'Dad, I'll be fine.' I sighed. 'It'll be great, don't worry.'
We were young and carefree. What did they know? We had been desperate to be here for years and were not about to cut short our stay. However, I suppressed the desire to describe at length the horror that was provoked in me by the prospect of a thousand-mile journey to Hong Kong to renew our visas. We were just hoping that the local authorities would be able to do it when the time came. We had flexible tickets on the international flight back to London from Beijing precisely because we could never be sure how it would turn out. But I hoped it would all come right in the end. 'It'll be fine,' I repeated, distractedly chewing my nail.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. I opened it, expecting to see Tsedup and his father and indeed it was Tsedup, but with him were two men in leather trench coats. They looked like secret agents, but not so secret: the enormous sunglasses of the moustached one were a bit of a giveaway at this time of night.
'I can't find my father,' said Tsedup. 'I've left messages all over town but he is not here.'
'Maybe the meeting went on longer and he stayed in Gannan,' Dad offered, trying not to stare at the strangers, but clearly flustered.
'Oh, these are my friends Tsorsungchab and Sortsay,' Tsedup said. At the mention of their names they broke into smiles, peering into the room over Tsedup's shoulder. 'I ran into them in town. They are from Machu.' The word Machu also triggered a nod and a wider grin from them both. Relieved, we greeted them warmly repeating 'Arro' several times, with more enthusiastic nodding.
'We're going to have a drink in our room next door,' said Tsedup. 'I'll say goodnight now.'
'Tsedup, don'tworry aboutyour father. We'll find out what has happened to him tomorrow,' my father said.
I said goodnight and left them to sleep.
Next door the men were cracking open the beers. The reason for their appearance was not that they were members of some underground operation but that they were townsfolk. The leather trench coats signalled their position in the community. Sortsay, a small, rotund, merry-faced fellow with cropped black hair and acne on his cheeks, was mayor of Tsedup's tribe. Tsorsungchab, taller, thinner and permanently wearing shades, due to a driving accident that had left his eye damaged, worked for the education department. Anyway, it was cool to wear big shades. They had come to Labrang because both of their wives were sick and were attending the outpatients' service at the hospital. Machu did not have adequate medical care at its small hospital. They were pleased to be reunited with Tsedup and took the opportunity to laugh and drink heartily with him. As the evening progressed they teased me, 'Shermo, drink your beer!' It was a bit of a novelty, a woman who drank beer.
Just then there was a knock at the door. Sortsay, who was nearest, opened it. The Chinese girl from Reception stared sourly into the room. She frowned as she said something to Tsedup, then stood obstinately by the door, waiting for his response. He turned to me with a look of disbelief on his face.
'She just asked me what I am doing here,' he said, perplexed.
I rounded on her. 'He is my husband!' I exclaimed, exasperated. It was a futile attempt to defend him since she couldn't speak English.
'I am a paying guest,' he added in Chinese, then translated my outcry. She didn't appear to have grasped the concept of interracial marriage, and the furrows in her brow deepened. She clearly presumed that he was a local, planning a free night in their luxury hotel with his friends. Tsedup told her to go away and check with the manager if she didn't believe him.
Perhaps I was wrong to expect anything else, but the frustration of seeing Tsedup submitted to this humiliation was almost unbearable. We were shocked that he had to suffer the indignities of racism in the place that he knew as home. I guessed he had forgotten: he had been away a long time. I was beginning to realise why he had left.
Right on cue there was another rap at the door. This time it was the manager. He was Tibetan and his bloodshot eyes and ruddy cheeks betrayed a fondness for the beer that he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye on our table. Once again, Tsedup was asked what he was doing there.
'I have paid for this room for me and my wife to stay in,' Tsedup replied, struggling to control his temper. Then the manager pointed to Sortsay and Tsorsungchab and asked why they were in the room. They leapt to their own defence and explained that they hadn't seen Tsedup for nine years. They were having a drink as guests and would be off to their own hotels soon. Disgruntled, the man walked away from the incomprehensible situation and returned to his bottle, as Tsedup called after him, 'Go and check your records.'
After our friends had left, Tsedup and I lay in the dark of the concrete tent and pondered the experience. I knew his pride was hurt and there was little I could do to console him. But mostly he was worried about his father's whereabouts.
The next morning when we arrived at the monastery, Aka Damchu was sitting in the sun on the wooden seat outside his room. He was spinning a prayer wheel, a small barrel of intricately moulded metal that rotated on a wooden stick. A marble-sized ball was attached by a thin chain to the barrel and swung round keeping the momentum, as he flicked his wrist in a constant rhythm. He was introduced to Dad by Tsedup and greeted him heartily. My mother had stayed behind to sketch and rest; she would join us for a tour of the monastery later, and although I understood that she had her limits, I was forced to disguise my disappointment and embarrassment. How often would she be offered the chance to have a private audience with a child lama? He was the sixth reincarnation of Ja Metoch Kamto, the tutor of Jamyang Jhapa, the founder of Labrang Monastery. The social order of the lamasery followed a strict hierarchy. Jamyang Jhapa, whose full name was Jetsun Losang Jigme Tubten Chogyi Nyima Palzang Po, was the head lama and beneath him were four sub-lamas who occupied 'golden thrones'; beneath these were seven more and so on. The boy, Jarsung, whom we were about to meet, was one of the four who occupied a golden throne; he was therefore of considerable rank.
We walked solemnly behind Aka Damchu through the wooden archway into the next courtyard holding our prayer scarves in both hands. As we passed through the gate, my father and I watched Tsedup for tips on decorum. Then we glimpsed the boy sitting waiting to receive us on his throne. He couldn't have been more than thirteen years old, but his eyes held the seriousness of a much older man. He wore wine-red robes and a length of fuchsia fabric across one shoulder. In his left hand he methodically counted the beads of his tranger between thumb and forefinger as he surveyed his foreign guests with curiosity. Following Tsedup's lead, we kept our heads lower than his out of respect. We approached him in our small procession, holding out our kadaks. He leant forward, took them from our outstretched hands and placed each one around our necks. This was all performed in total silence. He seemed so isolated, surrounded by monks much older than himself, and I wanted to ask him so many things. Had he forgotten how to be a boy? What was it like to be discovered as a reincarnate, to live your life in the image of someone else? Had he been a monk before they found him or was he living with his family? Did he realise his destiny before that time? Was he happy? But I never had the chance to display my ignorance.
We followed Aka Damchu to the other side of the courtyard, still bent in supplication, taking care not to turn our backs on the lama. Our friend led us into a shrine dedicated to Jarsung. As far as the eye could see there were books, all written by the six Jarsungs of the past, lining the walls. Butter lamps glowed fragrantly in front of an altar containing a row of pictures of the Jarsungs. Tsedup prostrated himself in front of them as I inspected their faces. The first four pictures were drawn in ink and showed old men, one in the amazing cockatoo-shaped yellow hat of the Gelugpa sect of Buddhism. The last two pictures were photographs, and one was of a tiny boy. He looked out of place next to these grand old faces. Tsedup pointed at the child. 'He has written all of these books,' he said. It seemed unlikely to me that a thirteen-year-old boy had achieved such a feat. But then I stopped. Tsedup's comment had revealed to me the true nature of the Tibetans' belief in reincarnation. As far as Tsedup was concerned, Jarsung had been the same Jarsung for hundreds of years; it was only his physical appearance that had changed throughout his various lives. He went on to explain that Jarsung had always been gifted throughout his reincarnations and, true to character, the boy we had met today was famed for being a conscientious and exceptional student.