The avatari, p.9
The Avatari, page 9
He spoke lightheartedly enough, but the chances of getting a redressal, once the examiners had flunked you, was one in ten. Equally worrying was the fact that if his dissertation were rejected, his scholarship would be discontinued.
When the time came for David’s viva, Susan received a call from her mother’s housekeeper; Antonia had suffered a stroke and was hospitalized. Susan would have to go down to Essex to be with her.
David saw her off at the railway station. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie. It’ll be just fine,’ he assured her.
She put her arms around him and kissed him. She didn’t tell him it wasn’t her mother she was worried about.
‘Well, in buccia al lupo!’ she said.
It literally meant ‘into the mouth of the wolf’, but was roughly the Italian equivalent of wishing someone luck, somewhat like ‘break a leg’ in theatre parlance.
They looked at each other and smiled weakly at the irony of the idiom.
On the day of David’s viva, Susan kept waiting for him to call, finally dozing off on a chair near the hospital phone. In the evening, when she still hadn’t heard from him, she rang up Jill, who promised to find out what had happened. Jill called back to say that someone had seen him at a pub.
‘How did his viva go?’ Susan asked her teammate.
‘Not good, it seems. But don’t worry, he’ll get over it. Probably needs to drink it off tonight.’
Early the next morning, Susan got a call from Jill. Her friend sounded shaken.
‘Susan,’ she said, ‘you need to get back. There’s been an accident.’
Susan felt she couldn’t breathe.
‘Is he all right?’
‘Just come back,’ the girl at the other end said weakly, before hanging up.
Susan would subsequently learn that the examiners at the viva had been particularly brutal; they had torn the basic premise of David’s dissertation to shreds, ridiculing it in their subtle, stylized academic parlance to devastating effect. After it was over, David had gone to a pub. Later that night, he had taken a punt out on the river. It was assumed that he had lost his balance and fallen into the water. A morning jogger had found his body near the bank, tangled in the weeds. The preliminary examination indicated that he had been intoxicated.
‘He wouldn’t have felt a thing, not with the river icy cold this time of the year,’ Susan overheard a student say to another in the common room.
CHAPTER 7
Yorkshire, England
AUGUST 1986
By evening, Ashton had returned from Cadbury. After a quick wash and a change, he asked for his tea to be sent up to him in the library. He called Duggy and told him how his meeting with Tim Grahams had gone.
‘I finally asked him for his frank opinion about the Burqan Qaldun or Shambhala,’ he said. ‘According to Tim, there is no proof that it exists. It’s a myth – like Atlantis or El Dorado, if you will.’
‘It could also mean that it has never been found,’ Duggy mused, ‘and that the Teacher wanted your help in ensuring it remained that way.’
Ashton chose his next words carefully, trying to sound practical. ‘Well, I have been to the expert in these matters and he hasn’t given us much to work on. I don’t see what makes you imagine we can stop some people getting to a place which no one knows exists for sure.’ He made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘I think we should stop getting any further into this and tell the police what we know.’
Duggy frowned, looking quite unconvinced by the argument. ‘Maybe we should give them the two hundred thousand pounds for their trouble,’ he suggested sarcastically. Irritated by now, Ashton was on the verge of telling him to stop being a stubborn ass when the house manager cut in.
‘Mr Grahams called about an hour ago,’ he announced. ‘Asked that you should call him back.’
With that, Duggy got up and left the library.
‘What the devil does he want now?’ Ashton said more loudly than he needed to, but he made the call.
‘You seem to have got back in good time, old man,’ he heard Tim say.
‘Yes,’ Ashton agreed. ‘Hardly any traffic. Thanks again for your hospitality.’
‘That’s all right. I wanted to speak to you about that, uh, research of yours.’
There was a pause. Henry Ashton remained silent. He was sure Tim hadn’t believed a word of his story.
