Satori

by Don Winslow

An interesting choice, Nicholai thought. Satori was the Zen Buddhist concept of a sudden awakening, a realization of life as it really is. It came not as a result of meditation or conscious thought, but could arrive in the wisp of a breeze, the crackle of a flame, the falling of a leaf. Nicholai had never known satori.

“I do good work,” the doctor said to Nicholai. “You’re going to have to beat the women off with a stick.” It took Nicholai quite a while to work through the idiom. “There will be some minor paralysis of some small facial muscles, I’m afraid,” the doctor added, “but nothing you can’t live with. It will help you keep that indifferent front of yours.” Nicholai never did call for the shot. Nor did he move.

SOLANGE WAS as lovely as her name. Her hair was the color of spun gold swirling with streams of amber, her eyes as blue as a midday sea. An aquiline nose betrayed the Roman colonization of her native Languedoc, but her full lips could only have been French. A light spray of freckles disrupted an otherwise almost monotonously perfect porcelain complexion, and the soft curve of her high cheekbones prevented what might be an unfortunate severity.

Solange moaned. She groaned in pleasure, called him her man, told him to do it harder, told him it was wonderful, he was wonderful. Said if she only knew, she would have let him before, let him anytime. She bucked and tensed, screamed as she came. “You beautiful creature,” he panted. “I had no idea.” She sighed. “So much pleasure.” He closed his eyes, went back at it, intent on his own pleasure. She reached under the mattress for the knife that Reynaud had given her, brought it up, and slashed his throat.

However, the old Go maxim, “Defeat a straight line with a circle, a circle with a straight line,” held a great deal of truth. Diamond, for all his many shortcomings, was certainly a straightforward type, who at least would not trip himself up by overthinking a situation. Then there was the “circle,” Haverford, nuanced to a flaw. Singleton was reminded of the old saying that “a liberal is a man who will not take his own side in an argument,” and that certainly described Ellis Haverford. But would he have the courage to choose a course of action and take it?

As life under capitalism was aggressively gauche, Nicholai thought, life under communism was deliberately drab.

“First time in China?” “Not really,” Nicholai answered. “I was partially raised in Hong Kong.” “That’s part of Great Britain, isn’t it?” Voroshenin asked. It was rude, a sly dig at his Chinese hosts. “So think the British,” Nicholai answered. “But in reality Hong Kong is no more British than, say, Mongolia is Russian.” Yu guffawed. “No offense,” Nicholai said, looking directly at Voroshenin. “None taken,” Voroshenin replied, although both men knew that offense had been intended and received. He kept his eyes locked on Nicholai’s.

“THE DEAL IS MADE?” Liu asked. “Yes,” answered Yu. “Good,” Liu said. “And is he still pretending to be this Frenchman, Guibert?” “And doing it very well, as a matter of fact.” Liu laughed.

Is it possible? he asked himself as he jogged along the lake’s edge. Of course it is, he thought, hearing the voice of General Kishikawa. Never consider the possibility of success—consider only the impossibility of failure.

WU ZHONG SMASHED his elbow into the wooden post. A bolt of pain shot up from his forearm, through his wrist, and into his hand, still open in the distinctive “rake” posture that gave bajiquan its name, but Wu exhaled it away and looked back at the splintered wood. His elbow had put a hole three inches deep into the post. That was bajiquan—it relied on quick, single, devastating strikes. Its great master Li Wu Shen once said, “I do not know what it feels like to hit a man twice.”

A monumental, as it were, achievement of architecture and organization. But, like a static Go defense, it never fulfilled its function of keeping out an invader. There is no point building a wall when the gatekeepers can be purchased.

Voroshenin went to Rizhsky Prospect. His Chekan subordinates, suitably bribed and cowed, arrested her in the morning and took her to the train. Voroshenin, of course, never turned up. She knew that she had been outsmarted and was lucky he had let her take her belongings into exile. This was the story that the Countess Alexandra Ivanovna told her son. How Yuri Voroshenin had taken her honor and his inheritance.

