Murder on the Silk Road (21 page)

A timid hand reached forward with the pad.

“Sign it ‘To my adoring fan, Beverly Watts,’” commanded Vivian.

Charlotte signed the notepad in her round, bold scrawl, and handed it back to Beverly, whose thin skin looked like crepe paper.

“Thank you so much,” said Beverly, clasping the notepad to her breast.

If there were any other autograph seekers in the group, Marsha effectively put them off by announcing that they would now set out for Cave 323, which was located at the northern end of the cave complex. As they walked along the paved avenue at the foot of the cliff, Marsha informed her audience that Cave 323 wasn’t among the caves that were usually open to the public. She had convinced Chu to allow the group to visit this particular cave because it contained especially fine paintings of the Pure Land of the Western Paradise that illustrated her landscape theme. It would be the first time that she herself would be seeing these paintings outside of the pages of a book, she said, and her excitement at the prospect conveyed itself to her charges.

Midway along the cliff face, they were joined by Emily, who came running up, her ring of iron keys jangling. It was clear that she was upset about something. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and tears stained her cheeks. As they walked on, she talked earnestly with Marsha in Chinese. When they reached the northern group of caves, Marsha stopped to tell them more about Cave 323, which dated from the Tang Dynasty. “The Tang caves represent the peak of artistic achievement in Dunhuang,” she said. “During this period, the Tang rulers consolidated their rule over China and extended their domain into Central Asia. This period was also the great age of Buddhism. The strength of the empire is reflected in the worldliness and sophistication of the paintings, and the influence of Buddhism is reflected in the proud bearing of the statues of the Bodhisattvas, priests, and saints.”

Now that Emily had regained her composure, Marsha interrupted her talk to introduce her, and then went on: “The Tang Dynasty produced several sects of Buddhism, including the Pure Land School, which was centered around the worship of the Amitabha Buddha, or the Buddha of the Future, and his Western Paradise. Unlike the austere doctrines of early Buddhism, which taught that Nirvana could be reached only through unceasing effort over the course of many incarnations, the Pure Land School taught a doctrine of salvation by faith. Through faith, one could enter directly into the heaven of the Western Paradise. The painting of the Western Paradise that we will see today was meant to inspire the beholders’ faith in the paradise that was theirs if they were devout in their practice.” Turning, Marsha pointed to the door of an isolated cave high above them on the cliff face. “We’re headed to the cave on the uppermost level. It’s a climb of about sixty feet.” She smiled at the group. “Are we ready?”

The group assented, and they started climbing, with Emily taking the lead. Charlotte brought up the rear with Marsha. The route was like a maze set on end: up irregular rock-cut staircases, across narrow plank verandas, through low-beamed doorways, and up steep access ramps. Fortunately, they were shaded from the sun by the cliff face.

“What’s wrong with Emily?” asked Charlotte as they climbed.

“Chu just called her in for a little heart to heart about her relationship with Ned. He reminded her that as a representative of her motherland, she shouldn’t be demeaning herself by consorting with foreigners and the like.”

“He makes it sound like it’s against the law,” said Charlotte.

“Until just recently, it was. Chu maintained that it still was, but Ned wrote away to the ministry in Beijing for a copy of the document allowing marriages between Chinese and foreigners.”

“Oh, I see. We’re talking marriage.”

“Yes. When Ned produced the document, Chu was forced to admit that Chinese-foreign marriages were legal, but Emily still needs his permission, as her Party representative, and he says he won’t grant it. He told her that capitalists get married and divorced just for the fun of it.”

“What are they going to do?”

“The same thing one would do in dealing with any other bureaucracy: go above his head to the next rank of Party cadres.”

Charlotte had paused to catch her breath. She had always enjoyed excellent health, a lucky circumstance that was in large measure responsible for all that she had achieved. A big ingredient in the recipe for success, she had learned, was sheer stamina. But she was also showing the wear and tear of her sixty-odd years. “Why don’t you go on ahead,” she said.

She was joined shortly after Marsha had gone on by Vivian Gormley, who had lagged behind with an another Australian. Under her sun visor Vivian’s round face was bright red with the exertion of the climb. For a moment, Charlotte wondered if Ho might have another dead foreigner on his hands.

