Читать книгу Pyramid Asia - Ian Purdie - Страница 6

The flight back to Xian’yang was very turbulent. Tashi was sure they weren’t going to survive despite Ping’s calm assurances that turbulence was normal. He sat in a window seat and watched in horror as the plane’s wings seemed to flap. He waited for them to break off but miraculously the plane held together and eventually its undercarriage kissed the runway hello.

He was very happy to get his feet back onto something solid. Now he understood why people kissed the ground when they were finally liberated from a death trap like the one he was certain had been about to snuff out their young lives.

Once back in their familiar environment, the memories of their experiences in Hong Kong took on a surreal, dreamlike quality, as if they hadn’t actually happened.

Ping would have given anything to wake up from what was easily the worst nightmare she’d ever had. How could they accuse her father of being a criminal? And not just a corporate criminal but a drug trafficker. The implications were almost as unbearable as they were unfair.

Fortunately none of their friends knew anything about what had happened and after being back in her routine for a few days, she was able to consign the entire incident into a slightly less immediately disturbing category. Ping was certain her father would be cleared of any wrong doing and within days had immersed herself back into student life.

Over the next term the news wasn’t good. Her mother’s condition deteriorated. Communication yielded nothing concerning her father’s predicament. Silver linings remained elusive.

Tashi also immersed himself in his studies.

One of the great things about teeth is that almost everybody has some and they are an anomaly in an otherwise well designed, functionally efficient human body. Evolution had been particularly negligent in choosing them as the primary processing equipment for the vital function of eating.

In the current dietary reality, teeth are the source of extreme pain in anybody who neglects their welfare. Tashi found them fascinating. They were so vital to a person’s health and yet most people preferred to ignore them until the consequences became unbearable. The modern western style diet had invaded China as convincingly as any other imperial phenomenon in history.

McDonalds and KFC stores competed with Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts to wreak havoc in the mouths of people who thought that being seen frequenting these purveyors of salt, sugar and fat was fashionable, a sign of sophistication and status. They were the worst thing that could ever have happened to the concept of dental health. Neither of his parents had ever suffered from tooth decay, but dentistry was an industry that was growing more rapidly than any other sector in an economy that was doubling every five years.

Pollution, greed and rotten teeth were the inevitable consequences of modern living. They were the price that had to be paid so China could become the super-power it rightfully always had been and he intended to be part of the solution to the problem. He had chosen a profession that granted quality of life to people who would otherwise suffer horribly. Dentistry was compassionate and essential.

Ping disagreed. She thought teeth were like plumbing, a necessary evil that should be left to somebody else. Studying teeth steadfastly failed to qualify as an intellectual pursuit on her list of academic imperatives. She tried to convince Tashi that he should become a lawyer or a doctor or anything that wasn’t as practical and boring as a dentist.

But despite this they continued to enjoy every moment they could steal from the stifling jaws of academia. Their relationship flourished and, as the term approached its inevitable end, a plan to visit Tashi’s family was reaching fruition in Ping’s mind.

Tashi’s mind was less enthusiastic. He wasn’t ashamed of his family but he didn’t think they would appreciate Ping or she them.

* * *

Ping and Tashi met every Tuesday afternoon in the park near the library, when they both had an hour of free time before their next lecture. When Ping arrived one afternoon fresh from an Archeology tutorial, she had a picture of an object that bore a remarkable resemblance to the one in her father’s painting.

“It’s the Oracle of Singh Ma,” she announced proudly.

“No, it doesn’t look anything like that,” Tashi lied.

“Of course it does,” affirmed Ping. “This is what’s in my father’s painting. I recognised it immediately.”

“The thing I found has pictures etched into it.”

“Even better. The Oracle of Singh Ma is a legendary symbol. It predates the Bon religion.”

“What’s the Bon religion?” asked Tashi.

“It was the dominant Tibetan religion before Buddhism arrived.”

“I thought Buddhism originated in Tibet,” said Tashi, slightly affronted by the suggestion that the pre-eminent cultural icon of his homeland hadn’t originated there.

“Buddhism came from India,” Ping informed him. “It was introduced into Tibet by Padma Sambhava, a Buddhist saint in the seventh or eighth century.”

