by David Dagley
Cale checked the rest of the black urns, knowing that they would all be the same. Feeling like he had answered a few riddles of the red and brown bocce ball bowlers, Cale turned his attention to the main hall and the one missing ball. He looked at his layout map and followed the path the ball would have taken. He was being led back to the green marble hallway. Cale stopped in his tracks, looking at the ten-foot-tall statue of the fisherman throwing his net out over part of the room. At the fisherman's feet was a loosely piled net with light blue and green glass balls gathered in a traditional fashion. Cale walked over and crouched down next to the glass floats. They were attached to the edges of the net, all but one.
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13
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A servant opened a pair of teak hardwood double doors to allow Mr. Won into his father’s study. Mr. Won walked down a corridor of sculptured and carved showcases built into the walls, filled with artifacts laid out on black silk cloth behind immaculate glass. Crossing over Persian, Asian, and Native American rugs, he glanced at a rack of swords in a locked showcase to one side of a book and map collection. Dry black plant art rose out of cream-colored vases, breaking the hall into segments. The jagged stalks split into turns and forks, accentuating the cracks in the vase enamel. Applied light cast a silhouette on the walls, doubling the effect.
Mr. Won bowed at the entrance to his white-haired father’s study before continuing on to his desk. Maps and yellowed journals were pinned under his father’s elbows. An old wooden cart with two wooden wheels was parked to the side of his desk, holding another set of old journals, maps, and books. Mr. Won handed an English newspaper to his father.
His father took the newspaper and began reading about the murder in the museum.
Impatiently, Mr. Won spoke out before his father finished reading, “Father, I want to go and see if it’s my brother. He had an appointment with Rayman Stell in that very building!”
His father finished reading and closed the newspaper, “I know. I made the arrangements for their meeting.” As Father leaned back in his chair, he took off his glasses and set them on his desk. He intertwined his fingers together across his lap and stared at his son’s rage before asking, “Are you aware that Rayman’s father, Robert Stell, died recently?”
“No, but I knew it was coming.”
“Your brother was sent to the Cho Museum to tell Rayman where his father was, not to tell him he was dead. Rayman was to find his father’s body and bury him, or whatever he wanted to do with him.”
“But the stones prove that Rayman was there!” Mr. Won leaned forward and slammed his fist on his father’s desk.
In a calm voice, Father Won explained, “Your older brother and Rayman had met on several occasions. There has never been a problem between them.”
“Father, I want to go to San Francisco, and claim my brother’s body, and make arrangements to bring him home. Then I want to go find Rayman and kill him!”
“You can go to San Francisco and claim your brother’s body. That, I approve. But to kill Rayman Stell at this time is a bad idea. He knows very little. You can go see for yourself. He has been at home in Idaho since his meeting with your brother, except one trip to the vault to see the remains of his father. Rayman would have run if he were involved. He may actually be waiting to be contacted.”
“By who, us?”
“Perhaps. Possibly someone else.”
“Who? Who else is out there? If he watches the news or reads a newspaper, he would be running under any circumstances.”
“But he’s not running, and he doesn’t watch television, nor does he read the newspaper much.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we have watched Rayman at great length. Another point of interest to you, my son, it says here in the paper that there were red stones found stuffed in the victim’s mouth and tossed about the floor in his blood.”
“So.”
“Rayman Stell is a collector of these rubies; they are Moguk stones. He would never leave the stones. Only a person blinded by revenge or a particular greed would overlook such a treasure of stones and use them ignorantly in a malicious fashion.”
Mr. Won was growing impatient, “Such as?”
“Your brother’s key or the map of his vault. The map is within his belt, and hopefully his key is under his skin on the inside of his right arm. There will be a scar.”
“And what about the knife?”
