Goddesses Never Die

by George B Mair

  It was the latest hippie paradise, and hippies of all ages were coming for a week of escapism and dope. If they behaved themselves there might be a visa extension even if they were known addicts, but anti-social behaviour meant their swift return to Benares, Calcutta, Dacca or Delhi, though with a guaranteed income at the other end through the sale of drugs brought down from the north. In fact unless a personal check was made on each traveller returning from Nepal it was certain that pocketfuls of hashish would reach the black market without difficulty. Americans and French in Calcutta were said to offer highest prices, and profits could be gigantic, especially since a six-month supply of hashish for a one-pipe-per-day man cost only the equivalent of around fifteen United Kingdom shillings in Nepal. The same quantity in Calcutta could bring in one hundred sterling plus, even when sold by amateurs direct to servicemen or sailors.

  And Grant was more than ever convinced that Coia’s arrival was surely not for tourism only.

  Narain, his host, was a walking encyclopaedia about everything which mattered. The road to Tibet was normally taboo to foreigners, though permission was sometimes granted to V.I.P.s, but he knew a boy who could guide a taxi round various road checks, and once in open country away from the valley officials would probably assume that the car had been vetted and leave it alone, while if the worst came to the worst he would only be asked to leave the country.

  Then again there was a conventional ‘must’ on the tourism beat which should not be missed. Everest Tours flew an aircraft to Mount Everest every Wednesday afternoon if weather was tolerable, and to date there had been no accidents. A flight round and over Mount Everest wasn’t to be ignored either, and Narain promised to fix it in the near future.

  He even promised to arrange an interview with the Living Goddess, a fifteen-year-old child who enjoyed the status of a living goddess from the age of six until sixteen, when she retired from the Temple Kumari Devi and became lost to history. If Narain knew the future of retired living goddesses he refused to give anything away, and Grant remembered another living goddess in the old India who had always been killed when her term of office expired. And what else could be done when goddesses again became mortals? It would be impossible to allow them to marry. They could hardly be let loose to write their memoirs for the Western press. And they could become a danger to their own faith if they set up an opposition temple. So all in all a living goddess could be a bad life risk, and Grant looked forward to seeing her.

  Then there were the wood-carvings! Narain was amused by the attitude of tourists to Nepal’s erotic art. Most temples were built in pagoda style with each overhanging roof supported by richly carved beams depicting one or more of the forty ‘positions of love’. For the Buddhist-Hindu population of Nepal love was a natural gift from the Gods to be enjoyed in every conceivable way as a tension-releasing mechanism and as a means of showing affection towards a mate. It was a giving as well as a taking, and the wood-carvings of Katmandu’s temples depicted every credible and incredible human emotion as well as position, not forgetting mythological love scenes involving beasts and birds or snakes. He was certain that Grant would not only adore the temples but be amused by middle-aged women going crazy with their zoom lenses while they tried to take flash photographs of scenes which would be confiscated by the average Western Customs official should they ever discover them. The Pashupatinah Temple at Bhadgaon was said to be the most erotic, but, said Narain, that was really an exaggeration which had drifted into even government-sponsored tourist brochures. They were all, or almost all, equally erotic, and in any case to the pure all things are pure. It was only Christian civilisations of the West which had made sex a ‘dirty’ thing. Here there was a much more wholesome outlook, and the locals simply couldn’t even begin to understand why many Caucasian foreigners found them pornographic.

  Indeed, Narain had continued, ‘only hippies think of our temples in a civilised way. We rather like hippies and it saddens us when sometimes a few have to leave early.’ Which, thought Grant, was another way of saying ‘had made fools of themselves’. He learned that the real hippie headquarters were either the New Tibetan Restaurant or the Camp, but that a few occasionally drifted in to the Peace, even though prices there were a shade high for the average hippie pocket.

  Then again Katmandu had been cunningly designed to control tourists. The old city had few hotels with amenities, and it was separated from the new and developing tourist area by a road flanked by embassies or mansions, or by the Royal Palace with its parks. So the old city really saw few foreigners except when on a conducted tour. Other than hippies, of course, and they not only lived like locals, but wore local dress, ate local food and even learned something of the language.