“I’m glad we’re not doing this at high noon,” said Vivian as she removed the sun visor to wipe her dripping brow.

After a few minutes, they continued on. The last leg of the climb was a rickety bamboo ladder which led to the porch fronting the cave. Arriving at the top, Charlotte felt a little as if she had already ascended to one of the celestial paradises that Marsha had described.

As they awaited the stragglers, the group took in the view, which hammered home how tiny and vulnerable this oasis was. Beyond the fringe of waving poplars and the stream bed dotted with the stupas honoring forgotten monks, there was only gravel wastes, sand dunes, and badlands.

And Larry’s camp.

All Charlotte could see of it was the white Toyota hidden in the shadows of the foothills of the Mountain of the Three Dangers, and the dome of Bouchard’s blue tent, but the sight nevertheless brought the problem of Larry’s murder to the forefront of her mind.

The Artful Dodger had said that he had seen Feng talking to a foreigner carrying a lute. Recalling a trip to Russia she had taken years ago as part of an international cultural exchange in which everyone had gone home with a balalaika, she guessed that the lute must have been a souvenir. In any case, it shouldn’t be hard to track down Dunhuang’s equivalent of a music store, and ask the proprietor if a foreigner had recently purchased a stringed instrument. Maybe he could give a better description than the Artful Dodger had.

When the last person had reached the top, Marsha again addressed the group: “I’m very pleased that Mr. George Chu, the director of the Dunhuang Research Academy, has allowed us to see this cave today. It contains a very fine and detailed example of a paradise scene, which is a typical subject of this period. Unfortunately, the pigments are flaking off, which is why this cave is usually closed to the public, so I’ll have to ask you to be especially careful not to brush up against the walls.”

Then Emily unlocked the door of the cave, and they all entered.

By contrast with the hot glare outside, the inside of the cave was chilly, gloomy, and deathly still. Unlike the caves housing the secret library and the colossal Buddha, which were visited daily, this cave conveyed a sense of having been shut up for ten centuries.

As Charlotte’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, the paintings on the walls of the antechamber gradually emerged from the darkness. There were paintings on either side depicting processions of elegant Bodhisattvas carrying trays of fruits and flowers. They were long, narrow figures wearing jeweled necklaces and armlets, and flowing robes girdled with jeweled belts. They appeared to be walking toward the inner chamber, and their stance suggested that they had halted for a moment to bid the viewer to accompany them.

“I have a stupid question,” said one of the tourists. “Are the Bodhisattvas male or female?”

“That’s not a stupid question at all,” Marsha replied. “In fact, they’re both. They took the form of court ladies, but they have tiny mustaches to make them conform to the convention that they could be of either sex.”

Their tadpole mustaches reminded Charlotte of Ho’s.

After admiring the Budhisattvas, the group passed through a narrow doorway into the inner chapel. Marsha had picked the cave for its frescoes, but it was the statues that interested Charlotte. As in Cave 16, the center was occupied by a Buddha whose rich maroon robes glowed in the light of Marsha’s torch. Mounted on a horseshoe-shaped dais, he was surrounded by the figures of half-a-dozen divine attendants, several of which lay scattered around on the floor in pieces, like giant dolls in a doll hospital. The one nearest Charlotte had a hole in its back.

“Why does the statue have a hole in the back?” someone asked. It was the same question that Charlotte had been about to ask.

“It was toppled over by looters centuries ago,” Marsha explained. “Most of the statues at Dunhuang are hollow. They’re constructed of clay modeled on a wooden armature. The looters were looking for hidden treasure inside them. The monks often hid manuscripts and other valuables in the statues’ bellies, believing that the treasures gave them spiritual power.”

“Imagine that!” said Vivian as she looked down at the torso of a fierce-visaged guardian spirit, bare-chested and heavily muscled.

Charlotte thought of Chu, the warrior with the chink in his armor.

