Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

The old man seemed not to hear. “He became sick. The amban. It was a secret, because they thought it would be seen as a sign of weakness. Three letters came, saying the amban’s trip home had to be delayed. It was a difficult time for the Qian Long, who had decided to step down from the throne. It was a homage he paid to his grandfather. He said he would not serve on the throne longer than his grandfather, so he would step down after sixty years. It made for great intrigue in the court, for the Qian Long was trying to decide which of the great princes to elevate to the Heavenly Throne. There were spies everywhere, assassinations even. The world was going to change based on one word of the emperor.” The old man’s voice drifted away as he joyfully gazed at the thangka again.

“For a year the amban and emperor exchanged letters, urgent letters, carried in the imperial post,” he said, referring to the highly organized network of riders and way stations established to carry messages throughout the empire. “The amban had all his letters taken to the post in Lhasa, so as not to reveal his location. The emperor urgently wanted the amban back; that we know from the Chinese replies we found in the altar room. The emperor kept a copy of each letter he sent. The emperor said it was vital that the amban return, that there was no need for the treasures, the greatest treasure would be the return of the prince himself. After a few months all the letters switched to Tibetan.” He paused and looked at Shan. “You live in Tibet, you said?”

When Shan confirmed that he spoke Tibetan the old man rose and ventured into the shadows, returning with a bundle of ten scrolls, tied with strands of purple silk, their sequence noted by dates on the outside of the scroll.

Shan scanned the Tibetan letters quickly. A copy, from the Qian Long to the amban, describing the Qian Long’s pleasure over the new lama adviser the amban had sent to him, saying a new lama temple was to be built in the amban’s city of birth. The next was a letter from the amban describing the most joyful development of his life, his donning of a monk’s robe. He was living with the artist monks who had been crafting the treasures for the emperor, learning their skills, learning how to impart a deity to a painting. The letter included much of the kind of exchange Yao and Shan had seen in those on Ming’s computer discs, though they were more personal, even intimate, in tone. The amban began to describe his decline in health, and reported he was consulting the best of the famed Tibetan healers. The emperor confirmed he understood that the second half of the thangka would tell where to find the treasure, then complained of intrigue in the court, and how difficult it was to find the right heir to the throne. The amban wished him serenity and expressed confidence in his uncle’s wisdom. The amban’s health grew worse. The emperor offered to send doctors, to send an army to retrieve him if necessary. The amban declined, and said he was feeling much better.

Shan opened the next to the last scroll quickly. It was a long letter, from the emperor, in which the Qian Long expounded his criteria for a good emperor, and his concerns that the empire had become too complacent, too materialistic during his reign, not focused enough on the most important things. When he reached the last paragraph Shan gasped.

“What is it?” Yao demanded.

Shan read the passage again to be certain he understood. “The emperor apologizes for doing this in a letter but circumstances require it. The Qian Long is asking the Stone Dragon Lama, his nephew, to become his successor.”

The old man gave a gleeful cry and clapped his hands. “You were right, Jiang!” he exclaimed.

Shan slowly unwrapped the last of the scrolls, the amban’s reply. He examined it a long time, then studied his companions. “He announces he is too ill to travel. He declines the offer.”

“Impossible!” Yao gasped.

“But true,” Shan declared. He saw the inquiry in their eyes but said no more.

After a moment Shan realized that all of them were staring into the candle flame.

“Have you found the Tibetan home of the prince?” the old man finally asked.

“We found his monastery.”

“Then take these there, where they will be safer,” he said, and handed Shan the bundle of scrolls.

As Yao stood he reached into his pocket and handed the old man several currency notes. “For Professor Jiang,” he said.

The janitor looked at the money. “I could light incense at the temple,” he said, gratitude heavy in his voice.

Yao handed him more money. “Light incense for a year,” he said, and quickly turned back into the dark corridor.

Shan and Yao were nearly outside, approaching the gate of wisteria when the old man caught up with them. He handed Shan one more scroll, a thin one that bore the marks of another letter. “The last one,” he said. “The last time the emperor spoke to the amban. The most powerful secret of all perhaps.” Shan placed it inside his shirt without reading it.

Yao followed Shan to the little garden behind the Qian Long’s cottage, the quiet place Shan had visited so often in his Beijing life. They sat in silence as if neither wanted to be the first to speak, until a policeman escorted Corbett into the garden and Yao quietly explained what they had learned.

When Corbett gave a small exclamation of victory Yao held up a hand. “It doesn’t mean anything,” the inspector said. “The word of an unrehabilitated class enemy. I could never use it at a trial.”

“What it means,” Corbett said, “is that we have no more doubt, that we know we are right and they are evil.” Shan looked up. The American was speaking like Lokesh. “That makes all the difference.” Corbett pulled a paper from his jacket pocket. “And now it’s on,” he said, and glanced at Yao. “You told him?” When Yao nodded Corbett explained the arrangements to Shan. They would buy Shan some clothes, and depart that night on a nonstop flight to Seattle, with Shan technically in Corbett’s custody.

Shan lifted a wisteria flower with a finger and stared at it. “Do I have a choice?”

“I guess,” Corbett said hesitantly.

“Then I choose to go, but I have conditions. First I take the torn thangka with me.”

“What’s the point?” Yao asked. “We still haven’t solved its puzzle.”

“Maybe I have,” Shan replied, and said no more.

The two men stared at him in silence, and first Yao, then Corbett, nodded.

“Second, Inspector Yao tells us where he went this morning.”

Yao frowned. “I told you. My office.”

“No. You had a Public Security escort. Not your office. Not visiting family.”

Yao winced, and looked into his hands. “I have no family but a niece. It was the Ministry of Justice.”

“The Ministry or the Minister?” Shan asked.

“The Minister demanded to see me. There have been calls for me to be removed. From the Minister of Culture and two others who are his friends.”

“Why?”

“Officially, no reason. He is not going to remove me. Unofficially, because they had calls themselves. From Mr. Dolan, in America.”

Shan studied Yao. “But the Minister of Justice doesn’t like the Minister of Culture,” he ventured.

“He suspects deliberate inattention to socialist priorities.” It was one of the political codes for corruption.

“Because of evidence you sent to him, previously,” Shan suggested.

Yao exchanged a long somber stare with Shan. They both knew it was how Shan had been destroyed and sent to the gulag.

“You never told us the reason for the audits of Ming’s museum,” Shan observed.

It was Yao’s turn to study a flower. After a moment he looked up, and spoke toward a sparrow on the opposite side of the courtyard. “I had promised to take my niece to one of those roasted duck restaurants for her birthday. A loud party jumped ahead of us in line, flashing business cards, handing out money. Several women. An American and a young Chinese in a suit, both wearing sunglasses. The American stopped and put his palm on my niece’s cheek, said she should join them. Before I left I found out who they were. Dolan and Ming. The next day I ordered the audit. I have the authority.” He looked back at Shan. “He put his hand on her cheek,” he repeated in a brittle voice.