Текст книги "Bone Mountain"

Автор книги: Eliot Pattison

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The abbot led them under the sign of the low building on the left, then excused himself, announcing that one of the young novices would guide them around the compound. The nervous novice showed them pegs where they might hang their belongings and explained that Norbu was the main gompa of the region, with thirty-five monks and novices, boasting one of the highest Religious Affairs scores in all of Tibet.

"Scores for what, exactly?" Shan asked the novice as he led them outside, past the first two central buildings, the first of which he had quickly identified as the administration building, the second as the site of the dining hall and instruction rooms.

The youth gave a short grimace. "Proper conduct," he said, staring straight ahead. "Serenity," he added in a strangely somber tone, and quickened his pace. In the southeast corner of the high wall stood a long wooden building and a stable, both in severe disrepair. They seemed to be huddling together, the last survivors of an older, different monastery, resisting the bigger, more modern construction in the center of the gompa. Shan studied the buildings, which were made of planks joined with pegs. Shovels and rakes were laid against them. A pile of tattered baskets, with thick shoulder straps and padded loops extending out of their tops were stacked against the stable. Shan knew such baskets, for he had carried one nearly every day for four years, the long loop on his forehead, hauling rocks and gravel for government road builders. Past the buildings in the corner of the outer wall was a four-wheeled wooden cart and a huge pile of dung, more than ten feet high. Towering above the dung pile in the shade of the poplar trees that grew outside the wall was a tall, thin pole on which were fastened a long radio antenna and a satellite dish.

Nyma darted toward a huge cylinder hung in a scaffold near the center of the rear wall, a beautifully-crafted prayer wheel. But as she reached to touch it the novice called her away, and quickened his pace again to lead them past a row of vehicles parked along the wall, one a large van with the markings of an ambulance. A stern Han man in a sky blue uniform stepped around the end of the van, studying them intensely as he lit a cigarette.

"A special medical team from Lhasa," the novice explained in his nervous boyish voice. "They travel the countryside to help the local people. They have been on an extended assignment for weeks, coming from the south, near the Indian border, visiting local villages and camps. Seldom do the people get to see real doctors."

Real doctors. Lokesh looked back at Shan. Once there had been a college for real doctors, on the Plain of Flowers.

Tenzin had lingered by the mound of dung. As he approached, Shan saw that he had spread some of the mound's dry, dusty contents on his cheeks and pulled his hat low.

As they continued around the southwest corner a line of perhaps twenty Tibetans came into view inside a line of wooden stanchions threaded with rope. Half a dozen more men and women, mostly Han, all wearing the light blue uniforms, were grouped at the door of a small building, studying the Tibetans in line. The rongpa and dropka in line all wore the same anxious look as the young monk. They did not look sick. They just looked worried.

A man wearing a fleece vest called Lhandro by name, gesturing him closer as though he feared stepping out of line. But when Lhandro took a step toward the man the novice touched his arm to restrain him. "The doctors don't like anyone interfering," he said in an earnest tone. Shan heard one of the men in blue remind the Tibetans to have their papers ready for inspection.

The third of the central buildings was a longer lower structure that did not share the polished look of the first two structures. Patches of stucco were falling off the rear wall. Two red pillars straddled a thick wooden door, ornately carved with images of the Historical Buddha's life, that appeared to have been salvaged from an older building and set into a metal frame. They stepped into an entryway of rough plank flooring into a large chamber with a concrete floor. Half a dozen monks sat on cushions on the cold, hard floor, facing an altar topped with yellow plastic laminate on which sat a four-foot-high plaster statue of the Historical Buddha, Sakyamuni, painted in garish colors. Beside the Buddha was a small table with offering bowls and a smoldering cone of incense.

"Our lhakang," their guide explained. The gompa's main chapel.

Lokesh took one look at the statue and sat down among the monks. Their escort raised his hand as though to protest, then Nyma sat, and Tenzin.

"There are so few temples in the mountains," Shan observed pointedly.

The monk studied Shan and opened his mouth with an inquisitive glint, then, as Lhandro, too, joined the others on the floor, he shrugged. "Please be with us for the evening meal," he said. "Listen for the bell." He turned and stepped out of the chapel.

