Tibetan monk who was a sort of doctor.
Anyway, I found this monk, and he came at once and looked at
William and said he could treat him. He went off- it was late at ‘ night by then. I can remember it, sitting in the dark with William in a terrible fever.”
There had been a fever once, and William had almost died but there had been no monk, no sacred tree, only an old doctor sent round by the DBI.
“I thought he would die, I really did, he was that bad. Anyway, he went off as I said the monk, I mean and then came back in about an hour with some herbs he’d got from God knows where.
He made them up into a drink for the boy and got it into him somehow or other. It saved his life. He came out of the fever that night and was on his feet again two days later. I tried to find the monk afterwards, to thank him, give him something. But he’d gone.”
“Frazer knew about it. When he came here, he asked questions, but he never heard of any monk. Until a couple of weeks ago.”
Norbhu Dzasa glanced up from his steaming cup. His little eyes glistened.
“He said a Tibetan monk died here. A man with the same name as my monk. About the same age. Frazer said he carried herbs. He thought I should know: he wrote to me about it. I was coming anyway, I have business here. So I thought I’d make some enquiries at the same time. About the monk.”
“Why? You could not meet. Not thank. He is dead.”
“Yes, but he might have a family, relatives. His parents, brothers, sisters. Perhaps they need help, now he is dead.”
“What his name, this medical monk?”
“Tsewong,” Christopher answered.
“Is that a common name?”
Norbhu shrugged.
“Not common. Not not common.”
“But it was the name of the man they found here? The man who died?”
The tsong-chi looked at Christopher.
“Yes,” he said.
“Same name. But perhaps not same man.”
“How was he dressed?” asked Christopher.
“Perhaps it would help to identify him.”
Norbhu Dzasa saw that Wylam wanted him to lead with information rather than confirm something he already knew. It reminded him of the theological debates he had seen the monks at Ganden engage in verbal fencing matches in which the slightest slip meant failure. What would failure mean in this case, he wondered.
“He wear dress of monk of Sak-ya-pa sect. Was monk you met Sak-ya-pa?”
“I don’t know,” said Christopher.
“What would one of them look like?” But in his own mind he had already begun the process of narrowing things down. The majority of Tibetan monks belonged to the politically dominant Ge-lug-pa sect. There were far fewer Sak-ya-pas and fewer Sak-ya-pa monasteries.
Norbhu Dzasa described for Christopher the dress of a Sak-yapa lama:
the low, conical hat with ear-flaps, the red robes, the broad-sleeved over-mantle for travelling, the distinctive girdle.
“Yes,” said Christopher, ‘he was dressed very like that.” But he wanted to move on, to narrow the field even more.
“Did you find anything,” he continued, ‘that might have told you where he came from? The name of his monastery, perhaps?”
Norbhu could see what the Englishman was trying to do. Why was he playing such games with him? Did he take him for a fool?
“Where your friend come from?” he asked.
Christopher hesitated.
“He didn’t say. Do you know where the dead man came from?”
The tsong-chi smiled.
“Not every mountain has a god,” he said.
“Not every monastery has a name.” If the Englishman expected him to play the part of the wily and enigmatic Oriental in this masquerade, he would at least put on a virtuoso performance.
Christopher recognized the shift in mood. He would have to change tack.
“Did you see this man Tsewong before he died? This house is on the road he must have taken to reach Kalimpong. Perhaps he called here. Perhaps you saw him. You or one of your staff?”
Norbhu Dzasa shook his head.
“Not see. No-one see.” There was a pause. The tsong-chi looked at Christopher intently.
“What you really look for, Wylam-la? What thing you look for? What person?”
Christopher hesitated again before answering. Did the little Tibetan know? Was he teasing him with this questioning?
“My son,” he said.
“I’m looking for my son.”
The tsong-chi sipped tea from his cup and set it down elegantly.
“Not find him here. Understanding, perhaps. Wisdom, perhaps.
Or things you not wish to find. But no son. Please, Wylam-la, I advise you. Go home. Back to own country. The mountains here very treacherous. Very high. Very cold.”
The two men eyed each other closely, like fencers with raised foils. In the silence, the mantra sounded clearer than before.
“Tell me,” Norbhu Dzasa said abruptly.
“Is Wylam a common name?”
Christopher shook his head. Not common. Not not common, he wanted to say. But he didn’t.
“No. There aren’t many Wylams. Lots of Christophers but not many Wylams.”
Norbhu Dzasa smiled again. There was something about his smile that unsettled Christopher. A lamp on the altar spluttered briefly and went out.
“I knew man called Wylam,” the tsong-chi said.
“Many years ago.
In India. Look very much like you. Father perhaps?”
Had Norbhu Dzasa suspected all along? Christopher wondered.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“My father was a political agent. He died many years ago.”
Norbhu Dzasa looked hard at Christopher.
“Your tea getting cold,” he said.
Christopher lifted his cup and drank quickly. The thick, lukewarm liquid clung to his palate and his throat.
“I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Dzasa,” he said.
“I’m sorry to have wasted it on a wild-goose chase.”
“No matter,” answered the little man.
“There are other geese.”
He rose and clapped his hands twice. The sound of the hand-claps rang out dully in the shimmering room.
The door opened and the servant came to show Christopher out.
“Goodbye, Wylam-la,” Norbhu Dzasa said.
“I am sorry not more help.”
“I’m sorry too,” said Christopher. The heavy tea was making him feel slightly nauseous. He wanted to get out of the stuffy room.
Norbhu Dzasa bowed and Christopher left, escorted by the servant. The tsong-chi sighed audibly. He missed