“Are you sure?” Tashi asked in disbelief.

“Of course I’m sure. The Buddha was an Indian Prince. He was born in modern day Nepal. He wasn’t Tibetan.”

“Yes he was,” said Tashi stubbornly.

“What, so you’re a Buddhist now?”

“No. I don’t believe in ancient superstition.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” countered Ping.

“So this oracle thing is really ancient?” asked Tashi attempting to steer the conversation away from his freshly exposed cultural ignorance.

“It’s at least 5,000 years old. Probably even older.”

“Give me another look,” he said.

Ping flicked through the pages of her book and arrived back at the picture.

“Yes, that’s it,” confirmed Tashi. “But I’ve only got half of it.”

“Where’s the other half?”

“I don’t know. I took one half and my friend Wen took the other. I haven’t seen him since I was about twelve. His family had lots of problems and they moved away from our village.”

“Well if you’ve got half of the Oracle of Singh Ma, it will still be a very significant discovery.”

“It’s probably not the original.”

“What’s it made of?”

“It’s some kind of really hard crystal. I don’t know. I’d never seen anything like it. Is it supposed to have any kind of practical function?”

“According to this book, the Oracle first appeared in a vision some monk had during his meditation.”

“A vision?”

“The book says that a Buddhist monk in the 12th Century, during his meditation, had a vision. In his vision he saw the end of the world and then he saw the Oracle of Singh Ma and the earth was healed.”

“You’re joking!”

“No. It says here that the Oracle represents a healing energy that will flood from the cosmos and stop the apocalypse as it is happening.”

“What? It’s going to save us from the apocalypse? Do they say which particular apocalypse it’s going to save us from?”

“I don’t know. I just read this stuff.”

“Great! You keep reading that stuff and I’ll keep learning how to fix people’s teeth.”

“Don’t be so cynical. If you’ve found a physical manifestation of this thing, it’s an esoteric icon. It’s not of this world.”

“What world is it of then? If I found it, it can’t be from any worlds that are that far away. Is it going to bring us good luck?”

Ping rolled her eyes.

“Sorry,” said Tashi. “I’m a practical guy. All this esoteric stuff doesn’t mean much to me. You’re the space cadet. What does it mean? Is it valuable?”

“How dare you call me a space cadet?”

And with that Ping got up and stormed away with her book firmly wedged under an uncompromising arm.

Shocked, Tashi followed her. He knew she’d won. If she really had found a picture of the thing he and Wen had found, there was no way he was going to prevent her from visiting his family. She had the ultimate excuse.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t serious.”

Ping turned and began to cry.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s my father,” said Ping. “The case against him isn’t going well. My mother thinks he’s going to stay in jail for a long time.”

“Surely they’ll clear him. He’s not a criminal.”

“I hope so. My mother is losing hope.”

“Don’t worry, my darling. Things will work out. You’ll see.”

* * *

The train journey felt as though it was never going to end. Tashi hated it because he imagined that Ping must also be hating it. The worst part was that she never complained once. She even pretended to be enjoying it.

Tashi had always travelled third class, hard seat. He’d never thought to do otherwise.

Ping, however, wanted to fly to Lhasa and travel first class back to Nagqu. There was absolutely no circumstance under which Tashi was prepared to allow her to pay his fare back to Tibet. Even though the money meant nothing to her, it was the last bastion, the line in the sand that his pride would not cross. That meant the train, all 28 hours of it. If he stretched his budget to its absolute limit he could almost afford to pay what he considered an exorbitant fare and travel second class, hard sleeper but Ping still had to pay for herself.

The small compartment contained six bunks stacked three on each side, so they had to share with another four passengers. There was no door separating them from the narrow corridor and the only seating available was in the corridor outside the compartment unless they wanted to lie on their bunks. Ping happily engaged two of the other passengers in conversation and was very pleased to discover that they came from a village not far from Tashi’s. Ping thought this meant they had something in common. Tashi didn’t want to have anything in common with ordinary Tibetans. He dreaded the moment Ping realised what she was really dealing with. He knew he was heading irreversibly towards her realisation of just how humble it was possible for a human being’s origins to be.