Shan sat with his friends for half an hour, breathing in the fragrant incense, studying a row of freshly painted thangkas on the wall, folding and unfolding his legs. But he could not find the mindfulness of meditation and finally stood and stepped outside, walking along a low abandoned wall that ran between the second and third buildings. It had once been a thick wall of stone, the foundation of a substantial building. He slowly circled the other two central buildings, noting with satisfaction the ropes of prayer flags that connected the upper corners of the first two buildings, then found himself before the prayer wheel at the rear of the grounds. It was beautifully crafted, six feet high and nearly three across, made of finely worked copper and brass. He touched it and, to his surprise it spun freely, turning almost an entire revolution. It was hung with heavy ball bearings, as though an engineer, not a monk, had designed it. Under it he noticed a plaque in Chinese and Tibetan. He had sometimes seen similar plaques, declaring that a wheel or statue had been donated by a youth league, or the friends of a gompa. But this one, like the giant wheel itself, was unlike any he had seen before. Operating hours 8A.M. to 8P.M., it said. He stared at it, not understanding, then heard someone at the old stable by the giant pile of dung. Stepping tentatively toward the sound he discovered a stocky monk speaking to a huge shaggy black yak that stood beside the wooden cart. The monk was shoveling dung from the pile into the cart, addressing the yak in a conversational tone as he worked.

After a moment Shan realized he had seen him before. He slipped into the shadow along the wall of the stable and watched the man, who was so absorbed in his work and discussion with the yak that it was five minutes before he noticed Shan. He acknowledged Shan's presence only by pausing a moment, ceasing to speak to the yak, then continuing his labor of transferring the dung to the cart.

"I hope you didn't get stuck again that day," Shan ventured.

The monk turned and grunted as he studied, first Shan, then the empty grounds beyond him. He offered an uncertain nod. "Twice more," he replied. "They canceled the schedule and came back here." The words caused Shan to turn and study the gompa grounds himself. "The Bureau of Religious Affairs is here?"

"Everywhere," the monk replied in a reluctant tone, shoveling more dung into the cart. People didn't talk about the howlers, just as they didn't talk about knobs or other demons.

"Someone worked hard to bring all that fuel here," Shan observed.

"Someone did," the monk agreed once more, eyeing Shan warily. He turned away and continued shoveling. "Local farmers, and herders. Sometimes it is all they can afford to give. Once they would go without their hearthfires to bring fuel to the gompa."

"You said you came from Khang-nyi gompa," Shan recalled.

"Right. Second House, it's the old name, the original name for this place. There was a big gompa, the First House, up on the high plain to the north. This was a station for those traveling there, or those waiting for lamas to come down."

Shan found a shovel leaning against the stable, an old handmade implement with a wooden blade, and began helping the monk. "I did this once before, only wet," he said after a few minutes.

The man paused with his shovel still in the pile. "Wet?"

"Rice paddies," Shan said. "In Liaoning Province. I wasn't given any choice."

The man nodded and kept working. "You mean they forced you?"

Shan threw another shovelful on the cart. "Soldiers," he confirmed. "They mostly stayed away because of the smell. Just came close to beat us with bamboo canes when we stopped working."

They labored on in silence. From somewhere came music, the singsong strains of Chinese opera.

"The smell?" the monk asked, after he seemed to have considered Shan's words for several minutes.

"The soldiers were from the city," Shan said with a sigh.

The monk contemplated Shan, resting his shovel, one hand stroking the back of the big black animal. "Yak dung doesn't smell bad."

"This was human. Night soil, from the cities, too."

The man worked a moment and stopped again. He slowly put his hand on the handle of Shan's shovel and pushed it down. "I am called Gyalo. I am just a rongpa at heart. They wanted some monks from the local farm laborer class two years ago, and my grandmother had always wanted me to be a monk. They gave me a license. They like to take me to see other laborers now." He looked at Shan expectantly. It was Shan's turn to explain.

"It was an agricultural reform camp, when I was only a child. My family was sent because my father was a professor. A small army of workers brought the night soil in big clay jars on bicycle racks. Usually we just poured it into the rice fields. But there would be times when the jars stood in the sun and dried, so they would dump it in long piles, or make us scrape it out with our hands. What I remember most of all was how, when it rained, everything turned wet and smelly and too soft to put on a shovel."

