THE DEATH MASTER CHRONICLES

As the mid-morning sun flooded the sundrenched beach in Spain, a bit north of Barcelona in the small town of Montgat, seaward from 122 La Reina de la Font, a young man stood on the sand with body weight balanced evenly between bare feet. His concentration centered on the practice of strange stances and complex hand movements, muscles rippling fluidly under olive brown skin. First glance might suggest a form of dance, but closer inspection would reveal carefully controlled motion related to one of the many martial arts regimen. His diligence was interrupted by a woman’s voice, clear and powerful, that easily carried over the considerable distance. “Henri, come to the house for lunch.” He cut the activity short and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “Hurry, before the food gets cold,” the musical voice added. “Yes, mother.“ The young man commented again and turned abruptly, quickly breaking into a smooth, long striding run that took him rapidly toward the dwelling. The youth’s body was not tall, not stocky, but lithe and perfectly formed, muscles barely rippling as he took to his task. His dark curly hair, brown skin, and magnificent physique made for an exceptional package, as many had witnessed whenever he ventured into Barcelona. On those occasions, his mother never failed to notice the admiring glances and smiles sent his way by young Spanish ladies. As he entered the large home filled with antiques and a myriad of musical instruments, she met him at the door. “RI’ Madariaga, why can’t you clean the sand off your feet before you come into the house, eh? Would it be too much to ask? Did you practice your lessons on the piano this morning? No? Why is it you insist on going to the beach every day and every day to practice this horrible art form? You know it is my wish for you to pay more attention to your music. Music will do far more good in your life than that, that…..whatever you want to call it. I wish I’d never mentioned it to you, let alone teach you the things your father taught me. I should never have allowed the classes at the academy to begin while you were so young,” the famous and still lovely opera star admonished her only son. The long black tresses were now streaked with traces of silver and her face had succumbed to a few creases and wrinkles, but Sophia Madariaga remained a beautiful woman, even though well past middle age. “Mom,” he paused to wrap his arms around her and plant a kiss on her cheek, “I’d rather be like my father, capable of taking care of myself in the world against any foe, than play a piano. Although both are my heritage, I feel martial arts are my calling. Now, before you become over excited and go into another tirade about Wu-yi, please allow me to explain why I want to do this.” He released her from his embrace and sat at the table in the breakfast nook and began to partake of the sumptuous lunch. Henri meticulously carved a tomato slice, speared a section of it with a fork and held it up for inspection and then popped it into his mouth, smiling at his mother. He wriggled his eyebrows for additional effect. “Yes, and you will be destined to live a life like your father, reclusive and all alone. There is more to living than fighting people, although he had no choice. But you do have a choice. If you continue to play the piano well, as you are very capable of doing, it will provide a nice living even as you grow old. Wouldn’t that be better than an animal-like existence in some wild, unknown place wondering who is coming tomorrow to kill you because you have angered people in high places and have nowhere else to hide? Just like your father, Henri Rasske,” she counseled. Pleased that her son always seemed willing to talk to her about any subject, Sophia nevertheless remained concerned he would go too far and become involved with the same covert activities as his father, including the spy profession. She turned away toward the kitchen, having participated in this conversation on many occasions. “I’d give anything if I’d never told you who your father was and the nature of his work. If I’d known you were going to want to follow in his footsteps, I most certainly would not have.” She gazed through the crystal clear glass of the kitchen window watching the surf explode on the beach, fingering the cross and beads hanging about her lovely neck. The dark eyes misted and tears rolled down each cheek as she thought of someone long ago and far away on the island of Macau. Sophia removed a tissue from the box on the counter and wiped away the tears and then noisily blew her nose. This was behavior not exactly expected from a waning, world famous opera star.