“China is no concern of ours.”
“Oh, Nima, really!”
Khenpo Nima peered at Jamie and tacked about. “You know, your Ying-gi-li sugar piece is good.”
“That’s Moffat toffee.”
“We can make things sweet for you, Jemmy. We can look after everything for you in Jyeko, and no worries.”
But shortly after this, the monk took the contract back to the monastery, still unsigned.
Two days later, three Chinese soldiers came to market to buy barleymeal. Spotting a mule, they demanded a loan of it to carry the heavy sack over the bridge. The animal’s owner asked for payment. The Chinese laughed at him, called him a grasping barbarian and loaded the sack onto the mule anyway, saying that he’d have it back soon enough. The Khampa insisted on two rupees. The Chinese sergeant barked, “Stand aside!” and began to drag the reluctant beast across the market. A murmurous crowd blocked their exit. The Khampa merchant grabbed at the sack and pulled so that it fell and thudded into a black puddle of crushed ice. In an instant there was jostling, Tibetans cursing, soldiers bringing rifles off their shoulders, until they were separated by Khenpo Nima and other monks.
Enraged, the sergeant spat on the ground in front of Khenpo Nima.
“Who the hell do these scum think they are? China gives orders, Tibet jumps. Understood?” The soldiers looked nervous; their sergeant had pushed his luck. Voices to the rear flung lurid Khampa insults.
“All right, that’s enough,” said Nima. “I see that the real problem is that this old-fashioned mule won’t move without instructions in Tibetan. Now, if you gentlemen would grant a small sum for its master’s services, you may leave the barley in his safekeeping, return to quarters at your leisure and I will personally ensure that the grain is delivered when the market closes this afternoon. How’s that?”
The sergeant stared at Khenpo Nima in disbelief, looked around at the growing mob, hesitated a second, then snapped, “That’ll do fine.” He tossed a rupee at the merchant. Khenpo Nima gave the man a threatening scowl and he picked up the coin in silence. The soldiers pushed out through the crowd and marched off.
Nima sighed. He had other problems. He was on his way to speak with Jamyang Sangay, Puton’s landlord and a notorious old cuss.
That afternoon, a little procession moved through the back lanes towards Jamie’s house. A first pony, led by the tall figure of Khenpo Nima, was laden with household goods, bags and small boxes. Among these was wedged a little girl. Next came two mules, each carrying sacks of grain and trade bricks of tea bound in rawhide. Last in line walked another pony on which Puton rode sidesaddle, her stick resting across the wooden pommel and her twisted leg draped awkwardly. The animals moved lethargically through the streets. Khenpo Nima heaved on the leading rope, not in good humor.
As Puton rode quietly at the rear, absorbed in her thoughts, a small stone landed on the ground just in front of her pony. A little puff of dust flew up and the pony stopped dead, staring and pricking its ears. Immediately a pebble struck Puton on the shoulder.
A knot of four or five children skulked behind the corner of a compound wall. Their faces bobbed in and out, leering, until the bravest reached for another stone and flung it. The missile struck the dirt behind Puton; her pony shifted nervously. For a moment, the young woman felt a surge of fear, until she saw that not one of the children was more than six or seven years old. Her eyes pricked with sadness.
One child, older perhaps, bolder and more cruel, stepped swaggering into the open. He began hopping and dragging one leg in the dirt, pulling a grotesque face and uttering strangled groans. His companions shrilled with mockery. The boy began again, dragging his leg behind him, groaning loudly until he fell on the dirt, shrieking with mirth. Puton turned her face away. She slapped the pony’s rump and tried to catch Khenpo Nima seventy yards ahead.
Jamie was building a stone plinth for the generator when the caravan came through his gate. He heard Hector snarl, and looked out. Puton sat motionless on her pony. Khenpo Nima stepped forward. “I have found you a housekeeper, Jamie.”
Jamie scowled. “I’m really not needing . . .”
“Yes, her name is Puton and now she has no home, and there is her little girl, Dechen. Please, Jemmy? You know, soon it is New Year—a new friend for good luck.”
Jamie looked at Karjen, who glared at the newcomers and spat, “Don’t I cook? Don’t I clean? Why does Mr. Jemmy need a bad-luck cripple woman in the house?”
