400 Boys and 50 More

by Marc Laidlaw

  A sound. . . .

  Dorje Wangdu died in that moment. Died as his father died. His soul stepped away from his body and watched his father fall. The disembodied spirit watched the cadre leader instruct the sad, dead little boy to repeat this action twice more, so that his mother fell, and then his brother. And the cadre leader, being very pleased with the boy’s uncompromising adherence to principles, thereupon adopted him and gave him a shiny new Chinese name, which was necessary because Dorje Wangdu was dead, and his body needed a new name to suit the lifeless force that inhabited it.

  He had dwelt in the village, but apart from it, ever since. The cadre leader had eventually transferred to another village, but was not permitted to bring along a Tibetan child. Jing Meng-Chen remained behind, living on the welfare of the villagers, which was sparing—for though many pitied the orphan, their fear and mistrust were greater. He had lived too long with the Chinese.

  Only Gyatso Samphel had reached out to him.

  On the table rock, Jing Meng-Chen came at last to Gyatso’s body. Soon his work would be done. It was grisly work, yes, but it was honest and necessary, and not nearly as grim as the work he would continue when he had finished here, when he would return to the monastery to do the bidding of Zhogmi Chhodak.

  He laid the old man gently on the stone. Dusty black birds flapped around him, impatient for him to finish; they were already busy feeding elsewhere, tearing strings of raw meat, circling up with bloody bones they sometimes dropped when fending off others with snaps of their black beaks. But the vultures were far less fierce and agitated than his thoughts. . . .

  Jing feared he had betrayed himself when Zhogmi Chhodak shot Gyatso Samphel. He had been unable, in that moment, to suppress a cry of grief; and afterward he’d had to force himself to wear a mask thrice as emotionless as any he’d ever adopted, in order to dampen Zhogmi’s suspicions. Nor had Jowo Tenzin’s look of disgust been easy to ignore. Tenzin knew how much Gyatso had done for him. But there was no other way to survive among the Communists; that much Jing knew. One must be even colder, even more extreme than the worst of them, in enforcing regulations; one must pretend to a bottomless servility in following orders; and one must finally feign utter stupidity or else risk being branded an intellectual . . . and thinkers, under this regime, rarely survived. If the villagers and the monks and his fellows on the Democratic Management Committee considered him coldhearted, ruthless, servile, and stupid, all this was to his credit in the eyes of the overlords. And in the end, through such deception, he might better serve those who neither loved nor trusted him, but to whose service he had devoted his life: the Tibetans. His people.

  So I serve you now, Gyatso Samphel, he thought, as the curved knife sliced through flesh, snagged on sinew, twisted in deep sockets of bone to sever the stubbornest points of attachment. I free you from the suffering of this earth and offer you up to the Vulture Maiden you loved.

  Gyatso Samphel had spent his youth in the Shining Hill monastery, training as a religious artist, painting murals and thangkas. After the destruction of the monastery, he had been the lone survivor with exact knowledge of the Vulture Maiden’s iconography. As he told Jing Meng-Chen, each image was precisely and geometrically constructed, her limbs always in certain sacred proportions and configurations, the hues of her skin and feathers always mixed to a precise shade of red. There must be so many jewels precisely arranged in her ornaments, and the sacred weapons and flowers and bells she held in her many hands must be thus and thus without exception, since each possessed a deep significance to those capable of understanding and explaining the illustration. Gyatso Samphel had not studied long enough to learn the significance of each ornament, but it was enough that he could reproduce the image exactly. Others might be versed in its analysis, but if none of them had the skill and training to reproduce the Maiden properly, she might still be lost. He had carried her image in his memory and nowhere else for three decades, since the destruction of the temple, when the soldiers had chipped the Vulture Maiden’s image from the one wall that had escaped annihilation in the shelling. When permission and funds finally came to restore the temple, money was set aside specifically for Gyatso’s restoration of the Vulture Maiden mural. First the temple itself had been rebuilt around that remaining scarred wall. When the outer structure was complete, Gyatso—excited almost beyond his ability to bear—had begun ritually to prepare his paints. Only today, on the auspicious occasion of the first Spring Festival allowed in the prefect in decades, had he begun the actual painting.

