The Forbidden Temple (13 page)

‘We’re leaving in the next few days for the area east of Makalu and we’ve only got the standard permits. Can you help us out?’

‘Going back to finish off Makalu, eh? I tell you, you boys have got real balls to be climbing those kinds of mountains. Not like most of the tourists round here who bugger off round Kailash for a few days, then go home and write a book about it.’

Grabbing the glass in front of him, René downed the contents and returned it to the table, smacking his lips loudly. He sniffed, switching his gaze to a table of three noisy diners who had evidently just arrived in Tibet. They all had neatly pressed clothes and sharp haircuts, and were laughing to themselves about something the waiter had mispronounced.

‘Hear that, you lot?’ René bellowed across at them. ‘Which one of you fucking idiots is writing a book then?’

As the restaurant fell silent all three of the people at the table looked round, confused by the question. René glowered at them a moment
longer, then shaking his jowly, unshaven face he turned back to Bill and Luca again. The dull murmur of the restaurant slowly continued.

‘That should stop them pestering the waiters for a while,’ René said with satisfaction.

Bill looked across at him, wondering how on earth he managed to keep any customers.

‘René,’ Luca reminded him, ‘the permits?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he replied. ‘You know, I’m not even sure which agency to ask any more . . . the TMA, Foreign Office . . . who knows? As I said, they try to keep you off-kilter. I did hear something recently, though. One Westerner managed to get permission to go down to the border and do some climbing, and where do you think he got his papers? The Forestry Commission! Can you imagine that? The bloody Forestry Commission.’

He tilted his head back and let out a low groan.

‘I came to Tibet nearly a decade ago as a botanist,’ he continued. ‘In those days the scientists on the other side of the fence would help you out. You know, apply for permits for you and lend a hand. But now . . . Christ, it’s always such a mess . . .’

Bill and Luca both remained silent as he trailed off, waiting for René to return to the subject. Eventually, he seemed to remember they were waiting for his advice.

‘Look, if you two are serious about it, you’re just going to have to peel off the standard route to Nepal and head east without anyone knowing. The Tibetans won’t care where you’re going, as long as you keep feeding them enough dollars, and I should be able to cover you from this end.’

‘And if we get caught venturing off without permits?’ broke in Bill.

‘Who’s going to check our permits?’ said Luca, waving his hand impatiently and downing his own shot of brandy. He winced and René looked on approvingly, refilling his glass as he set it back down on the table. ‘We’re going to be halfway up a bloody mountain.’

Bill sat forward in his seat, his voice terse. ‘I think it might be sensible to have an idea of what we’re up against before gallivanting off into a restricted area. And how the hell are we going to shake off the interpreter? They don’t let you leave without one.’

‘We’ll just have to give him the slip. Get up early,’ Luca replied.

‘That’s it, sneak off early? That’s the plan?’ Bill said, shaking his head. ‘You are kidding me, right?’

Luca raised his hands defensively.

‘Come on, Bill, it’s not like we haven’t done worse before. And like he said, René will be able to smooth things over from this end.’ Turning to look at him, Luca saw René lean back in his chair, the glass of brandy clutched loosely in one hand and resting on top of his belly. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

René seemed to drift reluctantly back to the present. He looked at them with eyes glazed from brandy. ‘You should be all right,’ he said eventually. ‘You’re not going anywhere too politically sensitive. It’s the tour operator who gets all their . . . attention. I’ll fix up some documents for you and they’ll get you where you need to go.’

They sat for a moment in silence, all appreciating the risk he was taking.

‘You know what I say? Screw ’em. After all the years of this shit, being thrown out would probably be a weight off my mind.’

‘Thank you, René,’ said Luca.

‘Yes, thank you,’ added Bill.

René nodded, signalling that the matter was now closed.

Scraping back his chair, Luca got to his feet.

‘Back in a second,’ he said, winding round the crowded tables and heading for the toilets.

On his way back into the main room, he stopped. The slim Chinese officer from the table by the window was standing in his way, polishing the lenses of his glasses with a cloth held in one hand. He kept the other in one of his pockets.

