Kingdom (22 page)

A package was pushed into the hands of one of the Chinese soldiers. The other smoked, and looked bored. Something seemed to have been resolved among them. Now Jack motioned to Nancy to join them, and she followed him into a waiting army jeep. Khaled had vanished silently away, without saying goodbye. On the jeep, no one was smiling. Jack was looking around the airport, as if he feared a threat might emerge from any direction. She sensed the tension and anxiety. If they were caught attempting to bribe the Chinese soldiers, who knows what would happen – to them, to the soldiers themselves. They passed through a gate in the perimeter fence, and turned onto a dusty road, clouds of dust pierced by sunlight. With a sputter, the truck paused and the soldiers nodded to Jack.

‘Here’s where we get out,’ said Jack to Nancy. She stepped down from the truck. As soon as they were on the ground, the truck turned and roared back through the gate. As they stood in a cloud of dust, coughing out their relief, Jack said:

‘Jesus, that gets worse every time. Now, let’s see if we can get a lift down to Lhasa . . .’

Their furtive progress, thought Nancy. Bribing guards, sneaking past security gates, and naturally it was all entirely illegal. She had never done this sort of work before. She sensed this was only the beginning, that she would break many more rules before this was all over.

‘Come along,’ Jack was saying. ‘We’ll admire the view later.’

She walked past oxblood-red and white walls, up zigzag flights of steps, until finally there it was before her: the Potala Palace, floating like a lone ship in the sea of clouds high above Lhasa’s main square. It dwarfed all the other buildings in the capital. The biggest temples and lamaseries of western Tibet would fit inside it many times over. But it was a sad sight, thought Nancy. For centuries it had buzzed with life: home to thousands of monks, it had housed vast libraries and enormous dining halls that could feed hundreds at a sitting. Now it was deserted, as empty and echoing as an abandoned city. There were no lamas filing in and out of the great doors, on pilgrimages from far-flung corners of the Tibetan empire. No monks tended the tens of thousands of butter lamps that lined the interior corridors; there was no need. Masses were no longer chanted night and day to crowded rooms and in the dark recesses and quiet cloisters.

No, it was clear to Nancy that the Palace was nothing but an empty husk, a memorial to former greatness. There was something grave about its unsymmetrical white and red walls – it reminded her of a photo she had once seen of the
Ark Royal
aircraft carrier, after it was retired from service and put into dry dock before being dismantled. From the very top, on the highest golden tower, a Chinese flag fluttered in the breeze. A handful of monks kept up a semblance of activity, but in reality the heart of the fortress–cathedral had long since stopped beating. The main visitors to the place were aged caretakers, carrying juniper broomsticks, or monks in the pay of the Chinese secret police, come to sniff around. Outside, soldiers were keeping careful watch. Chinese tourists were milling around having their photos taken. Some of them had purchased traditional Tibetan chubas, and were posing for the camera.

Nancy and Jack stood in silence, until eventually Jack said, ‘The first time I saw it, it wasn’t like this at all. It had a different feel.’

He sounds almost distressed, thought Nancy, as if he cares passionately. She glanced at him, but he was staring up at the Palace, his face impassive.

He continued, in a harder tone, ‘Which is odd, because even then it was pretty much disused. I think that people still believed that Tibet would be free, and so when they looked at the building it was still a symbol of hope, whereas now it is a reminder of failure – failure to throw off the Chinese.’

‘When was that?’

‘Oh – years ago now. It was when Tibet was virtually impossible to get into – unless you had masses of cash and came in on a guided tour. I didn’t – I was a student, so I hitch-hiked in from Sichuan province. It was quite a journey. Eleven days in the back of a lorry that was carrying flour up to Lhasa. I had to sit in the back the whole way because the driver was so terrified of being stopped. I slept on the bags of flour – quite comfortable actually. By the end I was completely white – the flour got into every pore of my skin and every inch of my clothes. The only window was a tiny little gap just above the lorry cab. I had to stand on tiptoes on the bags of flour to see out of it. On the eleventh day, we were driving across the Lhasa plateau and I looked out and on the horizon I could see the white walls and gold stupas of the Potala Palace. It was the closest I’ve ever come to a religious experience . . .’