Tashi didn’t sleep very well that night, despite being on a second tier bunk that was actually quite comfortable compared to previous journeys he’d spent trying to sleep on the hard seats. Ping was on the bunk next to his with one of the passengers she’d befriended snoring loudly on the bunk above her. Tashi could tell by the way she kept tossing and turning, she wasn’t sleeping very well either.

The sound of the train was barely able to compete with an array of sleep related noises being randomly emitted throughout the carriage.

As the sun rose Tashi was unable to suppress the joy he felt at the sight of the prayer flags that began to appear scattered across the barren countryside as they gained altitude, speeding towards the Tibetan plateau. Their bright colours and random placement contrasted with the uniform silver power pylons that marched purposefully beside the railway track, symbols of progress, order and power.

Similarly, the closer they got to Tibet, the orderly, clean white sheep were gradually being infiltrated by yaks. Yaks are not orderly, clean or white. They are large, dirty, multi-coloured beasts that lumber around the countryside like lost, drunken hooligans. Tashi felt like a yak pretending to be a sheep.

By the time Ping finally gave up on her battle with semi-unconsciousness, Tashi was suffering from chest pains. He’d internalised his discomfort, having barely eaten on the journey and was dehydrated.

Ping rolled over and greeted him with a fresh Chinese smile that made him feel even dirtier than a yak. He felt like dried yak dung. If only somebody would set him on fire, so he could escape and float away on the cool mountain breeze.

Finally, halfway through the morning, the dreaded moment arrived. The squeal of the train’s un-oiled brake drums, accompanied by a lurching decrease in velocity, signified that unavoidable, ultimate humiliation was upon him.

Ping tactfully refrained from pointing out that they’d stopped at a railway station which was the only man-made structure in sight.

Several yaks stared at the train as if it was the first they’d ever seen.

Tashi’s mother and father were waiting on the platform. His mother had worn her best dress and his father looked like he was going to a temple. They’d managed to find clothes that insisted they were poor peasants. He could see them smiling expectantly amongst the few others meeting the train as it pulled up at the platform. Ping looked more like a Chinese princess than ever.

Tashi resisted a sudden urge to pretend they hadn’t arrived yet and stay on the train. His mother’s expectant smile was too strong a beacon for him to ignore.

The small part of him that wasn’t utterly ashamed of his humble origins was proud that both his parents had obviously devoted time and effort to their appearance and had come to meet them.

The very idea that he’d fallen in love with a Chinese girl constituted heresy to some of the less tolerant members of the small village he had been so desperate to leave behind forever. The colloquial expression, ‘the toad wants to eat the swan’s meat,’ referred to Tibetans (toads) who married into rich, Chinese (swans) families. It was a less than flattering description of his predicament. He had no way of knowing how his parents were going to react to Ping and was certain that a lot of his old neighbours would be openly hostile.

The pain had dropped to his stomach. Almost unbearably he helped Ping drag their bags down from the overhead storage rack. They clambered unsteadily towards the exit and down onto the platform.

Tashi’s reticence was instantly swallowed up by the radiance of his mother’s smile, which she quickly adapted to smothering him with kisses.

Ping stood back while his father fidgeted uncertainly. At the extreme periphery of his vision, Tashi could see the awkwardness looming between them. His father maintained his distance until Tashi was able to disentangle himself from his mother and affect a formal introduction.

Tashi’s mother threw herself at Ping like an out of control hugging machine. Ping appeared to be delighted and allowed herself to be hugged and kissed before a more formal acceptance of Tashi’s father’s hand, which she enthusiastically shook.

It all seemed to be going quite well until his father, who insisted on carrying both their bags, unexpectedly led them to an area which was the local equivalent of a car park. There were no cars. The slowly subsiding pain in Tashi’s stomach suddenly exploded into an entire new wave of agony.

“The co-op let us bring the new tractor,” explained Tashi’s mother proudly as his smiling father loaded their bags onto its trailer. Ping politely declined his father’s offer to ride up front with him on the tractor itself and his mother helped them both climb aboard the trailer.

