Neon Lotus (33 page)

“Nonsense,
nonsense!” Dr. Norbu called, pushing his way into the midst of the group. “We
know who our enemies are. Why play these games?”

“Because,
Reting,” she said, “we don’t really know. We should do whatever we can to be
sure of our ground.”

She was
filled with the sense of her mission, the importance of her task. She was the
Gyayum Chenmo, after all. She was sure of herself, but it was critical that no
one doubt her. She could not succeed in liberating Tibet without their complete
trust. And in turn she must have complete trust in all those around her.

“Were you
ever tested, Reting?” she asked.

He gaped at
her, his face growing pale. He looked stricken, ill. Slowly he shut his mouth
and clamped it tight. She heard him swallow as if gulping down a pebble. Then
he turned abruptly, pushing
through the nomads, heading out the door.

“Oh no,” she
muttered, growing chill, her sense of purpose fading. “Reting!”

The door
slammed.

She started
after him but a hand grabbed her arm. She turned to see Dhondub watching her
with worried eyes. “What made you ask that? Of course he was tested. He
volunteered.”

“I didn’t
mean . . .” She shook her head, but words failed her. She tore her arm away
from him.

“Wait,
Marianne,” Jetsun said. “It’s my fault. I started this stupid—”

She didn’t
hear him finish. She rushed out the front door, looking both ways through the
jammed street. She saw nothing but a bobbing mass of heads—some bare, some
wrapped in rags, some covered by colorful caps or sculpted piles of hair.

“Reting!”
she called.

She thought
she saw him at the intersection, and she started in pursuit. Behind her Jetsun
was calling. A cart rolled by, hung with clanging pots and pans; it drowned out
the sound of her self-recriminations. She gave up wishing she had not said what
she had, and threw herself into the chase.

Doubt of
Reting had been festering within her for weeks. She thought she had laid it to
rest when she uncovered the wells of trust that had been part of Tashi Drogon’s
memory; but she had been mistaken.

She felt
that she hardly deserved the old scientist’s noble past, for in a childish
moment she had disgraced the friend of two lifetimes. She could never take back
those words. Her sense of identity had turned to arrogance, untempered by the
mature patience and restraint of her previous self. Had she become a rebel, a
warrior, out of similarly arrogant motivations? She regretted that she had not
followed in Tashi’s footsteps, refining the Bardo device and the Equation of
Emptiness. That would have been truer to her nature. And scientific pursuits
would never have led her to such idiotic behavior. For the sake of a cause, she
had betrayed her oldest friend. Surely that was worse than the treachery of any
spy.

She
hesitated at the intersection, looking both ways but seeing no one familiar.

I must find
him, she thought. I will do anything to apologize; I can never do enough.

Someone
grabbed her from behind.

“He’s gone,”
Jetsun said. “You’ll get lost yourself looking for him.”

“I have to
find him.”

“No. He’ll
come back. But the rest of us need you now, Marianne. We need the Gyayum
Chenmo.”

“Don’t call
me that,” she said furiously, “you of all people.”

“I of all
people know how you deserve the title. I love
you. I know that you’re
Marianne. But you are also the Gyayum Chenmo. You’re the only one who has yet
to accept that fact.”

“I don’t
deserve it,” she said, looking down at the street. “I’ve abused my authority.”

“Marianne. .
. .”

She stared
into his eyes, looking from one to the other. They had been through so much
together, had weathered all sorts of difficulties. Always, until now, her
troubles had stemmed from outside, from the obvious enemies. This time it was
she who had done the damage.

She thought
of the neon mandala. The true demons were not alien to her nature; they were
within her as well. She should blacken her tongue. It was not the Chinese who
caused trouble, not three-eyed men . . . it was the rashness of the human
spirit, the obsessive demands of idealists. The symbols themselves created the
danger. For the sake of a divine goal, she had spit in the face of an earthly
creature.

She drew
closer to him, beginning to cry. “Why?” she asked, as his arms went around her.
“Why did I do that?”

“We all make
mistakes.”

She knew
that Jetsun would help her through this time, as he had through the other
times; and that was good to know. But what of Reting? Who did he have, after
all? He had dedicated his life to Marianne. She had been both a daughter and a
fatherly teacher to him, in the course of her lifetimes.

She pushed Jetsun
away from her, though it hurt to do
so. She would not take comfort in anything or
anyone until she had healed the wound she’d inflicted on Reting Norbu.

“I’ll go
back,” she said, “because I know I’ll never find him until he wants to be
found. But I won’t forgive myself. And I don’t want you to forgive me either.”

He grunted,
not meeting her eyes. “Well, come back anyway,” he said. “Forgiven or not, we
need you.”

17. Lhasa Risin
g

A
nomad boy burst into the common
room where the others sat around the stove eating supper. His face was flushed,
his breath ragged from running, but his words were all too clear:

“They’ve got
the Doctor!”

Marianne
leapt up, dropping her bowl. A teacup shattered. “Reting? Who has him?”

“The
Governor. He’s on the public broadcasts right now. Somehow they’ve taken him
hostage. And Gyayum Chenmo, they’re looking—they’re hunting for you.”

