The Ninth Buddha (8 page)

He was clearly weighing his answer.
 
When it came at last, it was cautious.

“I cannot see of what concern the monk could be to you or to Mr.
 
Frazer.
 
He was not a trader.
 
Just an unfortunate devil-worshipper with scarcely a penny to his name.
 
May I ask the reason for your interest?”

Christopher shook his head.

“It’s a private matter.
 
I assure you it has nothing whatever to do with trade.
 
I merely wished to know whether he said anything of importance while in your care, whether you recall anything that seemed significant at the time.”

The missionary looked sharply at Christopher.

“What would you deem significant?
 
How am I to judge?
 
I have already given an account to Mr.
 
Frazer and to Norbhu Dzasa, the Tibetan Agent here.”

“But perhaps there was something that seemed trivial to you and was not put in your report, and yet would be of interest to me.
 
I’m trying to find out how he came to Kalimpong, where he came from, whom he had come to see.
 
You may have some clue that would help me.”

Carpenter reached up, removed his spectacles, and folded them up

carefully, one leg at a time, like a praying mantis folding an even

tinier victim in delicately articulated forelegs.
 
For a moment, the

mild-mannered missionary had gone, to be replaced by another man

entirely.
 
But the substitution lasted only a second before

Carpenter regained control of himself and straightened the mask he had allowed to slip.
 
As carefully as before, with the same insect like deliberation, he unfolded his spectacles and replaced them exactly as they had been.

“The man was dying when he was brought to us,” he said.

“He died the next day.
 
All that is in the report.
 
Would that I could say he had gone straight to the arms of a merciful Saviour, but I cannot.
 
He spoke deliriously of things I did not understand.
 
I speak a little Tibetan, but only what suffices for conversations with the dzong-pongs and the shapes when they come to visit me.”

Christopher interrupted.

“Did anyone like that visit you while the monk was here?
 
The Tibetan Agent, perhaps.
 
I forget what you said his name was.”

“Norbhu Dzasa.
 
No, Mr.
 
Wylam, there were no visitors, unless you count Doctor Cormac.
 
This man Tsewong died among strangers, I regret to say.”

“You say he spoke deliriously, that he muttered things you did not understand.
 
Did he say anything at all about a message?
 
Did he mention the name Zamyatin?
 
Or my name, Wylam?”

Christopher was sure the little Scot reacted to the questions.
 
He seemed to grow pale and then flush.
 
Just for a second, the mask slipped again, then Carpenter was back in control.

“Absolutely not.
 
I should have noticed something of that kind, I am sure.
 
No, it was all gibberish about the gods and demons he had left behind him in the mountains.
 
You know the sort of thing I mean.”

Christopher nodded.
 
He did not believe a word of it.

“I see,” he said.

“Are any of your staff Tibetan?
 
Or perhaps some of your orphans?”

Carpenter stood up and pushed his desk back.

“Mr.
 
Wylam,” he expostulated, “I really would like to know just where you are driving with these questions.
 
You are verging on the impertinent.
 
I am willing to answer anything within reason, but questions about my staffer the children in my care pass the bounds of what I regard as proper or allowable.
 
You are not, I take it, a policeman.
 
Nor a government official, presumably.
 
In which case, I would like to know what right you think you have to come here prying into my affairs and the affairs of this institution.
 
In fact, I think it would be best all round if you were to leave at once.”

Christopher remained seated.
 
He had succeeded in rattling the man.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to seem impertinent.
 
I think it will be best if I explain.
 
My son William was kidnapped two weeks ago.
 
As yet, the motive for the kidnapping is not known.
 
But I have reason to believe he was abducted on instructions contained in a message carried out of Tibet by this man Tsewong.
 
I’m not at liberty to tell you why I think that to be the case.
 
But I assure you my reasons are very serious.”

Carpenter sat down again slowly, as though something very sharp had punctured him.
 
He looked more rattled than ever.

“Where exactly was your son when he was .. . ah, abducted?”

“At home, in England.”

“And you say this happened two weeks ago.”

“On the Sunday before Christmas.
 
We had just left Mass.”

A look of sectarian distaste flickered over the missionary’s

face.

“You expect me to believe this?”
 
he said.
 
Christopher noticed that he had started playing nervously with a small ivory paperknife on the desk.

“It is not humanly possible for anyone to have been in England two weeks ago and to be in this room talking to me today.
 
You know that as well as I do, unless you are completely insane.
 
Goodbye, Mr.
 
Wylam.
 
You have wasted enough of my time.”

“Sit down.
 
Please sit down and listen.
 
I was in England until nine days ago, if you want me to be precise.
 
There’s no mystery about how I got here.
 
Certain friends in England arranged for me to be flown here in a biplane.
 
The world is changing, Mr.
 
Carpenter.
 
Before long, everyone will fly to India.”

“And your son.
 
The one you say was kidnapped.
 
Where is he?
 
Is he in India as well?”

Christopher shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“But, yes, I think he may be in

India.
 
Or, more possibly, already on his way to Tibet.”

“Mr.
 
Wylam, you may be telling the truth about how you got here.
 
Modern science is truly miraculous: the good Lord has given us the means to spread His Gospel in the remotest regions of the globe.
 
But the rest of your story makes no sense to me.
 
I am truly sorry to hear about the kidnapping of your son.
 
My wife and I shall pray for his return to you.
 
