paper to the Tibetan Agent along with the monk’s other possessions. Instead, he showed them to Frazer, who had the paper translated by his munshi. It turned out to be very simple: instructions on how to find the Mongol Trade Agent Mishig.
One thing nagged at Christopher’s thoughts while he made his way to the
orphanage in accordance with Lhaten’s directions: if the monk Tsewong
had been dying when he got to Kalimpong, and if he had in fact died the
morning after his arrival at the Knox
Homes, how on earth had he managed to convey Zamyatin’s message to Mishig? Had someone else taken the message on his behalf? If so, who?
The orphanage, like the church beside which it was built, looked as if it had been transported bodily, like the palace in “Aladdin’, from the Scottish lowlands to the place where it now stood. Here in Kalimpong, not only did the Christian god reveal himself in open defiance of the myriad tutelary deities dwelling in the mountains above, but Scottish Presbyterianism ranged itself against the questionable mores of the unredeemed masses of India below.
Although the rest of Kalimpong luxuriated in a cold winter sunlight that seemed to have been bounced off the gleaming white slopes to the north, the Knox Homes and the pathway that led up to them were sunk in gloom, as though the very stones of the building rejected all but the grey est and most melancholy of lights.
The path was lined with thick, dark green cypresses that seemed to have stepped straight out of a painting by Bocklin. Everything was steeped in shadow not merely touched or etched by it, but steeped in it, tormented by it. The Reverend Carpenter had brought more to Kalimpong than Presbyterianism and God.
The pathway led directly to a short flight of steps that in its turn led to a heavy wooden door. There was nowhere else to go. Feeling Catholic and English and travel-stained, Christopher lifted the heavy brass knocker and announced himself loudly to the hosts of Christendom within.
The door was opened by an Indian girl of about fifteen, dressed in what he took to be the uniform of the Knox Homes: a dark grey dress fastened at the waist by a black leather belt. There was nothing welcoming about her face or her manner. The slight trace of a Scottish accent alerted Christopher to the possibility that she might now carry in her soul more than just a trace of Calvinist iron.
“Would you please tell the Reverend Carpenter that Mr. Wylam, about whom Mr. Frazer spoke to him recently, has arrived in Kalimpong and would like to see him at his earliest convenience.”
The girl looked him up and down, clearly disapproving of what she saw. In the Homes, the girls were taught of cleanliness, godliness, and chastity, and the half-shaven man on the doorstep looked very much as though he were deficient in all three. But he spoke like an English gentleman and carried himself like one.
“Yes, sahib. May I have your card, sahib?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, ‘but I’ve just come out from England. I haven’t had time to have my cards printed yet. Would you please just give the Reverend Carpenter my name and message?”
“The Reverend Carpenter is very busy today, sahib. Perhaps it is better you come back tomorrow. With your card.”
“I’ve just told you. I don’t have a card, young lady. Now, please do as I ask and give my message .. .”
At that moment, the young lady was precipitately displaced in the doorway by a thin, Presbyterian-looking woman in her late thirties or early forties.
“I am Moira Carpenter,” she said in a polite Edinburgh accent that would have crushed glass.
“Do I know you?”
“I regret not, madam,” Christopher said.
“My name is Wylam, Christopher Wylam. I understand that Mr. Frazer, the Trade Agent, spoke with your husband concerning me last week. Or so I was given to understand before I left Calcutta.”
“Ah, yes. Mr. Wylam. How good of you to call. I was expecting . ah, someone different.”
When Moira Carpenter said ‘different’, she meant exactly that.
She fitted her surroundings as though, by an act of simultaneous decree in the mind of John Knox’s dour and unsociable God, they had been brought into existence in one and the same cosmic instant: dark things set down in the Indian sunlight, as though to hamper it. Like someone in perpetual mourning, she wore black a long dress without the vice of trimmings or ornament, more a cage for the body than a fabric for the soul.
A mother if that is not an unsuitable use of the word to dozens of destitute Indians, she had herself given up trying to have children at the age of twenty-eight. Her womb, she had been candidly informed by doctors at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, was just not up to it, and the four deformed foetuses she had theretofore delivered into immediate oblivion had borne the doctors out. At the heart of her, something was broken, something that neither doctors nor prayers could fix.
As a Christian woman whose duty in life lay in the replenishment of that pool out of which the good Lord would one day choose His elect, she spoke bitterly of her loss. She sought reason for her failure in a sense of her own sinful unworthiness. But privately, she rejoiced in her barrenness, for she had never had much liking for children and none at all for the turgid conjugal act that necessarily preceded their procreation. She had never understood why the Lord had not thought of a quicker, less embarrassing, and more sanitary method.
Now, she devoted herself, inter aha, to the welfare of the orphans of Kalimpong, whom she had helped make world famous through the pages of a thousand parish magazines, and to the furthering of the Mission’s plans to bring the Christian witness to the benighted heathens of northern Sikkim and Tibet. She was forty-four, flat chested nervous of temperament, and given to kidney troubles.
She was going to die two years later in an accident involving two
Tibetan ponies, an over-laden mule, and a two-hundred-foot drop near Kampa-Dzong. In the meantime, however, she was on one side of the doorway and Christopher on the other.
“I’m sorry if I don’t match your expectations, Mrs. Carpenter,” said Christopher as politely as he could.
“If it’s inconvenient, I’ll call again. But I am in Kalimpong on urgent business, and I would like to start my investigations as soon as possible.”
“Investigations? What have you come to investigate, Mr. Wylam?
I assure you, there is nothing here to investigate.”
“I think I will be the judge of that, Mrs. Carpenter. If you would kindly let your husband know that I am here.”
The formidable presence turned and barked into the gloomy interior of the entrance hall.
“Girl! Tell the Reverend Carpenter that a person is here demanding to see him. An English person. He says his name is Wylam.”
The girl departed, but Mrs. Carpenter remained, as though afraid Christopher might have designs on her brass knocker. She had brought the knocker all the way from a shop in Princes Street herself, and had no wish to see it fall into the hands of a man without a visiting card.
In less than a minute, the girl returned and, still invisible, muttered something to her mistress. The presence shifted and gestured wordlessly to Christopher to enter. As he stepped through the door, childhood tales of Protestant irregularities chattered in the back of his mind. The girl led him along a narrow, carpeted passage dimly lit by weak electric bulbs to a dark-panelled door.
He knocked and a thin voice bade him enter.
‘ll John Carpenter’s study, like his wife, his faith, and his own person, had been carried wholesale from Scotland and set down, virgo intacta, in the heart of heathendom. Nothing Indian, nothing dark skinned, nothing indelicately foreign had been permitted to obtrude itself into this small, un incensed sanctuary of Christian virility. On the walls, the heads and antlers of Highland stags braved the moths and biting insects of the north-east frontier, while men in kilts and bristling beards glared their defiance of the heathen and his gods.
Had Jesus Christ himself walked in dark skinned, Jewish, and mundane the good Reverend Carpenter would have made haste to convert him there and then and to have him baptized Angus or Duncan. The Aramaic-speaking Jewish teacher from Nazareth was nothing or worse to John and Moira Carpenter. Their Jesus was a pale Galilean, blond, blue eyed and beardless, walking miraculously above the wild flowers and heather of a Scottish hillside.
John Carpenter was standing, hands clasped behind his back, peering at Christopher through a pair of gold- rimmed half-moon spectacles. He was a man in his early fifties, spare, slightly bent, balding, with teeth that would have made a dentist turn to drink and wild women. He looked, on the whole, as though he had seen better days. Christopher thought he seemed nervous.