The monk contemplated Shan a long time. "This isn't like that at all," he said, very seriously. Shan stared back, and the man's stern expression slowly warmed to a grin.

"Is the gompa delivering this to the villagers?"

"The gompa is just getting rid of its stockpile. Too old-fashioned they say, reminds them of the olds. Doesn't set the right example. We must show the people what prosperity means," he said in the tone of a political officer. Gyalo gestured toward the shadows where the stables abutted the outer wall. Several large metal gas cylinders were lined up along the wall.

"The medicals brought you in?" he asked Shan after throwing a few more shovelfuls on the cart. He made it sound as if the doctors were arresting their patients.

Shan shook his head. "I was still in the mountains with my friends. We found a monk named Padme on the Plain of Flowers. He had been attacked by someone and needed our help."

Gyalo studied Shan carefully again and seemed about to ask him something. "May the blessed Buddha watch over Padme Rinpoche," he said instead, quickly, in his stiff tone. "Prayers were offered for him in the chapel." Shan looked at the monk, and wondered why he, and he alone, was shoveling the dung. Was it a punishment? Gyalo didn't say he had offered prayers for Padme, only that prayers were offered. And why did he and the monks at the gate call the young monk Rinpoche, a term usually reserved for older, venerated teachers?

"Do those doctors come often?" Shan asked.

The monk frowned. "Not these, these are special," he said, and leaned on his shovel, studying Shan again. "Where did you learn to speak Tibetan so well? Only Chinese I've known who spoke Tibetan worked for the government."

"I did work for the government. Building roads. I carried one of those," Shan said with a gesture toward the stack of baskets.

The monk winced then pointed toward the clinic at the opposite corner of the compound. "This region was once full of medicine lamas. Famous for healers. It meant people were slow to change their ways, slow to retreat from religion, slow to embrace the Chinese doctors. The government wants to be sure people don't get sick."

"You mean don't get healed the wrong way."

Gyalo fixed Shan with a pointed gaze.

Shan considered the monk's words again. "So you mean those people waiting aren't sick?" He had seen sick people, he recalled; one hiding from doctors in the salt camp, the other waiting on the trail– the woman who had refused Lokesh's offer of help.

"They were told to come down from the mountains to be checked. For innoculations. For papers."

"Papers?"

"Those doctors arrived two weeks ago, and just stayed. Mostly they have meetings in the offices. Sometimes a knob officer with a pockmarked face comes, a man with dirty ice for eyes. And they all have radios like soldiers. Not everyone wearing one of those blue suits is a doctor," Gyalo warned in a low voice. "And even the real doctors are issuing new health cards, like identity cards. Everyone has to record exactly what doctors they have seen in the past five years, including Tibetan healers. And they have to sign papers that come from the office. When that knob comes he makes people read."

"Read? Read what?"

"Anything. A paragraph from a Serenity Campaign pamphlet. A line from the medical forms." Gyalo frowned toward the far corner, where several of the Han in blue could still be seen. "Some people came willingly at first. But now, most don't come on their own. Soldiers provide trucks. Or men like soldiers, wearing white shirts," he said, with a meaningful glance at Shan.

Shan stared at the monk. Howlers wore white shirts sometimes, but howlers were not soldiers, howlers were the political officers of modern Tibet. "You mean there are Public Security soldiers posing as howlers? As doctors?"

"Norbu gompa is like a border post, at the edge of the wilderness, hidden from the rest of the world. A place for experiments."

Shan eyed the monk closely. "You mean this county is experimenting somehow? With politics?"

"The authority that controls us is the Bureau of Religious Affairs. The county council ignores us. Norbu District of the Bureau, that's who we are, a district bigger than the county, running north across the mountains even, into Qinghai Province. All run by Religious Affairs in Amdo town and by those who sit in those offices," he said, nodding toward the first of the two-story buildings.

Shan worked in silence for several minutes. "If those doctors came two weeks ago, then they're not here because the Deputy Director was killed."

