Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

But Corbett had a legacy of his own. He pointed to two large crates and a suitcase, carried down from the stone tower by Jara and his family after being unloaded from the helicopter. Jara handed Corbett the suitcase, bound with tape. Shan and Corbett had retrieved them that morning, but not from Ming’s warehouse. They had been addressed to McDowell at the Children’s Clinic, on the opposite side of the old brick factory. Tan had asked no questions when they had set them beside McDowell’s body, had even helped to put them in the helicopter.

When Corbett pulled the tape from the suitcase revealing objects wrapped in newspapers and plastic wrap the Tibetans crowded around, sitting again as he lifted the first and unwrapped it. The priceless little fifteenth-century Buddha, set on a throne of gems, glowed in the bright light. He held it high for a moment, then set it in the hands of Fiona. “Who else had a deity taken by the godkillers?” he asked as he unwrapped a statue of Tara that had once sat in Ming’s museum, then in Dolan’s collection.

Shan had expected to find the suitcase with the artifacts brought by Lodi on the plane from Seattle, but the crates had seemed too conspicuous to ignore when they had found them flanking the suitcase. McDowell had sent the other artifacts taken from Dolan to the clinic. And now Corbett, who had told his superior by phone the day before that for the first time he had failed to recover stolen art, was distributing Dolan’s entire collection to the people of the hills.

Shan watched as the suitcase was emptied and the first crate opened, then moved toward the shadows where a young woman in dark clothing sat watching the others. The smile with which Liya greeted Shan seemed forced. “Gendun says they will hold another festival here, when the mourning is over,” he announced.

Liya seemed not to hear. “There is no path left for us,” she said. “With Lodi and Punji both gone Bumpari will surely die.”

“Zhoka is alive again,” Shan said. “Bumpari can do what it always did, make art for the monastery.”

“I found a note Punji had written to Lodi. She was going to go to Dharmsala, to tell the entire story to those with the Dalai Lama. She said that would ensure the protection of Bumpari. Now there is no one to go, no way to explain ourselves.”

“I know someone. She is the new leader of Bumpari.”

“I have nothing to interest the people across the border.”

“You could take a story about how the Chinese empire was almost ruled by the Stone Dragon Lama, about how the destiny of the entire empire was almost changed here. That’s why all of this happened.”

“What are you talking about? It was just because of that treasure.”

“The treasure was here because of the amban. The amban was here because of the art, because he wanted to honor the emperor with the works of Zhoka.” When Shan saw the question still on Liya’s face, he settled onto a rock beside her and began the story. After several minutes he realized a dozen Tibetans had gathered round. After ten minutes everyone in the foregate was listening.

When he had finished, still seeing doubt on some of their faces, he pulled a pouch from around his neck and withdrew the small silk scrolls he had carried there since leaving Beijing. “These are the final two letters between the amban and the emperor, after the amban received news of the Qian Long’s offer to make him the imperial heir. The amban knew he was too ill to accept, too ill even to leave Zhoka. It is written in Tibetan, just a short note, for so much had already been said.” Shan glanced up at the expectant faces and began to read:

My Cherished Uncle, there could be no honor in all the wide universe so great, no praise I could receive that would strike me so deeply. You ask me to decide quickly, but the decision has been made by time and the frailty of my body, which I must soon leave. I have often watched the wind blow the blossoms from the tree but have never seen them blow them back on. The honor I can return is the truth, and the truth is I know no matter how high the rank you might have bestowed there would have never been serenity greater than that I have found as the Stone Dragon Lama here in the mandala inside the mountains, where wisdom and beauty are one. The monastery I have been given is empire enough. Had we met again my uncle I would have given you the chance to reconsider, for I would be a ruler who yearned for compassion over power, and kindness over gold. I am a better Chinese as a Tibetan than ever I was as a Chinese.

Shan kept staring at the two-hundred-year-old letter after he had finished, unaware at first of the silence around him. When he lowered it he saw wonder in Liya’s eyes, and in all those who surrounded him. “The emperor replied,” he added, showing the second scroll. “Only a few lines.” He raised it and read:

Noble nephew, in my heart I have crowned you my emperor. I am only ruler of this meager empire, dealing with the events of my short time here. But you deal with worlds beyond, and reach beyond time. Please keep the treasures in Tibet. May the gods be victorious.

“I brought them to leave in the temple here,” Shan said, and looked at Liya as he spoke. “But now I think you should take them to the Dalai Lama.” He handed the letters to Liya. “For his birthday, from the people of Zhoka.” Gendun was grinning like a young boy.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Shan and Corbett climbed back to the stone tower to wait for the helicopter, Corbett clutching a rectangular package given to him by Liya.

“I’ve been thinking,” the American said. “You should go back with me. I can arrange it. That house of mine on the island. You can live there. There’s kayaks. We can kayak around all the islands. We can go fishing together. You can make a new life. You’re owed a new life.”

Shan’s surprise and gratitude came out in a small grin. But after a moment he turned back toward the ruins. “I have a new life,” he said.

“Everyone loves America,” Corbett said, with a strange sound of defeat. “Everyone wants to live there.”

“It’s not my country,” Shan said.

“Your country turned its back on you.”

“That was just my government.”

They sat in silence.

“That shining place,” Shan said slowly. “What you called the shopping center. You said you took me there so I could see America. When I first stepped inside I thought it was a church. Then I saw the people there. I don’t know, I have no words. It made me sad somehow. I’m sorry.” But Shan did remember words, words that Lokesh had used after visiting a city. He said everyone seemed so thin, so transparent, they were so far stretched from their deities.

Silence returned. Corbett picked up a stone and threw it in a long arc over the ridge, then turned as the sound of the helicopter rose behind them.

“What’s a kayak?” Shan asked as they stepped away from the tower.

They did not speak, only looked out the windows as they flew back to the guest house.

“I have more to write up,” the American said, and stepped away in the direction of the conference room. Shan, feeling exhausted, collapsed onto the bed that had been assigned to Yao. When he awoke in the middle of the night, light still leaked around the conference room door. He entered to find Corbett asleep at the table, head on his folded arms. There was no evidence the American had been writing. He had been drawing, with pencils, pictures of Yao and the lamas. Several completed drawings were scattered across the table, several incomplete ones lay crumpled underfoot. Shan straightened one from the floor, an image of Yao with a little Buddha in his hand, that had been nearly completed before being discarded. Shan flattened out the wrinkles as best as he could, folded it, and put it in his pocket.