Luca stood still for a moment, waiting for him to move, and after a few seconds, coughed politely. The man slowly finished wiping the lenses, apparently in no hurry to get out of the way. Finally putting his glasses back on, he turned to look at Luca.

His eyes had unusually wide black pupils which seemed to obscure most of the irises. They made for a curiously blank expression. There was something about the way he stared straight through him that made the back of Luca’s neck tingle.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, using one of his few phrases of Mandarin, and ducked past, shaking his head.

Bill and René were engrossed in conversation when he got back to the table.

‘You really are an ignorant brute, aren’t you?’ René said, smiling at Bill. ‘The swastika is a Buddhist symbol intended to bring good luck. You see it painted on doorways and religious artefacts everywhere around here. Hitler just twisted it round a little, like he did with everything else.’

‘But painted on a human skull?’ Bill asked as Luca shuffled on to the bench seat beside him.

René snorted. ‘Don’t they teach you anything these days? The guys here don’t look at death the same way Westerners do. Think about it. What are the Tibetans supposed to do with dead bodies? Bury them? Hah! You try digging six feet down with the kind of perma-frost they get up here on the plateau. You’d be all fucking day!’

He gulped down another shot of brandy, signalling with his glass for Luca to do the same. Luca hammered it back, shutting his eyes as the taste of the alcohol hit him, and then grinning broadly.

‘And for that matter, you can’t cremate bodies either,’ René continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘There are bugger all trees up at this altitude and any decent wood is used for making stuff they need, not stuff they want to get rid of.’ He lowered his voice dramatically. ‘You know what they do instead?’

Both of them shook their heads.

‘They take long knives and slice the bodies into small pieces . . . bones, cartilage, muscle . . . everything gets hacked off the corpse. Then they let the vultures pick clean the skeleton and feed the pieces of flesh to the dogs.’

Bill choked on a sip of brandy and then shook his head, turning a little green. ‘That’s disgusting.’

‘Makes perfect sense to me,’ countered René cheerfully. ‘It’s called a sky burial, which sounds very peaceful and spiritual when, as with everything in Tibet, the reality is a little more bloody. The only bit of refinement about the whole thing is the flowers. It’s one of the few places where you get any decent varieties of
Cousinia
– gorgeous colours and actually rather rare. Pressed quite a few of them in my time.’ He paused for a second indulgently. ‘Anyway, the upshot is that lots of the leftover body parts get used for tools, musical instruments, all sorts of stuff. The head you saw was probably part of a drum, or possibly a drinking bowl.’

He remained silent for a moment, allowing this gruesome image to sink in.

‘Why not? If it can hold slopping brains in there, it should be able to cope with brandy!’

Nearby, some of the diners put down their knives and forks abruptly. Luca and Bill noticed their squeamish stares and started smiling.

René’s own red face creased into laughter, and before his belly had stopped shaking he was reaching for the brandy again. He held the bottle poised in his hand for a moment, face suddenly serious.

‘Whatever you’re up to this time, boys, good luck to you. If it means taking some risks, I’m willing to back you. Tibet’s a country that needs more people with courage.’ He began to refill their glasses, glancing sideways towards the two officers over by the window. A sudden melancholy tinged his smile. ‘And this is where I find mine!’

Raising their glasses together, they all downed the shot. Luca and Bill winced. René burped dramatically.

‘Just one more thing,’ Luca said, as the heat of the brandy spread through them. ‘What’s a
po
?’

For a moment René frowned in concentration. Then he scratched the back of his head with his sausage fingers.

‘I’m pretty sure it means monkey,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘WAKE UP, BABU.’

The man looked down at the boy sleeping in his arms. The child’s head was nestled into his chest, so that all that was visible was a mop of tousled hair that swung back and forth in time with his step.

‘Wake up now, Babu. It’s time.’

