Somehow life today had become so tepid. It took such an effort to actually get away from anything familiar that escape itself became the point of the expedition, rather than any discovery that might arise from it.
Something was catching the corner of his eye. Luca looked up to see that his mobile was flashing silently on the desk. Picking it up, he saw that it was his father calling. With a sigh, he put it down again. He must have heard the news that he was back – either that or it was a very lucky guess. Then again, his father always did have a sixth sense for that kind of thing.
Turning his phone face downwards, Luca exhaled before looking down at the book again.
Despite a tantalising reference to ‘that vast, unmapped region east of Makalu’, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about the mountains Bailey and his companion had gone hiking through. A few pages later, Luca was skimming through the explorers’ experiences with a more benign tribe, the Monpa, when he nearly missed a brief diary extract:
The local Monpa describe the Tsangpo river gorge as a ‘beyul’. After much vague discussion with the chief, we discovered this term to mean some sort of highly sacred sanctuary, but from what it was impossible to discern. On further discussion we were told that there are many such sanctuaries throughout Tibet, hidden in the most inaccessible regions.
We enquired as to the whereabouts of these other sacred places and only after much cajoling (and nearly half our supply of expedition gin) did the little fellow let on. Drawing a picture of a lotus flower in the dirt, he described a group of mountains, formed into a circle. At their centre, another mountain, which is supposedly the gateway to some sacred place.
Rather amusingly, when asked where the ring of mountains was, he replied that it had been made invisible by a great sorcerer. He claimed that one had to use the wisdom from a book called the Kalak Tantra to see inside it, but as with all these things, the Tibetan villagers’ penchant for the mystic is seemingly endless. It really is quite impossible to get things clear.
We decided to stick to the matter in hand and concentrate on getting into our own river gorge ‘beyul’.
Luca looked up from the page, his mouth suddenly dry. These were his mountains. They had to be.
So what did Bailey mean that they had been ‘made invisible by a great sorcerer’?
One thing Luca knew about Tibetans was that they loved anything supernatural. To them, gods literally roamed the heights and demons lived in the valleys. Almost every occurrence, even simple things such as bad weather or failing crops, was explained as an act of magic and sorcery.
Luca looked up through one of the long windows at the moody English sky. White clouds shrouded the tops of the city’s spires. Cloud . . . that was it! Within this context, the chief’s assertions about a great sorcerer having cast a spell over the mountains made perfect sense. The clouds themselves had rendered the centre of the mountain ring invisible, just as they had on the satellite map.
Standing up, Luca shuffled the books into a neat stack and then made his way over to the photocopying machine.
He wasn’t exactly sure what it was he had discovered, but he was getting closer.
He could feel it.
Chapter 8
Two monks stood on the roof of Tashilhunpo Monastery, their heads bowed in sorrow.
Usually the rarified mountain light reflected off the golden rooftops, making it unbearably hot and bright. But today was different. Dark cloud had rolled in from the east, blanketing the sky and threatening rain.
Below them, the city of Shigatse stretched across the plains. Squat, white houses sprawled out from the central hub of the monastery in chaotic tentacles, blurred together by the grey light. The people on the streets moved with a heavy listlessness brought on by the humidity. Rain was uncommon this high on the plateau and it was as if the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for the skies to finally break.
‘Jigme, we must always remember our duty and never give up hope,’ said the taller of the monks, resting a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘The Gelugpas from Lhasa will have some idea of how to proceed.’
‘How to proceed?’ echoed the other monk bitterly. ‘The eleventh Panchen Lama has been murdered before he even reached Shigatse. And he was just a boy. Just a boy! Now nothing will stop the Chinese . . .’
He brought his hands to his mouth, as if the words themselves could somehow inflict further damage. Above them, the first specks of rain hit the ramparts of the monastery roof, congealing in the layers of dust.
‘It is inevitable,’ admitted the taller monk. ‘The Chinese will install their own candidate and crown him on the first day of June in the solar calendar, at the Linka Festival. But we must not give up hope.’
As the rain began to quicken, both monks remained where they stood. Drops splashed on to their heavy robes and shaved heads, beading down the sides of their faces like tears. Both felt too exhausted to move, as if the rain somehow reflected the way the whole world was feeling.
It had all happened so suddenly. They had both presumed since the death of their former leader that it would take years for his reincarnation to be found. Yet, without their even knowing that the search had officially begun, news had come through that the young boy had been murdered, shot before he had even stepped out of his village.
With the Dalai Lama in permanent exile in Dharamsala, the Panchen Lama, the Bodhisattva of Wisdom, was the practical ruler of the country. It was under his decree that the Tibetan people were governed and the rule of law maintained. Now the same question ran through both men’s minds as it had done all morning: how could Tibet protect itself from the Chinese if their next leader was one of them?
