The Avatari (21 page)

‘But you do have some kind of plan, don’t you?’ Peter asked.

‘Well, we start looking around tomorrow – once we feel up to it.’ She paused, then said softly, ‘There’s a real possibility that we may come up with nothing.’

‘Yep. That’s right,’ Peter agreed quietly, looking at Ashton, who nodded back.

‘But I hope that won’t be the case,’ Susan went on, almost as if she hadn’t heard Peter. ‘Getting back to what we have, this is still a fairly remote area and not very well documented.’

She pushed aside the covers and showed him the books and guide handouts she had spread out on the bed. She picked up a worn bound book and opened it to a page she had flagged with a pencil.

‘It says here,’ she began reading, ‘Mar Yul, western Tibet, now Ladakh; empire founded by Nyuma Gon of the ancient Tibetan royal family upon the break-up of the Tibetan empire in 842
CE
.’

She looked up at both of them, her voice trailing off.

‘And?’ Peter asked.

‘Unfortunately, that’s all. No mention of a monastery or palace. And after that, it’s almost as if they had disappeared into the Dark Ages for about a thousand years. The next reference is to a time around the 1740s, when King Sengge Namgyal founded the modern Ladakhi empire and built the Leh Palace. That empire was later ceded to Kashmir and, subsequently, to the British.’ She had begun playing absent-mindedly with strands of her hair. ‘The trouble is, the guidebooks talk about little else beyond structures and monuments dating back to that period – or, at the very most, to a century earlier – but not any further back than that.’

Again, there was a brief silence in the room.

‘I wonder if we’ll be able to establish some connection here,’ Ashton mused, changing tack. ‘I mean, something that will help us discover who exactly we’re up against. Ralph Wando picks up a golden metal piece – or
paiza
, as you call it – while on an expedition to the Himalayas in the 1930s. This
paiza
is delivered to a Laotian monastery by his grandson in the late 1950s. And all of a sudden, now it is stolen. Someone obviously knew how important that
paiza
was.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Susan, ‘but we have no idea who that person could be.’

‘Okay, so we don’t know who the bad guys are. We could work on finding that out,’ Peter said, getting up and stretching. ‘But right now, I think we need to look for a place to eat.’ He held up the book in his hand. ‘
Lonely Planet
here says that the Golden Bell is the best joint we can hit tonight. “Cosy, frequented by expedition enthusiasts, recorded rock music from the ’70s, boisterous – definitely for the young crowd,”’ he read from the book. ‘And it’s next door too.’

‘I’m a little tired,’ Susan began, ‘and aren’t we supposed to acclimatize for four days?’

‘I’m feeling just fine; the sleep has done me a whole lot of good,’ Peter said enthusiastically.

Susan looked at him doubtfully.

‘I think it would be a good idea to go out – if you’re up to it,’ Ashton suggested. ‘You have to eat, don’t you? Besides, we don’t have much time in hand. If you go out, you might meet people and, perhaps, get some useful information.’

Susan looked at them both, thinking things over. Then she made up her mind.

‘Okay, let’s go out,’ she said. Then turning to Ashton, she asked, ‘Are you coming?’

‘No, thanks. Unlike you young people, I need to take it slow. But you go ahead. Duggy will join you.’

‘He’s all right?’ Susan asked.

‘I suppose so. He comes from much higher altitudes. And I’m sure he would like to get some fresh air too,’ Ashton said, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray and getting up. ‘All right, see you tomorrow morning.’

‘So we have a chaperone, huh?’ Peter remarked with a grin, once Ashton had left.

Susan made a face.

Peter looked at his watch and whistled. ‘Catch you at seven?’

She nodded and watched him leave the room.

By the time they went out, the moon was out and looked huge in the clear night sky. They walked down the road, their hands in their jacket pockets. The Golden Bell was warm, noisy and full of smoke. Duran Duran was playing at a volume that could be heard half a kilometre away on the quiet, deserted streets. The décor – a lot of cane and leather, with diffused light from Chinese lanterns bathing everything in a soft glow – was tasteful. A big group – mostly Germans, they gathered, from the phrases they caught – had arrived before them and made themselves at home. Susan, Peter and Duggy sat at the bar. Peter asked for a double whisky; she ordered a glass of red wine and Duggy settled for a big mug of a local Indian lager.

