The Rose of Tibet (6 page)

He said, smiling, ‘Is that where Tibet is – in the sky?’

‘In the mountains, sahib.’

‘Have you ever been there?’

‘No. Too young, sahib. I go with my brother in five, six years.’

‘With the caravans?’

‘With the caravans, sahib.’

‘Is your brother away now?’

‘Yes, sahib. Ten days away. He work for Michaelson Sahib.’

‘What do they call your brother?’

‘Ringling. My name is Bozeling, sahib,’ the boy said, grinning.

‘All right, Bozeling. Let’s move on.’        

Michaelson Sahib looked in that evening, as promised. He had changed into a white suit, and he came in briskly, rubbing his hands and nodding to the barman who mixed him what was evidently a familiar drink. Houston had waited for some time in the empty bar; he seemed to have the hotel to himself.

‘Nippy in the evenings,’ Michaelson said. ‘Sorry I was a bit abrupt this morning. There’s a big load in and the boys
get things arsey-turvey if you take your eyes off for a minute. No offence, sport?’

‘No offence,’ Houston said, and shook hands again.

‘It’s the first caravan we’ve had in for some time. Everything’s overdue because of the bloody weather. What brings you here?’

Houston told him.

‘Yes. I saw the others a few months ago. I doubt if you’ll get any change out of the Tibetans, though. They don’t want to know about foreigners this year.’

‘I heard they’d fallen out with the devils.’

‘That’s it,’ Michaelson said, seriously. ‘There’s a lot of bad omens for this year. Still, you’d better have a go now you’re here. I sent a note across half an hour ago asking if he’d see us tonight. I expect he will. He thinks I’m offended,’ he said, baring a set of long, yellow dog-like teeth. ‘The old sod has crossed me up on a shipment of black tails I’ve been expecting for six months.’

‘Black tails?’

‘Best yak. Long hair,’ Michaelson said, drinking.

‘What is it you do exactly?’

‘Trader. Been here thirty years. I’m the institution here. There are a few other European traders, but they flit off during the winter. I practically keep the place going,’ he said, showing his teeth again.

‘You import yak hair from Tibet?’

‘Wool staples of all sorts. Black tails give the best staple. It makes a very hard, tough cloth.’

‘And you send goods in?’

‘Manufactured goods, food, cloth, anything. There’s not much doing now. Caravans are in and out all summer, but it’s not too profitable this time of year. The teams sit around eating you out of house and home. I’ve got one now, been gone ten days and still holed up in Sikkim in a blizzard.’

‘You’ll have a young man called Ringling on that one. I was talking to his brother.’

‘That’s right. I took him on when his father was killed on a trip a couple of years ago. I keep him going steadily right through the winter so they’ve got something coming in at home. He’s a good kid, Ringling.’

‘I was wondering,’ Houston said, ‘if I could find the team my brother and his party were supposed to meet in October.’

‘I wouldn’t know, sport. That kind of arrangement they make themselves. It gives them a few extra ackers. It couldn’t have been one of my teams, though.’

‘Why not?’

‘I had no caravan in October or November. The weather was too bad. I think it’s the earthquake that shook everything up. I’ve never known conditions like it. You having another of these?’ he said, looking into Houston’s glass.

‘Thanks. You mean,’ Houston said, ‘conditions were so bad that no caravans were running?’

‘I don’t know. I think Da Costa ran one – he’s a Portuguese. Sangrab would know.’

Michaelson stayed for dinner at the hotel; but no messenger arrived from the Tibetan consul. Michaelson was irritated by this, but more, it seemed to Houston, because of the rebuff to his reputation as an institution than on Houston’s own account.

He said, ‘Let me know if you don’t hear tomorrow. I’ll do something about it.’

‘Right. And thanks very much.’

‘Don’t thank me yet.’

Houston heard nothing the next day. He walked about the town again with the boy, and made half a dozen charcoal sketches. The boy was delighted. But there was still no word from the mysterious Sangrab when he returned to the hotel.

Michaelson appeared angrily at six-thirty.

‘I hear that little sodling hasn’t condescended to see you yet.’

‘I’m afraid that’s right.’

