“Are you sure nothing’s going to go wrong?”
It was only a whisper from a dark corner of the alley, but Kelsang still heard it.
“Nothing’s going to go wrong. The old man lives alone. I’ve been watching the place and there’s no one else. The girl only comes once a week.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I’m still a bit scared.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that. It’s just the old man, and he’s so old, he’s fossilizing. All we have to do is flash our knives, and the old codger will hand over the paintings. Remember what the guy said? It doesn’t matter how big they are. As long as we get them to him, he’ll give us ten thousand yuan.”
“Ten thousand yuan, ten thousand yuan…” The cowardly voice was trying to take in what it would mean. The other one swore quietly as he stumbled over a stone. The tiny sound was like a clap of thunder. The two men nervously dropped to the ground and were still. They didn’t see Kelsang slip past them into the courtyard as if he were one with the night.
The courtyard belonged to Kelsang, and he wouldn’t allow it to be violated. Yet he wasn’t going to provoke the two men out in the alley. Experience told him he shouldn’t attack first. But what made him feel extra uncomfortable was the faintest whiff of iron in the air. Were they carrying a gun?
As soon as the men entered the courtyard, not even Kelsang’s fear of guns could suppress his guarding instinct. The first man was so focused on the house, now completely dark, that when he heard the warning close to his ear, his mind went blank. But he knew it was the growl of an angry, vicious beast. He swiveled, unconsciously raising an iron bar to his head.
As Kelsang’s teeth met the iron bar, the sound of grinding metal filled the courtyard. Another attack followed straight afterward. Kelsang couldn’t smell gunpowder, so he knew he was safe. The iron bar might be capable of damage, but it wasn’t a gun. His fears melted away, and he launched himself at the man in what turned out to be a completely one-sided fight.
A wail of pain cut through the night like a blunt knife. Window after window lit up as the crying grew even louder. A few people appeared in the alley, but they were too scared to go and see what was happening inside the painter’s courtyard. They knew from the terrified screams that it was something truly horrific.
The old painter got up slowly, switched on the light and put on his red robe. By the time he got outside, it was already dawn and the noises had petered out. But as long as the people in the alley held their breath, they could still make out a low groaning. They had been peeping through a crack in the door, and when they saw the old painter, they pushed it open and poured into the courtyard.
The neighbors had glimpsed a Tibetan mastiff crouching in the dark and could now see it more clearly. They gasped at its humungous size. But Kelsang wasn’t paying any attention. He was staring intently at two slabs of stone that had been there for goodness knows how long. Faint cries of help were coming from behind them.
An iron bar, a Tibetan knife covered in blood and scraps of clothing lay on the ground.
Kelsang kept his gaze fixed on the crack between the stones while occasionally licking his shoulder. He had been injured. When he leapt toward the man with the iron bar, the other man came from behind with a knife in hand. Sensing a shadow coming at him, Kelsang twisted his body in midair and bit the man’s sleeve. He felt a sharp sting on his shoulder. With all the strength he could muster, he ripped the clothes straight off the man’s back. He cast the scraps of clothing on the ground and bit into the wrist holding the knife. The tip of the knife nicked the skin on his shoulder.
The old painter was confused to see so many people in his courtyard. Perhaps the characters from his latest tanka had come to life. The neighbors were also surprised. For many years, they’d thought this courtyard was empty. Only those older than the painter himself seemed to remember him. They were not only surprised to see the old man but were equally shocked by the mastiff. No one could remember ever hearing a dog barking in the alley. It was unbelievable. But then again, was it? This was Lhasa, after all.
Even up until the moment the police arrived, the painter didn’t understand exactly what had gone on. But he still called Kelsang, and with some reluctance, the dog stood up, made his way to the corner and lay down on his mat. But his eyes didn’t move from the crack between the two slabs of stone.
There were two people hiding behind the stones, even though the opening looked barely wide enough for a cat to fit through. No one could figure out how they got in there. But the two men were rejoicing in their good luck. Heaven, in all its grace, had given them shelter to hide from the demon dog. If their only escape had been a mouse hole, they would have squeezed themselves into it. They had scraped their bottoms as they wiggled between the slabs, but once curled up inside they were like hibernating marmots. They blocked up part of the crack with stones, and neither could think of a more wonderful place on earth.
No matter how much the policemen threatened and cajoled, the two men refused to come out of their fortress. Perhaps they thought they were being tricked, and that as soon as they came out people would set that thing on them again. Yes, “That thing!” was exactly how they referred to Kelsang.
They still didn’t know what had attacked them. The two policemen told them it was a Tibetan mastiff, but they didn’t believe them.
“Aren’t mastiffs dogs? No way. Whatever attacked us wasn’t a dog.”
They were prepared to confess that they had been trying to steal the tankas, which pleased the policemen. An open and shut case. But it still took half an hour to convince the men to come out. The policemen were growing impatient, as was everyone else in the courtyard, and they eventually threatened to set fire to the hiding place. The men agreed on one condition — only as long as “That thing” was either tied up or put in a cage. Only then would they come out.
