Jamie had been told things that he’d not credited—until he saw them in Lhasa. People copulating openly on rooftops in the summer sun. Monks from rival monasteries fighting in the streets with wooden clubs. The squalor of the city lanes where everyone upped skirts and shat as they liked. The filth of the houses, where women gave birth in piss-soaked stables, then licked their babies clean. The sheer ignorance! A land without carts, without roads, without newspapers, without curiosity. Without maps, even: they scarcely knew the shape of their own country. Half of Tibet thought the earth was flat, and the other half didn’t care one way or the other. As for Khenpo Nima’s “medicine” . . .
Such was the catalogue that went through Jamie’s sullen mind as he rode onward. He recalled, with an ironic shiver, how he had “loved” the place, ignoring the horrors of its “civilization.” How he’d laughed along with bandits in Jyeko as they reminisced about killing people. How he’d spent so much time learning the language that he’d hardly considered what was being said. How he’d smiled indulgently at the Lhasa aristocracy with their foppish manners and stupendous brocaded robes, their giggling adulteries, their endless parties and staggering wealth wrung from countless serfs on never-seen estates. How he’d listened to justifications of feudal class and caste, of credulity, sorcery and superstition; how he’d “understood.” Jolting along in his crude wooden saddle, Jamie grimaced at his own naïveté, at his gullibility. He declared to himself that the scales had fallen from his eyes: the place was medieval, and a stiff dose of China might be no bad thing.
He glimpsed, sour-eyed, the villagers riding near to him. Once, he had sat on a hillside outside Jyeko and mused in grateful affection. Now he could see them in one light only: they had condemned Puton. They had no charity, no shred of common decency. He wanted nothing to do with them. He would ride to Lhasa in silence.
But with the sighting of the smoke came a new desperation. If he relaxed, an unbearable thought of Puton’s fate might rush into his mind. His entire body tensed with necessary anger; possibly by holding himself rigid he could block the reverberations of despair. Jamie wanted only one thing: to be out of Tibet as fast as possible. If it was true that the direct Lhasa road was cut, if they were forced to swing in a loop to the south near to the Sikkim border, that was fine by him. If it meant exile, he’d be delighted to assist. They could sweat and rot in refugee camps, feel their self-esteem evaporate and their blood curdle with malaria; that was entirely acceptable. He just wanted them to decide, then get on with it.
The caravan had come to a halt again. The crowd milled, clumped and hardened about the core of leaders, who had dismounted and stood in a tight circle in the snow. Meanwhile the animals drifted aimlessly over the plain, because Jyeko could not decide where to go. Were they truly being hunted? Humble, backwater Jyeko? The westward road stood apparently empty and inviting, but perhaps a force of Chinese sat astride it somewhere, waiting for them, who knew where? To the east behind them, their homes were burned. To the north, the disasters at Chamdo. To the south . . . what?
“So we push them out of the way,” snarled Karjen, his cronies growling their agreement. “I think we’ve shown that we can deal with Chink soldiers.”
“This is a village, not an army,” sighed Wangdu.
“We have fifty good men,” Karjen tried again.
“Karjen, your old blood is all afire and your head’s full of smoke,” Khenpo Nima reproved him. “We have women, children and animals to protect. We are slow and noisy. We have no idea how many Chinese there might be. We must avoid them.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” called another voice. “We have to go after those people, whether they want our company or not.”
The other little party was still visible, drawing away rapidly to the south.
The weight of opinion swung back and forth. Was the long southern route possible? Probably. Had they enough food? Probably not. Did they know the route? Maybe. Was the pass at Moro-La open at this time of year? They’d know when they got there. It was uncertain, it was frightening. If there was one thing the Khampas knew very well, it was the difficulties of winter travel. Perhaps Karjen was right after all: they should move forward as fast as possible, and break past whatever Chinese force was on the Lhasa road.
“That is crazy,” said Jamie, rather loudly.
Everyone turned to peer at him. It was the first time he’d spoken up since leaving Jyeko. They were well aware of his feelings for them.
