Bamboo and blood

6

It was Saturday, so there were no talks scheduled. That was fine, because I didn't want to go over to the mission and make faces at the diplomats. I wandered by the chestnut trees and watched for a while as they danced in the wind. You couldn't say they were graceful. A couple of big cars drove up to the hotel across the street and parked, but no one got in or out. It was getting too windy to stand around, so I headed across one of the bridges into a shopping district. I started down a covered passageway, and there was the Man with Three Fingers, examining watches in the window of a jewelry store. Somehow, I wasn't surprised he turned up again. I had been pretty sure that just paying for his drink at the Sosan coffee shop wouldn't be enough to keep him out of my hair forever. Maybe I should have bought him lunch.

"A chance encounter, I suppose." I walked up slowly and stopped a step behind him. He looked surprisingly at ease. At first I thought he hadn't heard me, but he wouldn't have missed my reflection on the glass. He moved, barely, to acknowledge my presence.

"I leave nothing to chance anymore. Maybe you shouldn't either." He pointed at a watch. "Do you see that? It costs twenty thousand euros. Why would anyone spend that amount of money on a watch?"

"Maybe they really, really want to be sure they know what time it is."

He pointed at another watch. "That one is ten thousand euros. Do we conclude it only tells time half as well? Perhaps it only tells time during the day, and you need another watch, one with diamonds, for night."

"Are you really supposed to be out all by yourself like this? I thought special police roamed in herds. Where are your pals?"

"You're my pal, O. Remember?" He finally turned to face me. "Or do you still just discard people when it suits you?"

I let that alone. It wasn't worth batting back. "The Swiss service is pretty good. They must have a bead on you already."

"I doubt it. They think I'm Mexican."

"Mexican? You know Spanish?"

"Don't worry yourself over what I know."

"I'm not. It's just that the locals are keeping tabs on me, and by now I would assume they have taken twenty pictures of us standing here talking. Since I don't know Spanish, they'll assume you must know Korean. That will interest them, a Mexican with a mastery of Korean. They aren't exactly kindred languages."

"Really? And what would you call a kindred language to Korean?"

I figured he wasn't really interested, so I kept quiet.

"Still the same, aren't you? Just like on the operation. When you weren't worrying, you were fussing. I guess you must have fussed all the way out of the room, with me on the floor. Of course, I wouldn't know. I was bleeding and unconscious. Practically dead. I guess that must have worried you, huh?"

"Mexicans don't speak Korean."

"We could be speaking English, or Chinese. Like I said, don't start worrying yourself on my account." He looked back at the watches. "No matter how much they cost, they all mark time the same way. The casing doesn't make a bit of difference; it doesn't go any smoother, or faster, or happier. It just goes, isn't that right? And sooner or later"-he touched my shoulder with his ruined hand-"it always runs out."

A black car cruised by, the windows open.

"Well," I said in a loud voice, "adios, amigo."