“I was under the impression that the knife was buried twenty-six years ago with your older sister in America.” Father Won nodded convincingly and concluded, “Her ex-husband, John Stell, Rayman’s uncle, is a more logical choice for this situation, except that no one has seen him in twelve years.” Father Won sat for a moment, looking at the folded newspaper, and then tried to organize his thoughts into a family history lesson, “When you were about fifteen, we lost my brother, your uncle, and his family to a gunman in London. They washed our family blood off the cobblestones and into the gutter. He had three vault keys, which were never recovered. Of course we couldn’t report the missing keys because other people want to know such information, and their appetites get wet when they hear gold and rubies in the same sentence.” Father Won sat silently for a moment, lamenting his brother’s family, and then he turned his attention to the knife and said, “And I have lost now two children to that same knife, your brother and your sister. This same Un Jang Do has killed some of our ancestors, as well. Did you know that?”
Mr. Won blurted a hiss in disbelief, “No Father, I didn’t know that. But as you recall, for Ji Tun’s wedding present, you excommunicated her for marrying a non–Korean, and you and Mother gave her the family Un Jang Do, which has symbolically been a way for many Korean women throughout history to protect themselves or to end the suffering for all by killing themselves—which she did. What kind of message did you think you were sending when you gave it to her?”
Father Won continued with his story unwavering, “My point is that my brother lost three keys, and your sister’s key has never resurfaced, and now your brother’s key is in jeopardy. The only leak in our family could have been through your sister. So the Cho and the Won families decided to go and investigate the Stell brothers, Robert and John.”
“You can’t even say her name; can you?” Mr. Won stared at his father and continued boldly leading his father, “Ji Tun. Won Ji Tun was my sister and your daughter. And for the Stells, yes, I was fifteen when Ji Tun committed suicide. I was twenty-three when your brother was murdered. I remember all that. I remember about year later when you asked me to help abduct Rayman’s father and put him in the cage on the beach to punish him for betraying our family.”
“No!” Father Won quietly laughed at his son’s misunderstanding and explained, “Robert Stell did not betray our family. Nor did we want to punish him. He was given a key by his brother, John. We took back the key he had around his neck; it was one of my brother’s keys. We bargained with his life for the return of the other two keys. We didn’t think Rayman had been given a key at that time, but now we know differently. Did you know that as a young innocent boy, we think Rayman witnessed the slaughter of my brother’s family in London? He would have been about eight or nine. We have long suspected Rayman’s uncle, John, your sister’s ex-husband, kept a key, which means there are at least three keys in the Stells’ possession that belong to us, your sister’s and the other two he took from my brother.”
“Father, I don’t mean to get into this with you, but Grandma Cho gave Ji Tun her key, which was never given to our family by the Cho or part of our collection. It’s a Cho key, and you have no right to pursue it, except to return it to them.”
“You’re right. Now quit interrupting me! I had lunch with the Dutchman, Mr. Bower, the other day, and we talked about the keys for the first time in many years. Mr. Bower explained that he lost a son and a key eight years ago, and neither of them has been found. We don’t know how many keys John Stell has collected exactly, but he has yet
to open a second vault. We know he has opened one, but no more. Our family has learned in the last century that two keys together open a different vault, as do three, and four, and so on. The problem I am having is deciphering the location of the two-key vaults. Your brother’s key is now yours, if it is still with him. If not, then—we are all in danger.”
Mr. Won nodded and asked, “And the map?”
“Bring me the map, and I will explain it to you. It will make little sense to anyone who looks upon its scriptures. I have spent most of my life doing research on some of the scriptures, and I am no closer to some of their meanings. The Huns didn’t invest much stock in writing. With later scriptures, like the Merkit, I have been more successful.”
“And the knife?”
“If it is your mother’s Cho family knife, then I think someone is trying to get our attention.”
“Why don’t we go get Rayman, and take him to his father’s cage, and lock him up? That would bring someone out of the shadows, whoever it is, if there is someone else.”
“Because it didn’t work with his father. And believe me when I tell you this; there are others out there. They, like us, started out taking an active role in the first exchange of a key from Cho to Won, or they were witnesses. Through generations information has been passed down in secret. For sure, there are others, sired by the Huns themselves. And what they want is us out of the shadows to reclaim what is rightfully theirs. We may be at a disadvantage for the time being. Let me gather facts and not act on emotions. You may now be my oldest son, and I will tell you everything I told your brother when you return with his body. You go to Idaho first. See for yourself; see what Rayman is doing then go to California. And if you can get the knife, bring it home.”