  A few fine outlines were all he had committed to stone. And now the image of the Vulture Maiden, which Gyatso had preserved for all these years, was lost forever. What remained of her was decaying in the head that Jing Meng-Chen now severed from the frail shoulders, the sunken chest. Gyatso had been ill for the past year. Only the dream of completing his Vulture Maiden had kept him alive—but dreams could not stop bullets.

  No inner strength could finally keep Jing Meng-Chen from collapsing. He hugged the pathetic head to his chest, pressed his own cheeks to the old man’s lifeless ones, weeping helplessly. Hearing a rattle of stones on the hillside behind him, he spun around frantically, fearing discovery.

  But it was no one. No one but a great vulture, the largest he had seen today, sitting at the crest of Shining Hill. It raised its wings and rose into the air, screaming hoarsely, blotting out the sun.

  Jing Meng-Chen was seized by a sorrow that might have belonged to Dorje Wangdu. Something inside him came loose with a tearing pang, and he offered it up in a kind of sky burial, just as he offered the head of his last and only friend.

  The vulture swooped low and snatched the round head from his fingers. He watched the creature rise and rise, spiraling upward until she was a tiny speck vanishing like an ash into the sun’s pyre.

  III

  The abbot Gelek Thargey stammered and lied and contradicted himself throughout the first part of his interview. Judicious use of an electric cattle prod helped strengthen his memory and increase his eagerness for self-criticism, but ultimately Zhogmi had to admit that the abbot knew nothing about the misappropriated funds, and was simply concerned with hiding certain noncelibate activities that might have been frowned upon in feudal Tibet, but that were scarcely his concern—especially since he carried orders for mandatory sterilization of two-thirds of the village women, with the additional proviso that 80 percent of existing pregnancies would be terminated immediately. Thus, the counterrevolution would be cut off at its source, and the Tibetan population reduced to a manageable level. He dismissed the abbot, who needed some help returning to the central hall; his shit-spattered legs could scarcely carry him.

  More coherent but equally damning was the testimony of Tomo Rochi, the monastery’s nierba, or treasurer and storeroom keeper. Having heard his abbot’s screams, he threw the monastery’s books wide open for Zhogmi’s perusal. It quickly became obvious that most of the funds allocated for restoration had never reached the monastery. Because the DMC was responsible for disbursing all moneys, he understood that he must turn his real attention to the officers themselves. There was nothing more despicable in his eyes than a corrupt administration. Jowo Tenzin was, of course, his first suspect, but it would not be so simple to subject him to direct questioning. Those who had appointed Tenzin were still in power. Zhogmi dare not accuse him without undeniable evidence.

  He instructed his team to continue interviewing the monks, confident that more obvious and easily crushed dissidence would be uncovered among them. Even such small-scale victories boosted morale. By nightfall the work team—except for a small contingent that had remained in the village—was fully situated in various drafty cells of the main temple. The monks were housed in the main dormitory—already prisonlike and easy to patrol; a few others were charged with feeding them. The fractious monk who had incited the Spring Festival uprising, the first one shot, turned out to have been the head cook. Zhogmi would not vouch for the quality of the food the cook’s frig
htened assistants prepared. It was another demonstration of the principle that criminal activity injured mainly the criminals themselves.

  Zhogmi took a chamber in the main temple for himself. After preparing a bowl of noodles on a small camp stove, he sat huddled on his cot, wrapped in blankets, trying to keep from freezing. The stone walls and floor sucked all the warmth from the air; his oil-burning heater was useless against the endless chill. The work team’s voices and laughter echoed through the building, but scarcely filled it. Still, it was a more reassuring sound than the mournful, morbid chanting of the monks would have been. His mood was black. He kept thinking for no good reason of the old man he had shot, and the paintbrush, and that chipped wall smeared with blood of exactly the hue that had tipped the brush.