He gently shook his arms and the boy gave a soft murmur. A moment later he tilted his neck back and yawned, his mouth stretching wide like a bear cub waking from a deep sleep. His eyes fluttered open; once, twice, then remained wide for a moment longer, trying to focus on the weather-beaten face of the man who was carrying him. He was staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on a faint glimmer of light in the distance. With each laboured breath frosted air appeared from his lips, slowly dissipating into the night sky as they moved forward.

The moon shone over the mountain peaks, bleaching out all colour from the path they had been following for hours. The guide was tired now, his steps slow and deliberate. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead, running freely down his dark skin before disappearing into his glistening black beard. He was hardened to the long climbs and endless trails of his native Nepal, but the weight of the rucksack on his back and the boy in his arms had taken its toll. The light in the distance was all that was keeping him going now.

As they continued forward, step by step, the boy swivelled his head within the man’s arms, watching the lights in the distance grow stronger. They climbed the mountain in two blurred vertical channels of fire. The boy’s hand instinctively went into the pocket of his sheepskin jacket, clutching the string of ornate prayer beads within. He worked them through his fingers one by one, the worn jade comforting to the touch.

Eventually the path grew wider, the scree on the ground becoming more compacted and worn from use. Large rocks had been moved out of the way and lay stacked along its edges in neat piles. The man stopped, letting Babu slip to the ground so that he was standing on his own feet and clasped his small hand in his. Before them, wide stone steps opened out, signifying the beginning of a vast stairway that led up into the blackness of the mountain.

The guide exhaled deeply, an exhausted smile appearing on his lips.

‘Well done, Babu. We’ve made it.’

The child tilted his head back so that their eyes met. He smiled.

‘I won’t forget you what you did for me,’ he said, his voice sounding older than his years.

The man simply nodded and swung his rucksack off his back. Reaching into one of the side pockets, he pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. He unwound the fabric to reveal a delicate brass bell, the metal a dull gold in the moonlight.

‘Let them know we are home.’

Babu took the bell and swung it before him, so that a high-pitched chime cut through the still air. There was silence, man and boy waiting expectantly. Then suddenly, the sound of a vast horn answered from somewhere far above – a deep hollow note that seemed to resonate through every rock and stone on the mountainside. Babu squeezed the man’s hand fearfully. Returning the pressure gently, the man led them forward on to the first of the mighty stone steps.

As the two figures walked up, streaks of light began to separate into
individual flames. Drawing level with the first of the burning torches, Babu noticed the silhouette of a figure seated behind it on the ground. Light from the flame played across the contours of his face, revealing a young man of possibly twenty years old, his hair shaved off and his head tilted backwards. His eyes were shut tight and he seemed oblivious to their passing.

Babu gazed around him, craning his neck to take in every detail. Behind each torch sat a figure in an identical pose, hundreds of them, all dressed in striking cornflower blue robes that were wound around their bodies so that only their right arms were exposed. The staircase stretched on and on and behind each torch was another blue-clad figure. As they climbed, flames crackled in the soft breeze, shooting off sparks which spiralled up into the night sky.

Then came the sound of singing. At first it was soft, barely audible, the pitch meandering between bass and tenor. Then more voices joined in, one building upon another, until the sound was flooding the mountainside in a beautiful, rolling chant.

Slowly Babu became aware of shapes looming out of the darkness. There were buildings, vast, sheer-walled buildings, ashen from the moonlight and stretching back into the mountain. As he pieced each impression together, trying to see where they began and finished, he felt a sudden jolt on his arm. His guide had come to an abrupt halt. They were standing at the top of the stairway which had opened out into a courtyard. A long line of trees cut through its centre while open braziers of burning logs were standing under archways in the surrounding walls.

Only a few feet ahead of them stood two monks, separate from the massed ranks of the others, both waiting with their hands clasped together in greeting. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air.

The guide bowed low before them.

‘
Namaste
, venerable fathers,’ he said. ‘I request sanctuary for one who has been chosen.’

‘Why does he seek us?’ replied one of the monks, his voice hollow
and rasping. He was ancient, with a thin, angular face bleached white by age. As he spoke, his eyes stared blindly in the direction of the guide.