But I do not see how I can be of any further help to you.
 
The man who died here brought no messages.
 
He said nothing coherent.
 
He had no visitors.
 
And now, forgive me, but there are urgent matters awaiting my attention.”

Carpenter stood up again and reached a hand across the desk.

Christopher followed suit.
 
The missionary’s fingers felt dry and brittle.

“I’ll ask Jennie to show you out.”
 
He reached for a small brass bell and rang it vigorously.
 
An uneasy silence followed.
 
Christopher could see that Carpenter was eager to be rid of him.
 
What was he hiding? And who was he frightened of?
 
Abruptly, the missionary broke into his thoughts.

“Mr.
 
Wylam,” he said.

“You must excuse me.
 
I have been very short with you.
 
I am under a great deal of pressure at the moment.

The Lord’s work makes demands on us.
 
And no doubt you yourself are feeling great anxiety on behalf of your son.
 
You must be very concerned for him.

“Would it help to make amends if I were to invite you to dine with us this evening?
 
Just my wife and myself.
 
A simple meal, I fear: this is a house of charity, not the palace of Dives.
 
But we have ample for a guest.
 
And perhaps a little sympathetic company will help to ease your troubled heart.”

Ordinarily, Christopher would have declined.
 
The thought of sitting through a meal of charitable frugality with the black gowned Mrs.
 
Carpenter and her desiccated spouse did not fill him with eager thoughts.
 
But the very fact of the invitation both unnecessary and, thought Christopher, out of character- added to his conviction that Carpenter was uneasy about something.

“I’d be pleased to accept.
 
Thank you.”

“Good.
 
I’m glad.
 
We dine at seven.
 
There are no formalities.

Come a little earlier and I will show you something of our work before you eat.”

There was a knock, then the Indian girl who had opened the front door to Christopher entered.

“Jennie,” Carpenter said.

“Mr.
 
Wylam is leaving now.
 
He will be dining with us this evening.
 
When you have shown him to the door, will you please ask Mrs. Carpenter to join me in my study?”

The girl curtsied but said nothing.
 
Christopher shook hands with Carpenter again, then followed the girl out of the study.

John Carpenter remained standing at his desk, his hands resting on its top as though for support.
 
He heard the front door open and close and the sound of Jennie’s footsteps going towards his wife’s sitting room.
 
The wing of the orphanage in which he and Mrs.
 
Carpenter lived was soft and silent, filled with carpets and velvet hangings, dark, papered walls and heavy chintz furniture.
 
Sounds were muffled, light was turned to shadow, the air was thick and unnatural.

Behind him, on a low shelf, a clock ticked and ticked, forlorn and remorseless.
 
He closed his eyes, as though to pray, but his lips remained tightly shut.

Kalimpong fell away from him like a dream.
 
All the spired and domed and pillared cities of India fell away, leaving nothing but a thin ochre dust hanging in the air.
 
He was alone, walking along a dirt road that led to the residence of the tsong-chi, the Tibetan Trade Agent.
 
Above him, to the north, white mountains hung in the sky like castles of snow and ice.
 
In the air above them, thick clouds like dragons’ breaths swirled in a tattered swarm.

As he looked at the mountains he felt descend upon him a sense of unease he had first experienced eleven years earlier, not long after his marriage.
 
He had brought Elizabeth north to Simla for the summer season, and at one point they had gone up to the Himalaya foothills. On the second day, an icy wind had come down from the north, stirring the trees in their garden.
 
They had stood on the terrace together, drinking cold whiskey in heavy glasses and watching the clouds shift and scatter above the mountains.

“Can you feel it?”
 
Elizabeth had asked, and Christopher had known instinctively what she meant.
 
All the crude power, all the vast material strength of their civilization was massing about the quiet places of the earth.
 
Christopher could feel it now as he had felt it all those years before, but redoubled in its potency.
 
Like an octopus, its tentacles were reaching into every corner of the world, stroking at first, then squeezing, and finally draining the very life from all it touched.
 
Ancient places, sanctuaries, the dark and the untouched realms all were being turned into an endless battlefield where tanks roamed like black beetles and new men in new uniforms danced in a dim ballet.

He found the tsong-cki’s residence in a small valley about a mile from town.
 
It was a small house built in Tibetan style, with touches of Chinese ornamentation on the roof.
 
At the door, a tall prayer wheel stood like a sort of guardian, reminding the visitor that religion, not trade, lay at the heart of every Tibetan.

The tsong-chi, Norbhu Dzasa, was at home.
 
Christopher had originally planned on getting an introduction from Frazer, but in its absence he had produced one for himself.
 
It wasn’t much to look at, but he didn’t want it to be.
 
Here in Kalimpong, he had to act the part he had imposed on himself.

He handed the letter of introduction to the tsong-chi’s grave little Nepalese servant and asked him to transmit it to his master.
 
The little man looked at Christopher as if to suggest that his very existence was an impertinence and his calling without an appointment not far from a capital offence.
 
He took the letter, harrumphed loudly, and disappeared down a dark passage.

Christopher thought he could hear a voice murmuring in the distance:

somewhere in the house, a man was praying.
 
The sound of his voice was melancholy and remote, a single mantra endlessly repeated.
 
Suddenly, he heard footsteps and a moment later the little servant reappeared out of the shadows.
 
Without a word, he ushered Christopher inside and closed the heavy wooden door.