Eliot Pattison - Mandarin Gate

A small crowd was already at the intersection as Shan coasted to a stop in front of a newly erected mileage sign. His heart sank as he read it. The sign was only in Chinese. A farmer was standing on the seat of his tractor haranguing the assembled Tibetans about how he didn’t live on a Chinese road, he lived on a Tibetan road.

“Just because you call a leopard a mule doesn’t make him one!” a man brandishing a scythe shouted.

More vehicles arrived, mostly bicycles and tractors, some pulling wagons with families. A cargo truck approached, blaring its horn at the crowd that blocked its passage. An aged tractor pulling a cart with goats and several more farmers arrived. Shan opened the door of his truck, well aware of the angry stares aimed at him.

The first monks who appeared were younger ones, who began to fuel the anger with calls for Tibetans to remember what it meant to be Tibetan. Sirens rose in the distance. One of the figures with the goats emerged and Shan looked in alarm at the man.

“Yuan!” he called out. The professor and his daughter with three other Baiyun exiles were threading their way through the crowd.

“You should go,” Shan said. “These people are furious.”

“I promised the goats a trip in the country,” Yuan said with a spark in his eyes. Shan looked back at the tractor, the beat-up old community vehicle kept in the Baiyun market ground, then saw the defiant glint in Yuan’s eyes. They were more than five miles from the town. The professor had not come in reaction to the disturbance, he had set out before it had started. “You knew about this?”

“Jigten drove past the police crew that was installing this last night. Each one that’s been installed in the past three months has brought a demonstration by Tibetans. The valley doesn’t need more disturbances.”

“Police crew? Not a road crew. Are you sure he said that?”

Yuan offered a pointed nod as Norbu mounted one of the wagons.

“We must not give them cause to make more arrests,” the abbot implored the Tibetans. The police cars were visible now, an Armed Police troop truck led by two grey vehicles. The driver of the cargo truck, now stopped, got out and stood on the hood. It was one of Lung’s men.

While the attention of the Tibetans was fixed on Norbu, Yuan moved through the throng, his daughter close behind, holding a small pail. The professor extracted a brush from his jacket, dipped it in the pail and began writing with yellow paint on the blank back of the sign, carefully consulting a piece of paper held up by his daughter. The letters were in Tibetan and though his hand was unsteady the letters were legible.

Shan gasped. A Tibetan boy gave a startled laugh. At the end of the word Yuan painted an arrow, pointing south.

As Norbu climbed down he called on the Tibetans to rally behind him, so he could be their shield against the police, now climbing out of their vehicles. But another Tibetan, and another, stepped behind the sign to look at Yuan’s handiwork. Each gazed for a moment then laughed. “Lha gyal lo,” a woman called, smiling at Yuan. Shan’s alarm changed to fear as a bullhorn crackled.

“Unless you have a permit to assemble,” came Liang’s voice, “you are committing a crime. Disperse now or you will be arrested.” Shan studied the major, and the uneasy way the police looked at him. There was no official reason the special officer from outside the district should be supervising what for them was a routine security detail.

Norbu’s voice at first rang out clearly. “We are but farmers going about our business,” he called back. “The police have nothing to fear from us. We seek only your respect as the original inhabitants of this valley.”

A woman beside Shan groaned. “No, he mustn’t,” she cried. “Not our blessed abbot. We can’t let them throw another abbot in prison.”

Norbu spoke again but the growing murmur of the Tibetans who hurried to look at the back of the sign swelled over the abbot’s words. Yuan stepped back so all could see his work.

Dharamsala, he had written by the arrow, first in Tibetan then in Chinese. He had pointed the way to the capital of the free Tibetans in India.

An old Tibetan woman grabbed Yuan as he tried to go to Shan and embraced him. Shan could not hear Liang’s words but the anger in his tone was unmistakable. Four policemen with truncheons left the major’s side. A Tibetan farmer grabbed Sansan and pulled her into the crowd. The Tibetans were in trouble enough, but if Liang grasped what had happened his venom would be directed at the exiles.

Shan eased back into his truck. He turned on the ignition and pressed the accelerator so that the old engine sputtered loudly, then he fumbled with the shifter and clutch, noisily grinding the gears. Those around the truck cleared away. Liang roared out angry orders. Truncheons were being raised. Shan caught Norbu’s gaze and held it with cool intensity. Then he shoved the truck into gear and shot forward.

The sign exploded as he hit it, sending splinters into the air. The post was thick and well set. It bent his bumper and knocked the radiator ajar before snapping. He climbed out, staring in mock confusion at the steam rising from his damaged truck, casting furtive glances to confirm that the Tibetans, now satisfied, were leaving.

Norbu studied Shan a moment uncertainly, then trotted to his side. “We pray you were not hurt, Comrade,” the abbot offered loudly, then turned to the police. “Once again the gods have intervened for Tibetans,” he called out defiantly.

Liang’s eyes stabbed at Shan. After Tan’s intervention he knew he could not arrest Shan, not with so many witnesses, not for what could be characterized as an accident. He raised his bullhorn to his lips, turning to point at Norbu.

“Chegar monastery is behind this!” the major shouted, then in an uncertain tone he spoke again. “Those who refuse the embrace of the Motherland must suffer the consequences!” It was the sound of a seasoned actor trying to salvage a disrupted script.

* * *

For the first time the little café in Baiyun had a light, almost cheerful atmosphere. Tables had been carried outside into the golden afternoon sun.

Shan had looked for Professor Yuan at his house but found only his daughter working at her computer on the kitchen table. “It was a reckless thing you did this morning,” he told Sansan.

“I tried to talk him out of it. He had found a quote from Mao that he decided to embrace. ‘The only way to have a true government of the people is to engage in constant revolution.’ When Jigten came to pick up medicine and mentioned the sign, the Vermilion Society was here. My father suggested it as a joke but one of them said he knew where to find paint. They were like boys planning an adventure. They are still celebrating at the teahouse. I’ll go with you.”

To Shan’s surprise there were Tibetans sitting with the usual patrons at the little café. They cast uncertain glances about the street. One of the professors was trying to cajole the Tibetan waitress into joining him for a game of checkers. Shan found a seat at a rear table and tea was brought to him. It was a rare hour of camaraderie between Tibetan and Chinese. They had enjoyed the tiniest of victories over the government and though it would not last it was worth savoring. But for Shan the taste was sour.

He had managed to drive his crippled truck to Lung’s garage but the repairs would take more than a day. Lokesh knew enough about his unpredictable life in the valley not to worry if he did not reach their little hut that night. But tomorrow was Sunday, the first Sunday of the month. For the past week the voice inside his head had been growing louder and more insistent. Ko is waiting for you. Ko needs you. He can’t think you’ve given up on him. Nothing must prevent you from seeing your son .