The lama’s hut was that of a true ascetic. A shelf above his pallet held a tin cup with a toothbrush. Beside a small personal altar with a plaster Buddha and incense burners was a worn plank, on which Jamyang had sat for hours in meditation. In the corner that served as a makeshift kitchen was a chipped enamel basin, the brazier, a nearly empty sack of barley, a small brick of tea, and one of the small wooden pails used by the shepherds for transporting butter.
The shepherds. One of them had first taken Jamyang to the remote, neglected shrine, overgrown and nearly covered with vines and weeds. It had been mostly devout shepherds, singly and in families, who came to visit and receive a blessing from the lama, sometimes even asking him to bestow a name on a new infant. But another shepherd had stolen the artifacts, a bitter shepherd with a limp and a scar on his forehead. Had the thief indeed been more interested in getting the ancestral tablet to the new settlement than in collecting a bounty on Jamyang? He understood nothing of Jamyang’s death but now he began to realize he also understood nothing of the lama’s life.
He lowered himself before Jamyang’s altar. The lama had left a single sheet of scripture, like an offering to the Buddha. It was a verse from the Diamond Sutra. “Thus shall you think of this fleeting world,” it said. “A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream, a flash of lightning in a summer cloud, a flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.” With new despair he stepped outside, and faced the sacred mountain, ablaze in the early light. A bank of clouds below gave the impression it was floating in the sky.
His fingers touched something in his pocket. He pulled out the piece of paper he had taken from the secret holster of the man who had nearly lost his head. It was a list of places and dates, each named at least twice, with dates over the past year, except for the last two, which were in the coming weeks. The names were all Tibetan towns. Tawang. Zayu. Zhangmu. Yadong. The writing was in Jamyang’s hand. He recalled that the paper was not the only thing he had recovered from the bodies, and reached deeper in his pocket to retrieve the bloodstained card from the nun’s body. The bullet that had killed her had pierced the bottom, leaving a half circle. The back was covered with prayers in tiny, cramped Tibetan script. His breath caught as he turned it over and saw his mistake. It was not an identity card. It was a photo of the Dalai Lama, covered in the dead nun’s blood.
* * *
During his months in the valley Shan had carefully avoided the immigrant settlement, often adding half an hour or more to his trips in the upper valley by taking old roads that circumvented the small town. A Party official writing in the Lhasa Times had recently praised the Chinese immigrants who populated such new rural centers as the “frontline troops” in Beijing’s war on the past. WELCOME TO BAIYUN said an already fading sign at the edge of the town. The name meant White Cloud. It had the sound of a tourist destination. Above the name were the words PIONEERS OF THE MOTHERLAND, beneath it another Party slogan: THE FRONT WAVE IN THE TIDE OF MODERNIZATION.
The wave had crashed over several traditional Tibetan farms that had sat at the intersection of two country roads. The farms were gone, the houses at the intersection replaced with a gas station, a teahouse, and a small grocery store, the outbuildings and fields replaced with a few blocks of nearly identical cinder block and stucco houses with corrugated metal roofs.
He drove slowly past a squat building constructed of cement panels in the center of a fenced compound where the Chinese flag rattled on a metal pole. Parked beside the pole were two police cars, a battered sedan bearing the insignia of the local constables, the other one of the grey utility vehicles favored by Public Security. The center of town seemed almost abandoned, its small dusty square populated only by one of the fiberglass statues of the Great Helmsman that were being erected all over Tibet. Shan stared, wondering at the unnatural air of the town. No children could be seen anywhere. The only inhabitant of the park was a solitary dog, sitting, staring at the statue.
Shan slowed the truck to a crawl then parked it along the last block of houses. He had begun walking back toward the square when he noticed a gathering in the field behind the houses. Sheep and yaks were being sold under an open pavilion, a long tin roof raised on cinder block posts. A dozen Tibetan vendors were selling their wares from blankets spread on the grass beside the pavilion. On the far side of the field stood a weathered stable of stone and timber, the sole surviving structure of the old farming community.
He worked his way along the edge of the crowd, studying the Tibetans in the makeshift market. An old woman with a face like wrinkled leather sold noodle soup. A nearly toothless man in a tattered jacket sold yak butter in old tin cans and inch-high deities molded of clay. Shan paused to buy some incense and two of the little deities, then leaned against a post of the pavilion to survey the grounds. A woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat sat on a blanket selling long spools of spun wool. As Shan watched, a man with shaggy hair, wearing a dirty fleece vest, emerged from the crowd beside her, leading a young ewe toward the stable. Shan quickly retreated, circling around the building.
He waited until the shepherd had tied the animal in the rear stall before he stepped from the shadows, blocking the entrance. “You’re not limping as badly as when I saw you last,” he declared in a casual tone.
The shepherd’s eyes went round with surprise. He glanced back at the square hole in the wall that served as the stable’s window, as if thinking of fleeing.
“Jamyang had other artifacts. A jade seal. Some figures set with jewels,” Shan said. “But you left them and shouldered those heavy tablets. Why?”
“Black market,” the man said, looking at Shan’s feet. “Tourists buy such things.”
“In Tibet, tourists want Tibetan things,” Shan observed, “small things that can be stuffed in a suitcase.”
The man shrugged. “Some outsiders need other things. Cans of food. Blankets.”
Shan studied the man in confusion. Outsiders. Foreigners were strictly prohibited from entering Lhadrung County. “What is your name?”
The shepherd took a step to the side as if thinking of charging past Shan. “I am a loyal citizen.”
“I can go out into the market,” Shan said, “and have your name in five minutes. Of course then everyone will know someone from the government is seeking you.”
The man’s eyes were smoldering now. He was taking on the air of a cornered wolf.
“Tenzin Gyalo,” the man offered.
“No. You are not the Dalai Lama.” Shan took a step closer. “You are a shepherd who has misplaced his flock.”
The words seemed to unsettle the man. He looked back at the animals in the stall with what, for an instant, seemed like longing. “Sometimes I help out on market days. It’s good to work with the animals again.” He took another step to one side as he spoke, made a feint to the left, then darted past Shan on the right.
As Shan spun about, ready to pursue, a shovel handle appeared between the man’s legs and he tripped, sprawling on the ground. He quickly sprang back up but just as quickly a hand grabbed his collar and swung him about, propelling him back into the stable.
“You can cooperate here,” came a level voice, “or you can cooperate in my detention cell.”
Shan’s throat went dry as a uniformed knob entered the stable. He glanced at the window himself, instinctively thinking of fleeing, then recognized the woman. It was the lieutenant he had spoken with at the convent. As she approached the shepherd her hand touched the manacles on her belt.
“Jigten,” the shepherd said in a stricken voice. “Jigten is my name.”
The lieutenant extended her hand, palm upward, and the man unbuttoned his shirt pocket and extracted his registration card.