The trailer shook as the new diesel engine spluttered to life, sending a cloud of black acrid smoke up into the otherwise pristine, cloudless blue sky.

Ping’s Tibetan was very limited. She’d been studying it for less than two years and had never before had an opportunity to speak to any actual Tibetans besides Tashi, who preferred to speak Mandarin. She attempted to engage Tashi’s mother in conversation, pausing occasionally to blast him with a bright smile until Tashi’s aching guts felt like they were going to explode.

Falsehood!

Where was it? Something was horribly false. It wasn’t his parents. They weren’t sophisticated enough to be false. It wasn’t Ping. She seemed to be genuinely interested in trying to engage his mother and was working diligently to understand his mother’s attempts to tell her about his childhood and youth.

That only left him, Tashi. He was the false link in the puzzle. He was the pretentious fraud. Suddenly it hit him. He didn’t have to feel personally responsible for spanning the mammoth void he’d imagined would loom between Ping and his family. Besides the obvious language barrier, they were all getting along wonderfully.

The road wasn’t much more than a rough track as they bumped and rattled through the semi-deserted countryside.

The pain in his stomach began to subside once again. The sound of his mother’s and Ping’s laughter mixed together, every time they bounced over a particularly deep pothole, soothingly infused itself into the tortured knot in his mid-rift.

From a distance, the village of Womadige was barely a speck on the flanks of Mt Luguna.

The pain returned instantly as he spotted his childhood home. The memory of Ping’s father’s mansion almost caused him to vomit.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ping innocently as Tashi’s smiling father pushed forward the throttle lever and brought the tractor to a halt.

Tashi felt like a fish on a hook. All he could do was struggle and the more he struggled the worse things got.

“Nothing,” he muttered feebly, helping his father lift his old bag and Ping’s designer label luggage from the trailer.

As he approached the shameful shack of his youth, a familiar sight cut through his inner pain, awakening memories.

“Free Chow!” he exclaimed as an overweight black and white cat came running out onto the track to meet them.

Tashi dropped the bag he’d refused to allow his father to carry and fell onto one knee as the purring feline approached.

“It’s my cat!” he explained redundantly, picking up the old tom.

The rest of the conversation was lost in the sound of rapturous purring.

Inside his parents’ house, little had changed. The old familiar sights and some of his discarded feelings flooded back. There was the smell of yak butter tea and yak dung smoke.

Where Ping had grown up on marble floors and antique rugs, as a child he’d played on these same hard packed earth floors. He looked into her eyes, trying to detect an element of distaste or condescension. He saw none.

He showed Ping the bedroom she would be sleeping in for the duration of their visit.

“Sorry we don’t have a marble staircase.”

“I’ve always hated marble.”

“Me too.”

Ping produced an exquisitely wrapped package from her suitcase.

“This is for your parents,” she explained.

“What is it?”

“A surprise,” she answered.

Tashi’s parents were preparing food. Yak butter tea was boiling on the stove as Tashi followed Ping into the kitchen.

“This is for you,” said Ping handing the exquisite gift to Tashi’s mother.

Tashi’s mother flashed her husband a look of utter confusion before wiping her hands on her apron and accepting the gift.

“Thank you,” she said managing a weak smile. “I’ll put it near the spirit house.”

“You have to unwrap it,” Ping said in Tibetan, mispronouncing most of the words.

Tashi’s mother fired another even more confused look at her husband.

Tashi translated Ping’s instruction into something his mother could grasp.

“Here, let me help you,” offered Tashi.

“No, let your mother unwrap it,” insisted Ping.

Tashi’s father came to his wife’s assistance but was unable to offer any practical help.

Ping retrieved the gift and demonstrated how to remove the outer layer of paper before handing it back to Tashi’s mother. She took it and hesitantly continued the process to reveal a box containing four small replicas of terra cotta warriors from Xi’an. Tashi’s mother handed the gift to her husband, who smiled and nodded in polite confusion.

“They’re terra cotta warriors from Xi’an,” Ping tried to explain.

“They are for decoration,” added Tashi, attempting to drag two parallel universes into the same dimension.

“Ah,” said his father unhelpfully.