The Buddha of Brewer Street (12 page)

The guide led them, inexorably upwards, deeper into the mountains, along trails that were invisible to the others. There is great beauty in such places. This is the land of snow eagle and snow leopard, of lammergeier, red bear and lynx. The air has a purity that enables sight and sound to travel immense distances, giving the world great clarity and a sense of oneness. In a landscape touched only by sunlight upon virgin snow, there is peace. And amidst this beauty there is also great danger.

The mountains give no second chance. A wrenched ankle is a death warrant, and all they had as protection was counterfeit Adidas tennis shoes picked up in the local market. Tennis shoes, to walk across the roof of the world. And the abbot’s sunglasses to ward off snow blindness. But against the snow itself they had no real protection. Every year thousands of Tibetans walk into exile across the Himalayas, even in tennis shoes, and the favoured time is winter, when it is dry and the snow is crisp and firm, and the patrols are fewer. But Kunga had no choice. He couldn’t wait for winter. And on the fourth day of their trek the air lost its quality of crystal and the storm arrived, ripping the veil of peace from the mountains. It was as though all the furies of the universe had been thrown against this one spot. The wind screamed in pain, daylight was turned to blue-grey darkness and the snow attacked their faces like an endless volley of arrows. Their eyes could not see, their lungs turned to ice. They could not go on. Yet there was nowhere to hide. They managed to build a small windbreak of rocks and huddled behind it, sharing their body heat, but the yak’s dung they had gathered for fuel refused to burn, and they couldn’t make tea. They chewed on a little dried meat and cubes of cheese, using up precious supplies of both food and faith. For almost two days they sat and waited for death.

Then it was over. The storm broke and skies of cobalt blue returned. Sun. Hope. At last they could light a fire, melt the evil snow and make butter tea and
tsampa
dough. But the danger had not gone, only changed its cunning, for when they resumed their trek they found the snow soft, like walking through a deep marsh. At many points it was as high as Dawa’s chest. Their progress was slow, painful. The snow sneaked inside their clothes, down into their shoes, and the needle pricks of frostbite began to attack their fingers and toes. By nightfall no one but the guide, who was better equipped, could feel their feet. They lit a small fire and slowly the feeling began to return, but it was as though their feet were being slashed by burning razors. Their only consolation was that while they could still feel the pain, they had a chance to stay alive.

In the morning a helicopter with the markings of the People’s Armed Police flew down the valley, but they were covered with snow and it did not see them. After it had disappeared and they prepared to move on, Dawa discovered he had no feeling in his feet and could not walk. So, for a while, Tenzin carried him on his back through the drifts of fresh snow. Then as evening approached, the storm returned. This time there was no room for doubt. Every one of them knew they were going to die.

The mother had planned to take her son out to the park for the morning, but it turned blustery, a typical English spring day. They stayed inside instead. The windows were still rattling, so she closed them, worrying a little whether the fumes from the dry-cleaning plant downstairs would make him cough. But the two-year-old seemed contented enough.

During the last few weeks the child had begun to make new sounds, stretching his lips to mimic the noises his mother made in play. Sounds like a train. The motorcycles of the despatch riders who roared down the street. Even a washing machine on spin cycle. But still nothing identifiable as a word. Yet any day now, she hoped. Perhaps even today. She called to him and he tumbled across the room, arms outstretched.

‘Come to Mother – Ama. Ama. Ama,’ she encouraged in her native tongue.

Suddenly he stopped in front of her, head to one side, listening attentively.

‘Ama. Ama,’ she repeated.

His lips began to change their shape. He was trying.

‘Ama! Ama! Ama!’ she cried.

The child’s eyes began to twinkle with mischief. His lips trembled, trying to take the necessary shape.

Then it happened. His first words.

‘Lama! Lama! Lama!’ he chortled.

Ironically it was the cold that came to their rescue. For a while, at least. The storm broke once more and the soft snow it had thrown upon the mountains rapidly turned to crunching ice. You can walk on ice. It may be only a thin crust, you may never know whether your next step will take you tumbling through the crust and into a bottomless chasm or carry you off in an avalanche, but standing still on a mountain is not an option. You freeze. Or starve to death.

