Leadville: 300 Days Away

by Kara Skye Smith

  Leadville.

  300 Days Away

  written by

  Kara (Karen) M. Smith

  A Fictional Occurrence Of Non-fiction Events.

  Although the characters are not real people,

  events in the novel actually did happen.

  Myspace Published on (almost) daily blogs

  from start to finish, in the Fall of 2008©.

  Cover photo by Andy Cook of Rocky Mountain Reflections.

  ©2008

  In condolences that Tibet has suffered

  and in joy that it has survived

  - I wish it thrive and flourish; peace Now!

  -Much love

  1972 Darjeeling.

  Tenzing hears his wife call out another order. He does not look up. He watches the hot oil sizzle and spatter in familiar patterns and crackling sounds as he lowers the basket of the fryer. He breathes a sigh of contentment. Tenzing usually likes this moment. He watches as three dumplings float to the top, resisting submergence.

  His wife calls out again, "Tenzing!" she says sharply. He turns to her.

  "What?!" She slaps the order she has written onto the narrow, silver counter that lies between the two of them for the most part of six days a week; it is cluttered with condiment bottles. He picks up the order. She tilts her head to one side for a moment wondering what he is thinking about.

  "Tenizia?" she asks. Their daughter.

  "No," he says, "don't be so nosey." His wife puts one hand on her hip. She stares at him until he says, "Okay, maybe. Now do you want me to get this order out today, or not?" He motions with his spatula for her to turn around. "Stop staring," he says.

  "I know," she confesses, "I've been thinking about her too. All

  day, actually. I was thinking about it so hard, on my last order, I wrote down his name by accident. Had to erase." Tenzing groans at her in

  disapproval.

  "You should be more careful."

  "It was only dumplings!" she scolds him for chiding her.

  "Tell me, what were you thinking?" she asks him.

  "That she'll want his sword. Where can we get it from?"

  "Hmm," his wife pauses, looking down, "I don't know if she will want it. You'd better ask her first."

  "If she doesn't," he says turning around, back to the fryer, "I want it." His wife sighs deeply.

  "You asked me," he reminds her.

  "I did," she says and turns back to the line of customers waiting to order dumplings. A woman holding a child on her hip orders three dumplings, two chicken, one beef. His wife does not call out the order this time.

  She turns to him softly placing the written order onto the stainless steel divider and says, "It's just that, he killed himself with it. Why would she want that?"

  "It was his honor," Tenzing grumbles, his back still turned to her. His wife, Matseidha, scratches her head.

  "If you think so," she says. He turns his head to look at her, her sweet face framed by dark hair now turning grey, her hands, in fists, resting upon the cold steel of the counter. She waits for their eyes to meet each other. He nods his head. She turns back to her customers again.

  The child in line has started to make a slight fuss. Matseidha looks at the child. She is distracted.

  "Ma'am. Ma'am!" A man at the front of the line puts his hand on the counter demanding attention.

  "Yes," she says, "your order."

  "One chicken," he says, "and noodle soup, and be quick about it. You should be more diligent!" She sighs and scrawls a 1 on the paper and writes 'Plus a Noodle-Head!'. She gives the paper to the counter in front of her husband and sharply rings a silver bell. He looks up, surprised. He picks up the paper and smiles.

  "You are tired of the customers today?" he says in a dialect from Amdo, assuming his wife's 'noodle head' will not understand him.

  "Yes," she says back to him in the same dialect. "Let's go home."

  "Soon," he says, "very soon." He hands her two bags filled with the order specified number of dumplings.

  "Okay," she turns, "here you go. Here you go." She hands over the bags of perfectly cooked Tibetan dumplings to the man from England and the Darjeeling woman who smiles proudly when her child grabs the bag. The child is delighted at himself and stops fussing. This makes Matseidha smile. She thinks of her daughter's lost love and she reminds herself to watch for him. Tukulu she thinks. Reincarnation.

  She smiles at the next customer as he approaches the counter. He is American. She can tell by his accent. He wears a pair of dark glasses. He fumbles with the menu and asks her several questions. He ends up ordering for six men. A long order. Normally, this order would delight her husband, she thinks, but he is tired today. She leaves the counter and goes back behind the stainless steel divider.