He lapsed into silence. Curious, thought Nancy. He seems completely sincere. In the depths of his ragged and compromised soul, there is still something, something almost pure, almost meditative, she thought. And then the hardened exterior, all the cynicism and toughness – she wondered what the balance was, how much softness there remained within him. Not so much, she suspected, just a tiny kernel. But she didn’t know. Now Jack leaned close to her – she thought he might be about to reveal something else, some further aspect of his inner life, but instead he whispered, ‘Let’s get going to Balkhor market and the Jokhang Temple, that’s where the Tibetan quarter is. But don’t discuss anything to do with the trip while we are in public. Half these so-called tourists will be spies. They are paid to walk around and eavesdrop on people’s conversations . . . Stay close to me and don’t discuss anything till we get inside the Blue Lantern tea house.’

She glanced around at the little groups of Chinese, photographing one another. They didn’t look like spies, but then what did she know? She shifted the weight of her bag on her shoulder, and turned for one last glimpse of the unhappy palace. Then she followed Jack across the square.

They walked through streets filled with beggars and pilgrims, confused-looking nomads from the steppes and ambling tourists, until they came to Jokhang Temple, its thick stone walls reminiscent of a medieval European castle. As an aside, Jack explained to Nancy that this similarity was often pointed out by the Chinese in their anti-Lamaist propaganda. The reason for these massively sturdy walls was that like all of the gompas in Tibet, the Jokhang monastery was designed to double up as a fortress.

‘Tibet was a wild and dangerous land,’ he told her, ‘and before the Chinese came, the Dalai Lama’s remit often didn’t extend that far beyond the gates of Lhasa. Tales abound of his emissaries to western and eastern Tibet being thrown into ditches and laughed at. Outposts of Lamaism had to be able to defend themselves, from Chinese and Mongol invaders but also from recalcitrant Tibetan lords.’

Jokhang Temple was fronted by a cobbled square and a cobbled lane that ran right around the perimeter of its great stone walls. This lane, sandwiched between the massive walls and the stout Tibetan houses that made up the native quarter, was the home of an immense market. Glancing at the stalls, Nancy noticed that the market seemed to be more exclusively Tibetan than those in other streets they had been through. There were no Chinese stalls selling roasted nuts and chicken feet, as she had seen nearer to the Potala Palace.

And now Nancy watched in amazement as a man walked to the centre of the cobbled square. He seemed to be a young monk, lean as a whip, his face bronzed the colour of teak by the elements. He stood and flung his arms towards the heavens and then he collapsed onto his knees before finally lying flat on his front on the ground. Then, after a brief pause he picked his weary body from the street, took a step forward and then the cycle began again. Surely he must be in enormous pain each time he knelt on the ground, though the look on his face was of pure bliss. How far has he come, she wondered, advancing like a centipede, and almost as slowly? A level of religious devotion almost unimaginable in the West these days.

Where is Jack? she thought suddenly. She had been distracted by the bizarre and moving sight. Turning frantically a few times, she managed to locate him: he had marched off down the lane into the depths of the market. Had it not been for his height and shock of blond hair, he would have been lost to sight. Cursing him under her breath, Nancy shot after him, struggling through the crowds. Fifty yards up ahead he suddenly stopped and turned and ducked under a low doorway and into what she assumed must be the Blue Lantern.

The walls of the tea house were black from the centuries of butter-lamp smoke. The floor was made of flagstones, the furniture primitive but sturdy: low wooden benches and stout three-legged stools. There were half a dozen tables around which sat young men, some in cheap Chinese suits, others in casual sportswear. A couple of the men were wearing trilbies, and all of them seemed to be smoking. The tea house had an atmosphere of gangland menace, thought Nancy, and she kept her head down as she passed among the benches. At the far end of the room was a small bar and beyond it a doorway opened onto what was clearly the kitchen. The small windows were nothing more than grey smudges in the unhealthy dark.

Jack was talking to the man behind the bar. Selfconsciously, Nancy crossed the room to join him, and for all the gloom she was aware that she was nonetheless being scrutinized as she walked. They turned unsmiling faces on her, and she tried not to meet their eyes. Jack was speaking in Tibetan, so when she reached him she was obliged to wait, uncomprehending, all the time thinking of what she had discovered and what it might mean.