No one wanted to go near Kelsang, who had been growling the whole time in accompaniment to the rising and falling of the crowd’s voices. Furthermore, the rising and falling of the hair on the back of his neck suggested he might attack again at any moment. The painter fetched some rope and tied one end around Kelsang’s neck and the other end to a tree. He didn’t give the situation much thought. All he wanted was to get back to his usual peace and quiet. It was already time for him to be painting.
As the painter tied the rope around his neck, Kelsang hesitated. Should he really be submitting like this? But he was a dog, and dogs don’t go against the will of their master, no matter how temporary that master is. So he yielded as the painter tightened the rope.
What happened next convinced the impatient onlookers that the time spent waiting had been worth it.
First, a hand popped out.
Kelsang leapt to his feet, but the rope pulled as taut as the string of a musical instrument, and the force shook the tree so hard that a dusting of green leaves fell to the ground. He howled furiously and continued pulling.
The hand whipped back into the hole like a frightened snake.
After more negotiation, the two men eventually emerged. Out came two feet wearing heavy boots. What came next made the crowd guffaw, and even the usually expressionless painter laughed. A shiny white bottom covered with red cuts and scratches wormed its way backwards out of the crack. Aside from his boots, the man was completely naked.
“Look, it’s like he’s just come out of his mother’s tummy!” There was a roar of laughter, even louder than the first.
The other man came out, and his appearance was no more dignified. But the two men weren’t bothered by the laughter coming from the spectators. In fact, they looked full of joy as the policemen handcuffed them. Somehow they had managed to survive.
The old painter was attentive to Kelsang’s food over the next few days, but somehow he forgot to untie the rope around his neck. Perhaps he had forgotten that Ke
lsang was not a plant. The truth was that nothing in the world mattered to the old man except his tankas, and they took every bit of his energy.
As darkness fell on the second evening of being tied up, Kelsang stood up quietly. The night was calling to him, but the rope wouldn’t let him go. He tried pulling at it. It was made of hemp and shouldn’t be too strong. But the painter had used a slipknot, so that every time Kelsang pulled, the noose became tighter. The small tree to which the other end was tied was extremely tough and flexible, capable of bearing the strain. He pulled several times, but each time the rope grew so tight he could scarcely breathe. He had no option but to give up.
By the morning of the third day, Kelsang was about to explode with pent-up frustration. He was a shepherd dog, and he needed exercise. The worst of it was that he could hear the yapping of other dogs in the alleys nearby. Perhaps his scent around the city had begun to fade.
But it was the visitors who really changed life for Kelsang and the painter. The story spread quickly of the enormous Tibetan mastiff who had driven two knife-wielding thieves into a hole barely large enough for a cat in order to protect his master and his priceless paintings. People wanted to see this dog for themselves. They gathered in the alley and even climbed onto the wall, sending loose bricks to the ground as they tried to catch a glimpse of him.
Kelsang had no way to vent his anger at such improper behavior but to howl. These days everything made him bark — the faces looking at him over the wall, the eyes peeking through the cracks in the door, the strange footsteps in the alley. Spit drooled from the corner of his mouth as he jumped over and over again, only to be pulled back by the tree. It was as if he had gone crazy.
But everything he did only elicited more cries of admiration — such a beautiful, magnificent dog!
The day after the attempted robbery, the old painter did something he had never done before. He locked the courtyard door. But then the strangers began to knock. They waited patiently, admiring the antique bronze knockers shaped like animal heads before clanking them loudly again and again, until the painter had no choice but to answer. After marveling at the dog, who clearly only wanted to pounce on them, they all, without exception, asked if he was for sale. Maybe the old painter didn’t understand, or maybe he had other reasons, but he always just asked them to leave in his characteristically terse manner. He was always stony faced, and it was clearly pointless to try to discuss anything with a statue. But eventually, the painter became just as irritated as Kelsang with all the interruptions.
“Don’t be angry with me, little dog,” he said to Kelsang one day. This was the most he had ever said to him.
Kelsang could see from the old man’s face that his fate was about to change. From the moment the chubby, dark-cheeked man entered the courtyard — it was as if every ray of the plateau sun had graced those cheeks — the change in the old painter’s countenance was obvious. His stony face seemed to flex slightly, and he turned suddenly to look at Kelsang. It was only a glance, but Kelsang stood up involuntarily in an attempt to understand exactly what was going on. He had been here for quite some time, but despite being right under the old man’s nose, he had never been treated as anything more important than a plant.
“If you like him, take him,” the old man said to the dark-cheeked visitor staring at Kelsang.
The man didn’t understand what the old painter meant. Someone at lunch that day had told a story about an exceptional mastiff and the hilarious way he had captured two thieves, which sent the whole restaurant into fits of laughter. None of the diners thought to check if the owner had actually been there to witness what happened. The story was too good to ruin with such nitpicking. But the dark-cheeked man made straight for the alley. As soon as he saw Kelsang lying in the corner, he knew what a rare, beautiful mastiff he was. He trembled with excitement, and all he could think of was how to get the wizened old man to let him in for a closer look.
“What?” He couldn’t believe his ears. He watched the huge dog stretch out slowly.