First would be Voroshenin’s guards, but if he performed the strike properly, they would not know anything was wrong for another crucial minute. But he had to consider the possibility of having to fight his way out. There was no way to know how the guards would be positioned, so that would have to be improvised on the spot. But that was the purpose of kata, to train the body to react instantly to any threat, without the fatal necessity of thought.

If not, then that is your karma, your “joss” as the Chinese would have it, and you will be killed. Are you prepared for that? Yes. Kishikawa’s words came back to him. When one is prepared to die, that is settled. There is then only the action to consider. Think then only of success, because failure will take care of itself.

Voroshenin, trailed by his faithful hounds, came out a few minutes later and got into the car, which quickly pulled out. A nice piece of luck, Nicholai thought, for the move he contemplated was a terrible risk. But Otake-san had taught him that very often not taking a risk was more dangerous than taking one.

The rumbling of a truck engine, the jingling of a bicycle bell, the clatter of a trash can being dragged across the pavement all had a clear, crystalline beauty that Nicholai appreciated for the first time. The trees, then, took on a startling fresh beauty, artful compositions of silver, white, and black, delicately and perfectly balanced, changing tones with the gathering light. The ice on the lake reflected their images back to themselves as a friend reveals to a friend his best qualities. The morning was truly beautiful, the tai chi players truly beautiful, China itself was truly beautiful and Nicholai realized with some sorrow that he would miss it all if he should, as was probable, die tonight.

Nicholai stopped in his tracks. The monk said softly, “Satori.” “What?” “Satori. To see things as they really are.” The monk turned around and limped back toward the Jade Isle. Nicholai hesitated and then followed him. “What am I not seeing?” “The trap,” the monk answered. “And the way out of it.”

A silly thought, he chided himself. You won’t die from pleasure—you’ll die in the trap, unless you find the way out. But, like all traps—in Go or life itself—the way out is never back the way you came. Once in, you can only get out of the trap by going through the trap.

“Your real son died in a car accident,” they told him. “This man is an imposter.” “I don’t know my own son? Why do you bother to ask questions of a man who doesn’t know his own child? How stupid must you be?” Then the old man got aggressive. “This is Hong Kong. There are laws here, not like the shitholes you must come from. I know every cop and every gangster. The tongs call me ‘sir.’ You let me go right now, I’ll forget about this, call it a mistake. You don’t, I’ll be tickling your feet while you’re hanging from meathooks. Now untie me, I have to take a piss.” They untied him and walked him into the toilet.

The best that he could do now was to control his breathing and clarify his thoughts. That this was in all likelihood his last night in the trap of life saddened him only because of Solange. Recalling the Buddhist tenet that all suffering comes from attachment, he acknowledged that he was in love with her, in a very Western, romantic way, and that the thought of leaving her was painful.

“GET THAT PIG out of here,” Kang ordered. “Wait outside.” Position on the board changed, Nicholai thought. Not wanting underlings to hear anything that sensitive, Kang has removed those stones for me. Breathe and store your ki. Breathe and store your ki.

The car arrived at the opera house. “Go another block,” Nicholai said. The driver went up a block and pulled over. Nicholai set the pistol down and then hit the driver with a shuto strike to the base of the brain. As the driver fell dead over the steering wheel, Nicholai got out of the backseat and walked to the Zhengyici.

Even in the dim light, Nicholai could see the surprise in his eyes. That’s right, he thought, I’m supposed to be dead. He edged past the guard standing inside the door and sat down next to Voroshenin. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he whispered. In Russian.

“SIGNAL.” “What?” Haverford asked. He stubbed out his thirteenth cigarette of the night and rolled his chair over to the young agent who sat by the cable. “Go Player is on the move toward Point One.” “I’ll be goddamned,” Haverford said, half in surprise, half in admiration. Nicholai fucking Hel.

One of the crew standing on the edge saw him and started to point and yell as Nicholai, exhausted, swam for the shore, where he just lay on the rough stones, unable to move. “Thought you were a goner,” Tasser said, standing over him. “So did I.” “Glad you made it.” “Thank you.” “Yeah, you have the rest of my dough.”

