MASKED

Once upon a time there was a very ambitious Chinese boy named Wong who went to work in his uncle's restaurant, the House of Fong. Now Fong was a master cook and the House of Fong became famous for its excellent cuisine.

Wong dreamed of owning his own restaurant and paid close attention to the ingredients of each dish. But his uncle Fong did not precisely measure while he cooked. He added a dash of this and a pinch of that, making his nephew extremely upset. "How can I learn, Uncle, to make these dishes so deliciously as you, if you continue to be so sloppy in executing your recipes?"

"Sloppy, Nephew?" Fong asked. "Why do you say so?"

"Well, you do not measure. How can you be sure you are putting in the proper amount? How do you know when to stop?"

"Does it taste good?"

"It tastes delicious, but . . . ."   But I will never learn the recipe for my own restaurant, thought Wong.

His uncle patted him on the head. "You are a bus boy, Wong. I am a master cook. Each dish is as life. You will learn it is okay if it is different. The recipe is just a guideline. When you are a master, your heart tells you when to stop."

Each time Wong asked, his uncle gave the same answer.

Many years went by and Wong was promoted from bus boy to waiter, to head waiter, to assistant manager of the House of Fong.

He lived in a large mansion on a hill and had everything he ever wanted. Everything except his own restaurant.

Wong was not satisfied. He would never be satisfied -- no matter how much he had or how kindly his old uncle treated him -- unless he had his own restaurant.

His quest became obsession.

He spied on Fong at every chance. He rummaged through Fong's private papers hoping to find the secret his uncle had so unfairly kept from him ruining his life.

He would never marry, never be happy or satisfied in his heart until he owned his own restaurant.

At night when he came home from the House of Fong, he went directly to his fine kitchen and practiced each of Fong's dishes. They never tasted exactly the same as Fong's.

Wong began to emulate his uncle's every manner. He dressed like him, talked like him, walked like him. He became his uncle's clone and his shadow, hoping to steal the secret of his success.

Yet, there remained one difference between them: His uncle had peace in his heart -- Wong had only resentment and frustration.

He would not give up. He would learn the secret if it killed him.

Or, he thought wickedly, he would kill his uncle.

Fong had no heirs save Wong. If Fong died, Wong would inherit the House of Fong. His own restaurant.

Why had he not thought of it before?

His uncle was an old tired man. He had served his usefulness in life. Besides, to silly old Fong, life was only a Chinese dish. He had said so many times.

Wong had all the right recipes. No one would notice if he took his uncle's place, they looked so alike by now. His dress, his mannerisms, all had been copied from Fong. Why, most people could not even tell them apart.

Wong hired a detestable character to annihilate Uncle Fong.

He watched the man enter the House of Fong. His conscience told him to stop the man, but Wong blocked it out of his mind. "With Uncle out of the way, I will be the master cook." And so, he pretended not to hear his heart.

He strode to the kitchen. "Uncle, there is someone I want you to meet," lied Wong.

As they passed through the swinging door the shot rang out. The body slumped to the floor.

Wong was dead.