A soft rumbling announced a motorcade of vehicles pulling into the monastery’s main entrance. Three stretch saloon Mercedes with blacked-out windows slowly eased their way across the drive’s ancient flagstones. They crunched to a halt before the main entrance. As soon as they caught sight of the cars, the two monks turned soundlessly and hurried down the spiral staircase that led from the roof into the courtyard below.
They arrived, breathless, just as the last of a large group of dignitaries exited the cars.
‘We are honoured by your visit,’ said the taller monk, bowing low. ‘You bring solace in difficult times.’
He stepped back as a very old man in a vast yellow hat and red robes moved ahead of his entourage, a wooden cane gripped in his hand. The Head Lama of the Gelugpa sect briefly nodded a greeting to them both before allowing himself to be ushered into the main hall of Tashilhunpo Monastery, where a multitude of novices were preparing tea and refreshments on a long wooden table.
‘Get rid of these people,’ he said, glancing around at the bustling young monks. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone.’
‘Of course, your Holiness,’ said the shorter of the monks, shooting a sideways glance at his companion. Snapping his fingers several times, the commotion in the room quickly died. The novices disappeared through the hall’s many exits. When the last door had been shut quietly behind them the old Lama leaned forward, his neck craned under the weight of his immense yellow hat.
‘Come closer,’ he breathed.
The two monks moved forward obediently, sinking down on one knee so that their heads were almost touching.
‘All is not as it seems,’ the old Lama whispered, his eyes fixed warily on the main door to the hall. ‘We got to the village first and moved the boy.’
Both kneeling men lifted their heads and stared directly at the old monk, their faces brimming with a mixture of scepticism and wonder. Then, as he slowly nodded in affirmation, tears of relief welled up in their eyes.
‘But who was it who was killed?’
‘It was the boy’s younger brother. An innocent,’ the old man replied. ‘We pray for him in his next life.’
As both men went to stand up, the Lama’s arms shot out, pressing them back down on to their knees with surprising strength.
‘You are the cust
odians of this temple until he returns. I have known both of you since birth and understand that you would never betray the truth.’ His piercing eyes dwelled on each of them for a moment. ‘We must act as if the boy is lost and ensure the Chinese believe they have had their victory. But when the time is right, you must both be ready to receive him in Shigaste and return him to his rightful place.’
‘But where is he?’
A smile flashed across the Lama’s wizened face.
‘He is finally beyond their reach.’
Chapter 9
Driving into Guildford city centre, Luca looked up through the windscreen at the leaden sky. It was the dead colour that only ever seemed to settle across the damp Surrey countryside. The sun lacked the strength to differentiate between the buildings and the sky, so that the drab concrete buildings bled into the skyline like a half-finished painting.
Pulling into the car park in the battered white Toyota Land Cruiser he had inherited when he was seventeen, Luca felt a familiar sense of claustrophobia wash over him. It was always the same whenever he looked up at this particular office block, a feeling that had failed to diminish over the years. He stepped out of the car, slipping on his suit jacket and folding the collar up against the drizzle. Fumbling for a moment with the top button of his white shirt, he adjusted his tie, hating the feeling of constraint. It felt as if there were two hands encircling his neck, waiting to squeeze.
He signed in with reception, taking the lift up to the eighth floor where his father’s company was based. The soft draught of the air conditioning greeted him as he walked through the heavy, glass-panelled doors and into the reception.
It had only been two and a half weeks since he had felt a fresh mountain wind across his face every time he stepped out of the tent, but already it seemed half a century ago. By this time in the morning – 8.30 a.m. – he would have been up for hours, watching the morning sun filter across the snow-clad peaks. But here in England he felt he was sealed away from the outside world – as if nature were something to be feared and carefully excluded.
‘Hi, Luca.’
He looked up to see one of the office juniors standing by the entrance to the kitchen. He was holding a small plastic cup brimming with some viscous brown liquid that could equally have been coffee or tea.
‘Your father sent me to tell you he wants to see you.’
‘Already?’ Luca said, his voice dropping into a mutter. ‘For Christ’s sake.’
Stepping into his own glass-walled office, he began leafing through the pile of papers on his desk, shunting them into two piles. Almost all of them were out of date orders for the four-wheel-drive vehicles the company exported around the world. Cold-calling and making sales came easily to Luca; it was the paperwork he detested so much.
After tapping on his door, Luca stepped inside his father’s office to see him seated behind his large, leather-topped desk, speaking on the phone. He was bending forward, peering down at a document, so that the thinning hair combed carefully across the crown of his head was clearly visible. When he looked up, Luca saw eyes of the same grey as his own, but dark-ringed from age and years of working late. He nodded briefly at his son and raised a finger, gesturing for Luca to keep quiet as he continued his call.
Luca leaned against the door, not wanting to venture further into the room. It hadn’t changed in all the years his father had occupied it: the same cabinets with the same collectibles neatly displayed on top and dusted once a week. Various awards and certificates for exporting still hung on the far wall by the window, and below them, a couple of framed photographs.