‘I know someone who might be able to help you in this matter. A Dr Susan Hamilton.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘She used to be David Sage’s girlfriend. Remember that undergrad I had mentioned who wrote a dissertation about Marco Polo’s second book? Susan and David were together at Cambridge as undergrads – he at Darwin and she at Girton. He flamed out when they junked him in the viva. Got drunk and drowned in the river. At present, Susan is an assistant professor of Mathematics at Balliol College.’
‘And this mathematician has an interest in history?’
‘She took her boyfriend’s death hard. Dropped two years. Somehow blamed herself for it.’ Tim lowered his voice. ‘Word has it that she was on therapy, but evidently, she is fine now. Part of a group called the Shambhala Circle. Its members meet fairly regularly at Cambridge. I’ve been invited to speak at their meetings once or twice. I remember meeting Dr Hamilton there. Attractive, but very intense. At that time, I didn’t know she had any association with David Sage. After you left, I called a few people and managed to make the connection. When I spoke to her, she seemed pretty excited and wanted to meet you – immediately.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Ashton began doubtfully.
‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Henry!’ Tim said impatiently. ‘She’s just a smart, pretty, single woman who’s keen on meeting you. Why would that be a problem? Maybe she has some information you need?’
‘Tim, while I do appreciate your help,’ Ashton said politely, but firmly, ‘perhaps she could just call. I don’t particularly need to meet her.’
‘You’re worried that she might turn out to be a loony, right? Well, she isn’t. Intense, yes. But that is probably because of the mathematics.’
‘Oh, all right!’ Ashton said resignedly.
‘Splendid. She said she would be with you at nine in the morning.’
‘You didn’t commit!’ Ashton exclaimed.
‘Didn’t have to. She just asked me for your address and told me to warn you.’
‘Good god!’
‘Don’t worry, Henry, I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting her.’
The following morning, Ashton decided to delay breakfast by an hour. He sat at the dining table, with the morning papers spread in front of him. He was just beginning to feel peckish when he saw her car drive in. She was ushered in right away and Ashton got up to shake hands with a tall, well-built woman in her thirties dressed in jeans and a cardigan, a foldable satchel slung over her shoulder. Her long blonde hair tumbled out of the woollen cap she had pulled down over her ears. She had a striking, intelligent face and Ashton quickly took in the dark, intense eyes and the finely chiselled, almost androgynous, features, making a conscious effort not to stare.
He held out his hand which she clasped in a strong grip.
‘Susan Hamilton,’ she said in a soft, direct voice.
‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Hamilton. You’ve probably been a boatie,’ he said with a chuckle, flexing his fingers.
‘Yes, I have. I’m sorry,’ she said with a nervous smile. ‘Please call me Susan, Sir Henry. Thank you for agreeing to see me. You must think me awfully rude for imposing myself on you in this manner.’
‘Not at all. We hardly get anyone visiting these days and certainly not anyone half as charming,’ Ashton said gallantly. ‘And while we are at it, would you call me Henry?’
She smiled back at him, nodding her acquiescence, some of the tension draining from her face and making her suddenly look younger. He guessed she must be around thirty-five, but couldn’t be sure.
‘Tim Grahams would have told you why I wanted to meet you,’ she said after a pause.
‘Breakfast?’ he asked, gesturing at the table. ‘Martha would be quite put out if we didn’t tuck in. We could talk after that.’
‘Thank you. I’m quite famished, really.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, calling out to Martha, who bustled in with a trolley and had no qualms whatsoever about looking Susan up and down, a beaming smile on her red face.
‘You took Political Science at Cambridge?’ Susan asked politely as they ate.
‘Yes, Trinity. I was with Tim Grahams.’
‘He mentioned that.’
They finished breakfast, still talking about Cambridge. After Martha cleared away the dishes, Duggy entered the room and Ashton introduced Susan. Duggy pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.
‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Susan said, glancing from one man to the other.
‘Right,’ Ashton said with a smile, pouring out coffee for her.
