The Rose of Tibet

by Lionel Davidson

  ‘Where – what –?’

  ‘Ssh. All under control, old chep. Going home now.’

  ‘No. No! I won’t –’

  ‘Here. Time for your medicine. Have this.’

  ‘I don’t want it. I won’t drink it. I’m not going home. I want the abbess. I tell you –’

  ‘Quiet! Quiet, old chep. For God’s sake – There are Chinese here. They’re all over the place. …’

  ‘I’ll shout to them. I’ll wake the bloody dead –’

  ‘Ssh. Ssh. For God’s sake – Let me think’ – and in Tibetan – ‘How far to the Court of the Mother?’

  ‘Four hours at least, Highness. It is not possible there and back before daylight.’

  ‘Look, old chep, look, it just isn’t on. It can’t be done –’

  ‘I tell you –’

  ‘The Chinese are after you. If they get you they’ll execute you. It’s a matter of face for them.’

  ‘I’m going to see her! I’m going to. She wants to see me.’

  ‘She wants you to go. She’s praying for it. Look, she’s written to you. There’s a letter and a gift in your baggage. It will bring her nothing but trouble and distress if the Chinese –’

  ‘I know she wants to see me. I don’t care what happens. Put me down. I tell you, I’m not going –’

  More mumbled Tibetan.

  ‘Very well. Now look. This is going to be a bumpy trip. You’ll drink this.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You will. We’re going through the Chinese lines. I promise you’ll see the abbess.’

  ‘Do you swear it?’

  ‘Honour bright, old chep!’

  ‘All right.’

  Blackness. Lurching, thunderous blackness again, with himself swimming in the middle of it, knowing the presence of soreness and pain but not in touch with them, and then swimming up into touch, re-establishing the old detested relationship. Oh, God. Again.

  ‘Chao-li.’

  ‘Oh, my love.’

  She was lying on top of the covers. She was cold, her face shivering against his.

  ‘Come inside,’ Houston said.

  She went away and came back, and was inside, on his left side, so that he could feel the cold length of her against him, their noses touching.

  ‘You’ve cut your hair.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t see – are you painted?’

  ‘Only in Yamdring. When I go back.’

  ‘Don’t go back.’

  She didn’t say anything, merely looking at him.

  He said, ‘Don’t go back, Mei-Hua. I love you.’

  ‘I love you, Chao-li.’

  ‘I can’t live without you.’

  ‘Yes. It will be very hard.’

  Her mouth was open and he put his own to it and lay there, breathing lightly. He felt ill and weak. He said into her mouth, ‘Mei-Hua, don’t go back. Come with me. I couldn’t bear to lose you.’

  ‘You won’t lose me. We are in the world together. I want you to live.’

  ‘I love you more than life.’

  ‘Yes, Chao-li. I, too. Don’t talk now. Don’t talk any more, my heart.’

  Houston didn’t think that they did talk any more then. He lay breathing shallowly into her mouth, and thought that he might have slept for a while. He was aware that she was sitting up, putting on her veil. Someone was knocking at the door.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Food, Chao-li. You should eat something.’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  ‘Send them away.’

  She called out, and took off her veil and lay down with him again; and for some hours then they merely gazed at each other. He had no idea how long he was there – a whole day, perhaps. There was knocking again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good Mother, it is time now. His Highness waits outside.’

  ‘No,’ Houston said.

  ‘Chao-li – yes. You must go. Don’t say anything.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My own heart – I want you to be happy. You will always be in my mind. Always think of me. I have given you a half of my tears –’

  ‘I don’t want them.’

  ‘Yes. Take them. They are yours. They are a half of me. When you look at them you will be looking at me. When you use them, it is I who will be nourishing you.’

  ‘No. No, Mei-Hua, no. Come with me. Please come with me.’

  ‘Oh, my love, don’t make it harder. I want you to go and live. Don’t say another word.’

  He didn’t say another word, sunk then in black desolation.

