“Half-Korean, half-Chinese.”
I smiled, and then I laughed. It was a happy laugh, the sound of an old tree budding in the spring. “Some Chinese blood is a good thing,” I said. “Your great-grandmother had Chinese blood, did you know that?”
It was only days later, when I was back in my house, looking at the moon as it rose through the gap between the tall pine trees, that I realized the man at the grave was not just my brother’s son. He was my nephew and I his uncle.
That night, I dreamed of my grandfather and wondered even as I slept if he had dreamed of his grandfather, and he of his, and so on back in time. It was interesting, I thought to myself, that at the end we dream of the beginning.
Macau
2009
Вы читаете The Man with the Baltic Stare