Luca didn’t need to see them either, the images were all too familiar. The larger of the two was a formal photograph of the three of them: his mother with her hand on her husband’s shoulder, while he as a teenager – the only son and great white hope – smiled up at them, basking in their approval.
That was before he broke it to them that he was going to dedicate his twenties to climbing; that he would work hard for the company while he was in the country and draw a small wage, but long-term he wasn’t cut out for the family business.
Despite the many conversations they had had to this effect, his father still hadn’t accepted this decision. He tried hard to change his son’s mind and regularly pulled guilt trips on him about the cost of his education and how he was depending on Luca to take over the family business. The word ‘family’ was always stressed, dragged out and emphasised, as if he didn’t know who his parents actually were.
At twenty-seven years old, he knew he should have broken away from it all a long time ago, but the truth was he found it impossible to find project work that was flexible enough to pay him the minute he was back in the country. And so the uncomfortable status quo went on between father and son, bonded by guilt and mutual dependency, both seeing the relationship as a means to different ends.
As his father continued talking, Luca’s gaze moved to the windows where rain was splattering down the long length of the glass. The minutes passed; three, four, five. His father showed no sign of ending his conversation. He had twisted round and was now concealed behind the wide back of his swivel chair. All Luca could hear was the occasional sound as he sucked in the air between his teeth or the odd grunt of agreement.
Then the chair came swinging round again and, without even making eye contact, his father clicked his fingers, pointing to the seat on the other side of his desk. Luca sat down as directed, a joyless smile on his lips. His father had always had a special talent for making him feel humiliated before they had even exchanged a word.
As the phone was finally returned to its cradle, his father leaned back in his chair and eyed Luca above his glasses.
‘So you’re back,’ he said with a brief smile.
‘Yeah. Got in on Thursday.’
‘Good. And, did you reach the top?’
Luca shook his head.
‘No. We missed the summit by a couple of hours. We had a few issues on the ice wall, but the real problem was that Bill got hit from altitude just after we passed seven thousand metres. All the same, it was one hell of a climb. If it hadn’t been for the altitude, we’d definitely have made it.’ Involuntarily, he felt his face break into a wide smile. ‘You know how much I love it up there, Dad.’
His father looked away as if he had said something mildly offensive.
‘Well, don’t tell your mother that. You put her through hell every time you go off on one of your damn’ fool adventures. She worries herself sick.’
Luca’s smile turned brittle.
‘Come on, Dad, you don’t need to get like this every time I mention climbing.’
There was a long pause while his father took off his glasses and inspected one arm thoughtfully.
‘Look, Luca, your mother and I have been speaking about a few things while you were away. I think perhaps I made a mistake putting you in domestic sales. I thought it would suit you because of the way you are, but the reality is it doesn’t challenge you enough. So I’ve come up with something else I think you might like. A promotion, let’s call it.’
Luca’s heart sank in his chest as he looked at the expression on his father’s face. He could toughen himself up to deal with the undercurrents of disappointment and disapproval, but when his father tried to be nice, that was the worst. That was when he really did feel like an ungrateful jerk.
‘Look, I know you don’t like being cooped up in this office, so the idea is to send you to some of the places where the market is starting to open up a bit. Dubai and Manila, for example. You can set up meetings with potential clients . . . form your own relationships. You’d be good at that. And you’d get all the perks, you know. Five star hotels, a driver for the days when you’re there. We know you love travelling . . .’
Luca shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Look, Dad, it’s not that I don’t appreciate you trying to help me out. And I know that there are people next door who’d queue up for that kind of posting. But I’ve already tried to
tell you, this isn’t what I want to do long-term.’ He spread his hands apologetically. ‘I’m just not a car salesman.’
His father’s face darkened instantly. ‘Don’t be such a bloody snob, Luca,’ he snapped. ‘There’s only so long you can persist with this expensive hobby of yours. Soon enough the sponsorship will dry up, especially if you keep on failing on expeditions like this last one. Your mother and I had thought that after the whole Everest débâcle, you would have seen sense and packed the whole thing in. But, well . . .’
Luca’s jaw clenched as he stared back at his father.
‘You’ve never even bothered to listen to my side of the story.’
‘I hardly think I need to! It was splashed all over the papers before you even got back. I read quite enough without needing to hear any more of the sordid details. I mean, your mother even had some of her friends . . .’
He didn’t finish his sentence but instead leaned forward across the desk, his thumbs buckling beneath his weight.
‘I shouldn’t have to spell this out, Luca, but we have the family name to consider.’
Luca remained motionless, desperately resisting the urge to fight back. Family name? Christ, his father could be such a prick.
‘I know finding your path in life is difficult,’ he continued, his voice becoming abstract as if he were dealing with one of the office juniors. ‘But you’re not so young any more, and there’s only so long you can keep living by your wits and not assuming real responsibilities.’
The Cloud Maker (2010) Page 5
