Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

Corbett stared in disbelief, then turned back to the black water below. “You knew it, dammit,” he said in a hollow voice. “It’s why you came so easily with me, to lay the trap.”

“You know Dolan will never find justice in America.”

“You son of a bitch. You planned it.” His confusion seemed to give way to anger for a moment, then was overwhelmed with a hollow laugh. Silence returned, and they watched the tide ripping through the narrow channel.

“If there is no chance of justice for him in America, there’s an even slimmer chance in China,” Corbett said at last.

“He’s not going to China,” Shan replied. “He is going to Tibet.”

Corbett looked at Shan as if wondering if he had heard right, then he bent, picked a small pink flower growing near his feet, and tossed it over the edge into the water.

Four hours later, sitting beside Corbett, Shan watched out the window, yawning, as their plane lifted into the low clouds. During his entire time in America he had slept perhaps six hours, and he had never seen the sun.

Entering Lhadrung Valley at the end of night, after sleeping nearly the entire journey back, felt to Shan like entering a bayal, one of the hidden lands. Dawn wrapped the valley in a pink and golden glow, the lights of the distant town glittered like jewels, the shadowed mountains seemed like sentinels keeping the rest of the world at bay. Shan longed to stop, to fix the image in his mind, for soon the sun would be glaring down and he would not be in a secret land of saints but in the dry, dusty valley, facing tyrants and thieves and murderers, gazing into the haggard expressions of the Tibetans.

But something about the town had changed. As they reached the outskirts the boys who played in the empty riverbed were wearing crisp white tee shirts and played with a new soccer ball. By the shops on the first block a smiling teenager jogged, holding a small silver plane over his head. In the square in front of the government center a group of women were admiring shiny new keychains each of them held in her fingers, and an old man watched a boy playing with a toy helicopter that rose under its own power on a wire tether.

As Shan saw a familiar face, he motioned for Corbett to park the car, and jumped out.

“Tashi,” Shan said, putting a hand on the informer’s shoulder. “What happened?” The informer did not acknowledge Shan until he had asked his question twice.

“That famous American,” Tashi said in a disbelieving tone, “he stood on the steps with his hand on Mao’s head and gave a speech about how great the people of Lhadrung were, then passed out gifts from bags. His Chinese driver told me that at the airport the American bought everything they had in the gift store. Everything on the shelves, they just dumped it all into bags. He had his own jet plane.”

Shan stared, not wanting to believe the informer. Dolan had beaten them to Tibet.

“The American said he was Saint Nicholas, but no one knew what he was talking about. He’s crazy. The soldiers came to push him off the steps, and he gave them gifts, too. When he had no more gifts he passed out American currency.” Tashi pulled an American dollar bill from his pocket and waved it like a little flag.

“What are you doing here?” Shan asked as he surveyed the square. The informer could be watching for Surya, for purbas, perhaps seeking news of hidden artifacts.

“What are you doing here?” Tashi asked Shan in a reluctant tone, glancing toward the upper floors of the government center. He could, Shan realized, be looking for Shan himself.

“The prisoners?” Shan asked.

“Still at work by the cliffs in the lower valley. People say the Mountain Buddha is moving in the hills. A toolshed by the school was broken into. Ropes were stolen,” Tashi reported in a puzzled voice. “Ming paid a young herder for information about places a large statue could be kept.” When he looked up at Shan the informer’s eyes seemed hollow. “I’m scared.”

Shan stared at the informer so long Tashi turned away, looking at the ground. “Tashi,” Shan said, “I am going to give something to you, too, something perhaps no one has given to you in many years.” Tashi looked up. “There is never anything of you in what you say. You are only a conduit. But you can change that, starting now. Because I am going to give you trust. I am going to speak to you of things and then I am going to ask you to tell a lie, to help the Tibetans in the mountains.”

Tashi looked forlornly at Shan but said nothing. Shan continued, speaking for five minutes in a hushed, hurried voice. When Shan had finished Tashi broke away from Shan’s stare and gazed at the dollar bill. He pointed to the pyramid on the note. “Look at that. Why would the Americans have a temple on their money?”

“The American who gave you that had Punji McDowell killed.”

Tashi put his head closer to the bill as he replied, covering his lips, as if now trying to conceal their conversation. “Rumors of her death have not been officially accepted.” He cast a meaningful glance at Shan.

It was a warning. Yao had reported the events at Zhoka to Beijing, yet the authorities had not allowed the report to be officially filed.

“My grandfather used to tell me about foreign princes who came to Tibet, for a bride, for a special lama, for a special charm.” Tashi spoke to the longhaired man on the front of the bill now. “They would bring destruction wherever they traveled, but they would always leave when they found what they wanted.”

“How is your mother, Tashi?” Shan asked.

The informer sighed heavily, and leaned toward the man on the bill, whispering to him. “He carries a small gun, a pistol in a strap around his ankle. The driver saw it, when he was making things ready in their car.”

* * *

Two new vehicles were at the compound when they arrived half an hour later, shiny white Land Cruisers, the kind available for hire at the Lhasa airport. Shan followed Corbett through the gate slowly, surprised at the nervousness he felt about entering. Yao was inside, Corbett had explained, and they would need to discuss what had happened in Seattle. But Shan stopped in the shadows of the wall, studying the inner yard.

The purging of the altar figures seemed to be in the final stages. Only three of Ming’s staff were visible, languidly prying apart small statues with pliers and steel prybars, sitting near a small stack of artifacts on the plank table. A fire was burning in the barrel again at the far side of the yard, a single soldier sat on a bench nearby. Twenty feet from the barrel four Tibetan men labored at a pile of the shards that were not combustible, sorting pieces of metal into barrels to be shipped for recycling, throwing ceramic pieces into a pile near the wall where a man with a sledgehammer was smashing them.

Shan froze, still in the shadows, understanding now the reason for his sudden nervousness. He could not see Ko. Then the figure with the sledgehammer turned and Shan saw his face. His son was smashing the ceramic artifacts. But there was no sneer on his countenance, no derision in his eyes for the Tibetans. He worked with a sober, almost angry expression, working the sledge with an easy, experienced rhythm. The rhythm of a prison laborer.

As Corbett appeared in the sunlight in front of the building the soldier stood, straightened his uniform. The action caught Ko’s eye, and he lowered the hammer, turning to gaze at the American. He took a step forward, peering into the shadows where Shan stood. As Shan stepped into the open yard Ko met his gaze a moment, showing no emotion, no greeting, then lowered his eyes and swung the hammer again.

When Shan approached, Ko shifted the hammer behind him, as if somehow embarrassed by it.