Bones of the Earth

by Eliot Pattison

  Pike grinned as Shan put the phone down. If one of Tan’s top deputies was indeed Huan’s invisible ally in Lhadrung, then Huan would hear the news by the end of the day. Shan glanced at his watch. “If you are going to set up a camera to secretly watch that building on Kunming Road you’d better be underway.”

  Shan watched the white car leave for Lhasa then turned reluctantly to the pile of paperwork at his desk. If he did not keep up with it, terse reminders would arrive from the judicial administration center and then auditors might arrive. He poured a cup of tea and settled into his desk. An hour later he was about to refresh his tea when a sudden groan then a crashing sound came from the cells. He pushed open the door, which had been left ajar, and turned on the light in the rear chamber to reveal Meng lying on the floor beside an overturned chair. When he rushed and knelt over her, she reached up and for a moment clung to Shan like a frightened child. Then she collected herself and let him help her up.

  “Sorry,” she said. Her voice trembled for a moment, then she pulled away and straightened her clothes. “I came in the back door but heard you speaking with someone so I just lay down in a cell. I fell asleep and was still groggy. Sorry,” she repeated.

  He hesitated, thinking of the pile of paperwork that waited for him at his desk. “I was going to eat,” he lied. “Come with me.”

  Meng bit her lip and gave a small, shy smile that for a moment made her seem more like a young self-conscious woman than a stern Public Security officer. He realized that she had changed into blue jeans and a silk blouse and sweater and asked her to wait a moment as he went into the washroom, taking off his tunic and uniform shirt and replacing it with a simple white one.

  She gave him another shy smile as he appeared. They were just another couple going out for dinner. Mrs. Lu, walking her terrier, stared in mute surprise as they stepped outside.

  Marpa took one look at them at the kitchen door and held up a restraining hand. “No, no. Front door.”

  By the time they had gone around the building he was spreading a cloth on the table at the center window then excused himself after seating them, darting into the kitchen then returning with the stub of a candle which he forced into a soda bottle and lit before disappearing once more. This time he returned with a dusty bottle of cheap rice wine. Shan had never before seen any kind of alcohol in Marpa’s establishment and knew that Marpa himself never drank any. The café owner filled two small tumblers halfway with the wine. “I had some wineglasses,” he apologized, “but I forget where they are.”

  “It’s not like—” Shan began, meaning to say it was not the romantic event Marpa had inferred, but then he saw the anticipation in Meng’s eyes. “Not like we are connoisseurs,” he said instead.

  They spoke of little things, of the occasional shifting of the wind that washed the town with the scent of wildflowers, of the vast high meadows above them where deer and wild goats grazed, of Meng’s journey from the Gobi, during which they had stopped at a camel market, and of the horse festival the local herders were planning for late summer. Shan let Marpa decide their menu, and the Tibetan brought out small spiced dumplings, then a rich fragrant stew. Meng seemed not to have much appetite and when she stopped eating altogether, Shan followed her gaze toward the square.

  Meng’s traveling companion was shouting up a tree, dodging twigs being thrown down by the young girl, who had climbed to a remarkable height.

  “I should go help,” Shan said. “Your niece could fall.”

  Meng hesitated, glancing at Shan, then she nodded and turned back toward the window. “No need. She climbs like a monkey,” Meng said, sipping at her wine.

  As they watched, the girl climbed down a drooping limb then slipped around it on her hands and dropped directly onto the bust of Mao, straddling it. She began beating the head of the Great Helmsman like a drum.

  Meng shook her head in dismay.

  “Negligent parents,” Shan suggested.

  “I am certain of it,” Meng replied with a hint of a smile. “We had to wash paint off her face today.”

  “Why paint?”

  The old woman who makes those charts and horoscopes seems to enjoy the girl. She has a gerbil as a pet. The only time Kami was quiet all day was then, just like on our prior visits.”

  “Kami?” Shan had not heard the girl’s name before.

  “Kanmei, but Kami suits her. It’s funny, but when the gerbil looks at her, she gets very quiet. I watched them today. The gerbil and Kami just stared silently at each other, the gerbil with his head cocked at her as if he recognized her. Those big eyes of his must hypnotize her.”