‘Well, let’s have one and get over there. I don’t know what he thinks he’s playing at.’

‘I don’t want to do anything that’s unwise. I need his help.’

‘It’s not very wise of him to overlook a note of mine. I’ll have that old bastard shifted back home so fast he won’t know what’s happening.’

‘Did you mention in your note what I wanted to see him about?’

‘Certainly not. That’s your business. And anyway, he’d know. He knows everything that goes on in this town. Bloody sauce!’ Michaelson said. His face was red and his tie somewhat ill-adjusted. ‘Let’s get on over there before he starts dinner. They eat at seven. He’ll never leave that once he’s begun.’

Houston had some doubts as to the wisdom of confronting the Tibetan representative with Michaelson in his present mood of injured pride; and he suspected that the trader was using him to settle some scores of his own. But he couldn’t get out of it without giving offence. He finished his drink and accompanied Michaelson pensively across the square.

The crowds had gone from the courtyard of Sangrab’s establishment; the double doors were locked and the building shuttered and silent. Michaelson rapped loudly, and a few moments later a robed Tibetan appeared.

Michaelson spoke curtly, and they were admitted. The door was closed behind them. The servant disappeared. Houston heard Michaelson breathing noisily beside him in the dark hall. Presently the servant appeared again, with a small lantern which he hung on a wall bracket. He murmured a few words to Michaelson.

‘As I thought,’ Michaelson said. ‘He’s at his prayers now. We’ll catch him just before he eats.’

And indeed, after some moments Houston could distinguish a faint chanting from somewhere in the house, a throaty ululation that was strange but not unpleasant in the flickering lamplight.

The servant returned some minutes later, and they followed him down a dim corridor to a pair of double doors that he threw open for them. Inside, in a blaze of light from some dozens of candles, stood two old men. Houston had never in his life seen such gorgeous figures. They were dressed in robes of richly-embroidered silk, shaped and buttoned across the chest like cossack uniforms. Each wore a jewelled silk choker loosely tied under a stand-up mandarin collar, and hair dressed on top in a glossy black jewelled bun. Each also wore a single pendant ear-ring, and had a little goatee beard.

For an instant, Houston had the impression the two figures
were household idols, so still were they; but presently they bowed, and he found himself bowing in return.

He was considerably impressed to see that Michaelson was in no way put out by all this magnificence. He sat himself easily in a chair and motioned Houston to do the same, and the two old men sat down also.

Houston had been wondering which one of them was Sangrab, and now, as Michaelson addressed him, he saw. The other old man had moved a little apart; he sat beside a small table and rested his hands on it as he watched. There was something of a tortoise-shell cat about him. Tortoise-shell combs gleamed in his hair; bits of tortoise-shell stood out on his hands – little hands placed one on top of the other, which fixed and contracted like a cat’s. There was something of the cat, too, about his thin upturned mouth and the narrow drowsy eyes. These eyes were, however, turned quite un- blinkingly on Houston; he did not see them move throughout the interview.

Sangrab had been playing with his beard, studying Houston from time to time as Michaelson talked, and interpolating a few words himself.

‘Well,’ Michaelson said in English, at length, ‘he’s not optimistic about the death certificates – I told you that. But he’ll try again, if you want. Meanwhile he’s promised to sort out the names of the teamsters you want. The snag is that the October caravan
was
run by Da Costa, as I thought, and he’s gone off to Goa for the winter. He thinks the teamsters have dispersed, too. Some of them go and hump tea in Darjeeling and a lot go home to Nepal – they’re mainly Sherpas or Gurkhas. Still, you might find some of them here. It will take a few days to get the list – he’s got a lot of work on at the moment. Does that satisfy you for now?’

Houston said it did, and they left soon after.

‘I must say,’ Michaelson said with satisfaction as they turned into the hotel for a drink, ‘the little sodling was quite ingratiating. He feels badly about my black tails, of course. And then, the other fellow was listening.’

‘Who was the other fellow?’

‘It’s an official he’s got staying with him. He arrived last night – that’s why he couldn’t see us. They send someone
down to check up on him from time to time – he’s nicely placed to take a bit of bribery. He’ll sit in with him for a few days and then hop it. You never see the same one twice.’