“Old criminal, you are not beautiful, so mind your tongue,” said Nima curtly. “Jemmy, you saw what happens at her house. You felt pity, I think.”
“Well, that’s not like taking her in.”
“She can work, you see. She does not move so fast, but she can work.”
Without risking a reply, Khenpo Nima went quickly to the ponies. He lifted Dechen down and set her on her feet. Small and forlorn, she gazed without expectation at the Ying-gi-li. Nima’s making me responsible, thought Jamie, I don’t want this. Khenpo Nima lifted Puton from her saddle. As she came down hard onto the ground, Jamie saw that she winced. For a moment, she stood quite still, white-faced, holding her breath. Nima stood close, with a friendly hand on her arm. He looked around at Jamie, his face pleading.
“Oh, God, they can have the back room over there,” said Jamie, defeated. “I think it’s empty.”
Nima beamed at him. “This is very wise, Jemmy. And little Dechen; they will be a family for you.”
“Nima!”
“Yes, Jemmy, I know, it is just for now.”
The monk left them, leading the ponies away. The woman stood helpless by her sacks and bundles. Jamie regarded her, until he remembered himself, and called: “Karjen? Give her a hand, won’t you?” He turned to go inside.
Karjen gave Puton a broom; he made no move to sweep the earth floor of the storeroom himself. He dragged the packs to the door, left them there and went away.
Some minutes later, Puton stood leaning on her stick as the dust clouds she had created swirled and resettled. She contemplated her change: from a huge and gloomy house that she hated, to a single cold room in a house where they appeared to hate her.
She made up a nest for her little girl with blankets and a heavy sheepskin coat. Dechen went and sat there in silence. There was no furniture. Puton arrayed her own belongings as best she could on her boxes. She had a few fine items from Lhasa still. The best of these, a chased silver charm case tasseled with yellow and purple silk, she placed on the packsaddle under the small shuttered window. It did for a shrine.
She lowered herself heavily down to the sheepskins on the floor, Dechen moving in under her arm. For several minutes she sat staring at the silver casket, waiting for whatever came next. Until Dechen touched her arm, looking up behind her.
Jamie stood in the door, awkward and embarrassed. “There’s nothing here. I didn’t realize,” he blurted out. “I mean, we can find you things. Heavens, I’m sorry.”
Puton regarded him with her direct eyes.
“I just wasn’t expecting . . .” mumbled Jamie. He looked around the bleak chamber.
“It’s cold. There’s no fire. We’ll get you a fire. Karjen!” Jamie bellowed with mortified anger. “Karjen will bring you a brazier and some fuel. We have plenty, use all you need.”
She bowed her head a little.
“My name’s Jamie,” he said, “Jamie Wilson. I’m sure you knew that. That’s what you must call me: Jamie, or Wilson, Mr. Wilson, whatever you like. And you are Puton, so Khenpo Nima says, anyway. He doesn’t get much wrong, does he?”
She stirred, reaching for her stick. With an ungainly scrape she pushed herself upright. Jamie made an involuntary move to help, as he would have done at home. But he stopped himself.
She stood before him, half crippled, homeless and hated, and she was still proud. One moment she had seemed a sad heap on the floor, needing his protection. Now he found that she was tall for a Tibetan woman, and was standing upright as best she cou
ld. Her eyes were quite black and dramatically sculpted. He saw that her brows came together darkly over the bridge of her nose. He realized that she was perhaps a year or two older than himself, and he remembered that she had seen her husband killed. He saw that she was nervous, struggling for the remnants of her dignity.
She said, “I give you my heart’s thanks. I will work for you.”
“Really, you don’t need to worry about that. It’s no trouble having you here.”
“But when it becomes a trouble you could send me from this house,” she said. He was silenced. She continued, “I will earn my keep.”
The next morning, Jamie stood half clothed by the heated sleeping platform in his bedroom. He was letting the warm radiance from the stone soak into him for a last minute before dressing. He held a pair of green fatigue trousers and was examining the grime on them morosely.