Nicholai knew that this development had rearranged the stones on the go-kang. His promise to Colonel Yu to deliver the weapons to the Viet Minh now seemed impossible to redeem, and his own death wouldn’t change the outcome. He could almost hear Otake-sama’s gentle counsel. When the immediate situation is untenable, Nikko, what do you play for? Time, Otake-sama. Play for the long game.

It was good to be in a city again and experience some luxury and sophistication that he hadn’t known since Shanghai. The contrast between the near-scalding water and the cold beer was a sharp delight, and Nicholai allowed himself to give in to the realm of the senses for a few minutes. Then he evaluated the Go board. He had advanced his position. I’m safely out of China, he thought, have funds—or will have tomorrow—and am in Saigon with Bay Vien as a patron and protector. Good and good.

And now this young Guibert had turned up and the rumor was that he had sold a shipment of stolen American arms to Bay Vien. “We should find out more about this Guibert. Use the Belgian dwarf, I can’t think of his name…” “De Lhandes,” Mancini said. “Odd little fellow. But he seems to sniff out everything.” “Useful.” “Very useful.”

THE FRENCH SAXOPHONE PLAYER licked her lips, glanced at Nicholai, and then wrapped them around her mouthpiece and blew. Nicholai, seated at a front-row table at La Croix du Sud, couldn’t miss the unsubtle gesture, smiled back, and sipped his brandy and soda, the club specialty.

mon pote.

“Ambition is good in a young man,” Antonucci said, “if he is mature enough to know that with ambition should come respect.” “Youth thinks it invents the world,” Nicholai said. “Maturity respects the world that it finds. I didn’t come to Saigon to change it or to disrespect its traditions, Monsieur Antonucci.”

“What should I be drinking?” “Well, they have Tiger and Kadling beer,” De Lhandes answered, “cold, but they make a mean gin fizz.” “I’ll have one of those, then,” Nicholai said, taking some piastres from his pocket. “May I?” “You’re a gentleman.” Nicholai ordered and paid for two gin fizzes, then, in Chinese, politely declined the invitation of a working girl who tried to perch herself on his lap and offered carnal delights previously unheard of in the mundane world. “You are a man of iron will,” De Lhandes observed. “A veritable fortress of restraint.” “I will admit it is tempting.” “Give in.” “Not tonight.”

heard the crowd collectively gasp as the croupier announced, “Dix.” Ten. Nicholai didn’t move to pick up his chips or change his bet. “Michel, you won,” he heard De Lhandes say. “Don’t be a fool, my new friend. That’s a lot of money.” “Encore,” Nicholai said. “Straight up.” “Mon pote, you are throwing your money away!” “A fortune!” Nicholai glanced over at Bay, who shrugged. The croupier closed the betting. The ball rolled. Bounced… Landed on 12… And bounced onto… Ten. Bay turned away from the table, put his arm around his woman, and walked toward the bar. Nicholai picked up his chips, worth a little more than $100,000. Bay had paid in full for the rocket launchers.

“Welcome to Vietnam, Monsieur Guibert. What brings you to Saigon?” “Thank you, Your Excellency,” Nicholai said. “I’m starting a business—a manufactury.” “Superb,” Bao Dai said. “And what will you manufacture?” “I was thinking of marionettes,” Nicholai said, looking straight at Bao Dai. “You know… puppets.” It was a deliberate insult and everyone who heard it knew it. But Bao Dai merely smiled and asked, “What sort of puppets?” “French, I think,” Nicholai said. “Or do you think American?” “I didn’t think the Americans were known for such things,” Solange said. “Yes, their ventriloquists use them. They call them, let me think”—Nicholai looked directly at Bao Dai—“yes, ‘dummies.’ It’s quite clever, actually. The dummy appears to be talking but, of course, it’s really the ventriloquist. But if you didn’t know better, you’d swear that—”

Nicholai sat back down. He looked at Solange, who looked back at him. “I call your bet,” Nicholai said. Bao Dai turned his down cards and showed his hand. His first card was the queen of hearts. Four of a kind. He looked at Nicholai and his leer said, I told you that you had no place here. My hand, my pot, my woman. Nicholai turned his remaining down card. The seven of clubs.