There seemed no reason at the time to doubt it.

Houston had not thought to spend more than a week in Kalimpong. It was, in all, seven weeks before he left, including a trip to Calcutta in between. He had overlooked the timeless qualities of all transactions in India.

It took him a week to find a single named teamster. He knew the man’s address and his usual haunts and the odd jobs he was engaged upon; none the less, and despite the boy’s assistance, it was seven days before he ran him to earth in a small and slightly illegal drinking shop.

The result was hardly fruitful.

Yes, the man said cheerfully, he had been a member of the October caravan. Certainly they had been joined by other travellers – by perhaps twelve or so at different points of the journey. He didn’t know if any of the travellers had failed to meet them after arranging to do so. This was a matter for the caravan sirdar or his deputy who alone made such arrangements. Where was the sirdar? Why, in Sikkim. He returned home each winter as everybody knew. And his deputy? In Darjeeling, possibly.

Houston still had no chitty for Sikkim, but he could go to Darjeeling without one, and he went. He found the deputy sirdar and several other members of the October caravan humping tea, as Michaelson had suggested.

This visit was not very fruitful, either.

The nearest the caravan had passed to Yamdring was Gysung, sixty odd miles away. Was it likely they would pick up travellers then from Yamdring? Yes, indeed. Why not?

Had they picked any up in October?

In October? No… . No, not in October.

Had they perhaps
arranged
to pick any up then?

That was possible. It was hard to recall exactly. There were always cases of broken arrangements on every trip. One paid no particular attention.

At what date had the caravan reached Gysung?

It had reached Gysung (this two trips and several discussions later) on
21
October.

So if a party had meant to meet the caravan there, when would they have had to leave Yamdring?

Five days earlier. One allowed twelve miles a day in that part of the country.

Five days earlier
… .
16
October
.

Supposing the party had run into an avalanche – where would be the most likely place for this to happen?

Undoubtedly on the Portha-la pass. This was the only place on the Yamdring-Gysung route that one would expect an avalanche.

Whereabouts was that?

Three days’ march from Yamdring.

Three days from
16
October
… . It was all very thin, very circumstantial. But still, Houston thought, he might have narrowed down the details a bit.

He wrote in his notebook: ‘
In view of all the above, the
logical deduction must be that the party was overwhelmed on or about
19
October on the Portha-la pass, some thirty-six miles from
Yamdring on the road to Gysung
.’ He appended the names of his informants and got them to make their marks.

He returned to Kalimpong tired and depressed. He had been away just over two months now, and had spent in all nearly six hundred pounds. He thought he had got as far as he was going to get; and that unless the Tibetan government showed some rapid signs of cooperation he might as well go home.

He asked at the reception desk if there was anything for him.

‘Nothing, sahib.’

All
right
, Houston said to himself. Enough was enough. He would have a bath and a drink and pay one final call on the Tibetan representative. Then away on the morning bus.

He had the bath, and the drink, and a few more after it, and went reluctantly out into the square. He had left it a bit late for the Tibetans. No use after seven o’clock, Michaelson had said. It was getting on for that, the lamps going on above the stalls. He was sick of the place suddenly, sick of all the places, sick of himself. But he walked across the square, and
continued walking stolidly even when a small brown bombshell erupted at his side.

‘Oh, sahib, you are back!’

‘Hello, me lad,’ Houston said, glad at least in a melancholy way that someone cared whether he was in this place or that.

‘When you come back, sahib?’

‘An hour or two ago.’

‘I look for you. My brother is back, sahib. You come and see him now.’

‘Not just now. Later, Bozeling.’

‘Now, sahib, now! Ringling has seen them, the ones you seek.’

‘Which ones?’

‘The dead ones, sahib.’

Houston felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He said, ‘Which dead ones?’

‘The English ones, sahib. They marched one day with the caravan.’

‘When was this?’

‘In December, sahib.’

Houston stopped. He felt himself rooted to the spot in the bustling, draughty square. He said stupidly, ‘In December? He couldn’t have. They died in October.’