“Hello,” he said. “Hello, Tenzing!” “Hello, Tenzing-John!” We laughed together. We had expressed our ability to agree. Before Ivan had labouringly managed to get this far, he was exhausted, and in his right eye, the one with which he had had problems since a certain unpleasant incident involving a foot a long time ago, he had a twitch. At least the flashes of unbearable poetry in his head had ceased. Vexation remained though. 66 So what is this? Literature? Some apocryphal writer? A new Eskymo Welzl ? Some paper strips were even numbered, from some texts only cut strips remained. Quite a peculiar collage. It was clear to him that the text was not complete, that it represented only a fragment... or it was just a taster? Factually speaking, maybe the Chinese had a sense of humour after all. If ever there was useful information, it was surely on those missing pieces. How elementary, dear Watson! Ivan is getting his usual alertness. Solving in this case means passing it on. To someone or somewhere. To descendents or to an archive. Or rather – considering the showy official Chinese procedure – to the special service – espionage. This would probably be for the best. He raises his head, looking for a while absentmindedly at his colleague, and then he smiles.
66
Jan Welzl (1868–1948), known under the pseudonym Eskymo Welzl, was a Czech traveller, adventurer, hunter, gold-digger, Eskimo chief and Chief Justice on island New Siberia, later story-teller and writer
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19. THE REST OF THE TEXT IN THE FORM IN WHICH IT WAS ARCHIVED I was quite exhausted when I arrived and the stream, frozen in the night, was thawing through the day all the less willingly. I took a gamble. In the passes, the snow could appear any day now. If they had left me here, I would have the winter ahead of me. I'm not twenty anymore, I've never had a musical ear and for languages which I know nothing about, I can hardly learn more than a couple of strange sounds, and it seems even these I reproduce somewhat idiosyncratically, for my hosts at least always laugh heartily at my attempts. They are not much better with English – and they have extra textbooks in addition to having me! We are able to muster some sort of rudimentary conversation together. In the mud huts it's freezing, but not windy. We are mere dependents of a really important gompa, we are situated on the outskirts of it and we are few. And even I am useful. I carry water from the stream, I wash and take care of dilapidated robes. The sound of bells and horns from our shrine spreads rather sluggishly, we chant sutras with a mumble and we turn pages of text with the weary patience of prayer mills. A great spirit is missing here, which is probably good. A great guiding ambition brings bad consequences. I'm lucky, my fellow monks – if I may say that – are nice people. Thanks to my lack of talent for languages I'm forced to express myself with the most elementary simplicity; I am not – I am unable to be – a part of their private world, and yet I've been given a space and even a sufficient amount of attention. I'm a sort of distraction – something like a big pet dog – and roughly comparable in terms of what I'm capable of being taught. And I'm grateful for this. Occasionally I do feel distress. I guess that would be boredom. At these times I stand on the terrace and talk to myself, if only to surprise myself by hearing sentences which I understand. I have to tell myself aloud that my fellow monks also probably think – albeit in another language and another culture. And I'm unfair to them, what else can they expect from me. Naturally I lie to them. I like them and I'm appreciative that this is enough for them. A small fly is crawling up my leg, it has long transparent wings. I'm trying extremely carefully to tease it 67 onto my finger and move it away. I can't imagine treating mosquitoes in Třeboň in such a way. Would my brothers here mind if they knew the serial killer that I really am? The monks have shiny and beautifully round heads. And it's not true that they don't have any possessions. Some have razor blades, the cheapest kind, yellow and blunt. But Tenzing has a real treasure: a very sharp English razor; it could be over 150 years old... he is proud of it. He shouldn't really cling to it so much, but I'm already aware of the loophole: he doesn't cling to his pride. Hence, it's acceptable... Even I have a few things which I shouldn't. And on top of that I have the problem of where to stash them. I attempted to deal with this practical issue with difficulty by heading up a dirt track among big rocks. They valley here is winding and the monastery, adjoined just under the hilltop, is visible only from very close range. It was a cold early morning. I was moving, not interesting the vultures, and with disrespectful carelessness I was being observed by a fat and self-assured marmot. I could imagine him roasted, in this broad area it wouldn't occur to anyone to do such a thing; nobody hunts and therefore the animals have no fear. Would this marmot run away if he knew what I was thinking? I'm awkward and clumsy and full of homicidal ideas. Carefully, by eyesight alone, I estimate the depression of the rocks. I'll hide what I'm carrying here. It could still come in useful at some point. Whoever says that he is giving everything, and, at the same time, really is giving everything, is a dangerous fool. I say that I won't return. I would be crazy if I didn't have necessary resources for the return journey. Having grown up in a mildly green land, my eyes were not accustomed to rocks, a relief of jagged scenery is playing with me like an orphan in a labyrinth. Who will assure me that what I'm currently setting aside, I'll be able to find the next time? I'm alone now. I'm not looking for a shelter for one day, but for the whole winter. Not until spring will the scenery be different. The snow will thaw and muddy avalanches will surge down with it. Mountainsides will be peeling away and rocks will spill. In Spring the path along which I have come will probably have vanished. In this good flat waterproof pouch there is also a map. If, one day, I want to get away, without it I have no 67
Třeboň is a spa in the South Bohemia region, well-known by its ponds.
