The Last Sword Maker

by Brian Nelson

  At the end of it, Sonam sat in a stupor. His cheeks hurt, but it wasn’t from all that chewing; it was from the grin that wouldn’t leave his face.

  “I take it you liked the food?” the professor asked.

  Sonam’s grin only widened.

  After that, he never missed a meal.

  Subsequent dinings were punctuated by exclamations of amazement—not from Sonam, but from the professor.

  The next night: “You ate almost twice as much as yesterday!” The professor cried. He came around the table and rapped on Sonam’s leg. “I knew it! It’s hollow!”

  The next night: “You just ate two whole ducks”—he glanced at his watch—“in ten minutes!” The professor scratched his head in sincere astonishment.

  Sonam found the professor’s theatrics very funny. “That was duck?” he said, laughing. “I barely had time to notice. Delicious!”

  The professor gave him a warm smile. “It’s good to hear you laugh,” he said holding his gaze. “It looks like I’m going back to the store—again. Aren’t you Tibetans supposed to be vegetarians?”

  “Some in the cities are,” Sonam said. “But in the country, we eat what we can. My father butchers a sheep every couple of months.”

  Over the coming weeks, eating became Sonam’s job. He would spend all day in the professor’s library or the sunroom, listening to the clang of pans, the hiss of steam, and the quick thumpthumpthump of an adroit hand cutting vegetables, while the smells of garlic, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves whirled around the house. The professor’s specialty was sauces—hoisin sauce, XO sauce, and plum sauce. Over the years, the aromas from his sauces had infused everything in the house: the wood paneling, the books, even his clothes.

  * * *

  Two weeks after Sonam’s arrival, over breakfast, the professor said to him, “I want you to come to campus with me today and attend my class. Our cover story is that you are a visiting student from Yanchang, so you might as well start playing the part.”

  “I don’t know,” Sonam said. A part of him was dying to get out of the house, but he was still afraid of being in public, surrounded by Chinese. You are behind enemy lines, he reminded himself.

  “Before you decide, I have something for you.” The professor left the table and soon came back with some new clothes: brown winter slacks, a white collared shirt, and a gray sweater, set off with a knit cap and Ray-Ban sunglasses. “This is what all the rich kids your age are wearing,” he said.

  A few minutes later, Sonam was transformed. The professor squared the sweater on his shoulders and took a look at him. “Now, walk around for me.”

  Sonam took a few steps around the parlor. “Not bad,” the professor said with a smile. “Despite everything, you’re still a confident young man. My advice to you is, always act as if you belong here. In fact, almost swagger—it will go a long way in keeping people’s attention off …”

  The professor needn’t finish the thought. Sonam knew what he meant.

  Sonam had never worn clothes like this before, and he felt like an inexperienced actor pushed out onto the stage. Surely, everyone would see right through him. But when he looked in the mirror, it was like seeing a new person. That was good and, in a way, empowering. He felt the thrill that a child has donning a mask for the first time: the power of anonymity and a certain mischievousness—the feeling that he could get away with just about anything.

  * * *

  “Everyone, this is Sòng Píng,” the professor said. “He’s staying with me this semester and wanted to sit in with us today.”

  There was a chorus of “hellos” and even some smiles. The classroom was simple: bench desks with two chairs apiece, a whiteboard, a computer, and an overhead projector. Sonam sat in the back near the door, ready to make a quick escape. He half expected some student to point at him suddenly and shout, Separatist! But no one did. In fact, they soon seemed to forget about him. He watched them closely. The blue jeans, the overstuffed backpacks, the sweaters, and the sweatshirts advertising famous brands, sports teams, and bands. There were a few more boys than girls, and a few of the girls were so beautiful that Sonam could barely look at them. He felt conflicted. These students were gyaro, he reminded himself—Chinese corpses. Yet, at the same time, he felt a strange pull to win their acceptance. He tried to push that desire aside. You don’t want anything from them.

  Near the end of the class, the professor stumped them with a question. “Who was responsible for bringing Vladimir Lenin to power in Russia?”

  There was a long pause.

  The professor tried to coax the answer, mentioning that it was in the midst of the First World War and that Lenin was given ten million dollars by a foreign power.

  When it was clear that none of them knew it, Sonam spoke up. “Germany.”

  “That’s right,” the professor said with a smile. “Do you know why?”

  “At the time, Germany was fighting a two-front war, and in exchange for Germany’s help Lenin ended the war on the Eastern Front when he gained power. Unwittingly, however, the Germans also created the power that would eventually destroy them in the Second World War.”

  “Precisely,” said the professor. “It was one of the great ironies of the twentieth century.” Heads turned. Smiles and accepting nods that showed they were impressed—including the cute girl in the front.

  Over dinner that night, the professor said, “If you’d like to enroll for the spring semester, I can still get you in. You can take as many courses as you want. Come summer, you’ll be healed enough to get your papers. Then, if you wish, you can go to Dharamshala.”

  Sonam put down his chopsticks, sat back in his chair, and looked closely at the professor. He shook his head, but at the same time he smiled mischievously. It was so audacious! That he, a fugitive member of the GFM, could pass for Han. Not only that, but study at a Chinese university. The very idea that he would get a free education from those who had enslaved him and his people … He loved it. But could he pull it off?