“You’re an information broker?” Nicholai interrupted. “Yes,” De Lhandes said. “Do you have information you wish brokered?” “I wish to obtain some.” “And a generous discount for you, my friend,” De Lhandes said. “About whom, may I ask, which indeed I may, should, and must, in fact, if I am to be of service to you.”

can’t—” “You can and shall,” De Lhandes said curtly. “Am I not allowed to return a gift in my own way, with what means I have at hand, by the ancient bells of St. Germain? I would have cited Notre Dame, but you’ll understand that I’m a bit sensitive about the Quasimodo association.” “Thank you,” Nicholai said. “You’re welcome.” Nicholai was impressed that De Lhandes never asked why he wanted the contents of the envelope or what he intended to do with them. It has been a long time, he thought, since I’ve had a friend.

The banker took it, opened it, turned ghostly pale, and sputtered, “This is outrageous.” “I agree,” Nicholai said. “I imagine Madame Laval would agree as well.” “How did you get these?” Laval asked, stunned by the photographs of him in bed with a young Cambodian girl. “Does it matter?” “This is hardly the act of a gentleman.” “Again, we are in perfect harmony. Those copies are for you to keep, I have others safely stored away. However, if this is not adequate identification”—he slid a stack of piastre notes across the desk—“perhaps these pictures might suffice.” Laval hesitated. Then he took the stack of bills and stuffed them and the photos inside his jacket pocket. He grudgingly led him to the vault and handed him the key.

“We could go anywhere,” he said. “France perhaps.” “I would like that, yes.” “Maybe to the Basque country,” he said. “Did you know that I speak Basque?” She laughed. “That is very odd, Nicholai.” “I learned it in prison.” “Of course you did,” she said. “Yes, the Basque country is very pretty. We could buy a château, we could live quietly…”

Is that how it happens? he asked himself. Just before your death, are you frozen to the sacrificial altar by sheer awe? Do you realize the magnificence of the world just before you leave it? He met the tiger’s glare. Two predators, he thought, who meet in the night. Then he recalled the old Chinese adage: When tigers fight, one is killed, and the other is mortally wounded. Good to keep in mind.

“I need to ask a favor,” Nicholai said. Bay shrugged and ate his soup. Finally setting his chopsticks down, he picked up the bowl and slurped down the broth. Then he said, “You break into my home, beat up my staff, scare my evening’s companion half to death, point a gun at me and threaten to use it, and then you ask for my help? This after you take my most important partner’s money, screw his woman, and then commit mayhem and murder in the streets of Saigon? And that after you apparently killed some Russian and have half the world baying for your blood? You have balls of steel, Michel. I should just throw you to Beauty and let her break her teeth on you.” “But you won’t,” Nicholai said.

Les amerloques, Antonucci contemplated as he inhaled the rich smoke, such amateurs at intrigue, so ham-handed, so obvious. It takes centuries to produce a conspiratorial culture, generations of familial connection. America, with its youthful naiveté and mongrel bloodlines, is a blunt tool that no steel can sharpen. America in Asia? A deaf man at the symphony.

“I am a Westerner raised in the East, and in the West you are…” He knew he had to choose his words carefully, but then De Lhandes finished the thought for him. “A small, ugly man in a world of large, beautiful people.” “We are both forever on the outside looking in,” Nicholai said. “So we can either stand on the periphery of their world, always looking in, or we can create our own.” “Create our own world?” De Lhandes scoffed.

NICHOLAI HEARD her footsteps on the hatchway steps. “Solange?” “Nicholai.” Her perfume was intoxicating. Nicholai rolled out of the bed and came to her. “Thank God,” she said. “I was so afraid…” Solange pressed herself tight against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, trapped the knife against her back, and whispered, “Per tu amicu.” She stiffened, ever so slightly, and he knew. And felt his heart break.