‘Thank you. Tim told me you were doing a research project on the Burqan Qaldun. He apparently explained to you that it was the sacred mountain or what is known as Shambhala.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Ashton said. ‘Not research, actually. Someone asked me if I could get him some information on it and I thought of Tim.’
He knew that sounded quite lame, but it was the best explanation he could come up with on the spur of the moment.
‘You asked him if there was a map to it, didn’t you?’ Susan enquired.
‘I don’t particularly remember doing so. I may have.’ Ashton mentally kicked himself. ‘But then, Tim told me there were none. That you needed to receive divine guidance or some such thing to get to the place.’
‘I think I had better put my cards on the table.’
He made out from her expression that she expected him to do the same.
‘Tim would have told you about David,’ Susan went on. ‘Well, this was part of David Sage’s hypothesis, that there was, indeed, a map – the one Kublai Khan used to reach the sacred mountain. Once the Great Khan had made the journey, the map was supposed to be passed on to Marco Polo. If you are wondering how I know all this, it’s because I have memorized every bit of the material David had researched and have probably gone further into it than he did. May I give you a little background?’
‘Go on,’ Ashton said, intrigued, but tried not to show how he felt.
‘Marco Polo did have a great deal of courage. He was an adventurer at heart and quite a raconteur, but not much of a writer. Neither was his scribe, Roschelli.’ She paused.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, prompting her to carry on.
‘There is a clear distinction between the segments of the book dealing with what Marco had actually seen and the ones describing imaginary people, places and situations. Neither he nor Roschelli had the writer’s gift or guile. When they were fabricating episodes, they went breathless trying to convince the reader about the veracity of their account. Their description of Kublai Khan’s interest in the sacred mountain is authentic. This is not evident in the English translations, but you can figure it out easily enough in some of the surviving manuscripts.’
‘You can read Italian?’ he asked, surprised.
‘My mother was Italian. She married my father and came to England after the war. She insisted on teaching me her mother tongue.’ Susan took a sip of her coffee. ‘Getting back to Marco’s account of Kublai Khan’s preparation for his journey to the Burqan Qaldun. The Great Khan is supposed to have received directions to the location from the Buddhists, who were grateful for his patronage. This could well be true. He was, in a manner of speaking, the Constantine of the East. In another version, it is said that it was a covenant – in return for his invitation, the emperor would provide the sacred mountain protection from pillagers. It’s all in different pieces and not chronologically arranged, since many of the original manuscripts were lost. But if you know what you are looking for, it can be pieced together. At least, that’s my view.’
‘You still haven’t explained why you think Marco’s story of the sacred mountain is true. Or are you just saying it’s plausible?’
‘The people, the historical details, the accounts of strife in the Khanate – these are not fabricated. They actually happened. The Chinese records are quite accurate.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ he said quite frankly.
‘Marco could never have had access to those details, unless Kublai Khan sent them to him, particularly as this story belongs to the time of the Great Khan’s death, which took place sometime between 1294 and 1296, by which time, Marco had left China and returned to Venice.’ She paused for effect. ‘And if that part of the story were true, mathematically speaking,’ she said with a wry smile to underscore her use of the word, ‘it is possible that Kublai Khan did actually make that journey.’
‘Why and how would Marco have got those details?’ Duggy asked, speaking up for the first time.
‘First, let’s deal with why,’ Susan said, taking out a packet of Camels from her bag. ‘May I smoke?’
In response, Ashton took out a lighter from his jacket pocket and lit her cigarette, before taking a cigarette from his own case and lighting up.
‘Kublai Khan was an emperor,’ Susan went on, ‘the greatest the world has ever known. Since the Buddhists had sworn him to secrecy, he could share nothing relating to his journey with his subjects or with anyone from his own empire. But he did know of a world beyond that empire, a world where his story could be told, where it would go down in recorded history. And the man who could carry that tale beyond the Great Khan’s empire and share it with the world that existed outside would be Marco Polo.’
‘That is quite understandable,’ Duggy said, nodding. ‘It would be galling for an emperor to just fade away, with no mention of his name in history.’ Then he urged Susan, ‘Let’s now hear about how this was done.’