  After a restless hour, in which sleep began to seem ever less likely, Zhogmi rose—still fully dressed and wrapped in a blanket—and took a lantern into the hall. Night had turned the temple into a cave; he feared a wrong turn might lead him into the bowels of the earth. Then he saw on a threshold the tear-shaped pattern left by a paintbrush, with a few bristles caught in the dried red pigment.

  He stepped slowly into the room and played his light over the wall, looking for the suggestive outlines he had seen that morning.

  The light trembled in his hands.

  For a moment he thought it was an illusion, but he held his breath and moved forward to examine the wall. There was no mistaking it. A painter had been at work. In defiance of his orders, the restoration had continued!

  What this morning had been a few curved outlines, now formed a solidifying shape. The figure looked almost feminine, but there was something grotesque about the shape of the head. He knew it was not unusual for these barbaric figures to possess a multitude of arms, but here the shoulders and limbs were blurred—probably through the artist’s haste—and poised in a position that made little sense in terms of human anatomy. Where before, the figure had been hollow, with no inner color other than that of the wall, now it was a deep, rich red, as if the old man’s blood had soaked into the stone and spread to neatly fill the contours.

  None of these details surprised him nearly as much as the sheer fact that it had been painted at all. Who would have dared? And how could they have managed it, with the temple occupied all day by the work team?

  Some rogue monk must be hiding in the temple, or coming and going by an unknown entrance. He backed out of the room and began calling for his men. No one would sleep until they found their culprit. This suited Zhogmi, as he knew he would find sleep impossible in any case.

  The members of the DMC dwelt at the edge of the monastery grounds, in a row of small prefabricated houses. At first, Zhogmi intended to rouse them all, but he decided to strengthen his relationship with Jing Meng-Chen alone for now.

  Jing Meng-Chen came out uncomplainingly, instantly cooperative, though he looked puzzled when Zhogmi explained the reason for the search.

  “I don’t see how that could be. Painted, you say?”

  “Clearly by one of the monks, and not one we had in our custody.”

  “All the monks have been accounted for. They are all in your charge.”

  “Then some other artist—a layman working with them.”

  “Not to contradict you, but—”

  “Speak your mind. I'm sure your thoughts run close to the truth.”

  “There’s no one qualified to continue that work. We requested other artists from some of the larger monasteries to help with the painting, but never received permission. Gyatso Samphel was to do all the major work himself. Few in this area are sufficiently trained even to follow his instructions.”

  “Some clever rascal must have managed to hide his skill from even you.”

  “Can I see this restoration?”

  “If you think it will give you some idea of its author, yes.”

  As they hurried across the compound, shouts from the dormitories told them that the monks were being roused for questioning. Zhogmi asked Jing Meng-Chen whether there might be any overlooked entrances to the temple, and he admitted that there were a few small apertures through which even a child would have trouble squeezing. Then they reached the mural.

  Jing Meng-Chen’s surprise was no greater than Zhogmi’s. In the brief interval since he’d last seen the wall, the restoration had continued still further!

  The red body of the goddess now was dotted with dozens of colored specks, like an array of violet, green, and golden stars just coming into focus in a telescope. And she had eyes now. . . round black eyes gleaming wetly in that troubling, incomplete face. Jing Meng-Chen ran a finger over the wall, looked at it. “Dry,” he said.

  “Someone’s inside the temple!” Zhogmi cried.

  Jing Meng-Chen turned toward him with an amazed look. “I'm telling you: no one here could do this.”

  “What skill does it take to wave a brush?”

  “Sir, we weed out potential subversives early on—that means the intelligentsia, anyone with talent. Once, the best Tibetan minds might have studied in the monastic colleges, but today that would be an explosive situation. Talent is discouraged. This is how it must be.”

  “You're saying that all the monks are morons.”

