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Part II

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He doesn't remember his real name.

Karl Fei Ong. Karl the Flying Man. Schoolgirls giggle and point when they find out their headmaster's name, the ridiculous confluence of adjectives that obscured his true self.

He does remember how he started going by "Karl," however: sitting in the middle of a crowded cafe, he sat across from Solomon and turned his cup in his hands nervously, politely listening as Solomon rolled the consonants of his real name like marbles under his tongue.

"Karl," Karl said, and Solomon looked up. "You may call me Karl."

"Ah," Solomon said, and he smiled. "You will forgive me, Karl. Though I have been here for many years, it seems the subtleties of the language still evade me."

Solomon reached for the cup - Karl watched, silently admiring the curve of Solomon's fingers and the elegant, effortless way he held it - and took a drink.

"You are not French?" Karl asked. His French, unlike Solomon's Vietnamese, was perfect.

"No. In point of fact, I am English. But that is not the reason why I've asked you here."

He leaned forward. Karl watched, quietly, as Solomon slowly pulled out a leather journal, setting it in front of him, pointedly. "My colleagues are in search of an Oriental," Solomon said, and he slowly turned the pages of the book, hand tracing the writing there. "Someone of particular merit. Cultured, able to speak more than his mother tongue. Someone like yourself," Solomon said. Karl watched him, intensely.

"I saw how you looked at my study," Solomon said, and Karl startled. Solomon smiled kindly. "A cleaning man such as yourself, perusing my medical textbooks. I will say it was quite the sight."

"Forgive me," Karl said, but Solomon shook his head.

"I shall tell Amshel of our meeting," Solomon said. He stood and offered his hand. "I have no doubt he would be most pleased to meet you."

xXx

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The medical library Solomon referred to, it was one of the places Karl was employed to clean by one of the European colonizers; Indochina was known for its tobacco and rice but not so much for the studiousness of its villagers, who were expected to stay in their place and farm the land. Karl walked, clad in western clothes with books in his arm, as his countrymen stooped low and waded up to their ankles in water, transplanting rice grain by grain.

But not Karl. Even during his boyhood days, he watched with utmost fascination the Europeans in the center of town. While others his age were groomed to tend the rice paddies and cultivate the land, Karl secretly began learning the languages of the Europeans colonizing them: French, English, German, until he was as fluent in French as he was his native tongue.

"We do not school the natives," the bishop said, as Karl stood in the rain with his application in hand, handwritten in perfect French. "Learn the commandments; follow the sacraments, and you will be on the path toward salvation. Leave the higher learning to those who would use it," the bishop said. He started to close the door, but Karl caught it in his hand.

"May I work here, then?" Karl asked. He looked up. Rain streamed down his face, wet strands of hair sticking to his skin. "Bishop?"

The bishop paused, then frowned.

"I shall think about it," the Bishop said, and he closed the door.

xXx

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The medical library. The one he was instructed to dust and clean, to empty the waste baskets and clean up after the students who came earlier. Karl wandered from shelf to shelf, quietly setting down his broom and pulling down a book into his hands.

Anatomy. Physiology. Medical pharmacology. Slowly Karl sat down, flipping quietly through the pages. "You can read," someone said, and Karl stood, startled.

It was the first time he met Solomon Goldsmith, who stood backlit against the bright light of the library windows. "Yes," Karl said, after he caught his bearings. "Forgive me. I shall be leaving, soon."

"No, no," Solomon said, and he stepped forward. Slowly he picked up the book, then leafed through the pages. "This is in English," Solomon said. He showed Karl the page.

"Yes," Karl said. Solomon raised his eyebrows.

"Then you can understand?"

"Yes," Karl said. "But it is easier to read in French."

"I see," Solomon said. He paused a moment, then looked up at him.

"Perhaps you can explain to me what you just read," Solomon said.

xXx

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The fire blazed, bright orange flames licking the dark sky as villagers ran frantically toward it, buckets of water splashing uselessly as the huts and fields collapsed onto itself. Sparks of orange burst outward, and Karl watched helplessly as his family sank onto their knees, wailing as the terraces of rice burned.

xXx

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"How much?" Karl asked, in broken German. Amshel sniffed and Solomon shook his head, frowning. "How much?" Karl said again, and Solomon touched his shoulder.

"Are you sure?" Solomon asked. He spoke in French in a low, soft voice, low enough so that Amshel couldn't hear. "Karl?"

"Yes," Karl said. He glanced back at Amshel, then at Solomon, who nodded solemnly.

"Then we shall take you to her. Our mother and our Queen. Diva."