Indeed, she had to admit to herself that she was regretting her impetuousness. She had thought that finding Herzog would be a useful thing to do, somehow honourable, that she would be doing a good turn for a colleague she had always admired, even hero-worshipped. She had not imagined he would emerge as such an ambiguous and troubling figure. Nancy wondered if she should tell Jack what she had discovered, about her confusion, her apprehension. He and Anton Herzog had never been great friends, but at least he knew something of Herzog’s ambitions. He might be able to help her process the information. Or perhaps she should just announce that she had decided to leave. Jack wouldn’t care at all. He would take the money and she would never hear from him again. She looked across at him as he talked, and wondered at his rudeness, that he failed even to acknowledge her as she stood there. She was, after all, his employer. Perhaps he was finding out useful information, or perhaps he was just playing another of his bizarre power games, or generally acting up: it made her click her tongue impatiently, and she rolled her eyes and hoped he was noticing how bored she was.

Perhaps it worked. After a minute or so, the barman flipped open a section of the bar top and led them to the last remaining table, all the while talking to Jack in a low voice. A young red-cheeked Tibetan girl appeared, carrying two big steaming bowls of food, and a second girl came from the kitchen clutching a large samovar of tea, from which she poured out two thimble-sized cups.

‘Momos,’ said Jack, smiling and nodding at the steaming bowls of food, ‘Tibetan dumplings. Eat them. They’ll keep your energy up. And the Blue Lantern has never poisoned me yet . . .’

Jack nodded to the waitresses. Then he leaned over the narrow table and whispered, ‘You are about to meet Gunn Lobsang, he is a friend of mine and my fixer in Lhasa. Please don’t do or say anything that will make him nervous.’

‘Sure,’ said Nancy. ‘I know this isn’t my element exactly, but I’m not a complete fool.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Jack, with a slight edge to his voice. ‘Just remember he’s taking a major risk in talking to us.’

‘Of course,’ she said, bridling anew, and he subsided and took a spoonful of his dumplings. Nancy sighed in exasperation and began to eat her food. Hot, tasty, it was exactly what she needed, and she felt her spirits palpably reviving as she ate.

She was just feeling improved enough to think again about explaining things to Jack, when the door opened and a tall young Tibetan walked in. He was wearing a leather cowboy hat that he didn’t remove, and a tough-looking tweed jacket. He glanced around the room, clearly registering who was there, and then walked over to Nancy and Jack’s table.

‘Tashi Delek, Jack. Long time no see.’

The two men embraced each other briefly.

‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Nancy Kelly. We came by the usual route . . .’

The Tibetan put his hands together in prayer and bowed briefly to her.

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Kelly.’

Then he turned straight back to Jack and said something in Tibetan.

Jack responded in English, ‘She’s trustworthy, Gunn. I can vouch for her.’

Gunn flashed a glance at her and then with a flick of his hand he ordered tea from one of the girls who hovered behind the bar. Then he turned to Jack again.

‘What are you doing back in Tibet my friend? You know things have got much worse? Tenzin was thrown in jail last month. The police are arresting anyone they feel like nowadays – even the Tibetan police. And young people are just interested in money – they don’t care about freedom any more . . .’

‘Well, that’s capitalism for you – it makes people selfish and only interested in feathering their own nests. I don’t think Marx realized quite how effective this can be at preventing revolution – but maybe the Chinese do . . .’ said Jack, shrugging expansively.

The girl returned with the samovar and a thimble cup for Gunn. He took out a packet of cigarettes, tapped it on the table and then offered them to Nancy and Jack, who both refused.

When he had lit his cigarette and enjoyed a long drag, he said, ‘The only good thing is that it’s getting easier to move around. Nowadays anyone can be bought, for a price . . .’

He drew on his cigarette again. Nancy studied his handsome face, momentarily distracted from her inner turmoil by his presence. Handsome and yet prematurely aged. As a rule Tibetans aged very well, better than Caucasians, but Gunn Lobsang’s face carried the scars of a dangerous and stressful life. Jack nodded.