Father Won got up, went to a window behind his desk, and looked out into a small, fenced-in backyard. His wife was in the garden on her knees diligently tending to a vegetable garden, pruning cabbage heads and collecting leaves for a batch of kimchi. He loved his wife and knew that she was devoted to him and their family. He remembered his joyous wedding day, then his mind turned dark and to his daughter’s wedding day. He sighed before he spoke, “Son, I have never supported interracial marriages. If we are to keep our bloodline pure, we must marry within our own people and culture, among our own kind. I married back into the Cho family after many generations have passed, and that means you are of pure Korean blood. Do you understand the importance?”
Mr. Won grew agitated with his father, “Why must we have this conversation every time Ji Tun is mentioned. She’s your daughter.”
“Because it is important to keep with tradition. It is a source of inner power, which your young generation knows nothing about. Just because other cultures do it, doesn’t mean it’s right for us. You lost your sister because of it!”
“Father, as I’ve argued to exhaustion, if you fall in love, you fall in love with the person, not a race of people.” Mr. Won moved and pointed to a picture on the wall, “Look at these pictures of our ancestors here on these walls. This picture implies that one of our forefathers was stabbed by his wife, a Cho Princess, no less.” He pointed to another picture, “And this picture shows their sons, three brothers fighting amongst themselves with only one survivor. Is this the love of which you speak? Historically, marriage has been a way of binding two families or countries into a truce after years of fighting over power, or scraps and shards of gold, land, and sea. The English and the French, for example, and even in our own bloodline, we did the same for power. Without a marriage between a Won warrior and a Cho princess, we would not have gained the knowledge of the keys or, more importantly, the Hun vaults.” Mr. Won walked to a picture of two warriors in battle, “Our ancestor slays a Cho warrior, and we married into the Cho family for the knowledge of the vaults. At that time we were not royal, not until the Cho princess bore three sons and three daughters with a Won. There is blood on our hands all the way back to the beginning. And the wounds have not stopped bleeding ever since. No Father, marrying a Korean woman will not stop the bloodshed!”
“Are you saying you could not fall in love or marry a Korean woman?”
“I’m not saying either. You are casting out the memories of your daughter for doing what she felt was right. Well, I am not going to cast out the memories of my sister for falling in love with a foreigner, someone who came here with the intent of protecting our country. They were warriors, too. Although I will protect our family and our holdings with my life, I cannot blame my sister for bringing this upon us.”
“They were warriors here to protect our country and, in doing so, almost destroyed our family in the process. No, your sister died out of shame for sleeping with the enemy of our family. You were too young and could not see, but I tell you now these problems we are having today are a direct result of your sister’s trust and the Stell deception. Due to John Stell, I believe I have lost a brother, a daughter, and possibly a son. You in turn have lost an uncle you never met, a sister, and possibly a brother. Besides that, our family has suffered a great loss of wealth and power, cultural and financial. We are going to remedy this situation while we are still strong enough to do so. That’s enough on the subject for now. You think about what I have told you while you are traveling in America. I need to make some phone calls and talk with some people. We will talk once more before you leave for America.”
Mr. Won sighed, looked towards the window, and asked, “And the agima?”
The agima glanced up at the window, somewhat surprised to see her husband standing there watching her. She smiled.
Father waved down to her. “I will tell her once you are sure it is your brother. She will suspect something as soon as we tighten security, which is now,” replied Father.
Mr. Won stepped back, bowed his head, and turned to leave his father to grieve and organize his thoughts.
Father moved away from the window towards his desk and sat down. He put his glasses on his nose and went back to looking at his charts and books.