As he stood in his long winter underpants, trying to be interested in the problem, the door of the room clattered open. If Puton felt any hesitation, she did not let Jamie see it. She marched across the room, her stick thudding into the thick rug. Without ceremony she put out a hand and took the filthy clothes from him. Then she turned and departed, leaving Jamie to search his boxes for more trousers.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN THE REVEREND Khenpo Nima first asked Puton to come to the house of Jemmy the Ying-gi-li, she had protested. They were sitting in the upper room of her wooden house. Dechen played on the floor with a small heap of bright woolen braids. She laid them out in rows, arranging them by color or length, then began to make patterns, stripes, circles and fans, humming softly to herself.
But they had to move. Khenpo Nima had been to the landlord and had remonstrated: how could he expel a defenseless woman and a harmless child? The merchant had remarked “with the deepest respect, Your Reverence” that the family’s problems were not his. Nima had warned him of the spiritual consequences: such a lack of charity was a short cut to being reincarnated as a goat. But the merchant riposted that bad spirits worried him more. Puton seemed to have some unsavory ones in attendance on her, and he wanted them off his premises. Khenpo Nima came as near to pleading as his clerical dignity would permit, but he saw that the man was immovable. So, where were Puton and Dechen to go?
Returning infuriated through the market, Nima saw Jamie peering at the trinkets and trade goods. The women smirked and teased, throwing obscene but genial banter at the young man who grinned back at them cheerfully. All at once the monk believed he saw the solution not just to a housing problem but to other difficulties also.
“Jemmy, do not marry a market woman,” cried out Nima. “They smell of rancid butter.”
“How would you know, Reverence?” squawked an offended harridan with gobs of mutton fat up her arms. “Been sniffing up close, have you?” Cackles went round the stalls.
The monk gave a politic laugh and called to Jamie: “Where are you going just now?”
“Oh, upriver to do a couple of sketches.”
“You coming back this way soon, Jemmy?”
“I should think so, with this bitter wind.”
“Very soon?”
“Well, half an hour, maybe. Why, what’s urgent?”
“Nothing urgent! You make me some nice pictures, and I will like to see them.”
Khenpo Nima smiled disarmingly. Jamie dithered, nodded and moved away across the market, then out beyond the bridge. Nima hurried at once in the direction of Puton’s house.
Puton, however, merely bit her lip when Nima told her his idea. She sat on the bed listening in respectful silence as he spoke. Her look went towards the window and its prospect of the Grey Ghost. Nima saw pain fill her eyes.
“But it’s a splendid idea!” he urged again. Puton lowered her eyes; Nima could hardly catch her words.
“Reverence, he will think me malformed.”
“Rubbish! He will meet an exceptionally beautiful young woman who happens to walk with a stick.”
“I do not know this man. Dechen and I will be defenseless in his house.”
“But Mr. Jemmy will protect you. He’s a kind young person.”
“Reverence, the villagers will think that I am his whore. My husband received no proper burial, he was lost in the gorge, and now I am to be the whore . . .”
“Oh, please!”
“Forgive me, but already they say . . .”
Khenpo Nima had positioned himself by the window and he glanced repeatedly down to the far corner of the lane.
“Miss Puton, you will not be alone in Jemmy’s house. His servant Karjen is there: he’ll be watching closely, believe me. Karjen will tell the world what’s what, have no doubt. I tell you, it’s the very safest place for you.”
“How is it possible for a foreigner to protect me?”
“You will see. Mr. Jemmy is considered exceedingly important by Lhasa. He is all our protection from the Chinese.”
Puton peered up at Khenpo Nima as though trying to look through some evil darkness. The monk saw it. “Ah, it’s the Chinese that really worry you.”
“I cannot sleep,” cried Puton, “for thinking of the Chinese. There is my little girl also—”
“Come here. Now you shall see.” Khenpo Nima interrupted her so abruptly that she was startled. She fumbled for her stick. He called impatiently, “Come to the window. Let me help . . . Quick, now!”
He reached out, seized her and lifted her bodily.
“Look! There, you see?” said Nima. “That is our hope.”
