The White Mirror (27 page)

“Can I bring you something, grandmother?” he asked.

She nodded and pointed at one of the embroidered wool blankets in another corner of the room. Li Du brought it to her, then helped her arrange it around her shoulders. She held its edges, fingering the embroidery idly, tracing the petals and patterns.

Her lips moved in almost silent speech. Li Du leaned a little closer. “I am sorry, grandmother,” he said. “I did not hear you.”

She frowned, an expression that was hard to recognize amid the ridges and draperies of her face. She tried to speak, but no sound came from her lips. Sensing her frustration, Li Du said, “It is my fault. My hearing is not what it once was.”

She relaxed slightly. Encouraged, he gave a self-deprecating smile. “You have all been quite patient with me. I know that I speak your language very poorly.”

Her eyes moved to his, searching for mockery or impatience, and not finding it. She picked up her prayer wheel, but did not begin to spin it. Then she brought her head close to his, and he heard her words as she breathed them into his ear. A strand of white hair that had curled away from her forehead touched his cheek.

“The painting,” she whispered. “It was the painting that killed Karma. There was something wrong with the painting.”

 

Chapter 21

“The painting?” Hamza rubbed his forehead. “Which painting do we speak of now?” He and Li Du sat at the hearth in the caravan hut. They could hear the muleteers occupied with various tasks outside.

The fire shifted, sending smoke flecked with glowing sparks whirling toward Li Du. He coughed and moved sideways on the bench, brushing ash from his coat. “She did not say.”

Hamza adjusted the logs, and the flame settled. He withdrew a long stick and, with a quick puff, extinguished the flame at its tip, leaving it black and smoking. “What were her precise words?”

Li Du concentrated. “She said, ‘It was the painting that killed Karma. There was something wrong with the painting.'”

“I have heard of paintings coming to life,” said Hamza. “They say the serpent spirits of an ancient school had a method of imbuing painted figures with magic to make them appear alive. Those who saw the paintings would carry on conversations with the painted people. But they were only illusions.”

“Like Granny Liu and the mirror,” Li Du murmured.

“Who is Granny Liu?”

Li Du smiled at the memory. “She is a character in a book who becomes lost in a grand mansion after drinking too much. She enters a room and, in looking for a door to get out, encounters a friend of hers. But the friend does not answer. Granny Liu does not realize that she is speaking to a mirror.”

Hamza shuddered. “The poor woman.”

“Most of the courtiers who read it considered it an amusing anecdote,” said Li Du.

“But how terrible,” said Hamza, “to be trapped in a room with no door and only a mirror containing a stranger who will not speak.”

Li Du was about to dismiss Hamza's words, but after a moment's thought, he stopped himself, acknowledging the terror of the situation Hamza described. “Fortunately for Granny Liu,” he said, “she realized that what she saw was not reality, but illusion. And once she understood that the object in front of her was a flat piece of glass, she perceived that its shape was very similar to a door.”

“And was it a door?”

Li Du nodded. “Yes. She found a hidden spring to open it, and it led her into a secret passage.”

“Ah,” said Hamza, relieved. “That is a good start to a tale.”

Li Du nodded. “But let us assume that we are not looking for a painting that came to life. We are left with the question of how a painting might kill someone, or, stated in a way that is perhaps more useful, how an old woman might come to
believe
that a painting killed someone.”

“How did Doso's first wife die?”

“In the fire at the mountain temple. Kamala says that it was an accident. As for paintings, the fire that killed Karma was the same fire that destroyed the painting Dhamo made—his vision of how the Chhöshe's reincarnation would be recognized.”

Hamza handed the charred stick to Li Du and brushed the grit from the flat surface of a rock embedded in the dirt floor. “Show me what this painting looked like.”

Using the burnt end of the stick, Li Du began to reproduce the sketch Pema had made in the temple.

Hamza watched him. “I see you are not an artist,” he said.

“It is a rough approximation,” replied Li Du, continuing to draw.

When he had finished, Hamza squinted down at the dark lines. “Those are the stairs set into the mountain,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Li Du. “In Pema's drawing, even the hollow tree was identifiable.” He pointed.