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chance. The thick lines which are pushing their way into the mountain passes represent military routes. The shaded sinister nameless territory around them are barracks and a parade ground. Several spots with writing are monasteries. In the capital city a red cross denotes a hospital and a little green aeroplane means airport. Contour lines here are missing, high elevation points are referenced liberally; two, three hundred metres here or there get no mention. Nothing here lies lower than three imaginary kilometres about the far-off sea, nothing higher than five and a half kilometres. Several lines meander somewhere with a thin uncertain outline, and along them a few spots vaguely dotted distinguish real arteries of land: caravan tracks and on them human settlements, a maze of sacred walls, ruins and irrigation systems. They treat homes here in the same way that we treat our loved ones – when they age and start to fall apart, they are abandoned. If their flat roof is leaky, they don't bother with marriage counselling; they start gathering stones and making mud-bricks for a new home. They build it tightly next to the old one, in which the small mountain horses and yaks find shelter for some amount of time, before it disintegrates altogether. Time leaves its mark here in cycles like a layer of tein on the inside of a warped teapot. They are normally copper, these teapots, often wrought pieces, precious both in terms of workmanship and age. Maybe they arrived on the backs of camels in the times of Marco Polo. There, beyond the mountains, is Tibet. It is known here as a “geopolitically sensitive area” and at present it is held by India, though claims are also being made on it by Pakistan and China. Across the mountains, footpaths ran and still run. The snag is that I won't be able to find them; I'm not from here and I don't have the eyes of shepherds. I carefully considered the possibility of the rocks. Equally daunting was the look of the birds of prey circling above me. In this very desolate land you are never alone, someone always sees you. They certainly already know about me. And time is not of the essence, for I won't run away from them. There are still more soldiers in the valley. They are stronger and bigger than the others, across the castes they form a new class of warrior, for a number of generations now they have been well fed and are distinguished by a kind of blatantly cheery bonhomie. In their canvas canteens the food is cheap and plentiful. They have been putting slogans there on the perpendicular detrital slopes using stones, which are legible from far afield. They have bulldozers which are used to gnaw out paths for jeeps. Following at their heels are dark and scrawny crowds of people from the south. Wrapped in rags and hammering stones into gravel, males smoke beedee while females suckle their children. At night they nestle up together and they are terribly cold. God, it is so cold! I am so thoroughly and awfully cold and in no doubt that it will get still worse and that it will last many months, which in no way favours me. The coarsely woven sheep wool shawls reek, they are rough and terribly heavy. Quite certainly they keep me warm, however, because as yet I am still alive. The stream doesn't lose its frost and only with difficulty do we break of pieces of ice and carry them to the kitchen. Here in the kitchen there is only a mud furnace, the teapot kettle sits the opening on a hotplate. You lift it up and you are barely able to see the fluttering itsy-bitsy little flame languidly licking the incy-wincy twigs. I'm not usually prone to this childlike vernacular, it often seems to me small and slimy like a sentimental mollusc. Here, however, it works neatly. It's not possible to capture this living heart of the house in any other way. “How are you able to hold out? Aren't you cold?” I ask the little monk. I'm asking more with gestures than words, myself being their visual and cyanotic illustration. He understands, smiles and shrugs his shoulders. The right shoulder is bare, the chaps here are from the old school, priding themselves on the fact that they don't cover up their right arm even in the severest frost. At least not when someone is looking. Now he is saying something to me. With the fingers of his left hand he pats that terribly hardy right hand. He is concealing it under the tip of his robe. And as he says something he gives it to me. It is warm. It's a miracle. I want to understand him. I have to understand him. I've already forgotten what it's like not to have frozen fingers. I repeat the sound he has been making. He corrects me and I try it again. He's nodding, maybe I'm getting warmer. I'm extricating meaning from the sound. Or I'm just guessing, but it doesn't matter. “Think about fire,” Tenzing says, or at least I assume that is what he says, but it is equal now. “Think – you are – heat.” “Think – heat,” I say. “Fire,” I say. OK, fine! I will. I'll think about fire! Back home we sometimes used to have warm nights. Not now, now it also damp and cold and detestable there. How long would I get for the murder of my wife? Eight years? There were mitigating circumstances and I
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