Part II
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14
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Cale carried a small backpack through Bangkok customs and headed for a taxi queue. Half an hour later, his taxi half-circled the Democracy Monument and skirted around Ko San Road. Cale remembered the view of the monastery across the street from the corner police station. The driver pulled into an alley and drove a few blocks back into the neighborhood. The taxi entered a driveway of a guesthouse, and Cale smiled to himself as he got out and paid the driver.
A mangy grey dog walked out into the street through the headlights. Inflamed scabs broke through the dogs back. Most of the hair on the dog had either been scratched off or fallen out. Cale grabbed his bag and went inside. He softly tapped on the reception bell.
An old Thai woman hobbled out of the darkness, looking at Cale, and asked, “You want room?”
“Yes, please. Cop Khun cop.”
The Thai woman suddenly snapped awake and responded, “Sawadee ca, Mr. Cale. I’m sorry, I didn’t remember. Many people. Many faces. Sleeping. Welcome back to Thailand. We have nice room on second floor; lock, TV, big shower, and air-conditioning. Two-hundred-fifty baht per night, or special week rate whether you stay or just leave bags. Same like before.”
“Two-hundred-fifty baht. That’s a good price,” Cale responded handing her a five-hundred-baht note.
“Same, same, always the same.” Her smile was toothless and genuine. She put the money in her pocket and offered, “We do paperwork tomorrow, okay? When you get up. Now—very late.”
“That’s fine with me. Could I trouble you for a couple of cold beers?”
She handed him a key, pointed to the staircase, and answered, “Sure, no problem. I bring them to your room. Two? Big or small? Chang, Singha, or Carlsberg?”
“Two big Singha, cop.” Cale walked towards the stairs.
Once in his room, Cale tossed his bag on the bed and went for the air controls. It started up immediately, blowing a cool breeze into the room. H
e unbuttoned his shirt and stood in front of the source until the lady knocked on the door.
“Mr. Cale?”
“Yes, coming.” Cale opened the door and took the two beers from the lady. “Thank you. Good night.”
The lady bowed her head slightly and shuffled down the hall. Her rubber sandals softly clapped against the soles of her feet.
Cale closed the door and locked it. He put a beer in a small refrigerator and cracked the other one open. He walked to the window and looked out westward. From behind a mosquito screen, the light from Cale’s room revealed the top floor corner of a light pink building, with an elaborate Thai white trim balancing on gray concrete stilts, facing a dark, deserted backstreet with one dim light at an intersection. Cale opened the window. Bangkok seemed oddly quiet but with the familiar smell of the days’ diesel and the humid feeling of sticky tropical rot. He turned off the air-conditioning and fell asleep under the two-tone hum of an out-of-balance ceiling fan. In the night, the backstreets were being patrolled by the near-feral dogs.
Cale awoke to the sound of traffic, rice rocket motorcycles, and trucks jockeying for position in the growing congestion of the morning. A brown and black myna bird with an orange beak sang from the rooftop of the light pink building. The fan above was wobbling through the already thick air. He dressed casually and headed for the taxi pier on the river.
The sun was bright overhead as Cale moved onto the floating platform. The river was brown and swift, punctuated with plastic bottles, rudder-blended plant parts, coconut husks, partially filled plastic bags of various colors, and discarded shells of citrus fruits, all bobbing in boat wakes, forming a procession heading downriver. Across the river, cracks engulfed an abandoned and condemned building overlooking the river. The boat taxi approached, and the stern boatman blew a whistle to the driver. A long white- and red-covered boat cruised up to the dock. The boatman blew his whistle twice. The driver put it in reverse to slow down and walk the boat to the dock. The boatman dropped a line over a cleat and blew his whistle. The driver idled his engine while passengers hopped off and boarded, paying a few baht for the ride. The boatman pulled his line from the cleat and blew his whistle, and the driver took off downriver. Forty-five minutes later, Cale arrived at the Oriental hotel pier. A sky train pulled out of the station above the city. Cale walked off into the maze of streets below. He took a left at the first main street and peered into the windows of a group of stationery shops shaded by awnings. Two Indian men were inviting passersby to stop and look at the clothes they made, coaxing people into their dress shops.