As he carried Puton to the small window, a rider came into full view in the lane. Jamie rode with a light touch, letting the pony find its own pace, picking its way through the rubbish and the bones. He wore a small knapsack on his shoulder, with his hat off to catch the last sun. The breeze tousled his hair, he was fit and gentle, nodding and smiling to walkers in the lane.
Held up to her own window by the monk, Puton watched him. Khenpo Nima called out: “Jemmy! Hello, have you drawn wonderful things?”
“Oh, just fine. Hello, up there!”
Jamie smiled up at them, his face open and glad. Puton drank in his look, saying not a word. The pony passed on by.
“There’s an end to your danger,” laughed Khenpo Nima. At his words, Puton’s heart bounded. “There now, be easy,” said the monk. “We shall move your goods this afternoon. I shall come with ponies myself.”
He returned her to the bed in one effortless lift. For a moment, Puton felt herself flying.
She would work, she would keep out of Jamie’s way, she would give no one grounds for gossip. She felt Karjen’s resentful, suspicious eyes on her and she minded her manners. As the days passed, Puton observed the curious habits of the Ying-gi-li. She thought many of his ways absurd. But soon she saw Jamie for what he was: a young man not terribly adept about the house.
And so she took care of him. Karjen stayed outside: he managed the heavy work, groomed the horses and doctored them with powdered dry meat and brick tea, went to the market, found the fuel and saw to the building maintenance. Indoors, Puton took over. She washed and cooked for Jamie and made him a home as best she could. She cleared and tidied, and began to arrange a few items more decoratively. She found in store a heavy roll of rugs, blue and burgundy red, from Baluchistan. She beat the rugs free of ancient dust, laid some on the living-room floor, and draped others over seats and boxes. Karjen grumbled but Jamie smiled and nodded his approval: “That’s an improvement.” At last, and rather timidly, Puton brought one or two sacred items from among her own goods: a tanka painting of the Heavens, and a beautiful copper lamp of her husband’s, which she placed on a box beneath the painting.
“Lovely,” said Jamie, who, after all, had a painter’s eye. He stood in the center of the room, regarding the small display with his head cocked on one side. Puton felt warmed by his gratitude.
She watched Jamie closely: she must, in her own interests, know him as well as she could. She noted his dislike of rancid butter in his tea. She watched what
food he ate readily and which dishes he was merely polite with, and she did her best to please his tastes. She saw him look revolted at pans licked clean by Hector the mastiff, so she cautiously prodded the huge dog out from the kitchen with her stick. Each evening, when Karjen heated a mere half-pan of water for Jamie’s wash, she filled it full, braving the old brigand’s wrath. The basin would be carried into the bathroom and Karjen would go to inform Mr. Jemmy. Shortly thereafter, merry splashings and hideously tuneless incantations would begin. Puton, in the kitchen next door, would listen attentively, trying to visualize exactly how a Ying-gi-li washed. And she warmed his bed, stoking the fire under the sleeping platform.
Every morning, Jamie went to the radio room at the same time, calling Karjen to start the generator. Puton contrived to have tea ready in a bowl on the radio table. Afterwards, Jamie and Karjen would often go out riding. Left in the house with Dechen, Puton began going into Jamie’s bedroom simply to linger. She touched nothing: she merely sat on the bench at his writing table, her stick leaning against it, gazing around the room at his possessions, at his clothes, his bed, his books and letters. She wondered what he smelled like close up.
On the wall above the table, a number of watercolor sketches were fixed. Puton peered at these, puzzled. Tints and washes, hints of sky blue seeping through the heavy paper, coppice, cattle and shoreline reduced to pale bands of color: these were so far from Tibetan notions of painting as to be almost indecipherable to her at first. But with time she saw that they were distant landscapes, bled from Jamie’s memory into the cartridge. She realized that it was his home speaking to him. She said to herself that a man who makes pictures of his home must want to be there. With a pang, she told herself that to depend on this person would be foolish.
When, however, she saw Dechen touching a book of pencil drawings, she cried out anxiously, “Stop that!” She hardly ever used such a tone to her little girl, and Dechen’s face puckered in fright. Puton checked herself and considered: folly or no, Jamie had become a precious part of her defenses, on no account to be jeopardized. He had begun to replace Khenpo Nima.
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