Eliot Pattison - Soul of the Fire

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Shan walked as if in a dream up to his quarters. He stood in a hot shower for long minutes, but the grime of the Deputy Secretary and Shan’s fear for Lokesh and Yamdrok would not be washed away. At least Yosen and Pema were free, he finally told himself. He could cling to that one small victory despite knowing all else would fail. The Commission, with his name attached to it, would proceed with its mission of criminalizing the protesters. Dawa would be captured, sooner or later. Pao would win. Pao would always win.

He dressed and made his way to the kitchens, where he cajoled the staff into giving him a plate of cold leftovers. As he carried it into the nearly empty dining hall, he discovered a solitary figure working at a window table, a thermos of tea beside him as he wrote in a notebook. Judson silently nodded and continued writing as Shan joined him.

“How many manuscripts would you say were in that library?” the American suddenly asked.

Shan cast an alarmed glance around the hall. “You’re writing about Taktsang?”

“Its story needs to be told, to be preserved. As far as anyone knows, I am just a Commissioner diligently writing up case notes.”

Shan chewed on his cold vegetables and considered the answer. “Eight thousand at least.”

“More like ten. I was thinking we should start an official depository for Tibetan peches in America. That will have them howling in Beijing.”

“I hope Hannah is sleeping. She worried me.”

“She’s much better,” Judson quickly said. “Eight hours, and she’ll be a new person.” The American lifted his pen. “How well would such manuscripts endure travel? Digital photos are helpful, but a peche was never meant to be read on a screen. You have to sit and experience it, you have to-” Judson abruptly closed his notebook.

Tuan sat down beside them, carrying a steaming mug. “The Deputy Secretary has gone,” Tuan announced. “Back to Lhasa. Already preparing his victory speech.”

Judson gave an exaggerated stretch and rose. “Gents. See you at the next glorious Commission meeting.”

Shan waited until the American left the hall before turning back to Tuan. “You knew about that chapel being destroyed.”

“Not really. I told him about it after that first time you took me to Yamdrok. Like I said, he always expects something to be reported. The old fools thought their gods would protect it.”

“Like the old fools who revere your mother’s poetry.”

Tuan looked into his mug. “I didn’t give him details about Taktsang. I said there was just a cave with a bunch of exhausted fugitives living hand to mouth. Nothing about the Americans being there. Pao would throw them out of the country if he knew.” Shan stared at him, weighing his words. Without the Americans, there could be no Commission.

Tuan glanced up. At least there was a shadow of guilt in his eyes. “Yamdrok is an anomaly. They can’t expect to go on like that. They have to acknowledge their new gods.”

“Pao is no god.”

“Define ‘god.’ He has the power of life and death over hundreds of thousands of people. Bestower of blessings. Punisher of sins.” As Tuan sipped his tea, he felt Shan’s smoldering expression. “It was just a building.”

“It wasn’t just a building. You know that, Tuan. Will you let the rest of the town be destroyed?”

“Not up to me. I told you before. I don’t make decisions-I just watch and report.”

“Pao didn’t even know that chapel existed. You told him about it, and days later he flattened it. You don’t truly share Pao’s beliefs. I saw the way you listened to the nuns, the way you read your mother’s lost poetry.”

“What I believe doesn’t matter.”

“What you believe matters most of all, Tuan. Otherwise, you are nothing, what the lamas call an empty vessel. If you truly thought that, you would have told Pao everything about Taktsang.”

“Maybe I did. Maybe I just lied to you.”

“No. From the first, I could see that in you. You don’t lie. You tell partial truths. You have bound yourself to terrible people. But you don’t lie and you never offer the secrets that would inflict the most damage on Tibetans. It’s like Lokesh said, the seed of realization is trying to take root in you. You didn’t want to leave that monastery all those years ago. You feel responsible for your friend’s suicide.”

Tuan smirked. “Listen to you. Like some old lama. Next I’ll have to call you Rinpoche.”

“What is the trap he is going to spring on Dawa?”

“Not hard to figure. Rallies can’t be secret. When her followers start gathering, Pao will know. He’ll be monitoring that phone so he can keep men within striking distance. He’ll intercept her before it starts. Too embarrassing to let such gatherings proceed with foreigners nearby. You can warn them, but I doubt they will change their plans.”

“Is that what you want? For Dawa to be taken and executed?”

“Like I said, not my decision. I am not trusted with guns or decisions about where to aim them.” Tuan looked out into the night. “I wish she would just go away. Hide in some other province. I don’t want her to be hurt.”

“It could be your decision,” Shan said.

Tuan frowned but did not look at Shan.

“You always have a choice. Just thinking about choices can tell a lot about someone.” Shan studied the Religious Affairs officer. “What will it be? Will you help Pao destroy Dawa, or will you help your mother, the famous poet nun?”

Tuan’s face clouded. “She’s dead.”

“No. That’s the seed Lokesh speaks of. She lives inside you.”

He left Tuan staring into his tea and sought the night air, finding a bench in the dimly lit grove of bushes the town planners called a park. The small grey dog approached, sniffing warily. “Tonte,” he said, trying out the name. The terrier cocked its head at him, then curled up at Shan’s feet. Shan had an uneasy feeling of being watched, of an intruder nearby, and he rose to discover a bust of Mao in a little alcove on the other side of the shrubs. He left and wandered onto the perimeter street that followed the town wall.

Except for the sound of the nightly garbage collection several blocks away, Zhongje seemed deserted. He walked alone in the orange glow of the sulfur streetlights. The town was not even three years old, but its cheaply constructed buildings showed the crumbling and decay of a city decades older. Shan knew Tibetans who shunned anything not made of wood, forged metal, wool, or leather, saying that everything that was plastic or stamped out in some factory was in fact not a real object. Zhongje was not a real town.

He heard steps behind him and nervously spun about to see Tonte padding along behind him. He let the dog catch up then continued, taking to the center of the empty street, letting his feet decide his route as he tried to focus on the impossible knot of mysteries. Something dark and terrible was coming, and his inability to grasp it gnawed like a worm at his heart. Everything he learned seemed to be a half truth, a piece of a larger secret. Deng may have been killed on Pao’s orders, but the killing hands had been in Zhongje, they were not Sung’s. Dawa was every bit the charismatic leader, but she cloaked herself in intrigue with foreigners. Dolma and Tserung let the world believe they were simple-minded old janitors while engaging in their own intrigue with the purbas which they would not share with Shan.

Shan paused by the municipal equipment lot, looking in despair at the bulldozer. He pressed on, lost in his forlorn musings, and found himself in the small warehouse district, where alleys littered with trash intersected the street between long storage buildings. A cold drizzle began to fall. He turned up his collar and kept walking.