  Their trip today had given him some confidence that he could. It had been strongest when he walked with the professor down the tree-lined walkways of the campus, passing clusters of students. The professor had been right: the stylish clothes did a great deal to deflect people’s attention from his wounded face. Yes, a few did double takes—a passing glance, followed by a more probing stare—but no one seemed to think he was out of place. By the time they had begun their walk home, his gait had already changed, feeding off the looks he got from other students.

  As he and the professor neared their neighborhood, there had been a propaganda mural on the side of a parking garage. It showed a young boy opening a door to a dark room and a woman—presumably the boy’s mother—whispering into a phone. The text read, “You never know who could be conspiring with the separatists. Report suspicious activity to your local party official.” The professor had pointed at the mural and laughed. It was a small thing, but it had united them there, on the street, as coconspirators. Not only that, the mural had almost normalized what they were doing, making it feel as though they were not the only ones. Now, with his stomach full and his new ally sitting across from him, the seventeen-year-old Tibetan from the tiny village of Dagzê decided he would stay. He would make a study of this place, of the enemy, of their system. He would dissect the propaganda, the billboards, the manipulation of the history books. He would try to understand the mentality of the 1.3 billion people who lived under the watchful eye of the party. And in that study, he would note the weaknesses he found, so that he could later exploit them.

  He thought of his father, who at this moment would be sitting in their little house up on the plateau, perhaps across the little rough table from his sister as they finished their evening meal. His father had told him not to rush too quickly to India, that he should wait until he was ready. Perhaps this was what his karma had in store for him. Perhaps this
was the road to redemption that he sought. Redemption? No, that was not the right word. The road to revenge.

  * * *

  The next day, he enrolled in calculus, mechanical engineering, English, intro to systems analysis, and, at the professor’s behest, art history. He quickly fell into a steady, soothing routine: waking early with the professor, going to campus, attending lectures, working all afternoon in the library, then coming home to study while the professor cooked. They would eat dinner together; then he studied until he fell asleep.

  The professor’s food was doing magic on his body. It was as if he were taking healing potions. While the swelling in his face subsided with his daily dose of lemongrass, ginger, and star anise, his arms and legs filled out from the duck, dumplings, and plum sauce. His bones grew strong again, and his coordination returned.

  One day after class, a popular student named Gao invited him to play soccer. Soon, he was playing soccer and basketball every week. In Tibet, he had been obliged to learn the games at the Chinese schools and he had resented it, but now he played them with relish. He was a scrapper, taking on the biggest opponents without fear, harassing them and never letting up until he won the ball. When he fell—and he fell often—he bounced up quickly, as if gravity didn’t like the taste of him.

  After the games, his teammates would invite him out to the bars, but Sonam always begged off. He was not ready, not confident enough, to get that close. But then one day, after he scored two goals and became the hero of the game, they had insisted, and Sonam, feeling almost invincible, had accepted. After a few Tsingtao lagers, Gao, the popular one, asked the question that he knew all of them had been wondering. “What happened to you?”

  Sonam responded with a tight nod. He had rehearsed this. He told them he had been in a car accident just last fall. His mother had been driving when a truck hit them on a two-lane road. His mother was killed instantly, but he had been trapped, legs held tight by unyielding metal, and the engine caught fire.

  Gao, clearly shocked, had hung his head low, and another young man, Lok, had reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m really sorry, brother.”

  Sonam had given a slow nod. He was playing his part, yes, but the story was close enough to the truth that their sympathy mattered. Brother. The sentiment touched him, but it left him confused. A Han calling him brother.

  When he got home, the professor was waiting for him in his chair, a book on his lap, glasses low on his nose. “I was beginning to worry about you.”

  “I’m okay. I went out after the game.”

  “Fine,” the professor said. “I think that’s good for you. Just watch how much you drink.” Sonam knew he smelled of beer. “It will loosen your lips more than you know, and maybe tempt you to say things you shouldn’t.”

  He nodded his head. The professor was right, but he wasn’t interested in being lectured. The professor seemed to sense this.

  “Get some sleep, Pelé.”

  “Who’s Pelé?”

  “Never mind,” he said with a light laugh. “Just get some rest.”

  * * *

  That night, he lay in bed thinking about his life. He was trying to be two people at once, and it was starting to drive him crazy. During odd moments, while laughing with his classmates or playing soccer, his old life was the furthest thing from his mind. But then he would see a PLA officer strolling down the street, and his stomach would roll with hate and revulsion. He would find himself fantasizing about following the soldier into a restroom and slitting his throat.

  When his fantasies came, they were dark and brutal. And he could not stop them. Like the damage to his face, they seemed to have become a permanent part of him.