  "Here," she says, "let me help you with this one." Together they fill the large order.

  As his wife turns to take the bags of dumplings to the front counter her husband says, "After this, we will close for the day." Matseidha smiles wide at this.

  "Almost like a girl," he says to her.

  "We'll cut out early." She walks briskly to the front counter, with new energy, and smiles as the man picks up the paper bags.

  "Come again!" she says, almost laughing at herself - she normally says this only to Darjeeling customers.

  "He is American," she thinks, "he won't be here again."

  The American man says "Thank you," and turns around to walk away; then he stops. He turns back to her. He pulls down his dark glasses with only one finger, his hands full of white paper bags.

  "You are Tibetan, aren't you?" he asks.

  She nods her head, "Yes." She smiles. The American man squints against the sunlight to the back of the stand, past the aluminum shine off the counter, he squints harder.

  "Tenzing!" he yells out.

  "Tenzing." He laughs.

  "Is that you?" Tenzing turns around, smiling at the sound of the American's voice. He looks the American man up and down. He leaves his cooking spot for the first time since that morning when he had opened the dumpling stand, putting down his spatula and exiting through a side door, out into the bright sunlight.

  "Well, by God, it is you!" the American booms, looping his finger around the earpiece of his sunglasses to remove them without setting down the paper bags.

  "McCarthy," Tenzing says. "Mac McCarthy." He is plump cheeked and smiling.

  He looks toward his wife, a silly smile, asking the American, "Just what is the CIA doing in Darjeeling? Are we in trouble?"

  "Not you, not you," the American teases. "No. I'm here on secret service work." He sets the bags on a wooden table near the dumpling stand's side door. The two men shake hands. Mac pats Tenzing on the shoulder several times. They fumble toward an impromptu hug. Mac lets out a laugh.

  "So this is what you do now?" he says pulling away. Tenzing nods looking at the stand.

  "It's not a castle, but you know..."

  Mac interrupts him, "No, no, hey, this is great!"

  "It's not CIA work," Tenzing says.

  "Oh man," Mac swats the air with his hand, "if I could tell you how many times I've thought of doing something just like this. Azhhh! Must be great. Really great. And you've got your wife here? This is your wife?"

  "Yes!" Tenzing says, he extends his arm for her to come closer,

  be introduced. She tucks her chin and does so, approaching the men she has been watching since the American man called out her husband's name.

  "Oh this is nice. You know how long it's been since I've seen my wife? Well, you know. It's a wonder she still knows my name."

  "Sit down," Tenzing says. "Matseidha, please, let's bring out those beer
s from the cooler."

  "Sure," she says and gets them both a beer.

  Tenzing pops the top off the first bottle and hands it to Mac, the head frothing up past the bottleneck.

  "Oh great, thank you," he smiles at Matseidha. She sits down enjoying the sound of her husband's uninhibited talk and laughter around this man with the free and hearty manner. Then, she goes and cleans up the dumpling stand, shutting it down for the day, smiling often at the sounds of the two men laughing, her husband nearly giggling at times.

  "Too bad we don't have more beer," Tenzing says as his wife approaches the table. She has taken her apron off, the work is done.

  "Come over tonight," she says to the American.

  1958 Leadville.

  Mac McCarthy slaps Tenzing on the shoulder as he holds open the heavy, wooden door. Tenzing watches the frosty mist form from Mac's breath as he speaks into the cold, Colorado night air.

  "Bet you've never been to one of these, have you?" The small group of Tibetans enter the building. Neon lights advertise beverage companies around the room. Heads from surrounding tables turn to see who has entered; several people stare. Music plays loud enough that Tenzing must lean in to hear Mac's next words. He recognizes Elvis from what he knows of American music.

  "It's a bar." Mac says. "Ever been to a bar, boys? Bet you don't have these back home in Tibet." He does not wait for answer.

  "We have bars," Tenzing says. Mac walks up to the counter.