They walked on across the fields of snow, vast arenas of glaring light that attacked the eyes, where they felt lost in the emptiness. Even the guide had difficulty in marking their way since the snow had covered many familiar landmarks, but all the while he kept the holy mountain of Everest in his sights, to their left, and they came ever closer. By day they warmed in the sunlight reflected from the snow, while during the coldest part of the night they snatched three or four hours’ sleep, before carrying on by moonlight. They had to keep moving. Already the nails on Tenzin’s hand were turning black, fossilized, like coal. Dead. Those nails would eventually drop off. And unless they made more rapid progress, so would the tips of the fingers, to the knuckle. It was the same with Dawa’s toes. But all the time they were drawing nearer Nangpa-la, the pass that would take them over the roof of the world and to safety.

They were almost there, at nineteen thousand feet, the highest part of their journey, more than three times the altitude of most ski resorts. Standing in tennis shoes. From here they felt they could almost touch the sky. White clouds snagged on the summit of Everest like prayer flags waving in welcome. They could still hear and occasionally see the helicopters that searched for them, but the guide had taken them high in search of firmer footing, and when the helicopters came into view they were usually far below them, scouring the valleys. It had been days since they had seen any other sign of life, even vultures, and up here they felt as though they were riding sky boats into the next world. Soon they would start to descend, towards Nepal, there would be warmth again, and life. Their hopes rose.

But first they had to traverse the ravine, a great hole in the granite that cut through the mountains and seemed to fall away into the bowels of the earth. Mists clung to the bottom, which never saw sunlight, perhaps had never seen the sunlight in a hundred thousand years. The ice here was thick, their path treacherous, but there was no other way. Nangpa-la beckoned in the distance. The ravine was of no great length, no more than twenty miles, but every step had to be measured, tennis shoes on sheer ice, and by nightfall on the second day of their passage they had still not reached its end. They were impatient; tomorrow would see the finish of it. And when dawn broke they could at last see where the sun met the mountain once more. They prepared a brief meal of warm tea and
tsampa
mixed with cheese, then divided their load. The guide would take no more than his own supplies and Dawa’s feet were so bad he could take nothing, so Kunga took the bag with the last of the yak dung on his back while Tenzin tied the heavy bundle of food across his own. He was the strongest; they would travel more quickly this way.

It happened just as they hit the section that was being warmed by the morning sun. Here the snow path had begun to melt. It wasn’t melting much because the air temperature was almost twenty below, but enough to leave a film of perspiration on the ice.

The guide led with Dawa following, while Kunga and Tenzin, weighed down by their loads, lagged behind. Then Tenzin paid the price of his cheap shoes. He slipped. His feet went from under him and he hit the ground clumsily. Then rolled. And rolled once more. Until he disappeared over the side of the ravine.

Kunga rushed to the edge, expecting disaster, but found Tenzin hanging on to a rock a few feet below. Their eyes met in despair. Kunga began to reach down, but his bag was dragging him over the precipice, too. He wrenched it off then reached down once more, grasping for Tenzin’s outstretched hand, but his crippled fingers could gain no grip, he was only scratching at the other man’s thin gloves. And Tenzin’s own heavy load prevented him from climbing.

‘Drop the bundle!’ Kunga gasped.

Tenzin shook his head.

‘Drop it!’

‘It has all our food inside.’

‘If you don’t you will die.’

‘If I do, we shall all die,’ Tenzin replied stubbornly.

‘But I cannot pull you up.’

The guide was still trying to make his way back to them, step by deadly step across the sweating ice. He wouldn’t make it in time. Tenzin’s hold on the rock was beginning to slip.

Tenzin wriggled. He was trying to shrug the load from his back. He’d already succeeded in unfastening one of the restraining ropes. The bundle was now swinging from just one arm.

‘Come closer,’ he beckoned to Kunga. ‘Let me throw the food up. Hook your arm through the rope.’

Kunga reached down as far as he dared, every additional inch threatening to topple him forward. Tenzin heaved. Heaved once more. The rope looped over Kunga’s arm.

The food! Their food was saved! And Tenzin might be, too.

But the effort of saving the food had made him slip way beyond Kunga’s reach. And with every moment he was slipping further still.