  He had been studying his enemy, and now he saw how premeditated and mechanized their destruction of his people had been. He realized that the Chinese had kept them permanently off balance—scared, weak, and frightened. It was something he could see only now that he was safe, healthy, and strong. He saw anew the injustice of it. His people were the victims of a horrific crime, the likes of which occurred only a few times in a century—a meticulously planned genocide. But a crime that most Chinese had long forgotten about as they went about their lives, oblivious of what their country had done, and was still doing. All around him were people who benefited from the rape of his country yet thought nothing of it. People whose family members received money from the government if they relocated to Tibet, whose fathers and uncles worked in the factories where Tibet’s natural resources were shipped, who exported jewelry and Tibetan clothing made by prisoners. He hated them. All of them.

  But what about Gao and his teammates and the professor? Did he hate them, too? No, but he didn’t trust them, either, not completely. He caught it in glimpses, when a teammate insulted a player on the opposing team by calling him mantze, a dumb monkey—a Tibetan. Or when Gao had lamented one night that Tibetans could never rule themselves. “They’d all starve to death without our help.” And even the professor had it in him—he seemed so amazed that Sonam could do complex calculus better than most Han. These people were the children of the party and raised on their propaganda. It was ingrained in them as surely as their language, as indelibly as a nursery rhyme.

  You can never completely trust them. Never.

  * * *

  By late March, his face had healed as much as it was going to heal. The left side was almost back to normal except for the wide scar that ran from his chin to his temple. His right side, where he had been burned, was permanently pink and smooth.

  Just before finals, the professor called him into his study.

  “Yes, sifu,” Sonam said, addressing him with the Chinese honorific meaning teacher.

  The professor removed his reading glasses, folded them, and placed them on the table. “There is something important I have to warn you about. When you arrived, I told you I would protect you and keep you safe. But there is one thing I can’t protect you from. For the next month, you have to be very careful about being out alone, day or night. By the end of May, the mayor must provide the army with two hundred new conscripts. I’ve heard that only a hundred people have volunteered. That means the mayor will likely take another thirty, maybe forty, from the jail, but the rest will have to be picked up off the street. The mayor will have police out looking for young men. They will take you quickly, and once you’re gone, there is very little that anyone can do to help you. So please be very careful.”

  There was an urgency in the professor’s voice that Sonam hadn’t heard before. The professor was sincerely worried about him, and it touched Sonam. Despite whatever bias the professor might have, he was truly fond of Sonam. Of course, you idiot, Sonam said to himself, remembering that the professor risked his life for him every day. “Thank you, lama.” And he clasped his hands and touched his crown, his forehead, his throat, and his heart, in the traditional salutation to a lama. Not a sifu, a lama. “I will be careful.”

  And Sonam was careful. Very careful, right up until the end.

  But after finals, he had not been careful. They all had gone out to celebrate—Gao, Lok, Jin, and a mob of classmates—at the Baby Face Bar. Gao had opened a tab and kept the drinks coming—tall drinks with names he had never heard of. No, he hadn’t been careful. But didn’t he deserve to celebrate? To laugh and toast his public victories, and the private victory he had pulled off. He had really pulled it off. All semester. The separatist, the mantze in their midst.

  Hadn’t Gao offered to get him a taxi? Had he waved him off? No problem. It was only a half mile to the house, anyway.

  He was on the professor’s street, only a block from home, when the police rolled up behind him so silently. Was it silently, or was it the six or seven drinks? He ran. He was still fast, still strong. But he stumbled. He was up, but they were on him. They lifted him and cuffed him, and he gave a primal scream of rage, fury, and frustration. He screamed at fate, at desti
ny, at his karma. He even cursed the three jewels, who had let him believe that there could be justice, retribution, or hope. There, only twenty meters away, the professor had left the porch light on for him. He could see it, but he would never make it. He would never see the professor or Gao or any of them again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Idea

  October 2025

  Naval Research Laboratory, Washington, DC

  Phase 1 Deadline: T-minus six weeks

  Eric sat in the conference room, head down, trying to keep his momentum, trying not to get distracted. It wasn’t working. He felt achy and irritable. Three months had passed since the fire, and he had healed well enough. It wasn’t his shoulder that was bothering him. It was something else, a sense of hopelessness. He realized that the feeling pervaded the entire lab. He felt it in every meeting, in the carrels in the library, and in tired conversations in the cafeteria: a sense of defeatism.

  They were losing.

  They all knew it, yet no one said it. No one had to. All you had to do was look at a clock. Every computer and iSheet; every flat screen and tablet, had a permanent clock that marked the replication deadline. So it was there, in the corner of everyone’s eye, wherever they went, reminding them over and over again of the same thing: There was no way they were going to make it. They had stolen all they could from the Chinese but were still treading water. Sure, they had had their own victories, but it wasn’t enough. Bill Eastman’s presence, which had inspired them and kept them going, was now rare. He spent more and more time alone in the lab on deck V, poring over plans and possible strategies. Without him, divisions grew wider. People bickered and complained.

  The re-opts became increasingly brutal. New employees were brought in, but it didn’t help. The new hires were often more clueless than the people they replaced. “The problem isn’t the worker bees,” Jane said. “It’s the queen and her generals. Give me some goddamn direction, for Christ’s sake, and I’ll give you results! They’re all stuck. Jack and Bill and Olex and Jessica. They don’t know what to do.”