"Destroyer 007 - Union Bust.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

49

The only clue available came from the old Oriental on the first day. Hamburger. Hmmm. Hamburger.
Dr. Braithwait absentmindedly touched the steel straps. Hamburger. He checked his watch. He had been warned not to disturb the Oriental until after 4.30 P.M. It was that now, Hamburger. That nervous system.
Dr. Braithwait strode quickly out of the room with the surgical lights and went down the corridor. He knocked on a door. He waited. Inside the mellifluous organ of a daytime soap opera whined its heavy tune. Then someone was selling soap. The door opened.
Draped in a saffron kimono, the aged Oriental indignantly inquired about Dr. Braithwait's manners, upbringing, and by what right he, Dr. Braithwait, felt he could destroy moods of artistry?
'That hamburger you claim did the damage. Where did the patient get it.'
'From filth, ignorance and stupidity.'
'No. The name of the place which sold him the hamburger.'
'The name is dog and son of dog. The name is Hal-loran's Happy Hamburgers.'
'That's it. Of course. Now I understand,' said Dr. Braithwait. 'With his nervous system, naturally he would become semicomatose.'
'Because of the impurity of the essence.'
'No. No. No. Monosodium glutamate. These hamburgers are nationally made for the entire Halloran chain. They're made of gristle and the worst sections of beef. They sell cheaply and to make them edible they're loaded with monosodium glutamate. Even some normal people have nervous system difficulties from it. That nervous system ... well, it just went into a semisleep.'
'You talk in riddles,' said the old man.
'You were right. It was something in the hamburger.'
'The impurity of the animal fat. The excessive indulgence. The lack of personal discipline.'
'No. Monosodium glutamate.'
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The old man's face wrinkled into puzzlement.
'I tell you, the spiritual sone of the Master of Sinanju has violated the purity of his essence, clearly and simply and understandably, and then you tell me "monosodium glutamate." Now what are you talking about?'
'Monosodium glutamate is a chemical.' I
The old man nodded.
'It is in food.'
The old man nodded. :
'It was in the hamburger eaten by the patient."
The old man nodded.
'Monosodium glutamate affects some nervous systems.'
The old man understood that.
'With the incredibly finely tuned nervous system of the patient, it wreaked havoc.'
The old man smiled. 'For a doctor, you are very stupid. I do not understand a word you say. Come. Let us go to my son. Is he better yet?'
'Not much, maybe today. Maybe tomorrow or the next day, but he will definitely recover.'
'I ask you a favor,' said the old man.
Braithwait listened respectfully.
'When I first explained to you what caused the harm, I accidentally said this white man was the true son of the Master of Sinanju, even though he was white.'
Braithwait nodded. He remembered that idiotic rambling.
'Do not let the patient know this. If he thinks he has any Korean in his soul, he will be impossible to live with. I call him white.'
'He is Caucasian,' said the doctor. 'I'd say Mediterranean-Northern Europe, a combination. High cheekbones may make him Slavic in there somewhere, but he is white.'
'I say that. Not you. You cannot call him white. Now do you understand? Simple, no?'
That evening when the patient was shrugging off the last effects of the monosodium glutamate, the old Oriental
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hummed happily. He kissed the forehead of the patient. He chuckled. He sang. He danced around the table. When the patient blinked his eyes and said. 'Where am I?' the old man suddenly flew into a rage, his frail, bony arms flailing.
'Dead. You should be dead. Ungrateful, horrible, undisciplined white man. You are a white man. You will always be a white man. You were born white and you will die a white man. White man with white man's hamburgers.'
'Jeez, Chiun, will you get ofr my back. What happened?' asked the patient. He looked at the straps and seemed amused. He looked at Dr. Braithwait.
'Who's the dingdong with the stethoscope?' he asked.
This infuriated the aged Oriental.
'Who this? Who that? What is this? What is that?' yelled the old man. 'Questions you have now. You have many questions about this and that, but you do riot question what you put into your blood stream.'
Dr. Braithwait had had enough. He would be leaving soon, having told Dr. Smith that the patient was on the road to recovery. He would not have his office turned into a circus, even if it was hidden under piles of coal on a barge in a river.
'You there,' he said sternly to the patient, 'put your head back on the table.'