“And the mountains behind the temple,” said Hamza. “You have drawn this one in the shape of bird's wing even though you have never seen it. The sun was out on the day I arrived—I can confirm its shape.”

Li Du lifted his shoulders. “We will never see the original painting. But Pema sketched his memory of it with a sure hand.”

“Miraculous,” said Hamza, “that Dhamo should paint with such accuracy a valley he had seen only in a vision.” He pulled a handful of black and white pebbles from his pocket and began to drop them one at a time from one hand to another as he lapsed into silent reflection. Glancing at him, Li Du was struck again by the difficulty of guessing his age. Most people, thought Li Du, have clues to their lives written on their faces. It is possible to perceive age and, even if it cannot be interpreted, an implied unique trajectory of suffering and pleasure and relationship to the air and the food that has nourished them to their current state. With Hamza, this was not the case.

“Prophecies are a complicated business,” said Hamza. “Some say that a person must be mad to make prophecies. Others say that the gift of prophecy makes a person mad.”

Movement at the door made them both look up. Kalden stood in silhouette. His shadow, cast by bright sunshine, cut through the room.

“Have you seen Sonam?” Kalden's voice dropped to a murmur. “We have yet to complete our transaction.”

“I saw him at the manor hearth not long after sunrise,” Li Du said. “But I do not know where he is now.”

Kalden grunted, impatient, and stepped away from the door. “If you see him, tell him that I am waiting for him here.”

Outside the hut, the sky had changed. The clouds were breaking apart, revealing an expanse of blue. Beyond the pasture, the high mountain peaks were still obscured, but the sun was warm on Li Du's face.

He turned to Hamza. Kalden had reminded him of something else. “I heard Sonam in his room this morning. It sounded as if he was ransacking his own possessions. When I saw him at the hearth, it was obvious that he was infuriated.”

Hamza raised his eyebrows. “Did he say what angered him?”

“No, but he treated Doso with more insolence than usual.”

Hamza drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “You look like you had bad dreams. I remind you of what I said last night, scholar. Cursed paintings, haunted pools, enchantments. Consider that all these events are games of the mountains and clouds.”

“Perhaps they are, but I cannot pose questions to the mountains or the clouds. I will visit Yeshe in his cabin. I want to ask him again about his quarrel with Sonam. Perhaps he will reveal something that he did not tell me before.”

*   *   *

Yeshe's gruff, raspy voice bade him enter, and Li Du pushed open the door. Yeshe sat cross-legged among his buckets. Andruk stood with his back against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest.

Li Du glanced around the hut cluttered with worn blankets, buckets, and churns. It smelled of old butter and fresh milk. “Paolo Campo is not here?”

Andruk shook his head. “My employer has not asked for me today. I do not know where he is.”

“It seems he is often on his own,” said Li Du. “Is his command of the local language improving?”

Andruk's wide mouth stretched wider in a humorless smile. “No—the man can neither speak nor hear. He occupies himself with his maps and prayers. Each day he seems more content to pass the hours conversing in his own language with his own god.”

“What of his determination to win converts?” Li Du asked.

“He has not given up on his efforts,” said Andruk, with a glance at Yeshe. “But our visit to the village when we first arrived seemed to discourage him. He declared the villagers beyond saving, and did not want to return. In my opinion, the locals found it entertaining to provoke him.”

“How did they provoke him?”

Andruk shrugged. “He does not like to hear what he calls superstitious stories about demons and ghosts in the forests and mountains. The villagers perceived his discomfort, and enjoyed watching his face change color as I translated their tales.”

“Stories about the forests,” said Li Du. “Then they must have told him about the hot springs.”

Andruk was faintly surprised. “Yes,” he said. “They told him. He replied that the fires of hell must heat the water.”

Yeshe dipped his ladle into a bucket, pressing it gently down until it was submerged beneath a layer of curds. “So you came here looking for the foreigner?”

Li Du shook his head. “No,” he said. “I came to speak to you.”

“About what?”

