‘Thanks. You mean,’ Houston said, ‘conditions were so bad that no caravans were running?’
‘I don’t know. I think Da Costa ran one – he’s a Portuguese. Sangrab would know.’
Michaelson stayed for dinner at the hotel; but no messenger arrived from the Tibetan consul. Michaelson was irritated by this, but more, it seemed to Houston, because of the rebuff to his reputation as an institution than on Houston’s own account.
He said, ‘Let me know if you don’t hear tomorrow. I’ll do something about it.’
‘Right. And thanks very much.’
‘Don’t thank me yet.’
Houston heard nothing the next day. He walked about the town again with the boy, and made half a dozen charcoal sketches. The boy was delighted. But there was still no word from the mysterious Sangrab when he returned to the hotel.
Michaelson appeared angrily at six-thirty.
‘I hear that little sodling hasn’t condescended to see you yet.’
‘I’m afraid that’s right.’
‘Well, let’s have one and get over there. I don’t know what he thinks he’s playing at.’
‘I don’t want to do anything that’s unwise. I need his help.’
‘It’s not very wise of him to overlook a note of mine. I’ll have that old bastard shifted back home so fast he won’t know what’s happening.’
‘Did you mention in your note what I wanted to see him about?’
‘Certainly not. That’s your business. And anyway, he’d know. He knows everything that goes on in this town. Bloody sauce!’ Michaelson said. His face was red and his tie somewhat ill-adjusted. ‘Let’s get on over there before he starts dinner. They eat at seven. He’ll never leave that once he’s begun.’
Houston had some doubts as to the wisdom of confronting the Tibetan representative with Michaelson in his present mood of injured pride; and he suspected that the trader was using him to settle some scores of his own. But he couldn’t get out of it without giving offence. He finished his drink and accompanied Michaelson pensively across the square.
The crowds had gone from the courtyard of Sangrab’s establishment; the double doors were locked and the building shuttered and silent. Michaelson rapped loudly, and a few moments later a robed Tibetan appeared.
Michaelson spoke curtly, and they were admitted. The door was closed behind them. The servant disappeared. Houston heard Michaelson breathing noisily beside him in the dark hall. Presently the servant appeared again, with a small lantern which he hung on a wall bracket. He murmured a few words to Michaelson.
‘As I thought,’ Michaelson said. ‘He’s at his prayers now. We’ll catch him just before he eats.’
And indeed, after some moments Houston could distinguish a faint chanting from somewhere in the house, a throaty ululation that was strange but not unpleasant in the flickering lamplight.
The servant returned some minutes later, and they followed him down a dim corridor to a pair of double doors that he threw open for them. Inside, in a blaze of light from some dozens of candles, stood two old men. Houston had never in his life seen such gorgeous figures. They were dressed in robes of richly-embroidered silk, shaped and buttoned across the chest like cossack uniforms. Each wore a jewelled silk choker loosely tied under a stand-up mandarin collar, and hair dressed on top in a glossy black jewelled bun. Each also wore a single pendant ear-ring, and had a little goatee beard.
For an instant, Houston had the impression the two figures were household idols, so still were they; but presently they bowed, and he found himself bowing in return.
He was considerably impressed to see that Michaelson was in no way put out by all this magnificence. He sat himself easily in a chair and motioned Houston to do the same, and the two old men sat down also.
Houston had been wondering which one of them was Sangrab, and now, as Michaelson addressed him, he saw. The other old man had moved a little apart; he sat beside a small table and rested his hands on it as he watched. There was something of a tortoise-shell cat about him. Tortoise-shell combs gleamed in his hair; bits of tortoise-shell stood out on his hands – little hands placed one on top of the other, which fixed and contracted like a cat’s. There was something of the cat, too, about his thin upturned mouth and the narrow drowsy eyes. These eyes were, however, turned quite un- blinkingly on Houston; he did not see them move throughout the interview.
Sangrab had been playing with his beard, studying Houston from time to time as Michaelson talked, and interpolating a few words himself.
‘Well,’ Michaelson said in English, at length, ‘he’s not optimistic about the death certificates – I told you that. But he’ll try again, if you want. Meanwhile he’s promised to sort out the names of the teamsters you want. The snag is that the October caravan was run by Da Costa, as I thought, and he’s gone off to Goa for the winter. He thinks the teamsters have dispersed, too. Some of them go and hump tea in Darjeeling and a lot go home to Nepal – they’re mainly Sherpas or Gurkhas. Still, you might find some of them here. It will take a few days to get the list – he’s got a lot of work on at the moment. Does that satisfy you for now?’
Houston said it did, and they left soon after.
‘I must say,’ Michaelson said with satisfaction as they turned into the hotel for a drink, ‘the little sodling was quite ingratiating. He feels badly about my black tails, of course. And then, the other fellow was listening.’
‘Who was the other fellow?’
‘It’s an official he’s got staying with him. He arrived last night – that’s why he couldn’t see us. They send someone down to check up on him from time to time – he’s nicely placed to take a bit of bribery. He’ll sit in with him for a few days and then hop it. You never see the same one twice.’
There seemed no reason at the time to doubt it.
