Free The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway Page A

arms are extended above them, palms up and bent at the elbow.
    â€œIt is called Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain,”
Master
Wu says after a moment. “Practice.” But it is only when the girl emerges from behind the sofa and with enormous gravity shakes my hand that I realise I have been accepted as a student, and that somewhere, somehow, it all went right.
    â€œElisabeth is my secretary,” Master Wu says, without a hint of laughter. “She is quite stern, but as long as you are well behaved, you will get along fine.”
    And so it proves. Elisabeth is a small blonde person who rarely speaks, but she orders the arrangements of the House of the Voiceless Dragon with the absolute certainty which is the preserve of ladies of that age, and she studies the forms with the other students and lives on the couch because her mother is too busy to take care of her. Master Wu is utterly obedient to her tyranny and she, in turn, takes care to exercise her power with great subtlety and discretion and even—amazingly—mercy. And sometimes, when Master Wu is lonely or homesick or simply tired, she makes spiced apple cake or Char Siu Bao, and we all eat them together, which helps. Together, because somehow or other I have been adopted again, and now I must split my time between Gonzo and Master Wu.
    Voiceless Dragon is taught every morning and evening at seven, and at weekends all day, and students come when they can and stay for at least an hour. During the week, Master Wu composes calligraphy and reads a great many books, so that he knows a great many higgledy-piggledy things about a great many subjects, and some of these things are useless and some are not, but almost all of them find their way into the lessons. Thus along with the Elvis Walk, we have Lorenz Palace Step (mathematical
gong fu
) and Vetruvian Fist (da Vinci
gong fu
), and—until Elisabeth intervenes—Fallopian Tube Arm (the name culled from a diagram in my biology textbook, chosen for the shape of the elbow in the final posture, but rather alarming). I study whenever I can, and for some reason however much time I waste when I should be doing homework, my school grades go up rather than down through my association with Master Wu. I worry at first that Gonzo will be resentful of my absences, but he is busy with other matters, and certain of his activities require personal space.
    In March, Master Wu has an unwelcome visitor, a man called Lasserly who travels all the way from Newport. Lasserly is a forceful person with a big, florid head. His arms are very thick, and he smells of old canvas. He wants to learn the Secrets. Every student of any martial form knows about the Secrets. They are rumoured and scorned across the world. Students are encouraged by some teachers to believe that knowledge of the Secrets will allow a practitioner to defeat age and death, hold his breath for hours on end, and project his spirit out of his body to smite his opponents like a Flash Gordon ray gun. Other masters, more down-to-earth or more honest, aver that the Secrets are symbolic, representing way stations on the journey of the self, or particularly important stylistic elements for the advanced student. Master Wu tells Lasserly that there are no Secrets.
    â€œCome on,” Lasserly says. “Of course there are.”
    No, Master Wu says gently, really, there aren’t.
    â€œYou know things,” Lasserly says.
    That is undoubtedly true. And almost certainly, Master Wu allows, he knows things—even
gong fu
things—which Lasserly does not. But he doesn’t feel inclined to talk about these things with Lasserly, because Lasserly is somewhat abrasive and even rude, and Master Wu has nicer people to spend time with.
    â€œWell, okay then. Let’s fight instead.”
    This is preposterous, on the face of it. Lasserly outweighs Master Wu by a hundred pounds, and his hands are thick with calluses from long practice.
    No, Master Wu says