, you know this man Smith?”

  “I met him once,” said Remo, watching every grain in the bag.

  “What are his plans to be emperor? How do you fit in them? Does he want you to rule after him?”

  “What?” asked Remo.

  “Does he want you to rule?”

  “Rule what?”

  “The country.”

  “No. What are you talking about?”

  “Smith appears like a fool, but he is devious.”

  “I think he is a bastard. I met him once, which means I have no great desire to meet him again, but no, I don’t think he’s devious. I just don’t think he has any feelings. Coldest bastard I ever met.”

  “Yes, but why does he talk about things secret unless he plans devious things.”

  “Well you see, we are a democracy. And we live under laws. But under the laws the country isn’t working . . .”

  “I give you Sinanju and you return this wondrous gift with lies.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Worse,” said Chiun. “You believe them.”

  The rice was not ready soon enough, and further delayed because Remo had to be taught to eat. The teeth were for grinding, not for talking. The rice should be ground soft in the mouth, not liquidy, and never be swallowed in chunks.

  “You know, it’s no fun anymore. I am just eating to stay alive,” said Remo.

  “You learn well for a white,” said Chiun.

  “I guess this . . . this . . . gruel keeps you alive a long time. How old are you, really? I mean, you are old, Chiun.”

  Chiun ate his rice properly. Later, when the student learned more, he would be allowed duck. Honey when his inner tone resonated with his body. But now rice was right.

  “For an apricot, yes,” said Chiun. “I am old. For a head of lettuce, I am even older. But for a mountain, I am not even begun in years. For a man, however, I am just right.”

  “Yeah, well, now I know,” said Remo. “Ever been married?”

  “Yes. She bore me a son.”

  “Yeah? Where is he?”

  “He is no more,” said Chiun. Some survived the training of Sinanju and some did not. Chiun did not mention that he had lost the boy because he had failed to conquer heights one day on a Korean cliff. Nor did the Master reveal how he loved the boy despite the old admonitions against doing so until fully trained.

  “It is better to follow the admonitions,” said Chiun, “than to learn them on your own. There is less pain.”

  At that moment, though he did not know why, Remo felt sorry for the old man who had never shown him any form of concern.

  “What about sex?” said Remo.

  “When you are ready to make a child, then you will do it.”

  “I’m ready now. I have been ready every day, and I’m getting read
ier every day that passes by. I am more than ready. I am ready to explode.”

  “Then we will teach you soon how to do it. There are many steps leading to the end of your explosion—thirty-six to be exact—and twenty to bring the woman to perfect sexual bliss. Actually, seven usually gives them bliss. Women like bliss.”

  “Go ahead. I’m listening,” said Remo.

  “The left wrist locates the woman’s pulse with the middle finger and, tapping in time with the pulse . . .” Chiun paused, pondering the rice in his mouth.

  “Yeah. Then what?” asked Remo.

  “Then we cook the rice longer,” said Chiun.

  “The sex. What about the sex?”

  “Later,” said Chiun.

  “You know, Chiun, sometimes I could kill you.”

  “Good. We will practice that after supper. And heights, too. You must learn heights. You will learn heights. Heights.”

  “My mind is on something lower than a belly button, to tell you the truth.”

  “Then don’t tell me the truth,” said Chiun. He had made his decision. They would go on as long as they could. Unless of course devious Smith tried something new. He did not tell Remo all the plans Smith had for him. That would be too sad. And besides, who knew if Remo would survive the heights?

  In the morning, they went to a seaside part of this gigantic city of the west. Remo needed more training outside the room. It was a place unlike great Roman arenas because people were not killed on purpose here. It was not a park, although it was called that, because there were no trees, or plants like the English or French had in their parks. They called it an amusement park and an island. Coney Island. And like everything else in this land, it was filthy.

  Remo and Chiun would take the Ferris wheel. It was the largest Ferris wheel in the world, they said, with the top being more than ten stories above ground.

  “This will help you with heights,” said Chiun.

  “How will riding in a Ferris wheel help me with heights?”

  “Who said you were going to ride in it?” said Chiun. “I am going to ride in it.”

  And Chiun did, as Remo held on to the outside, learning to move between pillars that threatened to crush him as Chiun repeated, “Breathe, very good, that’s right, movement breath. Using the air, not wasting it, good. Using the air, using the air.”