“Do you imagine the Communists are a bunch of incompetent peasants? You’re up against something else now. They’ve just won a war beyond your imagination. They’re tough, they’re the biggest army in the world, and they’re after you. If they’ve cut the Lhasa road, there’s going to be hundreds of men, watching for the first sign of your yaks and your families coming through the hills, with horses, machine-guns, radios . . .”
He stopped, suddenly thoughtful, and glanced at the pack animals behind him. Karjen stamped his feet and glared. The monks regarded each other warily, questioning. Wangdu began: “Mr. Jemmy, at least on the Lhasa road we know where they are. We can have scouts forward and feel our way towards them. If we go south, they could be anywhere. We might run straight into them and not know until they start shooting. They’re not going to tell us in which valley they’re waiting.”
“Well, they might,” murmured Jamie, frowning more thoughtfully still.
His tone was such that everyone fell quiet. Jamie was still staring at the pack animals.
“Jemmy . . .?” began Wangdu.
But Jamie cut him short, shouting inexplicably: “They will! They bloody will!”
The villagers, bewildered, looked to the monks to explain. But Jamie shouted again: “Nima, Wangdu, come and see!”
He strode towards his animals, the monks following uncertainly and the villagers’ eyes on them. Jamie tugged aside the cords that half smothered the radio box. Without taking the crate off, he eased open the cover and peered inside.
“Look!” he said triumphantly, pointing at the radio that nestled in rolls of old blanket. “The Chinese pre-set it for us.”
Khenpo Nima and Wangdu peered: it was the same radio as before. What did Jamie mean?
“They’ve left it on their military frequency.” He was laughing. “Don’t touch! I can read it off . . .”
He grabbed at his own saddlebag, dug in it for a notepad, scribbled down the setting and held it out to Khenpo Nima. His eyes were shining with a hard glint of excitement and irritation: how could the monk not see the point?
“I don’t understand,” said Khenpo Nima.
“They tried this frequency every day,” Jamie spelled it out, the contemptuous edge to his voice blunted by delight at his discovery. “Six o’clock, regular as clockwork. They were waiting for transmissions, orders, don’t you see? Their headquarters at Chamdo has transmitters and this is the frequency.”
“So?” asked Nima.
“Nima, we’ll know exactly where they are, they’ll tell us! We’ve got the pedal generator. We can check the radio each evening at six o’clock, we can listen to the orders, we can hear where they’re sending their patrols and we can avoid them. It’s like a spy, it will lead us to safety.”
A quick muttering began that might have been interest or incredulity. Jamie heard someone say, “We’ve got our monks: they can use their divining bones.” And another, replying: “It didn’t work in Jyeko, did it? Maybe oracles can’t detect Chinese, not being decent Buddhists, you know.”
They looked to Khenpo Nima: he might know the truth— he’d spoken to the radio each day, he’d seen it work. They waited for his verdict.
“But we won’t understand what they are saying,” Nima began weakly.
“Who speaks Chinese?” shouted Jamie. No one stirred. “You traders, some of you have been right down to Chengdu.”
The crowd stirred now, looking one to another.
“Come on, for pity’s sake!” bawled Jamie.
Someone shouted,
“Jamyang Sangay!” and at once three or four others chorused, “Yes, Jamyang Sangay, he knows Chinese!”
“All right,” called Jamie. “Jamyang Sangay! Where are you? We need you to listen.”
“I’m here,” replied a rasping, arrogant voice. Jamie looked— and winced. Jamyang Sangay stood with his hands on his hips, head cocked sceptically to one side. He was a large, strongly built, corpulent man. He was the landlord who had turned away Puton.
“You’re asking for my assistance, Mr. Jemmy?” he said, with a distinct sneer.
“No,” said Jamie. “I’m asking you to help all Jyeko. The Chinese will speak on the radio each evening. You just have to tell us what they say.”
“And why do we want to do that?”
“Because their commanders will be telling the patrols where to go. If Captain Duan really is after us, he’ll report to Chamdo every day, so we’ll hear exactly where he’s going, and we can avoid him. This is an oracle that detects Chinese.”
Someone laughed; Wangdu glowered at them.