She whirled
toward the door as the room erupted into action. “Where?” she asked the boy.

He grabbed
her by the hand and pulled her into the darkening street, down the narrow lane,
and out to the broad paved avenue. A crowd had gathered on the corner to watch
the screen atop a kiosk. It was the first time she had seen any of the screens
in operation.

The
broadcast image showed a man she did not know. He had a sharp tapering beard, a
thin mustache, and wore dark glasses; the drab shoulders of his uniform were
bright with epaulets.

“That’s
Governor Rato,” the boy said. “The message plays over and over again.”

She stared
up at the screen, wondering why the Governor’s image should frighten her. His
words sounded like distant thunder, inaudible over the mumbling of the crowd.
She pushed closer to the kiosk until she could hear but no longer see the
broadcast:

“—captured a
traitor to the Tibetan people, an infamous collaborator with outside powers; a
man, in fact, who was sent to carry out our enemies’ plans of corruption. By
sowing dissent and reaping violence, they work to reverse all we have
accomplished since the Cultural Revolution. He has been long known to us,
though in the past he worked his evil schemes from abroad. Now he dares to
trespass on the precious soil of our Autonomous Region, bringing in the old
poisons of superstition and feudal values in hopes of turning our paradise into
a dystopia worse than any in history. This man goes by the name of Dr. Reting
Norbu; there is no telling what other aliases he has adopted.

“But do not
breathe easy, citizens, knowing that one monster has been contained. For he is
known to have allies in Tibet—yes, in Lhasa itself! I have warned you of the
one who calls herself the ‘Great Mother.’ Dr. Norbu is merely her lackey. The
so-called Mother herself is still at large in Tibet, and she is an evil of far
greater power and persuasiveness than this miserable confederate. But do not
fear. We have caught the scent of her trail, and with your help we will yet
purge the city of these ill-omened agents who haunt our ancient land like
demons from prehistory. If you have knowledge or suspicions of their
whereabouts, speak quickly and you will be well rewarded. They are in your
midst even now. Be vigilant!

“Again, here
is a picture of the man we captured. If you have seen him in Lhasa and know his
companions or his hiding place, notify the Civil Guard immediately.”

Marianne
pushed back from the kiosk. Staring up at the screen she saw the features of
Governor Rato fade, to be replaced by those of Reting Norbu.

Until she
saw him on the screen, she had prayed that they were mistaken, or that this was
all a ruse.

But it was
Reting. His face was blackened and swollen. He had been beaten. One eye was
shut; the lid was raw. The other eye gazed into space. His mouth trembled and
he seemed to be having trouble drawing breath. Because his distorted face
filled the screen, she could see nothing of his
surroundings. But if he were
a prisoner, they were certain to have taken him to the Potala.

Governor
Rato reappeared.

“Citizens of
Lhasa!” he announced. “Your attention please! The Civil Guard has captured a
traitor to the Tibetan people, an infamous collaborator with outside powers. .
. .”

The tape
began to repeat itself. Marianne turned away. Those closest to the kiosk, who
like her had already heard the message, also turned, forcing a path through the
newcomers. As Marianne worked her way through the wedge of bodies, she picked
up threads of conversations all around her, her mind weaving them into a
continuous fabric.

“The Gyayum
Chenmo!” scattered voices whispered, “Has she come, then?”

“She must be
here.”

“Do you see
how the Governor trembles?”

“The Gyayum
Chenmo!”

“It is the
time of revolution, of rebirth—”

“The
earthquake last month, which toppled the antenna on Chokpori Hill-—that was a
sure sign the Chinese will fall.”

“Watch your
tongue. Rato isn’t the only traitorous Tibetan in Lhasa.”

“The Gyayum
Chenmo. . . .”

“Why won’t
she reveal herself?”

“She’s a
goddess. She’ll remain invisible until it suits her. Perhaps she does battle
with the demons in the hidden worlds, and only when she’s conquered them will
she come down to lead us.”

“Oh, Great
Mother!” a woman wailed. “We are your children. Won’t you come to us?”

Marianne
took a deep breath, feeling nothing but shame as she heard the wishes of her people.
To think of all the trust they put in her, when only she knew how little she
was to be trusted. . . .

What true
Great Mother would send a friend into the hands of the enemy? She imagined
Reting’s capture. He would have been in a daze, wandering through the streets,
losing himself, perhaps being questioned by a guard who found him to be without
proper identification. It had not taken them long to match him up with his true
identity. They must have known for some time that he would show up in Lhasa.
They had been on the lookout. Reting, after all, was more widely known and more
readily recognized than Marianne.

“Superstitious
fools,” someone said loudly, almost in her ear. She twisted to see a well-dressed
merchant caught in the ragged mob. “How can you speak of goddesses and Great
Mothers? What good have they ever done Tibet? Did they honor your prayers and
offerings? Did they protect you in the past? Fools! Our only ‘Great Mother’ is
China. It is she who feeds us, she who keeps the peace, she who—”

“I told you
to keep your mouth shut,” snapped another. “Now this fool has heard you; he’ll
be calling the guards on us before long.”