‘This bit is conjecture,’ Susan began tentatively, giving the men a nervous smile, ‘but well within the realms of possibility. The Great Khan ruled territory that stretched to Soledaei on the Black Sea and cross-border trade was frequent. As far back as 1266, when Marco made his first trip back to Venice, he was accompanied on the Khan’s orders by Kodekai, a Mongol who was to deliver greetings to the Pope on the emperor’s behalf. It means that such journeys were possible in those times and someone from China did give the story to Marco.’ She paused and gestured with both hands. ‘There is no other way.’
‘Tim mentioned that in Marco’s book, the location of this monastery was left vague, that the Italian probably had no clue where it was,’ Ashton said pointedly.
‘You’re right. The book merely refers to the invitation Kublai Khan received to visit the sacred mountain. It was in the sequel that Marco promised to offer details of the actual journey. But it was never written – because Marco never did receive the details.’
No one spoke for a while.
‘You make a very persuasive argument,’ Ashton said with a smile, breaking the silence. ‘Believe me, for the price of a breakfast, I’ve got much more than I had hoped for.’
‘There’s more.’ She paused, opening her satchel, which she had placed on the table, to take out a polythene cover.
‘Go on,’ Ashton urged her, moving forward in his chair and drawing on his cigarette.
‘In 1932,’ Susan began, ‘an American team was interned by the Tibetan authorities while returning from an expedition in western Tibet. The Tibetans were uncharacteristically harsh and uncompromising in their stance. Only after the British Resident had intervened on behalf of the American government and conducted prolonged negotiations with the Tibetans was the team permitted to leave. Rumour had it that the expedition had stumbled upon a map or “treasure”, as it were, which would lead to the mystical kingdom of Shambhala. Created quite a stir in those days. Anyway, a year later, Hilton came out with Lost Horizon.’
She handed over the polythene cover to Ashton. Inside lay an old newspaper cutting, the print faded, of a report covering the story Susan had just told him. The cutting was pasted on another sheet of paper on the top of which a feminine hand had written in ink: ‘Shambhala – 1932’.
‘You’ve done a great deal of research,’ Ashton observed.
‘I’ve gone through everything I could lay my hands on for the last fifteen years,’ she said, her voice suddenly taut and hoarse.
They sat in silence. She was the first to speak.
‘Look, Henry, I’ve told you what I know. You don’t have to tell me anything at all about the reason for your interest in the subject. We could end this session right here and I could thank you for breakfast and drive off. But that would still leave me with a lot of questions. Why, for instance, does a retired colonel living in the Yorkshire dales suddenly get in touch with Merlin after thirty years? Why does he ask about the sacred mountain and that too, using its Mongolian name? And why does this happen two days after an unidentified Oriental, on his way to meet that same colonel, immolates himself?’
‘You know about that?’
‘It was in the papers. Your name was mentioned.’
Ashton sat staring at his palms. ‘What do you call this in your field – induction?’ he asked softly.
She smiled blandly. She knew she had him. Ashton looked up at Duggy, who was nodding, a broad smile on his face.
‘Could you get the letter, Duggy?’
The letter was brought in and handed over to Susan. She read it without comment, but when she looked up, her face was flushed and her eyes glittered with tears.
‘This is absolutely fantastic!’ she said. ‘If only…’ Her voice caught and after taking a deep breath, she composed herself. ‘I meant to say that I wish we had this when David was alive.’
‘Yes.’ Ashton did not know what else to say. ‘But now that you’ve seen it, I must request your discretion in the matter. I am also immensely grateful for your inputs which have been extremely insightful.’
She ignored the implied dismissal. ‘So are you going to do what this “Teacher” asks of you?’
Ashton remained silent.
‘Well, how do you plan to go about it?’ she persisted, pursuing her earlier question. Noticing Ashton’s jaw set firmly, she looked straight into his eyes and said, ‘Look, my guess is that you are going to need me.’