  And black outside. And another drink to do him good, and all blackness then, welcome familiar blackness. And then leaving it, crashing out of it, falling. Voices were shouting, guns going off, coloured moons, a dozen of them, floating gaudily in the sky. Flares. Hands seemed to be lifting him, and he was back on the stretcher, jogging at a run. But his arm, his arm! Sheer blinding agony, flame-licked unbearable agony, rushing out of his mouth bellowing; and suffocating there as a hand clamped down on it. Searching desperately among the coloured moons, and at last finding it – the welcome, the longed-for blackness; pain riding with him still, but detached once more.

  It was mild grey morning when he came to, and he was lying on the ground. He was lying in a misty valley. He could hear eating and smell woodsmoke.

  ‘Trulku.’

  He knew the face above him. He couldn’t place it.

  ‘Safe now, trulku. In Sikkim now.’

  He placed the man just as he spoke: it was the duke’s major-domo from Ganzing. He tried to ask for the duke, but the words would not come.

  ‘All well, trulku. They didn’t get it. One man was hit and you fell from the stretcher, but the baggage is untouched. How is the arm?’

  The arm was not good, and was to become a good deal worse. It was smashed again. They tried to get it looked at in two monasteries, but succeeded only in getting more stupefying drugs. Houston lay for two nights in the second of the monasteries, waiting for a doctor who had been sent for from Gangtok. The doctor didn’t arrive, but just as they were preparing to leave again, an ambulance did. It was an old Rolls- Royce with a wicker-work body and a door at the rear. Houston lay full length in this impressive vehicle with his feet sticking out of the back; and so, still without his chitty but in some state, made his entry into the town he had tried so hard to reach many months before.

  He saw little of it, for the surgeon at the Maharaja’s hospital after one look at the arm gave him a shot of morphia, put him back in the Rolls-Royce, and pausing only to telephone a Mr Pant, the Indian diplomatic representative, sent him immediately off to Kalimpong.

  There he was seen by an Indian medical officer of health who happened to be visiting the town, given another shot, and transferred to the Scottish mission hospital. He was booked in at 5 p.m. on 30 April 1951 – the first independently checkable date since he had booked out of the town rather more than a year before.

  A few days later, at the urgent summons of the hospital authorities, Sheila Wolferston came up from Calcutta and officially took delivery of him and his baggage from the duke’s bodyguard. They had refused, apparently on the duke’s orders, to deliver him up to anybody else. They had been sleeping in his room, and eating, according to the mission’s Miscellany, ‘heartily’.

  Houston knew nothing of this transaction, for in addition to his more spectacular ills he had contracted pneumonia. He was aware, without surprise, that Sheila Wolferston was with him, and also Michaelson. He didn’t know which one of them told him what had happened to Hugh and the others. He did not seem able to grieve; he lay in a heavy stupor.

  He lay there for three weeks (which might have been three hours or three years for all the sense of time he had) and was only vaguely aware one day that he was no longer there. He was in another place, a low-roofed, roaring sort of place.

  ‘Are you awake, sport?’

  He realiz
ed someone had been shaking him for some time.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You’re right. You’re right, sport. We’re flying to Calcutta. Look, seeing you’re awake, there’s things we ought to discuss –’

  ‘Where’s Sheila?’

  ‘She’s right. She’s having a bit of shut-eye. Look, sport, she’ll be awake soon, we haven’t got long. I wanted to tell you what Da Costa is doing. He can definitely guarantee –’

  ‘What Da Costa? I don’t know who. … Sheila!’ Houston said.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s right! She’s sleeping, I told you. Sure you know Da Costa. You like Da Costa. Strewth, I brought him to see you twice. All you need to do –’

  ‘Sheila,’ Houston said. ‘Sheila!’

  ‘Yes, Charles, yes, I’m here. Mr Michaelson, I particularly asked you – you promised me you wouldn’t worry him with this business.’

  ‘He’s got to worry about it some time.’

  ‘What business? What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Go to sleep again.’

  ‘Da Costa?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Sleep now.’