The crowd
twitched one way then another, like a single-celled organism trying to tear
itself into battling twins.

“They won’t
hear a word out of him,” said someone else. “I’ll make sure of that—”

“Get away
from me!” the merchant shrieked.

“Leave him
alone, you idiot!”

“Guards!
Guards! The traitors are here!”

The merchant
wore a cluster of gold medallions on thick golden chains around his neck.
Before anyone could tear it away from him, he had raised a golden whistle to
his lips and blown a sharp blast.

“Traitors!
Traitors!”

She
struggled in vain to separate herself from the commotion. The entrance to the
Avenue of Bliss receded as the mob rushed down the main street toward the
center of Lhasa. The crowd thickened as it gathered momentum and followers. No
one but those at the core of the mass could have known precisely what had
seeded the riot, but everyone seemed aware that it bore a relation to Rato’s
message, the capture of Dr. Norbu, and the seeming imminence of the Great
Mother.

If only they
knew how near she was!

Marianne
abandoned any attempt to fight the crowd. She heard the shrilling of whistles
all around her, and then the wailing of sirens began. For a while there was a
carnival air to the riot. But it was fleeting.

Somewhere
nearby she heard screams and explosions.

Bitter
vapor. Smoke. The fire of a conflagration off to her right.

The crowd
carried her past a government building whose windows had just been shattered;
flames had begun to streak through the broken edges, blackening the outer wall,
engulfing a Chinese flag.

The whiff of
smoke and the sound of screaming caused a quickening in the crowd. She would
have expected the rioters to panic and flee, each to his respective home;
instead the Lhasans seemed to concentrate on the uprising, revealing a hidden
passion and an inner calm. As one body, they streamed forward, focusing their
efforts in the direction of the worst melee. The violence must have been
spontaneous throughout old Lhasa: at how many street corners, beneath how many
kiosks, had similar incidents touched off fighting? She only knew that wherever
they went, chaos had been there ahead of them.

The
spotlights on the Potala wheeled crazily around the city, stabbing aimlessly
into the dusky streets, lingering nowhere. Despite the mass of people blocking
the way, she moved faster than she had by bicycle that morning. Fifteen minutes
after watching the broadcast, she was pushed into the square beneath the
Potala. She had the feeling that every able body in the city had flocked here
to express its indignation.

The sky was
violet, and against it the Potala looked almost black. It was senseless to rage
at the ancient palace; only helpless prisoners lived there. Instead, the crowd
turned its rage on the white walls of Reformed Lhasa.

She was
scarcely surprised to see that huge metal gates had risen to block off the
streets of the new city. Silhouettes of soldiers appeared against the evening
sky, commanding spotlights, pacing back and forth. Messages of warning were
sent from loudspeakers, demanding that the crowd desist or face grave
penalties.

Rocks began
to fly at the walls, taking the sentries as targets. Someone tossed a homemade
bomb which struck one wall and exploded harmlessly, leaving nothing but a
residue of gunpowder on the white face.

When slender
turrets rose into view, Marianne
screamed. Their lenses gleamed with the red of
the western sky. She knew they were not spotlights.

“Stop!” she
cried. “Get back!”

But no one
heard her. No one recognized the weapons.

She had seen
them before, and had witnessed their effects on two occasions: on the dark
plains where she had first touched down in Tibet, and again in the Mines of
Joy.

She panicked
at the memory of fiery lances and the screams of the dying.

Rocks flew
faster and thicker now. The crowd surged forward like a wave that meant to rise
over that wall and drown the compound beyond. Like a bubble on the tide, she
was carried forward with the mob.

“No!” she
screamed again. But she was helpless to stop herself, let alone the riot.

Fire licked
out. Rays of death danced through the mob. She smelled an odor she had first
met at the ghats of Benares. It was the incense of the crematory: human ashes.

At last the
crowd realized what had come to pass. The tide of bodies ebbed abruptly,
screaming with one voice, folding back upon itself to escape the plaza.

But there
was no escape. The Civil Guard enclosed the square, blocking all streets,
firing from the rooftops. No one feared bullets as much as they feared the
knives of burning light that flayed the edges of the crowd. The police
blockades were simply overrun.

The lights
continued to probe the square, each radiant cone now full of swirling ashes.

Marianne
barely managed to stay afloat. She realized that she was in the avenues again,
free of the square; but she still had no freedom from the crowd. She sensed a
shadow ahead of her, like a wing spreading over the street. Glancing at the sky
she saw men in uniforms, and wondered how they had gotten up so high. They
stood upon a kind of bridge or tunnel. But there was no light at the tunnel’s
far end.

Someone
cried out, “Street trap!”

The
blackness closed upon her. She came up hard against a wall. Footsteps rumbled
overhead. Her voice and the voices of those around her echoed back from the
roof

and walls. She turned around,
looking for the evening light and the comparative freedom of the streets.

Then the
trap sprang shut, sealing her into darkness. She screamed and banged the wall
with her hand. It was metal; she could hear voices beyond it, the sound of feet
running, glass breaking, sirens.