“This means,” said Jamyang Sangay, “that we go the southern route, right? Which would suit you nicely: have us escort you to Moro-La so you can pop over the border?”
“You go along that Lhasa road and you get yourself cut to pieces,” spat Jamie. “That would suit me just fine too!”
“Jemmy, please!”
Khenpo Nima stood forward between them. He turned towards the leering bulk of Jamyang Sangay. “I believe Jemmy is correct. Those people”—he nodded to the receding specks of the other little caravan—“they’re heading for Moro-La, they say many others are also. They’ve seen the Chinese army in Chamdo, they know how bad it is. If there’s a gathering at Moro-La, whether it’s an army or even just people heading for India, that’s the place to be.”
“Reverence,” said Jamyang Sangay, his voice more respectful, “only you have seen this radio thing work. Tell us, please, are we to trust it?”
Khenpo Nima glanced at Jamie. He’d known him . . . how long? A year? But what marvels in that year. “We can trust Mr. Jemmy absolutely,” he said. “The radio can guide us if you will assist, Jamyang Sangay.”
The big merchant peered a moment at Jamie, then nodded. “All right, if that’s what everyone wants.”
A ripple of excitement spread through the villagers.
“Look at this, please,” cried Jamie loudly. Jamyang Sangay’s pony stood near his own. From its bridle hung half a dozen white silk prayer flags. “These are yours?” he called to the merchant.
Jamyang Sangay narrowed his eyes, frowning. “Certainly. They ask for Lord Maitreya’s blessing,” he replied.
“Then, excuse me, but the radio needs one.”
Before the merchant had realized it, Jamie had untied a flag from the bridle and was heading for the radio mule.
“Now, just a moment!” huffed Jamyang Sangay.
“Please.” Jamie held up a hand. “Just watch.”
He pulled open the lid of the case again, extracted three sections of lightweight aerial and fitted them together with quick, practiced hands. He tied the white triangular flag to one end, then jammed the aerial down the side of the pack. It stuck straight up, the flag caught at once by the wind.
“Follow this!” cried Jamie. “Follow the radio flag!” He cursed the villagers, their teetering indecision. They would go: he would push them, drag them! He marched to his own pony, swung up into the saddle with the mule’s leading rope in his hand and pulled both animals barging out of the throng. He pointed the pony southward and shouted: “Moro-La! To Moro-La!”
“Moro-La!” bawled Khenpo Nima firmly, striding towards his own animals. The obedient novices went straight after him, and the decision was made. The caravan turned south.
The ground began to rise. The wind knocked and buffeted the riders, exhausting them, while the sky ahead took on a lurid purple, thick as swags of velvet. Across these somber drapes flickered distant lightning.
The wind gusted and picked up the snow in handfuls to throw it in the Khampas’ faces. The crystals were small and hard, like sharp sand. They rode with their hats lowered and the horses hung their heads, tossing and blinking with discomfort. The picas stayed fast in their burrows, the griffon vultures and lammergeyers kept to their crags.
In the caravan, all conversation ceased. Jamie tugged the red scarf tighter at his neck and pulled down his hat until the fur pricked his eyes. He could hardly see the way ahead, but the pony trudged onward. There was little escape from his thoughts. He sank into his coat like a winkle whose shell would not save it from the pin. Brooding, he felt sick with grief; he thought it unkind that he should be afflicted simultaneously with petrifying cold from without and nausea from within. His senses were cruelly occupied by memory: of the touch and scent of a breast topped by a near-black nipple, of dark slanting eyes, of fluids and scents. He was scarcely aware of present physical sensation except the swill of saliva in the back of his mouth, which told him he was near to retching with misery. He paid no attention to his riding. The reins hung loose in his hand and his body subsided, shivering. He folded in on himself, as though he might have curled into a ball on the saddle and slept.
He was roused by men calling and by the caravan halting for the night. He saw that they had made some progress, that they were not so far from the mountains. He realized how cold he was, chilled to the bone, so he dismounted and threw himself into the business of tents, fires and the radio. He’d dragged Jyeko into the southern route with this promise; he’d have to play it out.
