Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

“I don’t know. Lodi was becoming distrustful of Ming. He said Ming was too interested in emperors and glory to be trusted.” She turned her gaze back to Shan.

“Ming spoke to Lodi about emperors?”

“That’s what Lodi said, nothing else.”

“What were they doing, Liya? Ming and Lodi were doing more than distributing art.”

She clenched her jaw, and acted as if she had not heard the question. “He never said more about Ming on his last visit, except that he said we should be prepared to resist if Chinese came from the north. He said it would not be soldiers, but men like soldiers. He sent for the Gurkhas who help him get by the border patrols.”

“The ones with guns.”

“Some of us argued with Lodi, said we must not have guns. He said we did not understand how dangerous things had become. He said something happened long ago that is finally going to destroy us. He even asked me to begin to move everyone away across the border.”

“But you haven’t.”

“I will not be the one who abandons Bumpari after so many centuries. I will be the last one here, if it means I live alone.”

Liya’s tone, as much as her words, frightened Shan. “What did he mean long ago? The Chinese invasion?”

“I don’t think so. The last time he was here he was looking for old books, old peche that spoke of the history of Zhoka. He would not tell me why. But he got drunk one night, and said only fools think emperors put deities first.”

A deep hollow ring reverberated outside, three peals in succession. Liya looked up in alarm. “There is trouble,” she gasped, and darted out of the building. The circle of Tibetans began to break up, the other villagers also leaving the building, some running.

Only Corbett remained, still sitting on the floor, his lap full of brushes and flowers and fruit.

“I think,” Shan observed, “they want you to stay here and teach them how to paint gods.”

Corbett’s only reply was a melancholy grin. After a long moment, he looked up at Shan. “My mother was an artist, and her sister. They took me with them when I was young, gave me an easel and watercolors to use as they painted seascapes. But eventually they packed me off to college, telling me I couldn’t support a family on art.”

“Ming has not been telling us everything,” Shan said, glancing toward the gathering of Tibetans below, by the gate.” There was a photograph of William Lodi,” Shan said, extracting the picture of the banquet in a tent and handing it to Corbett. “Ming knew Lodi.”

The contentment disappeared from Corbett’s face as he gazed at the photo. He abruptly rose, letting the brushes in his lap fall to the floor, then stormed out of the building without a word.

Shan caught up with him in the garden, where the American stood facing the distant peaks, his face dark, his eyes lit with anger. He waved the photograph toward Shan. “It’s him! They knew him! Ming and Lodi both knew the famous Mr. Dolan. The son of a bitch Ming must have planned it all.” His mouth twisted and he kicked a stone, which flew through the air, knocking a flower from its stem.

“Ming is laughing at us,” Corbett spat. “They knew of Dolan’s collection, knew how wealthy he is. It was probably irresistible to Ming. A conspiracy against a rich American capitalist, with his friend the international art thief. Who would know better how to dispose of such a collection than Ming and Lodi? Ming has been laughing at us all along, knowing that politically he can’t be touched.”

“Except Lodi was killed,” Shan pointed out. “And Ming didn’t do it, he was in Lhadrung.”

“Maybe it was your monk who killed him after all.”

“It doesn’t explain what happened in Beijing.”

Corbett nodded slowly, offered a curse under his breath, then sat on a nearby bench, watching the villagers as they gathered below, near the gate. The stone barrier had been rolled back, and one of the Gurkhas was addressing them, waving a gun as he spoke. Half a dozen of the villagers stepped out of the gate, packs on their backs. “I don’t know,” Corbett said in a worried voice. “I understand less now than when I arrived in Tibet.” He stared into his hands a long time, then pulled a paper and pencil from his pocket and began writing. “Can you use a computer?” he asked Shan.

When they stood up from the bench half an hour later the villagers were still assembled below, but their mood had grown somber. Yao sat apart, as if shunned, gazing into the pond. The Tibetans would not look into Shan’s eyes as he approached.

Liya intercepted him before he reached the others, pulled him toward the old cottage, then waited on the porch as Yao joined them.

“I am sorry,” she began. There was a deep anguish in her eyes. “I tried to make them see reason. But…” She turned, fixing both hands around the old prayer wheel as if she were about to fall. “The Chinese are in the mountains blowing up old caves. Our people sometimes hide in those caves, and some could be trapped inside. They know you work with Ming. They say now that Ming is leading the godkillers. And now they attacked an old woman, a cousin of ours, stole all her old statues and scriptures, then destroyed her kiln.”

“Fiona?” Shan asked in alarm. “Was she injured?”

Liya looked at him with new curiosity. “You mean our Dolma? She was not hurt. But the Gurkhas insist you two were part of it, that you are just spying for the other Chinese, that what you really want is to destroy Zhoka and Bumpari, wipe all traces from the earth. They say you came to finish what was started the day Zhoka was bombed. Others are saying you are some of the earth demons come to end the taming.”

The villagers began staring at the cottage now, some approaching cautiously.

“Go inside,” Liya urged. “I will speak with them, try to make them understand.” But then she paused and put a hand on Yao’s arm. “Is it true, Inspector? Would you destroy us if you could?”

Yao did not hesitate. “Everything you do here is illegal,” he said in a steady voice. “You are illegal. The entire village is illegal.”

“Would you destroy us?” Liya pressed.

“It is my duty,” Yao shot back.

Liya searched Shan’s face as if asking him for a solution, then closed her eyes a moment. “Thank you for your honesty,” she said to Yao, then she escorted them into the second bedroom and closed the door.

Yao instantly began opening the chests in the room. “A weapon,” he whispered urgently. “We must find a weapon.”

Shan did not help him but studied an old framed sketch by the door. It was one of those done by the major. He took it off the wall to gaze at and sat on a bed. It was of a laughing lama, sitting on a yak. He felt suddenly very tired and fell into an odd meditation, in which the disjointed events of the past three days floated before him. The lama on the yak seemed be to mocking his lack of understanding.

He did not know how many minutes passed before the door opened and Liya entered. She silently studied the disarray from Yao’s search, and sighed. “There is tea,” she announced in a tight voice, and turned back into the main chamber.

Shan followed Liya, Yao a close step behind him, holding the little computer.

Corbett sat sipping from a white porcelain cup, Dawa on the floor beside him, showing him pictures in a book. Liya handed Yao and Shan each one of the dainty cups, gesturing for them to sit at the table, then extended a plate of dried cheese and apricots. He sipped at his cup, then studied its contents in surprise. It was heavy black tea, with milk, in the Indian fashion. It was sweet and invigorating, with a strangely metallic aftertaste. Liya nibbled a kernel of cheese, seeming careful not to look them in the eye.