“He’s yours. Take him.” Words were an extravagance to the old painter, who was so used to being alone. They were only to be spoken when absolutely necessary. But he repeated himself, and this time the man understood.
The mastiff belonged to him!
Lhasa was that kind of place. You had no idea what was going to happen under that bright blue sky. The coin you bought might turn out to be priceless. Perhaps the girl walking toward you, whose beauty made you forget everything else, was descended from the Nepalese nobility. Lhasa, the city of the sun, where you had no idea what tomorrow would bring, where people came from miles around to chase their dreams.
The man felt the blood rise in his chest. I’ve been here for years now, he said to himself. This isn’t altitude sickness. I must just be a bit excited.
Since the man wasn’t moving, the painter went over to the tree, untied the rope and put it in his hand. Then he turned and shuffled into the house without looking back. His tanka needed just a few more daubs of paint, and then it would be finished.
Kelsang had to make a difficult decision. Having spent the last few days tied up and only able to move a few feet, he had already begun to feel his muscles wasting away, and he had been overcome with fear. How long could he go on like that? The most important thing at this point was to leave the small courtyard from which he could only see the blue sky and the golden top of the Potala Palace. If that hadn’t been the case, Kelsang would never have let himself be led away by a stranger with a rope around his neck.
The painter didn’t even look at him, but Kelsang had experienced that before, and it certainly didn’t make him feel sad or aggrieved. The painter was no more important than a plant to Kelsang. Guarding his courtyard and fending off the thieves had only been a matter of instinct. If Kelsang were to protest, he would probably be allowed to stay, but then nothing much would change for him.
Kelsang could feel the man’s fear through the rope, and he could smell it, too. He wanted to get out of the courtyard, and so he let himself be led away. But his own obedience shocked him slightly. He followed the man with his smell of gasoline, smoke and food out into the alley.
Lhasa at dusk. But Kelsang didn’t have time to look around. He was too busy enjoying the feeling of his swollen paws against the cold stone slabs. His sudden appearance attracted many surprised looks. Apart from that first day, he had only ever wandered at night when the day’s smells had already begun to dissipate. He sniffed greedily and stored these new smells deep in his memory.
They approached a truck with a khaki green canvas cover in the parking lot behind the market. The smells of the day’s trading were drifting away, leaving only the slightest lingering trace.
The man pulled out a forked stick and slid it under the rope around his neck, but Kelsang was so caught up in all the new smells that he didn’t react. He could still detect the man’s fear, and frightened humans weren’t dangerous as far as he was concerned.
But as soon as the stick was lodged firmly in place, the fear that had been emanating from the man began to disappear, jolting Kelsang to his senses. He knew from the man’s laughter that it was too late. The stick was over two yards long, and it kept a secure distance between them. No matter how much he barked and bit, Kelsang had no way of getting close to the man. It didn’t take him long to realize that such efforts would be futile. He remained calm, wanting to know what was going to happen next. Previous experience had taught him that there was no point in wasting energy on useless struggle.
Kelsang was led into the truck, and the other end of the stick was tied firmly to a bar inside, restricting him to a gloomy corner at the back. He could lie down, but his neck had to remain upright, resting against the icy cold side of the vehicle. Cardboard boxes and other odds and ends were scattered around in the back, giving off unpleasant smells. Kelsang began to sneeze again and again, and with each sneeze, the rope around his
neck grew a bit tighter.
He regretted not escaping earlier. He could have easily bitten through the rope that had tied him to the tree, but he had been observing some kind of pact between the canine and human worlds. Maybe he should have bitten through the rope as he was being led into the alley, but it was too late now. He had no way of removing the stick wedged under the rope at his neck, no matter how hard he tried.
The truck drove all night until they reached a small town just before dawn.
Kelsang was led out of the truck and up a mountain slope on a trail that went behind a large building. Four or five people surrounded him as they climbed in the first light of day. He knew what was about to happen — he could feel the impatience in the air. He tried with all his might to pounce on the man with the dark cheeks, but he only managed to push him back as the man grappled with the other end of the stick.
A series of lassos came whistling toward Kelsang. He jumped to dodge them, but the man on the other end of the stick prevented him from getting away. One after the other, the lassos landed around his neck before they were quickly pulled tight. Bewildered, Kelsang thrashed about, stepping on one of the ropes around his neck and pulling it even tighter. Soon he lay panting on the ground like a rice dumpling wrapped in a leaf and criss-crossed with string.
These men had done this before. Within minutes they slipped a steel-reinforced leather collar around his neck, screwed a five-yard-long metal chain to it and cut off the ropes.
Kelsang stood up only to find that he was now attached by a set of chains to a pole screwed into the ground. Once everything was in order, the last man edged back slowly. He suddenly dislodged the stick wedged under Kelsang’s collar and ran away. Kelsang was not about to give up this opportunity and let out a whole night’s worth of pent-up anger as he began to howl, scratching at the man’s shadow.
The man was so frightened he fell to the ground but quickly scrambled to his feet again to a chorus of shouting. His face was ash white, and his leather jacket lay in tatters at his feet. It hadn’t taken long for Kelsang to overtake his two-yard head start.
Black Flame Page 7