‘You look amazing,’ Peter told Susan.

It was warm inside and she had left her jacket at the door. Her jeans and T-shirt fit her snugly.

‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile.

They chatted for a while. Speaking in his slow drawl, Peter trotted out one hilarious – and entirely unbelievable – story after another of fascinating places around the world. In all of them, he came off slightly the worse for wear, a point he would highlight with a move he had obviously practised and perfected. It did not escape Susan, however, that in every one of those accounts, certain crucial details had been airily left unmentioned.

Peter, it seemed, was also adept at catching the bartender’s eye. After his third drink and Susan’s second glass of wine, he drew his chair closer to hers. He looked very young, his blue eyes glittering like gems against his tanned, leathery skin. She could see the small hairs of a stubble on his chin and felt his arm gently but surely encircle her waist, his fingers resting on the band of her underwear, where the T-shirt had ridden up.

‘Want to dance?’

‘You really are friendly, aren’t you,’ she quipped, smiling.

‘Come from a friendly country, ma’am,’ he drawled.

‘Well, we, on the other hand, take some time,’ she retorted with a shrug, gently disengaging his arm, ‘
and
we don’t get hot and heavy on the first date.’

‘Sure,’ he said, smiling, unfazed by her rebuff, ‘maybe next time?’

‘Perhaps,’ she took a sip of wine, ‘and then, perhaps not.’ She looked into those blue eyes. ‘You are very young, after all.’

‘Ouch!’ he said and heard Duggy splutter into his beer at the far end of the bar.

Susan got up, indicating with a gesture that she needed to visit the washroom. Peter nodded, swivelling around on his stool to face the crowd.

The Germans were arm-wrestling. Peter watched a big long-haired blonde man, his wide shoulders straining with effort, who had just pinned his opponent on the table. The man had stripped down to the waist and sweat glistened on his heavy beer gut.

‘Have a try,
mein herr,’
he called out to Peter.

There were shouts and whistles of encouragement and a girl in a halter top gave him the eye.

‘Sure,’ Peter said, sliding off his stool and walking up to them. ‘What are the rules?’

‘No rules!’ the big man announced with a guttural laugh. ‘Put fifty dollars on the table; winner takes it.’

Susan returned from the washroom to find the two men straining, their arms locked, sweat glistening on their foreheads. Peter looked more relaxed. Perched on his lap was a black-haired girl with heavily made-up eyes who was wearing next to nothing. She looked as if she was biting his ear off. Peter noticed Susan and waved to her. She ignored him and turned back to the bar to finish her drink. As she sat down, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It belonged to another blonde-haired man. He wore leather pants and his bare shoulders and arms were heavily tattooed.

‘How ’bout a dance,
mein liebe
?’ he asked, putting his arms around her.

The man smelt of sweat and beer. He hadn’t shaved his armpits and evidently didn’t believe in deodorant.

Not again
, Susan thought. ‘No, thanks,’ she said curtly, trying to disengage herself.

‘Come on, baby, it’s just a dance!’ he went on, then gestured with his chin at Peter who was still in an arm lock. ‘I think your date is all tied up.’

‘The lady said no,’ Duggy interceded quietly from where he was sitting, but his voice carried and the tone was unmistakable.

The man looked up, saw Duggy and snarled, ‘Bugger off, you damn chink!’ before turning back to Susan.

‘I said the lady said no.’ Duggy’s voice was slightly louder now.

The man swung away from Susan and made for him. Then he stopped abruptly. Duggy was still seated in his place, his mug of beer in front of him. But alongside the mug was a khukri, nine inches long, the light from the swinging Chinese lantern above glancing off its sharp blade. The man muttered something incomprehensible, but backed off in a hurry and melted into the crowd on the dance floor.

‘I could have handled myself, Duggy,’ Susan said indignantly, after the man had gone.

‘Sure you could, Professor,’ he responded with a shrug, still looking into his beer. ‘Just being chivalrous.’

There was a loud crash. Startled, they both turned to look at the table on which Peter had been arm-wrestling. It had been overturned and the big man was now swinging his huge fists at Peter. He was a good head taller and at least a foot wider than his opponent. One of the man’s blows connected, but Peter didn’t even flinch. He just shook his head and continued weaving, hands raised in a boxer’s stance.