  "Oh," he says. "Well this is an American bar. Have a seat." A pregnant woman approaches them from behind the counter and another two seats clear near Mac as a man escorts his girl to the dance floor. "Who have we here?" she winks at Mac, chewing rapidly on a wad of gum.

  "Just passin' through, ma'am" says Mac.

  "Well!" she talks louder, "welcome to the bar at the top of the Rockies! 310 days of sunshine a year!" Mac laughs.

  "I was wonderin' if someone like yourself could fix us up with several beers and maybe a bowl of peanuts," he says.

  "Sure could, sweetie," she says between chews. She lists off the choices of beer available, and Mac orders for the group.

  "I'm sorry," she chews, "but don't think I'll be able to serve that one." she points.

  "He don't look legal. You aren't old enough to be in here, are you, cutie?" Mac and Tenzing turn to look toward the back of the group to see who she is talking about; coats rustle as several men shift aside revealing the shiny brown skin of the bald headed boy in the back. He smiles at her, friendly and innocent. He has no idea what she has just said even though the music has quieted and the latest lowered single on the jukebox begins a slow, Sinatra tune. The boy in the back shrugs his shoulders. His warm smile does not change but he seems to express even more joy and kindness from the twinkle in his deep, brown eyes. She is taken aback, and for a moment halts the consistent chomping of her gum. The boy lowers his head and eyes for a brief moment, a greeting, and walks up to the counter, standing directly in front of the woman. He makes it obvious he has noticed her 'condition', looking down at her belly and back up into her eyes.

  "Yes," she breathes, placing one hand upon her approximately '7 months along' belly, "I'm," she stops. He makes a cradling motion with his arms as if he were rocking a baby and smiles at her.

  "Yes!" she says, and lets go a nervous laugh, it is not often this woman is caught off guard, not even by the saltiest types around.

  She points to him, "Baby! I'm going to have a baby." Mac takes out his wallet and lays a twenty dollar bill upon the counter.

  "I'm sure the kid's nineteen," he says.

  "Oh what the heck," she smiles, folding the bill and placing it inside her shirt, under her bra.

  "He just looks young."

  "Well!" she slowly pulls her eyes from the boy's eyes to Mac's sturdy face and gentle expression.

  "Now what'll you have... again?"

  He leans in, "I'll bet you've never forgotten an order in your life, have ya?" He flashes his badge to her inconspicuously.

  "I'll make sure you don't get into any trouble. We'll have the Raineer, and don't forget those peanuts," he smiles inserting the leather bound badge back inside his coat pocket. The pregnant woman does not say a word. She smiles slightly, looking back to the boy who looks again at her belly and bows his head with an excited smile, an affirmation he seems to be expressing. Tenzing speaks to him, a word in an Amdo dialect. The boy bows to Tenzing. He moves back toward the back of the group, where he has stood earlier. As he turns around, he sees all the other faces of the group, and at the bar, are watching him. His quiet smile, undimmed, shines up from the back of the room a joyful appearance that almost makes Mac and the bartender laugh outloud. Mac slaps his hand on the counter.

  "Let's get a table!" he says.

  At the table, the smug faced boy turns down the offered bottle of beer.

  "I told 'ya he was too young," the woman from the bar chomps out her words, "probably don't like the taste yet, do 'ya?"

  Mac takes one of the bottles off the table, "Try it," he says, "go ahead." The boy does not drink from the bottle. He says to Tenzing in the Amdo dialect that he will wait outside. He starts to walk toward the door. Tenzing tells Mac where he is going. The lady from the bar overhears.

  "Well," she says, "I just won't stand for that. Nonsense!" she snaps her finger and points, "we got other things to do, here. Mary Beth, put on a rockinroll tune and show this boy we have dancin' too. Right over there," she looks at Mac and then points to a corner where red and blue lights point at the floor and tables have been cleared away. "Don't go out there alone! You're in Leadville! Besides, it's cold out there." She tells the boy, "C'mon, now, there are other things to do. You don't have to drink beer, if you don't want to. This is the Two Mile High city! Mary Beth!! Shoot! Mary Beth!" Mary Beth comes out from the back room.