Kunga flayed the air with his free arm, reaching down, but they both knew it was hopeless. Tenzin was clinging with all his strength to the rock, but he was slipping, almost gone.

He held on long enough for his dark eyes to give thanks. For life. For enlightenment. And to pray for the next life.

Then, with great care, he took one of his hands away from the rock and reached towards Kunga, not in vain hope of salvation but in a wave of gratitude. Their eyes held for a moment. There was no fear; Tenzin was smiling.

‘I shall try to enjoy the view on the way down, master.’

Then he was gone, into the mists, and below him Kunga could see nothing but eternity.

‘Hello? Elizabeth?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Tom.’

‘Tom who?’

‘Try Goodfellowe.’

She knew exactly who it was, but there was scar tissue to fight through. Keep him pedalling backwards. ‘Been a long time, Goodfellowe.’

‘Precisely. Too long, I was thinking.’

‘You’d like to make a reservation?’

‘Not exactly. More a date. I’d like to see you again.’

‘Wow.’ A pause. ‘I’m not sure that’s wise. Once bitten.’

‘You’ve never struck me as being the shy type.’

‘Nor a masochist, either.’

‘Look, I’ve no idea whether seeing each other again would be fun or complete folly.’ A brief pause. ‘But I’d like to find out.’

‘What brought this on?’

‘You know me. Decisive as always.’

That brought a peal of laughter down the phone, and he could feel her melting slightly.

‘I saw you the other day on the Embankment. On your bike. Nearly ran you down.’

‘That was you? That flash Mercedes?’

‘What’s the point of spending forty grand on a car if it’s not flash?’

‘I was too busy picking myself up from the gutter to see you. Was the assault deliberate?’

‘You know, I’m not sure. I’d probably need to go through years of analysis to find out. Was I trying to get my own back, perhaps? Or maybe just trying to attract your attention?’

‘You’ve never had any trouble doing that.’

‘Goodfellowe, this is me, remember. I could shove a distress flare up your arse and still not get your attention.’

Ouch. ‘Even so, splattering me all over the highway seems a little extreme.’

‘OK, so I owe you.’

‘Agreed. So how about Thursday?’

A slight pause. ‘Can’t. Already busy. Going to the theatre.’

May it be the worst show this side of Sevenoaks, he prayed. He couldn’t hide the trace of frustration. Or jealousy. ‘The following Tuesday?’

‘They’ll let you out of that Palace of Intoxication before midnight?’

‘Wanting to see you again must by definition make me unsound of mind. They’ll have to put me on the sick list.’

Another pause. ‘You still living in that little apartment in Gerrard Street?’

‘Why?’

‘Because most of the Members of Parliament I know are interested only in two things: a free meal and a lot of leg-over. In which case, perhaps I should cook for you. But I’m not parking my flash new Mercedes in the middle of Chinatown. You’d better come over here.’

‘To the restaurant?’

‘No, the house.’

‘For a free meal?’

‘Free, yes, but not exactly costless. Don’t expect an easy ride.’

‘Next Tuesday.’

‘Timing is everything with a girl, Goodfellowe.’

‘Well, you know me. I’m a very patient man.’

‘Bollocks,’ she said, then rang off.

A free meal and a lot of leg-over. Guilty as charged, the lot of ’em. But it left Goodfellowe wondering just how many of his fellow MPs her experience was based on.

It was Tenzin’s death that, in the end, saved them all.

The storms had slowed their progress, as had the frostbite on Dawa’s toes. In spite of the extra ration, the food had run out after seventeen days. For the next three they had nothing but snow and dwindling hope to fill their stomachs. Had Tenzin still been alive they would all have died. Even so, they hadn’t long to live.

Then the guide broke into a run, stumbling weakly through the snow. They had been walking downhill for a week, through barren wastelands of rock and ice; now, ahead of them, they could see the tree line marked by a thin forest of stunted and withered pines which, as they looked further down the mountain, began to grow in confidence. They also saw a small stone bridge across a tumbling stream and it was here the guide had stopped, waving his arms.

Behind them stood Tibet. On the other side of the bridge lay the mountain kingdom of Nepal.