“Before we talk about the painting,” Marsha continued, “I want you to travel back in time for a moment, and imagine this cave as it was during the Tang Dynasty. It would have been hung with silk temple banners, and lit with torches. Candles and incense would have been burning at the feet of the Buddha, and the walls would be resounding with the chanting of the monks. Now, let’s look at the mural of the Western Paradise on your left.” She shined her torch at the wall, revealing a mural that must have been twenty feet long and ten feet high. As they looked at it, Marsha pointed out the main features. The center of the mural was occupied by Lord Buddha, who sat on his magnificent lotus throne amid a majestic assembly of haloed divinities. Below him was a lotus pool, in which newborn souls in the form of babies emerged from lotus flowers under showers of falling blossoms. In the foreground, peacocks strutted across marble-tiled courtyards, and an orchestra played for dancers turning graceful pirouettes. In the background, a paradise of palaces, pavilions, and gate towers stretched off into the misty distance.

It was a gorgeous painting. Charlotte was especially struck by the colors, almost all of which seemed to have lost nothing with age, despite what Marsha had said about their having deteriorated. Two colors predominated. One—the shade of the lotus pools—was a limpid bluish-green somewhere between teal and turquoise that reminded Charlotte of the translucent glazes of the celadon bowls she had seen at the National Palace Museum. The other was a rich red ochre that reminded her of the desert sandstone. To her, they were the colors of China. The only sign of deterioration was in the pale pink flesh tones, which Marsha explained had oxidized to a dark chocolate brown, making the faces look as if they’d been painted by Rouault rather than a Tang master.

As Marsha explained the technical details of the painting—the nature of the plaster that was laid on the walls, the type of pigments that were used, how the designs were laid out—Charlotte wandered around the chapel, feeling as if she herself were submerged in that delicate, glowing green light. She was especially taken with the graceful
asparas
, the angej-like figures who hovered above the rooftops of the palaces and pavilions or darted swiftly in and out of the spiraling copper-colored clouds of the heavens.

The scenes on either side of the paradise mural were equally fascinating. Framed by a beautiful mosaic of flowers, they depicted the everyday life and concerns of the earth dwellers: women ground wheat, made pottery, or laid fruit out to dry in the sun; men hunted, fished, cut timber, forged iron, or transported their produce to market on the big-wheeled donkey carts that hadn’t changed in eleven centuries.

“I think I like these little paintings even more than the big one. They really show you what life was like back then,” said Vivian, who had joined Charlotte. “Look at this one!” she said, shining the beam of her flashlight on a painting. “The young couple is getting married!”

Captivated by the images, Charlotte found herself following Vivian along the low, narrow passageway that encircled the central pillar. She’d been told that when the caves were still active centers of worship, the pilgrims has moved clockwise around these pillars in their meditations, in the direction of the sun. In places, the stylized lotus pattern of the square bricks that paved the floor had been worn almost smooth by their feet.

She was studying a battle scene populated by dozens of the elegant, prancing steeds for which the Tang Dynasty was noted, when a piercing scream shattered the stillness.

It was Vivian. She was about ten feet away, in the chamber at the rear of the central pillar. Her arms were flapping around at her sides, causing the beam of her flashlight to zigzag wildly. She looked like a very plump chicken that was trying to fly.

Charlotte rushed toward her. She had just climbed the step up to the chamber behind the central pillar when she tripped over something. Shining the beam of her own flashlight at the floor, she could Hardly believe her eyes. It was a leg—a human leg, not the limb of a broken statue. The foot was sticking stiffly out over the step; it was a large foot, and it was clad in a brown and black boat shoe. With the beam of her flashlight, she followed the leg up to the rest of the body, which was that of a man lying on his back in the path that had been worn in the floor by the pilgrims’ feet. His face was turned toward the back of the cave, but he was clearly dead. He’d been stabbed in the chest. Like Larry, except that he appeared to have been stabbed several times, and there was much more blood. The blood had left a dark blotch on his navy-blue sweatshirt, and a puddle on the floor which had flowed into the pattern in the molded bricks, throwing the lotus design into clear relief. There were also gashes on his left forearm where he had thrown up his arm to protect himself. Even his hands were bloody: more gashes on his palms and the undersides of his fingers indicated that he had attempted to grab the knife away from his attacker. But despite all the blood, there wasn’t the strange, coppery smell that had permeated the air inside Larry’s tent. The blood was dry. Like the pigment in the pink paint used for the skin tones of the figures in the wall paintings, it had oxidized to a dark chocolate brown.