4
Houston had not thought to spend more than a week in Kalimpong. It was, in all, seven weeks before he left, including a trip to Calcutta in between. He had overlooked the timeless qualities of all transactions in India.
It took him a week to find a single named teamster. He knew the man’s address and his usual haunts and the odd jobs he was engaged upon; none the less, and despite the boy’s assistance, it was seven days before he ran him to earth in a small and slightly illegal drinking shop.
The result was hardly fruitful.
Yes, the man said cheerfully, he had been a member of the October caravan. Certainly they had been joined by other travellers – by perhaps twelve or so at different points of the journey. He didn’t know if any of the travellers had failed to meet them after arranging to do so. This was a matter for the caravan sirdar or his deputy who alone made such arrangements. Where was the sirdar? Why, in Sikkim. He returned home each winter as everybody knew. And his deputy? In Darjeeling, possibly.
Houston still had no chitty for Sikkim, but he could go to Darjeeling without one, and he went. He found the deputy sirdar and several other members of the October caravan humping tea, as Michaelson had suggested.
This visit was not very fruitful, either.
The nearest the caravan had passed to Yamdring was Gysung, sixty odd miles away. Was it likely they would pick up travellers then from Yamdring? Yes, indeed. Why not?
Had they picked any up in October?
In October? No… . No, not in October.
Had they perhaps arranged to pick any up then?
That was possible. It was hard to recall exactly. There were always cases of broken arrangements on every trip. One paid no particular attention.
At what date had the caravan reached Gysung?
It had reached Gysung (this two trips and several discussions later) on 21 October.
So if a party had meant to meet the caravan there, when would they have had to leave Yamdring?
Five days earlier. One allowed twelve miles a day in that part of the country.
Five days earlier… . 16 October.
Supposing the party had run into an a
valanche – where would be the most likely place for this to happen?
Undoubtedly on the Portha-la pass. This was the only place on the Yamdring-Gysung route that one would expect an avalanche.
Whereabouts was that?
Three days’ march from Yamdring.
Three days from 16 October… . It was all very thin, very circumstantial. But still, Houston thought, he might have narrowed down the details a bit.
He wrote in his notebook: ‘In view of all the above, the logical deduction must be that the party was overwhelmed on or about 19 October on the Portha-la pass, some thirty-six miles from Yamdring on the road to Gysung.’ He appended the names of his informants and got them to make their marks.
He returned to Kalimpong tired and depressed. He had been away just over two months now, and had spent in all nearly six hundred pounds. He thought he had got as far as he was going to get; and that unless the Tibetan government showed some rapid signs of cooperation he might as well go home.
He asked at the reception desk if there was anything for him.
‘Nothing, sahib.’
All right, Houston said to himself. Enough was enough. He would have a bath and a drink and pay one final call on the Tibetan representative. Then away on the morning bus.
He had the bath, and the drink, and a few more after it, and went reluctantly out into the square. He had left it a bit late for the Tibetans. No use after seven o’clock, Michaelson had said. It was getting on for that, the lamps going on above the stalls. He was sick of the place suddenly, sick of all the places, sick of himself. But he walked across the square, and continued walking stolidly even when a small brown bombshell erupted at his side.
‘Oh, sahib, you are back!’
‘Hello, me lad,’ Houston said, glad at least in a melancholy way that someone cared whether he was in this place or that.
‘When you come back, sahib?’
‘An hour or two ago.’
‘I look for you. My brother is back, sahib. You come and see him now.’
‘Not just now. Later, Bozeling.’
‘Now, sahib, now! Ringling has seen them, the ones you seek.’
‘Which ones?’
‘The dead ones, sahib.’
Houston felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
He said, ‘Which dead ones?’
‘The English ones, sahib. They marched one day with the caravan.’
‘When was this?’
‘In December, sahib.’
Houston stopped. He felt himself rooted to the spot in the bustling, draughty square. He said stupidly, ‘In December? He couldn’t have. They died in October.’
‘Yes, sahib, he did. Come now. You come with me.’
Houston remembered the moment with peculiar clarity in later years. The clock on the Scottish mission church had boomed seven as he stood there, and he remembered thinking, Well, I’ve had the little sodling for tonight, anyway. Then he walked with the boy to his home.
CHAPTER THREE
1
IT was a dark and malodorous shack, lit by oil lamps and with a dung fire burning in a rudimentary grate. Bozeling vanished as soon as they were inside, and Houston found himself alone in the smoky fug of the room, until the boy’s mother appeared suddenly, a small plump woman with gold ear-rings, a glossy middle-parting and a long skirt and bodice, and fussed around him, talking half in English and half in Sherpali, as she fetched him a chair and a cup of tea and sat him as far from the reeking fire as was possible.
Her elder son was sleeping, she said; he usually slept for two whole days on returning from a trip. The sahib would forgive her English; her son’s, on the other hand, was excellent; he had climbed often with the British. Soon the sahib would be able to enjoy a fine conversation with him.
Houston sat and smiled and nodded to her, afraid almost to open his mouth for the sickness rising in his throat. A terrible nausea had come sweeping over him in the last few minutes, whether from the shock or the airless hovel he could not tell. But he managed to get the tea down; and presently there were sounds-off and Bozeling appeared with his brother.