Gyalo nodded, rubbing the yak's head. "That Tuan, most people just know him as head of Religious Affairs. But he spent twenty years in Public Security first. The perfect credential for running Religious Affairs in such a tradition-bound district," Gyalo said bitterly, then looked up at Shan. "Not all the people they want to bring here will come. Some just hide and wait. I used to go and help the herders and the farmers when I could. Now they seldom give me permission to leave without an escort."

"But Padme was far away, by himself," Shan said slowly. "A day's walk from here, without even a water bottle."

"Padme doesn't need permission," Gyalo said into the yak's ear, in a loud whisper. "And he never walks far."

"But we found him. No horse. No cart. Like a hermit, we thought."

Gyalo, grinning, seemed to think Shan had offered a good joke. He stopped looking at Shan, and conversed only with the yak now. "If you study enough, and find the right awareness, an old lama told me, you can learn to fly," he said to the animal, and flapped his arms like a bird's wings.

Shan looked at him uneasily. "Was he also looking for that man with a fish?"

Gyalo bent over the yak's head. "Maybe this one doesn't know about dropka and sacred lakes. Maybe he doesn't know what swims in sacred waters."

Shan looked skeptically from the monk to the yak, wondering about the man's mental condition.

The monk turned his back and Shan returned the shovel to the stable wall. But as Shan stepped away the monk spoke once more. "He shouldn't let that nun go upstairs," Gyalo said to the yak. When Shan turned the monk was bent over the yak, straightening a tangle of the animal's long black hair, as if he had said nothing, as if Shan had already gone.

Shan moved slowly back toward the chapel and found it empty. Don't let Nyma go upstairs. Shan wandered toward the first of the two-story buildings, the one nearest the gate, the one with the banner. There were wooden plaques he had not read before along the front of the building. They weren't religious teachings, he saw now with a chill, although they were done with the graceful embellished Tibetan script used for such quotes. Use Buddha to Serve the People, one said. Endow the Words of Buddha with Chinese Socialism, read another.

He circled the building slowly, examining the two ropes of prayer flags that connected it with the adjacent structure. One line were mani flags, inscribed with the mantra to the Compassionate Buddha. But he had been mistaken about the second line. It consisted of minature red flags bearing one large star in the upper left corner, with an arc of four stars beside it. The flag of the People's Republic of China. He paced slowly along the western wall of the compound and watched as four dropka entered one of the decrepit buildings in the center of the western wall. He followed them through a door of dried cracked wood down a corridor of creaking floorboards into a small chapel, no more than twelve feet long and eight wide. The room was crowded with over a dozen Tibetans, sitting worshipfully before a small bronze statue of the teacher Guru Rinpoche. On the wall, on either side of the statue were old faded thangkas of Tara, eight in all, the eight aspects of the deity, which offered protection from eight specific fears. Shan recognized several. There was one that protected the devout from snakes and envy, another that shielded them from delusion and elephants, one more that provided protection from thieves. Above the statue was a much smaller thangka, also old and faded, of a deity Shan did not recognize at first. A dropka woman made room beside her and he sat, studying the thangka. Suddenly with a start he recognized it. It was not an old thangka, only cleverly crafted to look old to disguise it. It was a representation of a lama with a peaceful smile, mendicant staff over his shoulder, hand raised with the index finger and thumb touching in what was called the teaching mudra. It was the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatse, the current Dalai Lama.

After half an hour he moved back into the courtyard, toward the front of the administration building, his gaze surveying the yard in confusion, trying to reconcile the mani prayers over the side doorways and the doctors who acted like knobs, the giant prayer wheel and its admonishing rules, the reverent paintings of deities and the red emblems of Beijing.

He stepped into the entry hall of the building to find it empty, adorned only with two large, modern paintings, stylized imitations of thangkas, and another Serenity campaign banner. Below the banner was a printed notice pinned to a large bulletin board. It was a chart for a scoring system. Religious Affairs districts would be graded according to the economic advancement made as a result of each district's efforts to turn religious inclinations to economic activity. There was a table of economic criteria, with current statistics and averages for the five years ending the year before: number of sheep; number of domesticated yaks, goats, horses; acres of barley; number of children enrolled in approved schools; number of vehicles; and production of felt, wool, and dairy products. Shan quickly scanned the column listing prior years' activity. The local district had to be one of the poorest in Tibet, judged by such standards. Or judging by Drakte's own ledger. Surely Drakte hadn't been compiling data for the campaign?