  He slept again, worried. Something worrying about Da Costa. A pale man, pale melon cheeks, dark eyes. A diamond flashing on Da Costa’s finger as he talked. Who Da Costa? How did he know Da Costa? Da Costa had been met somewhere, worryingly.

  He thought the doctor was Da Costa, but it was only an examination mirror flashing, and the cheeks were not plumply pale. Thin cheeks, Indian cheeks.

  ‘Nor for some days, weeks perhaps. He is not strong enough. And in any case we would need authority. Who is the next of kin?’

  ‘There isn’t anyone. I’ve told you, doctor, I’m probably the nearest thing. But if you’re certain it’s got to be done, I would be ready to …’

  ‘Mr Michaelson and Mr Da Costa – they are not related to him in any way?’

  ‘Not at all. I’d be glad if you could keep them out, doctor. They worry him. It’s a business matter he doesn’t want to discuss just now.’

  ‘Very well. … In any case, he must be kept quiet. He needs a good deal of building up. Why was he moved?’

  ‘A Chinese mission arrived in Kalimpong. His presence was considered a provocation. …’

  Days of building up, of beautiful quiet, then. Sometimes he saw her there, reading, sometimes not. There was a row once near by, and he heard Michaelson’s voice.

  He said, ‘Michaelson.’

  ‘Hello. Did he wake you up? He’s gone now.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Just to see how you are. How are you?’

  He didn’t know how he was, so he didn’t tell her. He went away again. There was a fountain near by, and he often went into the fountain.

  But it began to worry him over a period. At first he would forget it when he woke up, but then he began not to forget.

  ‘Sheila.’

  ‘Right here. Do you want to sit up?’

  ‘There were some bags. There were two bags.’

  ‘Yes. They’re all right. I put them in your bank. I put them in Barclay’s. I signed for them, and they’ll only give them up on my signature. There were some drawings, too, on a piece of cloth, and a letter. They’re all nice and safe, Charles. No need to worry.’

  ‘A letter.’

  ‘Just a letter. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘It’s in Tibetan. Can you read Tibetan?’

  ‘Can we get it translated?’

  ‘I got it translated – I’m sorry, Charles. I had to. There were one or two complications. All over now, though.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Do you really want to talk about it now?’

  ‘From the abbess?’

  ‘Yes. Just that she – she loves you and was making you a gift. You know. There was her official seal on it. That was why we had to get it translated and examined. The Chinese Embassy here claimed it was false, but of course it wasn’t. Everything’s all right now.’

  ‘Can I have the letter?’

  ‘Oh, I think better not, Charles. It’s all locked up. Best to leave it where it is.’

  ‘I want it.’

  ‘Well. We’ll see.’

  ‘I want it.’

  ‘All right. Rest now.’

  But no rest after this, for he remembered it all, and had to have the letter, had to have it in his hand. Restless, sleepless nights.

  ‘Hey – hey, sport, can I come in?’

  ‘Have you got it?’

  ‘What? Look, look, sport – keep it quiet, eh? It cost me a fortune to get in. I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘I want the letter.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. Look, sport, if you don’t like Da Costa, I can get another bloke. But we’ve got to be quick now. There’s not a lot of time. They won’t let you stay here, and you can’t take the stones with you – that’s for certain. Sheila doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get the situation at all. I know this bunch of bastards! They panic. They’ll have you out of here in two twos if the Chinese get tough.’

  ‘She’s got to get the letter.’

  ‘She doesn’t need any flaming letter! All she’s got to do is sign the form, and all you’ve got to do is instruct her. But for Christ’s sake, you’ve got to be quick now. You’ve got to pull yourself together, sport.’

  ‘What do you want of me? What is it?’