Sherpa Ringling was a youth of 17, slim, small, and with the agreeable monkey face of his young brother. Houston saw the lines of fatigue in the thin features and apologized for disturbing him.
‘It’s nothing, sahib. Tomorrow I’ll be fine.’
‘You say you saw some English people in Tibet.’
‘That’s right. I met them, sahib. They walked one day with the caravan.’
‘Which trip was that?’
That had been December. Yes, he was quite sure it was December. There was no possibility of his confusing it with an earlier trip. Why was this? Why, because the trip before that had been in September – there had been no caravan in October or November – and in September they had gone by a different route, to Norgku. It was only in December that they had travelled via the Portha-la pass. And it was on the Portha-la that they had met the English party.
Houston sat blinking in the smoky room, trying to comprehend this. He said at last, ‘They travelled a whole day with you?’
‘Most of one day. Four or five hours.’
‘Could you try and remember everything that happened that day.’
There was very little to remember. The weather had been very bad, the youth said; a blizzard was blowing. The four people had joined the caravan while it was on the move. They had appeared some time during the ascent of Portha-la. They had caught up with the caravan with difficulty, for one was ill and had to be supported by the others. He thought one of the party had been a woman. They had managed to keep up with the caravan, however, and had bedded down with it when it had stopped for the night. Later they had left.
Left? Where had they left?
The boy had no idea. He remembered that guides had turned up for them – either during the night or early in the morning. He had woken to see two of the guides carrying away the sick man, and the rest of the party following. He had been awakened by shouting, in English. He thought the sahibs were angry with their guides. Perhaps they had arrived late. Yes, it had struck him as strange that a foreign party should be travelling in Tibet without guides. He had wondered about that.
But where had they gone to? Where could they have gone?
To a monastery, perhaps, to take shelter; the blizzard had continued for a further two days.
To the Yamdring monastery? Was that anywhere near?
Yes, it was not far, two, three days, not more.
And there had been no comment among the caravan team? Could a party suddenly disappear without arousing curiosity even?
But certainly. Parties were joining and leaving the caravan all the time; and this party had not even paid to join. Nobody had objected to this, of course. In winter wandering groups often took shelter with passing caravans. One would expect a foreign party to do this if they had missed their own guides. He had forgotten all about it himself. To tell the truth, it had only come to mind again when Bozeling had told him the sahib was interested. He hoped he had been of assistance. He would try and remember what else he could of the incident; but he didn’t think there was anything else to remember.
Houston thanked him, and refused more tea, and also Bozeling’s offer to see him back to the hotel, and said good night all round, and left.
He felt very ill. He thought he was going to be sick. He walked slowly, breathing in the crisp night air, and stopped once or twice to lean against the wall. He could see the glow in the sky over the square, and made towards it through the dark alleys. There was nobody about, and he thought after a while he had lost himself; the glow was getting no nearer. But presently he saw a familiar feature, an upended cart he had passed on the way, and a moment afterwards a white shape glimmering in the dark.
He saw as he came closer that it was two men sitting smoking on a low earth wall, and he made towards them to ask the direction. He slowed down a bit as he approached. He didn’t know what it was about them. The
y were sitting per fectly still, not looking towards him though his footsteps were loud in the alley. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to bristle again, and he had an instinct to turn round and go back.
He couldn’t quite bring himself to do that, and continued walking, and that was the last opportunity he had. He saw, without quite believing it, that they had got up and were coming towards him. He saw the clubs in their hands. He stopped and watched them, too petrified to turn and run, still trying to convince himself that they were watchmen. They came quite slowly, without any sound, and he saw their feet were bare. He put out his hand and tried to speak, and they leapt at him.
He caught a numbing crack on the elbow and another on the side of his head and staggered, grunting. He tried to protect his head with one hand, but one of them had got behind him, and he felt another stunning blow. He found himself stumbling forwards and clutching at the man in front of him, and he grabbed at his white garment, still falling, and saw a bare foot beneath him, and stamped on it as hard as he could.
He heard the thin soft cry of pain, ‘Aaaah …’ and thought the fellow went over, too. He was down himself, scrambling in the dirt, and then his ear exploded and, as he moved his hands, his eye also, a single great pink blossom of pain unfolding above his right eye as he slipped and slithered and tried to stop himself but finally fell into a lurching, bruised blackness.
His unconsciousness was short and they were still there as he came too, bending over him and going through his pockets. He heard someone grunting and coughing and realized it was himself, and they dropped the wallet quickly and looked at him, muttering. They straightened up, and he saw by the way they held the clubs what was coming and tried to twist away but failed and got them both in the pit of the stomach and heard the single drawn-out animal sound as the air went out of his body.
He was over on his side, retching. He had not eaten for hours and only tea and gin and sour bile came up. He had to get his head out of it, and he struggled up on to his hands and knees, trembling. His forehead was icy with sweat and his arms would not support him properly. A dog came to sniff at him, and was soon joined by two others, and they found the patch of vomit, and he had to get away from that, and he was up, somehow, reeling and tottering in the alley.
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