  Shan smiled. “The Tibetans would say they knew each other in a prior life. The gerbil is the reincarnation of a famous lama.”

  “I thought famous lamas went on to some higher level of existence.”

  “Some do. But most in this region had disturbances in their devotion at the end of their lives. They couldn’t prepare for death the way they should have, or even broke their monastic vows in their final days.” He saw the question in her eyes. “Some monks and nuns were forced to marry and then forced at gunpoint to consummate the marriage in front of soldiers. Some were forced to disavow the Dalai Lama. Some picked up a gun to resist.”

  Meng sipped more wine and offered one of her melancholy grins. “What will we come back as, Shan?”

  “I tend to think I’ll be a surly yak. And I recall someone in prison telling me that every knob would be coming back as a beetle,” he said, and immediately wished he had not spoken the words, for she winced, not seeming to take them as a jest.

  Meng touched her glass to his and spoke in a whisper. “Then try not to step on me, Constable,” she said.

  A warm meadow-scented breeze was wafting over the town as Shan guided Meng down the dusk-lit street to see the carpet factory, where the night crew was hanging brilliantly colored bundles of yarn, still damp from dye, on scaffolds. He introduced Meng as a friend to the old women who worked the looms, and one laughed and pounded Shan on the back with a mischievous wink. He realized he was enjoying the rare time away from his troubles and, as the sky turned deep shades of purple, asked if Meng would go for a ride. Without really knowing why he found himself parking at the end of the rutted track to the old farm compound. As they approached the buildings he cursed himself for thinking he could take a Public Security officer into a nest of ferals but as they reached the gate Meng gave a cry of delight and ran forward. Lokesh had found an old horn and was standing by a flaming brazier in the center of the yard, playing an old herder’s song.

  As he passed through the gate, Shan was struck by how much work had been done. The weeds had all been plucked and the courtyard swept, revealing a surprisingly intact cobblestone surface. The front wall of the stable had a fresh coat of maroon paint, and two of its support posts had been replaced.

  Yara was there, washing dinner dishes in a basin, and warmly introduced her grandparents. Her grandfather Trinle offered Meng some dried apricots. Her grandmother Lhamo offered a cigar, which Meng politely declined.

  “You have a wonderful home,” Meng said to them, causing them to glance anxiously at Shan.

  “We’re just settling in,” Yara interjected. “With Shan’s help, it may become a home.”

  Shan hesitated over her words, for he had thought of the compound as just one more temporary refuge for the ferals. Then Yara pushed him away, toward Trinle, who led them inside to see the new altar, new kitchen alcove, and fresh pallets in the sleeping quarters, well-scented with fresh juniper.

  When they returned to the courtyard, Yara had produced benches and they sat around the brazier drinking tea as night crept over the hills. Meng asked if she might borrow the horn, which reminded her of the recorder she had once played in a student band, and to Shan’s surprise she began an excellent rendition of “Beautiful Dreamer.” Stephen Foster was a favorite not only of Chinese schoolteachers but also of public-address systems in buses and trains.

  Shan felt an unf
amiliar tranquility, letting himself be immersed in the domestic warmth, and for a moment found himself thinking of the impossible, but beautiful, dream of Yara and Ko raising a family in such a home.

  Meng leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked back to the car, and he prolonged the sense of leaving the world behind by slowing to point out Tibetan constellations to her. “Lak Sur,” he said, indicating Scorpio, then “Mindruk,” which was the Pleiades. “And there, a most important one,” he said, pointing to the Little Dipper. “Karma Pur Dhun, or the Seven Siblings. The seven stars are children racing but the little boy fell down.” He indicated the star at the end of the handle. “And fortunately, he could not get up, so he is stuck in the same place for all of time.”

  Meng gave a girlish laugh and held onto his arm. “Polaris. I never thought it was just a clumsy Tibetan boy.” She abruptly clutched him tighter, then doubled over, clutching her belly.

  “Meng?” Shan asked, helping her to a flat boulder.