  “No, most are simply mediocre because uneducated. We want them that way. Thus, the tourists—if they ever come—will see what appears to be a functioning, vital monastery, and they will contribute generously to its operation; but meanwhile, the words the monks chant are meaningless to them. When the Tibetan tongue finally ceases to be spoken, then the texts will seem even more nonsensical . . . and the religion will naturally die out as planned.”

  “All this happens slowly, Jing Meng-Chen. Many still remember the old ways, and will engage in subversion to restore them.”

  “But this. . . .” He raised his hands to the wall painting. “This goes far beyond subversion. This is the work of a skilled and knowledgeable artist. I tell you: I know each of the monks here; I know them intimately. None is capable of this. I was raised in that village out there, and there are no artists in it. Gyatso Samphel was the last!”

  “Then what are you saying? That this image is painting itself?”

  Jing Meng-Chen’s face grew pale. “Certainly not!”

  Zhogmi regretted that he had even expressed this fanciful impossibility, for it made him appear as superstitious as the locals. He turned away from the wall. “There’s a rational explanation. Someone in our midst who comes and goes without attracting attention. Tell me. . . .”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about Jowo Tenzin.”

  Jing Meng-Chen hesitated. “He is a good man, devoted to the Party, determined that the monastery function in accordance with official policy.”

  “So it would appear. He is full-blooded Tibetan, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can we be certain where his loyalties lie?”

  “I think so. He’s not a religious or superstitious man. Nor does he have any artistic skills I am aware of.”

  “Nevertheless, I am convinced he is practiced at deception. His record books are a tangle of what I believe to be deliberate obscurations, disguised to look like mild incompetence.”

  “Are you saying he steals from the monastery?”

  “Not from the monastery, from the government! The monastery has no money of its own. If I prove this crime against him, it is likely that he will be suspected of others.”

  Jing Meng-Chen looked pained.

  “No one likes to hear such things about his superiors; but I have reason to think Tenzin soon may be leaving his post. Would it please you to lead the DMC yourself?”

  “I'll happily serve the Party in whatever office is entrusted to me.”

  “But you can tell me nothing more of Jowo Tenzin?”

  “No. I did not realize the accounts were in such disarray. I am sorry to hear that he is under suspicion.”

  “Not only for theft.” Zhogmi gestured toward the red figure. “This
is also a serious transgression.”

  A member of Zhogmi’s work team appeared in the doorway. “Nothing,” he said.

  Zhogmi felt an overwhelming futility and exhaustion. Dismissing the man, he turned back to Jing Meng-Chen.

  “I'm sorry to have interrupted your rest,” he said. “It’s obvious we'll learn nothing more tonight. But please . . . no word of my suspicions to Jowo Tenzin.”

  “Of course not.”

  Jing Meng-Chen bowed sharply, then hurried from the chamber.

  Zhogmi listened to his footsteps receding, then faced the mural and marveled at the audacity of its creator. There was something seductive about the creature it depicted. Her curves were sinuous, openly erotic, as were in a way the eyes. He was well aware that the old gods of Tibet were often portrayed in a manner to arouse the lust of celibate monks—to keep them more firmly bound to their religion by infusing it with sensual snares. And all while they denied the importance of the body. Such hypocrites, these Buddhists!

  He moved back to the far wall and sank down, retrieving the blanket he had dropped there earlier, drawing it around him. The red figure seemed to waver as he stared at it, but that was fatigue, making the whole room swim. He would guard the wall himself tonight; no further restoration would be allowed. It seemed strangely important that the renegade artist not be allowed to finish, as if to complete the painting were an act of revolution.

  The painted jewels glimmered like actual stones. His eyes watered, but he forced them open. His mind wandered along the lithe lines of the figure, the suggestions of firm, small breasts, a dancer’s hips and thighs. If only the face and head were clearer—he could almost imagine a pretty woman’s face materializing around those eyes. She seemed to smile in greeting, though her mouth was oddly proportioned—too wide, too stiff. . . . And then he realized why the arms were held so strangely, and why they appeared blurred. They were not arms at all, but wings.