Li Du had prepared his story on the way to Yeshe's hut. He took a seat on a bench across the hearth from Yeshe and leaned forward confidingly. “My friend the storyteller has business in Lhasa,” he said, “and wishes to speed his travel. He is considering leaving the caravan and hiring Sonam as his guide.”

The ladle slipped from Yeshe's hand and sank down into the bucket. He ignored it and looked up at Li Du. “Tell your friend that would be a foolish decision.”

“I have told him,” said Li Du. “To me it is clear that Sonam is untrustworthy. But Hamza insists that there is no reason to doubt him.” Li Du lifted his eyes to Yeshe. “I witnessed your quarrel,” he said. “Is there nothing you can tell me that would help me dissuade my friend?”

Yeshe grunted. “I'll tell you this—Sonam's a thief. He'll cut your friend's throat and be off with his silver and his fine clothes before they reach Bathang. I guarantee it.”

“How do you know?”

Yeshe's lips compressed. He retrieved his ladle and wiped its handle on his sleeve. “My argument with him is my own business.”

As he spoke, the light in the cabin changed. The seams in the walls were suddenly visible, and the dirt floor was striped with pale spears of sunshine. Li Du swiveled on the bench to look outside through the open door. The snow on the pasture glittered. The icicles that hung from the edge of Yeshe's roof were watery and had begun to drip, making holes in the snow beneath them.

He saw Doso crossing the pasture toward the manor, and a thought occurred to him. He turned back to Yeshe. “Could it have been Doso you saw the day Dhamo died?”

“Eh?” Yeshe cocked his head.

“The person you saw and did not recognize,” said Li Du.

Yeshe chewed his lower lip. “I don't think it was Doso,” he said. “I told you—it wasn't a coat I'd seen. It was a great, black coat with tufts at the shoulders. Haven't seen it before or since.”

Li Du heard a quick intake of breath and turned to see Andruk hesitating, about to speak. “I also saw that person,” Andruk said after a moment.

“But you don't know who it was?”

“No. I could not see the face or form.”

Li Du addressed Yeshe. “You saw this person precede Dhamo,” he said. Yeshe nodded. Li Du looked at Andruk. “Is that also what you saw?”

Andruk appeared to consider the question. “Must have been,” he said. “I did not see Dhamo, but I saw the person in the dark coat go into the forest. I was on my way to the village.”

“Was this before or after Paolo Campo came here?”

Yeshe answered. “Paolo Campo came later.”

He and Andruk were both staring at Li Du. Yeshe was the first to speak. “What's this about?”

Li Du did his best to look tired and addled. “I confess that I have not been sleeping well,” he said. “My friend the storyteller speaks to me of curses and ghosts, and now I am afraid when I see my own shadow—” He paused. “Or my own reflection in a mirror.”

Andruk's expression was wary. “A mirror,” he said. “Like the one that Dhamo painted on his body.”

Li Du did not answer. Yeshe began to wring out a cloth, squeezing moisture from it with strong, sinewy hands. “Talking about death brings it closer,” he said.

Andruk ignored Yeshe. His attention remained on Li Du. “Have you found the thangka that was missing?”

Li Du looked at Andruk, slightly startled. “How did you know about the missing thangka?”

“Your friend told me. I believe he intended to ask me if I had taken it. But he became distracted by an explanation of his own invention—he suggested it had folded itself into a tortoise and crawled into the forest to grant the wishes of birds.”

Li Du remained serious. “Did you take it?”

“I did not,” said Andruk. “What did it look like?”

“It was incomplete. The Chhöshe believes it was a wrathful incarnation of Manjusri.”

Andruk stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and lifted impatient eyes to the ceiling. “I do not like being trapped so long in this valley,” he said.

Yeshe picked up one of his canes and gestured with it at Andruk. “You think it is bad for a few days. I am here through all the seasons of all the years. When my legs were well, snow never stopped me from crossing a pass when I wanted to cross it.”

Li Du watched Yeshe hobble to the door and look out into the glaring sunshine. Beyond Yeshe, Li Du recognized Pema trudging through the snow, bundled in his gray and brown coat.