The sign exploded as he hit it, sending splinters into the air. The post was thick and well set. It bent his bumper and knocked the radiator ajar before snapping. He climbed out, staring in mock confusion at the steam rising from his damaged truck, casting furtive glances to confirm that the Tibetans, now satisfied, were leaving.
Norbu studied Shan a moment uncertainly, then trotted to his side. “We pray you were not hurt, Comrade,” the abbot offered loudly, then turned to the police. “Once again the gods have intervened for Tibetans,” he called out defiantly.
Liang’s eyes stabbed at Shan. After Tan’s intervention he knew he could not arrest Shan, not with so many witnesses, not for what could be characterized as an accident. He raised his bullhorn to his lips, turning to point at Norbu.
“Chegar monastery is behind this!” the major shouted, then in an uncertain tone he spoke again. “Those who refuse the embrace of the Motherland must suffer the consequences!” It was the sound of a seasoned actor trying to salvage a disrupted script.
* * *
For the first time the little café in Baiyun had a light, almost cheerful atmosphere. Tables had been carried outside into the golden afternoon sun.
Shan had looked for Professor Yuan at his house but found only his daughter working at her computer on the kitchen table. “It was a reckless thing you did this morning,” he told Sansan.
“I tried to talk him out of it. He had found a quote from Mao that he decided to embrace. ‘The only way to have a true government of the people is to engage in constant revolution.’ When Jigten came to pick up medicine and mentioned the sign, the Vermilion Society was here. My father suggested it as a joke but one of them said he knew where to find paint. They were like boys planning an adventure. They are still celebrating at the teahouse. I’ll go with you.”
To Shan’s surprise there were Tibetans sitting with the usual patrons at the little café. They cast uncertain glances about the street. One of the professors was trying to cajole the Tibetan waitress into joining him for a game of checkers. Shan found a seat at a rear table and tea was brought to him. It was a rare hour of camaraderie between Tibetan and Chinese. They had enjoyed the tiniest of victories over the government and though it would not last it was worth savoring. But for Shan the taste was sour.
He had managed to drive his crippled truck to Lung’s garage but the repairs would take more than a day. Lokesh knew enough about his unpredictable life in the valley not to worry if he did not reach their little hut that night. But tomorrow was Sunday, the first Sunday of the month. For the past week the voice inside his head had been growing louder and more insistent. Ko is waiting for you. Ko needs you. He can’t think you’ve given up on him. Nothing must prevent you from seeing your son.
For a few moments as he stared at the southern horizon he told himself he would walk. More than a few Tibetan families walked two or three days to visit loved ones in prison. But even if he walked all night he would not make it over the steep mountain roads before the visiting hours ended the next morning. He would have to sleep in the stable and write a letter, praying it would reach his son.
The cheerful banter suddenly died. He looked up. A public security car was parking on the opposite side of the road. Liang and Meng climbed out with two knob soldiers behind them.
As Shan saw the glint in Liang’s eye his gut tightened. The major had been defeated at the crossroads but now he strutted across the street with a smug, satisfied air. Liang seemed to make a show of searching the tables, then he nodded to Shan.
Shan pushed back his chair, thinking of slipping away, but Liang had anticipated him. One of the soldiers had circuited to the rear of the tables, behind Shan. Meng held back, looking at him with pain in her eyes.
“Comrade Shan!” Liang called out loudly as he reached Shan’s side. “At last we have found you! Good news! Everything about that splittist Jamyang has been confirmed! Your payment is approved!” The major reached into his tunic and extracted a stack of currency notes, bound with a rubber band. “One thousand is the going rate. A rare bargain for the body of another outlaw lama.”
Liang dropped the money on Shan’s table, offered a stiff bow, then spun about and marched back to the car.
There was no more jesting, no more talking at all. Every person at every table stared in shock at Shan, some with hatred in their eyes, others with disgust. Shan had just been publicly declared a bonecatcher.
All but one of the tables were quickly vacated. The thin grey-haired man who remained slowly rose and stepped to Shan’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder as his daughter appeared at his side. “Come with us,” Yuan said.
Shan said nothing but stood and followed the professor. His daughter picked up the money where Shan had left it, untouched.
“It is just Liang’s way,” Yuan said as he poured tea for Shan in his kitchen. “Those in Baiyun will soon realize it. They know you better.”
Shan had trouble speaking. Liang had tried, and failed, to imprison Shan. It had been parry and thrust since the two men had met. Now Liang had inflicted the crippling blow. When he finally spoke his voice was hoarse. “By this time tomorrow,” he said, “there won’t be a Tibetan in the valley who will speak with me.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Shan awoke abruptly, his nightmare so real he flinched, thinking the touch on his shoulder was that of another prison guard’s baton.
“Shan,” Yuan whispered, shaking him. “She’s here, been parked outside for two hours. She’s at the door.”
He groggily followed the professor, tucking in his shirt, to the entry.
Meng stood in the dim predawn light. “We need to be going,” she declared.
“Going?” Shan asked through his fog.
“Have you truly forgotten what day it is? It’s the first Sunday of the month.”
Whether from fatigue or disbelief, he could find no words. He followed the lieutenant to her car and obediently climbed in, then stared out the window, strangely ashamed.
They had left the sleeping town far behind before he turned toward Meng. Her uniform was disheveled. “Did you sleep in your car?” he asked.
“Not much.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“It’s Sunday. Isn’t this what couples do on Sunday, take carefree drives in the country?”
“Meng Linmei, you really don’t. It won’t be pleasant.”
As if in response she tossed a paper into his lap. He slowly, painfully opened it. It was the letter he had written to Ko in Liang’s cell. “It was good of you to-”
“You look like hell,” she interrupted. “Get some sleep.”
He stuffed the letter inside his shirt and leaned his head on the window, watching the sky. Stars were blinking out as dawn spread across the sky. He watched the shadows retreat across the mountains.
Much later, he stirred at the sound of voices outside the car. Meng was speaking to soldiers. A security gate that blocked the road was being lifted. Suddenly he was wide awake, rubbing his eyes, then reflexively looked down as a patrol drove by. They had entered a penal zone. Arrows pointed the way to each of Colonel Tan’s hard-labor camps.
His mouth went dry as the 404th People’s Construction Brigade came into view. His eyes were unable to move from the long, decrepit barracks where he had lived for years, where he had met Lokesh and the lamas who had built him anew out of the broken, drug-dazed body that had been dumped there by Public Security. The shabby structures had become chapels to him. Many good and innocent men had died in them, and on the execution ground outside, men who still visited him in his dreams and nightmares.