  In fact Grant became so hippie-conscious that he was inclined to skip the Peace and go direct to the New Tibetan. But Narain was against it. Smoking sessions at the New Tibetan tended to start at fourish or five, while at the Camp they were only held upstairs, and until he knew more of the lie of the land it was better to make first contacts at the Peace.

  Half an hour later a young Hindu with a thick crimson caste mark on his forehead guided Grant into the restaurant. The boss man wore a dark blue suit with white shirt and open neck. He looked like a Mongol, and his smile was a gash of cynical politeness flaunting two rows of gold or silver teeth cresting infected gums. Grant could almost feel his curiosity and wondered why. He had chosen a table in a far corner and only five other people were in the room. This was a group of youths from Israel, and Grant sensed that he had become conspicuous. Until he remembered that in Nepal tourists were either government guests, in which case they lived in special quarters, or else they were on a package tour, in which case they lived in tourist hotels; or else they were probably hippies, in which case they lived as he was doing, in a small house, eating out in an unpretentious restaurant. But until he made contact with people of his own kind he would be an enigma to be watched.

  A young man joined him and ordered China tea. His English was good and his smile attractive. He looked like nineteen but Grant later discovered that he was twenty-seven. He wore hipster trousers and an open-neck white shirt. His fingers were unusually long and there was a natural elegance about him which was appealing. ‘May I join you, sir?’

  He gave Grant no time to reply but handed over a card. ‘My name. Bhim Sen. But just call me Charlie. You like to buy some real Tibetan antiques? I have some rugs, some buddhas from the Potala at Lhasa and some very fine wood-carvings. Refugees can only take out small things in their sleeping bags, so everything is quite tiny, but very genuine. Some even seventeenth century. You have dinner and then come and see.’

  Grant smiled. It could be the old old story. Yet Nepal wasn’t yet switched-on for formalised tourism and chances were that they hadn’t got around to faking antiques. ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘But no strings. Maybe I don’t want to buy. And where do you stay?’

  Charlie waved his hand expressively. ‘Five minutes by taxi. Fifteen or twenty if we walk. In one of Katmandu’s main streets. A small room, but very expensive. And my wife is at home waiting for her first baby. I need money.’

  ‘How much per day if I ask you to show me round?’

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘I leave it to you, sir. And, of course, if you buy any of my antiques it costs less for guiding. Say around thirty rupees per day.’

  Grant cast a fly. ‘Can you lay on smokes?’

  ‘Sure. We go to New Tibetan tomorrow and I introduce you. How about friends?’

  Grant smiled at the use of the word ‘friends’. Charlie still hadn’t got him taped. ‘Girls, son. Not boys. But I’m not terribly interested right now. Still, let’s hear the gen. How do things tick up here?’

  The boy became massively professional. His eyes wandered obliquely round the room and he lit a cigarette. ‘Local girls or visitors?’

  Grant took the bull by the horns. It would be interesting to know the ropes, and he suspected that local girls were pretty taboo
. ‘Nepalese girls,’ he said quietly. ‘Maybe sometime next week.’

  Charlie became thoughtful. ‘Very expensive. Taxi to Balaju: say ten rupees. For one first-time girl say twelve or thirteen sterling. Then around one hundred rupees for house and another fifty for the girl’s guardian. Call it four hundred rupees plus taxi and ten per cent commission for myself. Twenty pounds sterling more or less. Okay?’

  Grant was playing it by ear. ‘Okay. But we settle that next week. How about the Living Goddess? Can I see her?’

  Charlie picked his teeth and then shook his head. ‘Not easy. More expensive than Balaju.’

  ‘And the road to Tibet?’

  There was a sudden hush when he spoke, one of these tricks of conversation when a room becomes suddenly silent, and he could hear the words crackle through the room as Lu the restaurateur slithered towards them. He was smiling broadly and his hands were held almost in a lotus position at waist level. ‘You wanted something, sir?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘I was asking about Tibet antiques.’