  “It’s nothing,” she said in a strained voice. “I just ate those dumplings too fast,” she explained, then reached into a pocket and produced a small jar of pills. Shan recalled that she had barely touched her dumplings. “I’ll be fine,” she said as she swallowed a pill. “Tell me more about Tibetan stars.”

  When he finally parked behind the station and began walking her to her quarters, they could hear Kami singing loudly on the other side of the door.

  Meng pulled him away, her grip suddenly tight on his hand. “Isn’t there somewhere we can go?”

  “Not really,” Shan said.

  “Yes, there is,” Meng replied and led him into the jail.

  * * *

  It was nearly dawn when the satellite phone on his desk rang. Shan slipped out of Meng’s arms and rose from the jail cot, wrapping a blanket around his body before going into his office.

  Pike did not wait for greetings. “Our man is one of those Amah Jiejie mentioned. Huan got word from Lhadrung and arrived at the Religious Affairs building on Kunming Road just after midnight. The whole beautiful scene is on video,” the American reported. “Huan’s got balls, I’ll say that for him. He didn’t bother to search the building. He just burned it down.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Marpa broke into a wide smile when Shan and Meng arrived at his back door for breakfast. The owner of the noodle shop protested when Shan took a step toward the little table at the back of the kitchen, insisting that they return to their table in the now dim dining room, where he quickly brought them tea. Meng asked him not to switch on the lights, so they could better watch the dawn light up the mountains. In the dark, with the town beginning to blush with tones of pink and gold, they whispered. Shan spoke of the joy of being up among the wildflower meadows in such a dawn, Meng of the stark beauty of sunrises she had seen in the Gobi.

  “I have to go to Lhasa today,” she said in a louder voice as Marpa brought a plate of thin cardamom pancakes, Shan’s favorite.

  “Have to? I thought you were on leave.”

  “And I thought you wanted me gone.”

  Shan winced. He was adrift in such conversations, having built a hard shell around his heart for so many years. “Maybe it’s safer for you. Last night was like a dream. In my waking world, people are getting killed.”

  “In Yangkar?”

  “In Lhadrung County.” Shan pulled out his badge from Tan and dropped it on the table.

  Meng stared at it longer than he expected. “Is that good news then?” she asked, forcing a small smile.

  “I wasn’t given a choice. And if I don’t find an answer the trouble could come here.”

  “An answer? You mean arrests and justice.”

  “It started with an execution that turned out to be a murder by the government. By certain members of the government. I know some of the guilty but not all.”

  “And if you don’t discover all of them, you will be the one who’s punished,” Meng suggested, nibbling at her pancake. “Do you ever have cases that actually go to trial, Constable? I think it’s your specialty. Only take the cases in which the government would rather kill you than the criminal.”

  “It’s less paperwork,” he ventured. When she didn’t smile, he shrugged. “I’m still alive,” he said, then looked out over the brightening square, trying to push down the new foreboding that had been gnawing at him since Pike’s phone call.

  “Maybe you should spend more time on tracking missing cabbages and less on corrupt soldiers and knobs.”

  Shan paused. “You heard us yesterday, when we were talking in the station.”

  “A bit. Enough for me to smell the same kind of disaster as when we first met.”

  “Not your problem this time.”

  Meng seemed strangely hurt by his words. She sighed. “Not my problem,” she agreed. “I’m on vacation. I can practice my recorder songs.”

  Shan smiled at the memory of the prior evening, then suddenly a fist seemed to seize his heart as his foreboding found its voice. “Lokesh!” he cried and sprang to his feet. “They killed the janitor, then burnt that building. The only other connection is Lokesh. Burning the building proves Huan is working with one of Tan’s senior aides. If it is Xun, then Lokesh is in danger. Xun was there in the hospital! He heard Lokesh say he had a letter about Metok.”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” Meng said. “But go. Marpa can finish the breakfast with me.”

  Ten minutes later his car skidded to a halt at the rutted track to the farmhouse. He ran, too hard, and he was gasping for air when he reached the gate. Yara was just leaving for her school. “You have to get him out!” he cried. “Hide him! Your grandparents can take him up to one of the caves!” Shan turned toward the smaller of the two houses. “Lokesh!” he shouted.

