Beautiful Ghosts (59 page)

Corbett was soon surrounded by the Bumpari villagers, who brought him food and tea. Those who could speak Chinese explained how they had cleaned one of the cottages for him to live in. When they announced it, Shan saw no surprise in the American’s eyes, and heard neither protest nor acceptance.

Shan left them speaking in sad, yet somehow excited tones, to sit alone near the chasm edge.

“I can still show you where that cave is,” a familiar voice said behind him.

Shan patted the stone at his side for Lokesh to join him. “I need a retreat,” he agreed. “But I left my bag in town. You could draw me a map.”

“I will be here when you are ready. I will take you. There is a place I want to show you on the way, where cracks in the mountain form the signs of the mani mantra. There are berries ripening on the south slopes.” Lokesh seemed to follow Shan’s gaze toward the distant mountains and, as usual, seemed to read his mind, or at least his heart. “You found him, Xiao Shan, and he found you. This is not the end. This is a beginning.”

“He asked me about the prayer sticks,” Shan said. “I showed him how to use them.”

Lokesh’s eyes lit with great satisfaction but he did not speak. They sat in silence, watching a bird drift in the updraft below them, then, just as Shan’s father had done so many times when Shan was a boy, Lokesh found his hand and squeezed it, hard, just once, then dropped it and rose. “The American said he had a message for all of us from Inspector Yao.”

The group with Corbett had grown quiet. Even from the distance Shan could hear Corbett speaking of Yao and how he had stopped the looters, how the Chinese inspector had saved Zhoka.

“He speaks of the looters,” Shan said to Lokesh. “But no one asks about the treasure the looters sought.”

“I told our friend Corbett that Gendun still has not spoken to all the deities down there,” Lokesh explained. “It will take many more weeks. Even then,” he said, pausing to search for words. “Even then not everyone will be ready to go below. We know it is not for everyone.”

Corbett was holding a small piece of paper in both hands as Shan stepped closer. It was one of Dolan’s checks, which Shan had turned over to the American. “A hundred thousand American,” Corbett said. “Before he died Mr. Dolan told Inspector Yao that he wanted this to go to Punji McDowell’s children’s clinic.” It was one of the reasons Corbett had argued on the phone the night before. He would not agree to sign the statement on Dolan’s death unless he had assurance that the check would be honored, based on the written words of the dying inspector. It was not part of Dolan’s legacy, but of Yao’s. Yao had signed his letter attesting that Dolan had given him two checks, made to cash, one to be used for the clinic, one to go to the parents of the woman who had died in Seattle.

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.

*   *   *

In the early morning Shan was sitting by a tree as Corbett emerged, bag in hand, dressed for travel.

Corbett saw the bag by Shan’s side, and gestured to a car. “Where can I take you?”

“Town.”

“Last night I thought about things. That little cottage on the island,” Corbett said. “I’m going to open it up, live there for a while. Paint.”

“You don’t have to go back so soon.”

“This isn’t over until I give the check to the girl’s parents. And I told Bailey to hold the emperor’s fresco. I want to see it before it goes back.”

Minutes later, as Shan climbed out, he saw the package Liya had given Corbett sitting on the American’s bag. “What was it?”

“Haven’t worked up the nerve yet.” Corbett reached for Liya’s gift. It was wrapped in several layers of heavy felt, and when the last fell away Corbett’s breath rushed out. “Lama’s pajamas,” he whispered.

It was the framed limerick, the one the major had left in his cottage on the wall, written on army letterhead. There was a note on the back. A grin grew on the American’s face as he read it, then he handed it to Shan.
The tale of the tall American dancing with the old blind woman in the moonlight will live in our hearts all our lives,
it said.
Already the children have seen a rainbow extending in the direction of America and asked if you were at the other end. When you find the right rainbow, there will be a house for you in Bumpari.

“Will you return?” Shan handed it back and shut the car door.

Corbett put the car into gear. “All it takes is the right rainbow.” He reached through the open window and grabbed Shan’s hand a moment, then sped away.

Most of the night soil collectors had already left on their morning rounds, but in the old stable two women were refilling butter lamps in front of the secret painting.

“Do you expect him back soon?” Shan asked.

The nearest woman straightened and slowly shook her head. “Never. He is gone from us.”

“Gone?”

“Yesterday, after the Mountain Buddha appeared,” she said. “He began gathering his brushes and paints. He said he had to go, he had to go find another town where he was needed. I gave him a sack with some food and he just walked away, singing an old pilgrim’s song.”

Without thinking about it Shan helped the women fill the remaining lamps, then studied Surya’s painting again in silence. It was how some of the saints had lived, the old man had said on his prior visit, traveling from town to town, illuminating deities. When Shan finally emerged from the compound, holding his retreat bag, a familiar car was waiting.

Tan, at the wheel, stretched across the seat and opened the door for him. Shan climbed in, clutching his bag to his chest. “Public Security came early this morning,” the colonel said in a tight voice. “They’re gone now. Ming, too. There will be one of those secret trials they provide for senior Party members.”

Shan assumed Tan needed help with the statement he would be expected to make at Ming’s trial. Yet they did not turn at the gate for the army base but continued onto a gravel road Shan knew all too well. He pressed the bag tighter to his chest and looked at the distant mountains.

“There were powder marks on Dolan’s hand,” Tan said as the prison compound came into view. “He had shot a gun just before he died.”

“Looters,” Shan said. “You read Yao’s letter. He struggled with the looters, got a gun away from them.”

“We both know it was a lie. Would it be so bad if one of the wealthiest capitalists in the world were shown to be a murderer and thief, a common criminal?”

Shan studied Tan’s face a moment, weighing his words. He had learned in Tibet not only that justice was an elusive thing, but that it was one of the essential things, one of the true things, Lokesh would say, for which words were never sufficient. It was constructed partly of truth, partly of the spiritual. And for someone like Tan it was always at least partly political. “If it were so, an army of investigators would descend on Lhadrung from Beijing and America, then journalists and diplomats and television news teams from all over the world, hordes of them, nothing like the handful that came yesterday. Lhadrung would be under a microscope. Perhaps it would be a great opportunity for you,” Shan ventured.