There was a handwritten note at the bottom of the notice, in a careful, practiced script. We will have serenity, and we will have it now, it said. It was signed by Chairman Khodrak. Beside the notice was a smaller note, stating that all monks were expected to attend the upcoming Workers Day celebration on May first.

Shan ascended the simple wooden stairway at the end of the hall, not knowing what to expect. The atmosphere of the upstairs corridor was of a government office. A door at the top of the stairs opened into a chamber where a monk sat beside a man in a business suit, both of them typing rapidly on computer keyboards below monitors displaying Chinese ideograms. Above them were two photographs, one of Mao Tse Tung and another of the chairman who currently sat in Beijing. On a table beside the men was a facsimile machine and a large telephone with buttons for multiple lines. On one wall was a map, with the familiar words Nei Lou boldly printed at the top. Below the map was a typewriter with a letter in it. His eyes lingered on the machine. He and Lokesh had seen a typewriter in a herder's hut when traveling with Drakte. The purbas had grown quite agitated when they realized Shan had seen it. Typewriters were still treated like secret weapons by the knobs. More than one dissident had been convicted simply on the evidence he or she possessed their own typewriter.

Shan stepped past the open door and paused at a large poster on the wall, printed in Chinese only, with the words Bureau of Religious Affairs in bold type across the top. Qualifications for admission, it stated at the top, with ten criteria listed. Shan clenched his jaw and read.

The candidate must be at least eighteen years old, said the first. Tibetan families had practiced a centuries old tradition of sending their oldest boy at a much earlier age to be educated at gompas, for the formal education process could easily last more than twenty years for those aspiring to the ranks of geshe, the highest rank of monastic training.

The candidate must love the Communist Party, said the next line. Shan read it twice to make sure he had not mistaken the words. Love the Party. The Candidate's parents must be identified, said the third, and demonstrate their approval.

The Candidate's work unit must approve the transfer to the monastery unit, meaning not only were gompas considered just another type of work unit but also that young men had to embark on a different life, a different job, before applying to the political leaders of their work units, who more likely than not would be Chinese immigrants.

Local authorities must consent, and the county authorities must consent. Then, both the candidate and the candidate's parents must have an acceptable political background.

The candidate must come from an approved geographic area. There were still areas, where Tibetan resistance had been greatest, where local citizens were prohibited from taking a robe under any circumstance.

Finally there were two brief standards. Committee Approval, the poster said, and approval of the Public Security Bureau.

Shan stared at the poster, fighting an acrid taste on his tongue that seemed to be spreading to his belly. Beijing's Bureau of Religious Affairs established a strict cap on the number of monks at each gompa, usually a fraction of the original population. Gompas where two thousand monks once served might have only fifty authorized by the howlers. Even when an opening arose, a candidate could take years to satisfy all the necessary approvals. Once applicants might have sat with lamas and recited scriptures learned at home or spoken of how a growing awareness of the Buddha within was calling them to put on a robe. Now for the best chance of winning a robe, an applicant should sit with a commissar and recite scripture from little red Party books.

Past the poster, on the opposite wall, was a sheet of paper whose handwritten words were almost as large as those of the poster. Never Again a Monk, it said, with five names below it, each with a date from the past two years. On the wall, in chilling proximity, hung five robes with names on labels pinned over each. Above them was another sign. Walked Away from Buddha, it read, and under it a quote, Once you walk away Buddha will not embrace you again, over the embellished signature of Chairman Khodrak. The line of pegs continued down the corridor with another dozen pegs, all empty, except for the last two, from which hung lush fox-fur caps. Past the caps, at the end of the hall, was a set of double wooden doors, one of which hung partially open.

Shan heard voices and stepped toward the gap in the doors to see Nyma, Lokesh, Lhandro, and Tenzin seated in front of a heavy wooden table in rigid straight-back chairs. On the far side of the table were three much larger chairs, wooden but with padded backs, upholstered in red silk. Two of the chairs were occupied, by Khodrak and the Han with long thinning hair Shan had seen at the lake. Director Tuan of Religious Affairs, who had qualified for his job by having a prior career in Public Security. An elegant set of porcelain tea cups sat on the table, and a young monk was refilling those in front of Shan's friends. The monk disappeared from view and a moment later the door flung open. The monk gestured Shan toward one of the empty chairs beside his friends.