He heaved the radio case inside the black tent with the box that held the pedal dynamo and assembled it; then he went outside and erected the whip aerial. He saw Khenpo Nima watching him, and called: “Nima! I need someone to crank the generator. Quickly!”
In the spacious tent, an energetic but nervous young man set his back against a saddle pack and his feet on the pedals of the dynamo. On a rug by the radio sat Khenpo Nima, Wangdu, Jamie and his least favorite Khampa, Jamyang Sangay, all cross-legged. Others crowded in. Shortly before six, Jamie waved at the young man to start pedaling.
The flywheel spun, a low whistling coming from the covers. There came a low sigh of satisfaction as the dials began to glow: this alone must have efficacy against the Chinese. As Jamie touched switches and knobs, an electric hiss filled the tent. And then, suddenly, voices.
“Eh? What’s that?” Jamyang Sangay sat back in surprise.
“Listen!” commanded Jamie.
The voices were startlingly clear.
“What are they saying, Sangay?” someone whispered.
“I can’t make it out,” said the merchant plaintively.
“Listen to them!” snapped Khenpo Nima. “It’s Chinese, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes!”
Flustered, Jamyang Sangay frowned and stared ferociously at the radio. The listeners strained to catch the words.
“That’s Chinese all right,” a woman said. “Where are they?”
“Hush, for pity’s sake!” cried Jamie.
“Sangay, listen!” commanded Wangdu.
The stream of messages continued, rapid and staccato. Jamie glanced at Jamyang Sangay questioningly; the merchant was concentrating furiously and leaning forward as though to listen with the very pores of his cheek.
“Something about Batang? Something about transporting ammunition up from Batang. Who’s this talking, then? Calls himself Yellow Nine . . .”
“They’ll use code names.”
“What?” Sangay grimaced. “Now I’ve got Yellow Two.”
“Listen, Sangay!” Khenpo Nima shuffled closer, his nerves fraying.
There was silence for a moment, then another voice began, clearer.
“Now what’s he saying?”
“Ssssh!”
“ ‘Blue Nine, where are you? Blue Nine, where are you?’ Why do they say everything twice?”
“Blue Nine,” whispered Jamie. “That’s what Duan used in Jyeko.”
�
��Murderous shit!”
The villagers cocked their ears; if it was Duan, his voice was unrecognizable.
“Where is he, Sangay?”
“I don’t know, do I? I’m listen . . . Gyamotang! He says he’s in Gyamotang, that’s on the Lhasa road. That’s exactly where we were going!”
“Ah!” A warm breath of approbation from Khenpo Nima, who patted Jamie’s shoulder.
“Listen! What’s his orders?”
“He’s waiting. The other fellow is asking, Any signs? Any riders? . . . He says, ‘Negative contact.’ He wants to wait two more days. Then east. He wants to move east.”
“Towards us!”
“We’re off his road now.”
“Sssh!”
“The other man says that’s good . . . Now it’s about ammunition from Batang again. That’s it.”
The dynamo man lifted his feet off the pedals, which turned for a few seconds more with a dying hum.
“Well!” said Jamie to the company. “You see? We’ll hear every move he makes.”
“Jemmy, well done,” said Khenpo Nima quietly, and the villagers chorused: “Well done!”
“Send a message to Lhasa, Jemmy!” cried Karjen. “Tell them we’re coming!”
“Greetings to His Holiness!” called another.
“Tell the Chinese to screw themselves!” shouted a youth.
“Karjen,” began Jamie, “if I transmit, who will hear?”
“His Holiness.” Karjen smiled, delighted.
“Maybe. Who else?”
“All the spirits!”
“And?”
Karjen subsided, looking uncertain.
“The Chinese?” asked Khenpo Nima.
“Just so,” said Jamie. “Nobody touches this transmitter—or they”ll track us all the way to Moro-La.”
That night Jamie lay in the dark under his swaddling of quilts and furs, listening to Karjen snore. A dull satisfaction stayed with him. This was how it would be: he would set himself to it, escape and survival, the road to India. He would not abandon anyone, he would get these people to Moro-La: it would occupy his mind and garrison it against misery. After Moro-La they could do what they bloody well liked.
Blue Poppies Page 12