  Lu shook his head. ‘No Tibetan antiques in Nepal now. Chinese antiques, yes. The former Tibet is now an autonomous province of the People’s Republic of China. So they would be Chinese antiques and Peking has forbidden export without a licence. Very difficult now.’

  Grant opened a well-filled wallet. It had taken him over twenty minutes at the airport to cash travellers’ cheques and he had also begun to learn that the Nepalese were careful about their currency. It was one of the few places in the world where both sterling and U.S.A. dollars were virtually useless, but his wallet held at least two thousand rupees and he guessed that Lu could estimate on a ten-per-cent error after one quick glance at the contents. ‘I can afford to buy almost anything I want.’

  Lu bowed politely. ‘I shall remember, sir. You said anything?’

  Grant nodded. ‘Anything.’

  ‘And how long do you stay?’

  ‘Ten—twenty days. Maybe more and maybe less. Depends on visa extensions.’

  ‘I have some influence, sir. I could fix things for you.’

  ‘And fix one way or another.’ Grant’s voice was very cold.

  ‘Exactly.’ The man sat down at Grant’s table and spoke rapidly to Charlie who bowed politely and left the room. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Lu. ‘He will come back. Charlie is a pimp and petty thief. But he has got to live. Or thinks he should live. So he will come back to see if you will still employ him after I have told you about his reputation.’

  ‘I can use him,’ said Grant curtly. ‘But why this interest in my affairs? After all, we met only a few minutes ago.’

  ‘I like to speak with my clients. I like to know the type of person who comes to my restaurant. I like to know who may cause trouble and may not.’

  ‘And what is your snap estimate of myself?’

  Lu narrowed his eyes and blew two jets of smoke through his parchment-coloured nostrils. ‘Three interesting people arrived in Katmandu today: yourself, a man called Coia and Miss Harmony Dove. Everyone else this month has been a conventional tourist. But you three are different and each of you interests me in a different way.’

  Grant had become very careful. It was possible that Nepal used secret police, though he doubted it very much, and it was also possible that the man was a Chinese spy, but more probably he was a free-lance gangster or front man for others less conspicuous and more dangerous than himself. ‘I know Miss Dove slightly. Coia means nothing.’

  ‘But he will,’ said Lu quietly. ‘He will, sir. Because he is in the same house as yourself and when you return you may find that you have been changed from that large room you have with a view and balcony to something less pretentious. Because Mr. Coia has insisted that he wants your room and will have told Narain to say that you were given it by mistake.’

  Grant looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘You seem to know a great deal.’

  ‘You are very kind, but I do know a great deal. And I tell you this so that you won’t make trouble. Mr. Coia is dangerous and if you cross him he might hurt you.’

  ‘And would that matter to you?’

  Lu stared at Grant thoughtfully. ‘In some ways, yes. You see, I don’t like Mr. Coia myself and I am always glad to have an ally. So I would be glad to team up with you. All things being equal, of course.’

  A thought crossed Grant’s mind. Where had Lu learned his English?

  The man allowed a twinkle to glint in his hooded eyes. ‘I was in London for several years. And later they sent me to Paris. So I’m a cosmopolitan.’

  ‘And you may also know Miss Dove.’

  Lu nodded easily. ‘I do. Indeed she is now my house guest. I have a small place quite close to where you are staying.’

  Grant tried to conceal his surprise. ‘Then give her my regards. Say that we have met and that I’ll hope she’ll dine with me.’ He had almost ceased to react to any news, but for once he was caught a shade off balance. ‘You say she arrived today?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Then she didn’t stop long in Karachi.’

  Lu’s voice became very mellow. ‘And how did you know that she was in Karachi? Or is that too personal a question?’

  Grant pointed to the newspaper lying on their table. He had carried it all the way from Delhi and was still trying to find time to finish it. ‘A paragraph here.’

  Lu read it impassively. ‘I see. And did that make you decide on your visit to Nepal?’