  Lhamo appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes.

  Shan shouted the old man’s name again and ran to the doorway. Lhamo did not move when he reached her, and Yara caught up with him, pulling on his shoulder. “He’s not here, Shan. I told you. He had to go see Shiva about a death chart for Jampa.”

  As she spoke, old Trinle came stumbling through the gate, a panicked expression on his face. He was frantically reciting the mantra of the Mother Protectress. Shan ran to the gate and followed the Tibetan’s frightened gaze. The road into Yangkar from the highway was nearly a mile away but the black vehicles were plainly visible. Four Public Security cars were speeding toward Yangkar, lights flashing. He was seeing proof that Major Xun was both betraying Tan and using Huan to further his conspiracy.

  Shan parked on the edge of town and ran to the square. Lieutenant Huan had taken charge, directing several knob soldiers, who were forcing people out of their houses and lining up all the men with white or gray hair in the square. Huan was searching through the older men in Shan’s town, pushing and shoving them to assemble in the square. One old man fell and received the slap of a baton for his clumsiness. Huan did not know exactly what Lokesh looked like but Xun had given him a description.

  Shan prayed the knobs would miss Shiva’s alleyway. He might be able to reach the other side of her house and extract Lokesh through the window. But then another of the knobs appeared, leading Lokesh out onto the street, roughly pushing him toward the line of suspects.

  “Constable Shan!” Huan had spotted him and was marching to his side. “How helpful to have you here!” the knob lieutenant said with an icy grin. “We wish to speak with the old man who was with you in the Lhadrung hospital.”

  “Not here,” Shan lied, struggling to keep his voice level.

  “A friend of yours apparently. You called him Lokesh. The report on the death of a man named Jampa is incomplete. This man Lokesh apparently has some information.” Shan fixed Huan with an expressionless stare. They both knew Huan had no authority over the death of Jampa.

  “Just a sad, old former convict. You know the type. He was at the prison where I served,” Shan said, making it sound like he had been on the prison staff.

  The governmen
t had once discouraged older, traditional Tibetans from settling in the “pioneer” town of Yangkar after the annihilation of its old monastery but as Shan’s town developed a reputation as something of a sanctuary, more had moved in. He knew each of the old men, had helped many get settled, and now he watched in agony, blaming himself, as they were roughly herded into a line in front of Mao’s bust. Most appeared terrified. Most knew this was how Tibetans were rounded up for reeducation camps.

  “Then you won’t mind if I confirm that by examining these gentlemen,” Huan shot back. The knobs began checking papers, questioning each man. Lokesh was in the middle of the line, no more than a few minutes from his own interrogation, and Shan recalled with horror how his oldest friend had vowed that if he were ever stopped by a policeman, he would explain that he had no Chinese papers because he worked for the true government, that of the Dalai Lama. News of the arrest of a confessed agent of the exiled government would go straight to Beijing. Not even Colonel Tan would be able to save him.

  Shan studied the men in the square. All of the knobs had pistols, and two carried submachine guns. He was helpless against such odds. Even if he did try to help his friend, the action would only identify Lokesh for Huan. He tried to speak, but no words came. His despair was paralyzing.

  “Tashi, Tashi, Tashi!” came an impatient voice from behind him. A female Public Security lieutenant pushed past him, holding a cap and blue jacket. She went straight to Lokesh and pulled him out of the line. “Let’s go, you old fool. Too many beers again last night, I see,” she chided as she pulled the cap down over his white hair.

  “Lieutenant?” Huan asked the woman in an uncertain voice. “We have an operation underway.”

  “Whatever it is, my silly know-nothing driver will be of no use to you. Serves me right for giving the simpleton free time last night. Where does the motor pool find these people?”

  Shan stared in disbelief. It was Meng, in her uniform now, with her hair pinned up under her cap. The hat she had put on Lokesh’s head was an old constable cap hanging in the cell room, from which she had torn away the emblem.