tell you. My brother doesn’t scare me.”

“Wonderful! And in which pocket did you put your fear, can you tell me that? I hope it is easily retrievable, mixed with your wood chips, because it may be that fear is the only thing that will save us.” Pak was building up a good head of steam. “I’ve heard that your brother tried very hard to block this visit. Just before I left his office, the Minister took a phone call, after which he suggested to me that you needed to do something to fix a family problem. Actually, he roared at me that if you didn’t fix this, he’d skin you alive. Apologize, out of fear if nothing else. If you can still locate it.”

I threw down the pencil. “This country is falling apart, and they’re worrying about whether or not my brother and I are speaking?”

“You really are Korean after all, aren’t you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can’t put your temper in your pocket, because there isn’t a pocket big enough to hold it. No one gives a damn whether you and your brother bash in each other’s heads. Except for one thing. Your brother has influence, baleful though it is.” Pak stopped and took a breath. He was furious, but I knew it wasn’t just at me. It was everything, everything that was wrong, everything that was weighing on him, everything we all saw, or tried not to see, every day.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “nothing you could say about my brother would offend me.”

“Offend! I’m not worried about offending you, Inspector. I’m trying to explain how dangerous a spot you’ve put us in. Us, you know? The two of us here; you and me, followed at a short distance by the Minister. One more thing. Stay away from the school.”

“I thought you wanted me to check in there once in a while to take the pulse. I was going over today, to see that girl. I have a feeling she might know the woman who was killed in Pakistan. I think they were in a Rachmaninoff club together at one point. They never got it approved, but I don’t think that’s a problem. Music is still an acceptable form of entertainment as far as I know, as long it doesn’t involve lewdness. I don’t suppose Rachmaninoff is a problem in that regard.” I thought about where I had been taken by the music that night in the jazz club in Geneva. I didn’t know how to describe it to Pak; I couldn’t describe it to myself. “It’s a compass for a heart,” I said. “How else is anyone supposed to find a way through all of this?”

Pak started to say something, but then he stopped. He sat quietly for a moment. “Listen to me. We’re done with the dead woman, done with Sohn. We’re past it. Let someone else worry about the schools. To tell you the truth, it’s making some people nervous, the idea of you among the students.”

“What?”

“Stay away from the campus.”

“They think I’m going to fool around with one of the students? I don’t need this crap anymore. I’m taking a day off. If the Ministry objects, tell them to climb a tree.” I turned to go, but then I turned back. I shouldn’t have. “You know what? The Swiss asked me if I wanted to stay. Don’t make me wish I had taken them up on the offer.” I saw Pak recoil slightly, but there was nothing I could do about it now. M. Beret was right. Nothing would ever look the same.

Chapter Three

Tree sap smells sweet, even after a hundred years. Not like blood. When a piece of wood burns, it burns clean. Fire is pure because of the wood. Where do you think flames come from, if not from the wood?” This did not sound scientific to me, but I never said so, because when I was small and standing in my grandfather’s workroom, there was no sense asking questions. Best to wait; best to listen closely because he might not alight for more than a moment on the main point. He sometimes spoke carefully, and when he did I knew I was to listen and ask nothing, nor repeat it to others. “Blood has a stench, like death. We are blood; we bleed, all of us. People talk about pure blood. No such thing. Blood stinks; it is filled with what is impure. It carries what is