  ‘Just two and a half per cent. Christ, it’s bloody ridiculous! It’s nothing at all. You’ll still have half a million quid. Now, look – look, sport. I’m not getting any younger. You remember I helped you. I helped you a lot in Kalimpong. I’ve been there and back to Goa twice already. You don’t like Da Costa, I can get you somebody else. But I tell you straight, you won’t get better terms. He’s offered forty million escudo. It’s only half what the stuff is worth, but they have big risks. They’ve got to get it into Goa. And we can screw them up a bit. A bloke already offered me half in escudo and half guilders – he was hedging it in Amsterdam. We can do better with Da Costa. He’s got contacts in Belgium, Switzerland, America. Christ, sport – you can have it in the hardest currency you want. But you’ve got to be quick. You’ve got to shake yourself up. I tell you, the Chinese just signed a treaty with Tibet. They’ll be signing one with the Indians next. And then you’re cooked, mate. They’ll have your guts for garters. You’ve got to get rid of that stuff now.’

  ‘What stuff? What?’

  ‘Christ, the emeralds. What else?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Look, look, sport – quiet, eh?’

  ‘No!’ No! Get out! Sheila! Sheila!’

  Running and nurses and nightmares, then. He tried to hold on to the bags, face down on the sled, but they were talking him out of them. He wouldn’t give them up. They were a half of her. He wouldn’t.

  ‘Charles, I’m desperately sorry – we’ve got to talk about it.’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Just let me talk, and you listen. Then say what you think. Charles, I’ve spoken to lots of people – dozens of them. It’s quite right what Michaelson says. You won’t be able to leave the country with the emeralds. There’s a government regulation. They’ll have to stay here. And it’s almost certain then that they won’t be able to resist the Chinese demand. The Chinese say that all monastery treasure belongs to the country, not to individuals, and that it couldn’t belong to you in any case. Charles, dear, try and listen.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear. I don’t care.’

  ‘You want the emeralds, don’t you?’

  ‘They’re a half of her.’

  ‘The Chinese say they aren’t. They want them back.’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Look dear, will you let me do what is best? I don’t know what’s happening at the moment. I don’t know if they’ll let you stay. You’re not well enough to travel now, but they might make you. I’m trying to get the operation speeded up – they’d never dare to send you off
then till you’d recovered. Please trust me.’

  He didn’t want to trust anybody. They kept coming at him. She was with them now, Michaelson, the dreaded Da Costa, guilders, francs, escudos. He cut himself off. He tried to remember the mantras, repeating them again and again for hours at a time.

  ‘Charles, dear. They’re going to operate on you tomorrow. Please, please trust me. It’s for the best. There wasn’t anything else to do.’

  ‘Operate?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ll be with you. I’ll stay with you.’

  Operate. His arm, then. He must have expiated the sin by now. It was a hell of a long time, a lifetime since he had met the bear. He didn’t want to think of the bear. He said a few mantras over and over to obliterate the bear. He said them for hours, but he didn’t obliterate the bear.

  ‘Just lie back, lie normally. You’ll only feel a prick.’

  He felt the prick, and then heard the bear. The bear began to shake him and roar. All shook and roared; a breathy in- and-out roaring, rhythmic, mantra-like. And then the rhythm broken. Confusion and argument, and his own voice muttering.

  ‘Oh, God, he’s coming to, doctor. Can’t you please give him something?’

  ‘It’s very dangerous.’

  ‘But this is monstrous – absolutely scandalous. I never heard of such a thing. How dare you –’

  ‘Please Miss Wolferston, it is absolutely out of my hands. I can’t interfere with a government order. A doctor and a trained nurse will sit beside him every minute until the aircraft –’

  ‘Is it over?’

  ‘All over now, Charles. Don’t speak.’

  ‘Is my arm –’

  ‘You didn’t have it. They’ll operate later.’

  Not have it? Why not have it? Not expiated? Sickness, then. Dreadful retching. Sitting up, her arms round him, leaning over bowl.

  ‘Doctor, for pity’s sake – you can see how he is.’

  ‘Miss Wolferston, what can I say? I am very unhappy. I warned you –’

  ‘At least let him stay till the plane is ready. What’s the sense of lying in an ambulance?’