  "What?! Would you stop shoutin' at me?" Mary Beth looks 17 or 18 and she is pretty. Slim figured and curly haired, she places her hands on her hips waiting for an answer.

  "Dance with him," the woman points again, over toward the door. She puts her hand on Mac's shoulder. Mary Beth slowly glances toward the door until she notices the boy, standing there, who smiles at her as their eyes meet. Mary Beth looks away.

  "Uh!" she stomps a foot. "Fine! Whatever!" Abruptly she puts down a dishrag she is holding and takes out some jukebox tokens from a glass near the register.

  "Well, it beats washin' dishes, don't it?" the woman laughs, smiling at Mac. He laughs and shakes his head, watching the boy being pulled by one arm toward the dance 'area'. Tenzing laughs too. He looks down at the beer bottle on the table in front of him and decides to give it a try. He does not want to be pulled by one arm toward the spot in the room where red and blue lights point at the floor.

  "Mm!" he says as he swallows the beer, looking at Mac.

  "Good, isn't it?" Mac asks.

  Tenzing shakes his head, "no", but he smiles and takes another drink. The others at the table follow suit. Some make faces as they swallow down cold Rainier beer.

  "What do you say," the woman at the bar taps Mac on the shoulder lightly, "would you like to dance? I just love this song."

  "Uh, well, I don't know," he stammers motioning toward the other guys at the table, but before he can make an excuse she gives him a look and says, "C'mon, please?" making a denial rather uncomfortable. He agrees to dance with her. From the table, the Tibetans watch the boy being whisked around by Mary Beth, laughing at times out loud, and making comments to eachother in the language of Amdo. Mac holds onto the lady from the bar's hand and is given the third degree while he pretends to enjoy himself on the dance floor.

  "I really can't answer these questions, ma'am" he finally says. "It's top secret."

  1972 Darjeeling.

  Tenzing slowly wakes, remembering bits of a dream as he opens his eyes - a child in a dark, blue coat, a grey sky, an orange pail. He rubs his forehead, rubs his eyes and looks over at his wife. Sh
e is sleeping. Tenzing sits up, resting at the edge of the bed for a moment. Through the open crack of orange, cotton curtains, he can see the black darkness of the sky has gone dark blue already. He thinks he may already be too late. He slips his feet into ornately decorated, Indian slippers and walks like a drunkard toward the kitchen; his feet heavy with sleep, wobbling to and fro down the hallway.

  In the kitchen, Tenzing gathers up several dozen dumplings in a basket. As he finishes his morning routine and opens the front door, he grabs a blue coat from the hook beside the door as he exits. He is greeted by the brilliant orange of the sun peeking up over the hills. Tenzing welcomes the sight of the sun's explosion into pink, dark blues and yellow with a deep breath and a momentary smile; but, he quickly shuts the door behind him and hurries toward the monastery, worrying, again, that he might be late. Along the walk, Tenzing thinks about Litang. He trudges lightly down the road, the basket bumping his mid thigh occasionally. His brow furrows thinking about the attacks. Wondering, again, when Tibet will be his home.

  The familiar sounds of spinning prayer wheels break the quiet of the morning. Tenzing offers the dumplings at the steps of the temple. He is greeted by orange and crimson robed monks, bowing heads, and the activity of the early dawn of Losar, the Tibetan new year. Many offer sacrificial cakes along the route of the ancient traditions, among these, he spies his friend, Lhosta. Lhosta greets Tenzing, but he is busy, now a monk in this monastery after his escape from Litang. Tenzing gestures that he will come back, to talk, another day. He has much to tell his friend; about Mac's visit, the CIA, the planned talks in China with Nixon, his daughter's husband, or, he corrects himself, planned husband. Not today, he sighs, suddenly feeling weary and heavy with remembrances. Even his friend, Lhosta, seems too much a reminder today, and since it is Losar, he scolds himself, no time for sadness. He must prepare. The debates have already started. The sight of bright costumes and painted masks bring a smile to his burdened face.