  Grant flicked his passport open. ‘My visa was issued several weeks ago. And I don’t have second sight.’

  Lu fingered it slowly. ‘Maybe not second sight! But you have a lot of visas. A professional traveller! Let’s see now. Hong Kong and Macau. Very normal. Then Bangkok and Pnom Penh. Less usual but probably you are going to Ankor. Then outdated visas for most of the communist countries and several dated entries to the United States. You get around!’ He carefully studied the first few pages. ‘And a doctor, I see. Of what? Medicine, or divinity or sociology or philosophy or law or what-have-you?’

  Grant allowed himself to be grilled. ‘Medicine.’

  ‘Then possibly you are here on a mission?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘Tourism only.’

  Lu beamed with pleasure. ‘Then let me congratulate you. The United Kingdom sterling allowance is very small, yet you say you can afford anything.’

  ‘And I mean it.’ Grant was suddenly on the defensive. One part of him knew that the questions were important. The other couldn’t have cared less. To date he wasn’t involved. Not in anything. And he hoped to keep it that way. ‘I work in Paris but have interests in several countries.’ He paused. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Doctor.’ Lu waved his hands expressively. ‘I have been rude in asking all these questions. Why should a humble person like myself be satisfied? You are a free citizen able to do as you please.’

  ‘While you are host to Miss Dove! Which means that in your own way you too must be more than usually interesting.’

  The man inclined his head. ‘You are very kind. But I have known Miss Dove for a long time. She has only come here to convalesce from her broken engagement.’

  ‘And the prince?’ asked Grant quietly. ‘Is he, too, convalescing?’

  Lu’s lips twitched slightly. ‘Possibly you didn’t hear the radio tonight. Prince Marcello died this afternoon. An overdose of nembutal. Twelve capsules to be exact.’

  Grant smiled as he raised a glass of Chinese rice wine. ‘Then to Miss Dove and to her continued good health. I hope that the news didn’t disturb her.’

  Lu looked at him cynically. ‘Miss Dove is very self-reliant. She took it calmly.’

  ‘Say anything?’

  Lu was vaguely surprised. ‘Why should she?’

  ‘Because,’ said Grant carefully, ‘she usually says something unexpected when someone dies with whom she has been emotionally involved.’

  ‘I like the phrase emotionally involved,’ said Lu. ‘But no. She was very sensible. I recall only that
she closed her eyes and smiled rather sadly. Oh yes,’ he added. ‘And then she did say something. I remember it now that you ask. She smiled and said, “Lu. Possibly the meek may inherit the earth, but for some a stiff dose of barbiturates is the best way to heaven”.’

  ‘Then she’s a philosopher.’

  ‘More than that,’ said Lu slightly curtly. ‘She has a degree in social anthropology and can call herself “doctor”.’

  This was news to Grant, but with Harmony Dove all things were possible and he decided to break up the meeting. ‘My bill, Mr. Lu. And incidentally is that really your name? I notice that there is a sign saying Chez Lu. But is it your real name?’

  The man shook his head. ‘It is not my real name, but it is easier to pronounce. And before you go, a word about the young man who is trying to sell himself and his Tibetan antiques. He is very reliable, but known to police who, to date, have been unable to pin anything—as you say—on to him. Though he is suspected of smuggling, of being a spy, of being a pimp, of being a black marketeer in currency, and, last but not least, of being an agent provocateur among some of the more awkward hill tribes. I would treat him with a good deal of respect.’

  ‘And his antiques?’

  Lu smiled thoughfully. ‘I’m sure they are genuine and that he brought them back after his last trip to Lhasa.’ He paused and stroked his chin. ‘Now let’s see. When would that be? Oh yes. Say seven weeks ago.’

  Grant had more food for thought than he cared to admit, and it began to appear as though he had blundered into trouble. ‘Coia?’ he asked abruptly. ‘If he has tried to take over my room I’ll throw him out.’

  Lu looked at him with interest. ‘Coia has a black belt in judo. Have you?’

  Grant hesitated. ‘Possibly not. But I have a habit of winning.’