Ernie leaned toward Mr. Kill and said, “He can’t see at all?”
“Some. Light and shadow. But in his youth, when he could see, he was a very famous calligrapher, so students still seek him out.”
After a few pleasantries, Calligrapher Noh said in Korean, “You want to know about the American.” Mr. Kill said yes and the old scholar began to talk.
It was somewhat less than a year ago that the man appeared at his front gate. He just knocked on the door and said something in English that the scholar didn’t understand. Calligrapher Noh called his niece on the phone because she’d studied English in school and the American told her he wanted to become a student of calligraphy. Tuition was agreed upon, and from that day forward the American showed up every Tuesday night, spent an hour taking instruction, and left an envelope of money after each lesson. Apparently, the old scholar’s niece would come over every morning, count the money, and made sure it was deposited in his bank along with the tuition from his other students.
“Did your niece,” Mr. Kill asked, “or any of your other students ever see this American?”
“Never. He dealt only with me. As a student, he wasn’t bad. He paid attention to technique, ink preparation, paper quality, maintenance of the writing brush, and he was obsessed with the details of stroke order and the proper grip.” The old man frowned.
“But there was something about him,” I said, interrupting. “Something that worried you.”
“Yes. He was obsessive, which can be good, but isn’t good when carried too far. When I criticized the first characters he attempted, he became angry, asked me how I could know they were wrong if I could not see them.”
“How could you know?” Inspector Kill asked gently.
“From the sound of the brush on the paper, whether he was pressing too hard or too lightly, allowing too much ink to sink into the parchment, and by the amount of time he spent turning the brush at a curve or when blotting a stop.”
“If he didn’t trust your instruction,” I asked, “why did he come to you?”
“I asked him the same thing.”
“He could speak Korean?”
“No. Mostly I taught by demonstrating to him, holding his hand, making sure the grip was correct, and listening. He had potential, but after the third or fourth lesson, when I realized that he lacked the patience to become a true artist, I called my niece. She spoke to him and translated my words.”
“What did he do?”
“He said nothing. Just set the phone down, sat still for a long time, and left.”
“He quit?”
“Yes.”
“Did he pay you for the last lesson?”
“Yes. The next day, my niece told me that he’d paid double.”
“So money was no problem for him?”
“No.”
“How did you know he was a soldier?”
“At the entranceway, when he took off his shoes, I heard the heavy clump of combat boots. And on his first visit, he brought me a gift.”
As was customary for Korean students when they first visited a teacher. He slid it across the writing desk. A bottle of imported Hennessey cognac.
Ernie lifted and examined it. “No customs stamp,” he said. “No import duty paid. Straight out of the Class Six.”
“If we encounter this man,” I asked the old scholar, “how will we be able to identify him?”
“Well, I can’t tell you what he looks like, other than I believe he’s tall and thin from the sound of his footsteps and the way he moved carefully through the house, but what most set him apart for me was his silence.”
“Silence?”
“Yes. Whenever I corrected him, by guiding his hand or showing him the correct technique, he would sit very still for a long time. So long I almost wondered if he’d managed to slip away. I heard him sliding his fingers across his face or his head, and then finally, after I’d almost forgotten what we’d been doing, he would reach out and, as if nothing had happened, we’d start over.”
“Silence?” I said.
“Yes, prolonged silence. The silence of a man trying very hard to control himself.”
“Do you have any idea why he struggled so much to maintain control?”
“Yes. It’s subtle, but I noticed an odd difference in the way he handled the inkstone and the brush.”
“What do you mean?”
“When he used his left hand, his motions were fluid. His right hand, the one I guided for his brush strokes, was capable but not as capable as his left.”
“How could you tell?”
“The motions were slower, more hesitant. More studied.”
“So you believe this man was originally left-handed?”
“Yes. Once when he was having trouble with a stop and a slash to the right, I told him to try it with his other hand, his left.” The old calligrapher clasped his narrow fingers, clutching them briefly at the memory. “This was the longest silence of all. I thought he would explode.”
“So you think he was abused as a child because he was left-handed?”
The old calligrapher thought about my question. “Probably for much more than that. I thought of him as a cripple.”
“A physical cripple?”
“No, physically he’s quite capable. I thought of him as an emotional cripple. One of the most emotionally crippled people I’ve ever encountered.”
A light shone in the guard shack of the main gate of the Far East District Compound. The small base had served as the headquarters for the US Army’s Corps of Engineers in Korea since the end of the Korean War. It was nestled amidst high-rise buildings in downtown Seoul, only a few blocks from the massive Dongdaemun shopping district.
We’d said our goodbyes to Inspector Kill and Officer Oh and made our way here alone. Ernie drove up to the gate and a bored guard emerged from the shack. He wasn’t an MP, just a GI with the rank of buck sergeant with a leather armband hanging from his left shoulder that read duty nco. Stitched above the lettering was the red and white cloverleaf patch of the 8th United States Army.
Ernie showed him our dispatch.
“CID? What the hell do you guys want?”
His name tag said campione. He was slightly overweight, his uniform was slovenly, and he could’ve used a shave before he started the night shift.
“What we want,” Ernie said, “is none of your freaking business.”
Campione’s eyes narrowed. “We have a squared-away compound here,” he said, “and if I remember correctly, a complete inventory was just conducted by a couple of you guys.”
He was right; I recalled the purportedly award-winning audit by Agents Burrows and Slabem.
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “So what?”
“So you got no business messing with the Far East Compound again.”
This was too much. Ernie climbed out of the driver’s seat. I stepped out of the passenger’s seat and walked around to the front of the jeep.
“Who in the hell do you think you are?” Ernie said. “The freaking provost marshal of the Far East Compound?” Campione backed up half a step. Ernie leaned in closer. “Open the goddamn gate. It ain’t up to you where we go and where we don’t go.”
“We’re not part of Eighth Army,” Campione protested.
“The hell you’re not!”