‘Oh my god!’ Susan exclaimed, half off her bar stool.

‘Don’t worry, he can take care of himself, that one,’ Duggy reassured her, turning back to his beer looking unconcerned.

Susan watched the scene in dismay. The crowd was cheering the two men on and the local bouncers had thrown a ring around them to prevent anyone else from joining in. They didn’t try to stop the two, though. Must be good for business, she thought with a shudder. The clientele evidently liked it.

The big man had obviously got tired of swinging at Peter and missing, for he suddenly rushed towards him with a roar, his hands outstretched to try and crush his opponent in a bear hug. Peter waited for him, stepped inside the outstretched hands, feinted with a classic movement of his left shoulder and, as the man flinched, taking his eyes off him for a fraction of a second, delivered a smart uppercut. Lifted almost straight off his feet, the big man fell back on to a chair, but it was unlikely that he felt anything. His arms and legs twitched uncontrollably and a dribble of blood and spit appeared at the corner of his mouth.

‘Let’s go, shall we?’ Duggy suggested, courteous as ever, coming up to Susan to help her off her bar stool.

‘Yes!’ she half-shouted.

The crowd had suddenly gone quiet. This was not the way they had thought it would go. Then suddenly, the noise picked up again; they had their hero. They began surrounding Peter and mobbing him.

Peter noticed Susan leaving with Duggy and broke away from the crowd to join them. ‘Bad loser!’ he half-shouted to them above the noise, his thumb indicating the man on the floor. He bent down and picked up the two fifties lying on the floor under the overturned table. Then he went up to the black-haired girl who was smiling, shiny-eyed, at him.

‘Get yourself a dress, sister,’ he said, carefully tucking a fifty into the front of her halter top, much to the delight of the crowd which roared and whistled in approval. ‘There’s a mighty cold wind blowing outside.’

He made for the door and winked at the girl, who looked disappointed to see him leave.

Susan and Duggy were waiting for him by the door.

‘Do you always do that?’ she asked in a tight voice. Before Peter could answer, Duggy spoke up.

‘I think I may have something,’ he said in an undertone.

‘What?’ Susan asked.

‘Outside.’

They walked on, hands tucked into their pockets, till they found a small restaurant. They went in and quickly ordered from the menu – a single hand-typed sheet in a plastic cover.

As they waited for their food to be served, Duggy began, ‘Bartender at the other place said this is a desert, a cold desert, and most of the crowd we see around us will disappear with the onset of winter, leaving the locals in splendid isolation for seven months. The rivers, whose waters are snowmelt, will freeze. Icy winds will blow across the valley, making life impossible. The locals will then return to their houses down in the foothills, which are sheltered by the rock faces. The bartender said his own village is a very old settlement, but before his people arrived to live there, an older tribe had apparently occupied it for many years. In the desert and in the mountains, habitable places are few and far between, since shelter from the elements and a water source are both hard to come by. So the custom for every group of new settlers is to simply build over constructions left by those before them.’

The waiter brought their food – steaming bowls of
thukpa
.

‘Of course!’ Susan exclaimed, her eyes shining. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? Palatine Hill and Jericho are examples of the same pattern of settlement!’

‘Now what’s that?’ Peter asked with some irritation. Clearly, riddles frustrated him.

‘The seat of Emperor Nero of Rome, built over successive settlements, some of them still in the process of being discovered,’ Susan explained distractedly, her mind still going over what Duggy had said. ‘It’s possible,’ she mused, mulling over the idea, ‘it’s just possible that the present palace was constructed over the foundations of a much earlier one.’

‘Yes,’ Duggy agreed, concentrating on his stew.

Susan leaned forward across the narrow table and kissed him impulsively on the forehead.

‘Now how do you get that?’ Peter grinned.

‘It’s called charm, Captain,’ Duggy quipped, grinning back impishly, even as a blush spread across his face. He gestured to the
thukpa
in front of him. ‘I would eat this before it gets cold.’

The next day, they started off at eight, with a beaming Dinesh at the wheel, as usual. By common consent, they decided not to mention the incident at the Golden Bell to Ashton.

Before they got into the van, Peter whispered to Susan, ‘Sorry about yesterday.’

He didn’t look the least bit apologetic, Susan decided, but she couldn’t help smiling as she looked into his blue eyes.