"Excellent, excellent," Khodrak said. "Take a moment with us, Comrade Shan." Behind him, leaning against the wall, was a long ceremonial staff, a mendicant's staff with an ornate head of finely worked white metal ending in a point. "We were expressing our gratitude and our pleasure that you will be able to join us tonight for a meal with the assembly."

Shan stole a glance at his friends. Only Lhandro returned it, with a small, forced smile. The others stared uncertainly at the dainty, steaming cups in front of them. Shan hesitantly took a seat beside Nyma. Khodrak had learned his name. What else had he asked about?

"This kind of heroism should not go unrewarded," Khodrak said. "Common people, agricultural laborers even, sacrificing themselves to save the life of a representative of the religious establishment. Here at Norbu, a model of right conduct amidst so many reactionary thinkers, we especially applaud your contribution."

It was Shan's turn to stare at his cup of tea, placed there by the young attendant, for he feared what he might say if he fixed eyes with Khodrak or Director Tuan. Khodrak had assumed the Tibetans were all herders or farmers. Agricultural laborers were the most revered of classes in the hierarchy the Party had created for its classless society. Shan's mind raced. Images of the signs in the hall flashed before him, and the Chinese flags, the stalwart Gyalo alone with the yak dung, and the office outside that looked like the operations center for a government agency. He ventured a look up at the empty chair. Khodrak had called himself chairman. The signs outside did not refer to him as an abbot, or kenpo, the traditional head of every Tibetan gompa. When Gyalo had spoken of the authority inside the gompa he had used the plural 'they'. Because, Shan now knew, Norbu was a model of the truly modern gompa, run not by a lama abbot but by a Democratic Management Committee.

Once, during a winter storm that kept them confined to their prison barracks, Shan and his cellmates had listened to a young monk who had just begun a five-year sentence. The monk had explained that his crime was refusal to sign a statement swearing to patriotism and pledging never to protest against the policies of Beijing, a pledge required by those who ran his gompa. What the older monks hadn't understood, and what the new prisoner had had to explain repeatedly, was why abbots and lamas would request such a pledge, and how they could send him to a Chinese prison for refusing to accept it. The reason, the monk patiently explained, was that a new body had taken over administration of his gompa, a Democratic Management Committee. The Committee tested monks on their knowledge of correct political thought, and would call upon monks in assembly to recite Chinese versions of Tibetan history, in addition to their sutras– the version that said Tibet had always been Chinese and that Tibetans were descended from Chinese stock.

The attending monk appeared by Khodrak with a stack of slender, six-inch-long boxes. "Please," Khodrak announced, "you deserve something in honor of your contribution." He said it in a gracious tone, speaking slowly and loudly, as if he were accustomed to public speaking. The young monk distributed one of the boxes to each of them and gestured for them to open their gifts. Inside was a heavy red plastic dorje, the thunderbolt symbol used in many Tibetan rituals. The monk showed Nyma how to push one end so it clicked. A ballpoint pen. Along the bottom was inscribed, in Chinese characters, Bureau of Religious Affairs.

Shan looked up, his throat dry. Khodrak was smiling broadly, studying each one of them with intense interest now as his hand absently straightened the monogram on his robe. Shan had heard somewhere that members of Democratic Management Committees were paid salaries by the Religious Affairs Bureau. He gazed out the window. It was getting dark, too late to leave the gompa.

"Perhaps an extra one for our special friend?" Khodrak said to the attendant, in the tone of an order.

"Yes, Chairman Rinpoche," the monk replied woodenly.

The young monk appeared at Shan's side, another of the pen boxes extended toward him. Shan looked at Khodrak. His special friend. Because Shan was Han. "Thank you, no," he said to the monk in a taut voice. "Unfortunately I can write only with one hand."

Khodrak chuckled, then laughed loudly, and Director Tuan took up the laughter, followed by the attending monk. Shan's friends offered strained smiles. Abruptly Khodrak stopped laughing and clasped his hands, the index fingers extended together. Not a mudra. He was pointing with the fingers, pointing at Tenzin.