The Ninth Buddha by Daniel Easterman Read Free Book Online Page A

thought about William constantly, trying to understand how the
    kidnapping could possibly fit into Zamyatin’s plans, whatever they
    might be.   Apart from his own expedition to Kailas in search of Russian
    agents, he could see no link between himself and this man.   Was William
    no more than bait, intended to bring
    Christopher to the Russian, for reasons he could not begin to guess?   That seemed unnecessarily elaborate and clumsy.   Not for the first time, he reflected that Winterpole might not be telling him the whole story, or even that what he had told him was largely fabrication.
    The boy returned carrying a tray on which stood a cheap, battered teapot, a cracked cup, and a small glass of whiskey coloured liquid that Christopher took to be anything but whiskey.
    There was a low wooden table nearby; the boy set the tray down and poured tea into the germ-laden cup.   It was strong, the way all Indians imagined Europeans liked to drink it.   Christopher shrugged: he would soon be drinking Tibetan tea made with salt and butter why turn up his nose at Darjeeling’s finest?
    “It’s quiet outside,” he said.
    “Have the Nepahs gone?”
    “Yes, sahib.   Not nice people.   Very poor.   No room here for them.”
    “Where will they go?”
    The boy shrugged.   What did it matter where they went?   He had already consigned them to the nothingness his mind reserved for everyone of no immediate use to him.   He turned to go.
    “Just a moment,” said Christopher.
    “Can you tell me how to find the Knox Homes the orphanage” A shadow seemed to pass briefly across the boy’s face, then it was gone and he was smiling again.   Yet not really smiling.
    “The orphanage, sahib?   What would you want with the orphanage?   There is nothing there, sahib, nothing but children.”
    “Listen, Abdul, I asked for directions, not advice.   How do I find the place.”
    Again that curious expression in the boy’s eyes, then he shrugged.
    “It’s very easy, sahib.   Have you seen the tower of the church?”
    Christopher nodded.   It was the most prominent landmark in Kalimpong.
    “The orphanage is a red building beside the church.   A big building.
    With many windows.   You will see it, sahib, once you are at the church.
    Will that be all, sahib?”
    Christopher nodded absently, and the boy turned again to go.
    Then, in the doorway, half of his body caught in a pale shaft of sunlight, half in shadow, he turned back.
    “Are you a Christian, sahib?”
    Christopher hardly understood the question Just as all Indians were Hindus or Muslims to the uninitiated European, so all white people were Christians to all but a few Indians.
    “I’m not sure,” Christopher replied, wondering if it was the right answer to give.
    “Should I be?”
    “I don’t know, sahib.   You don’t look like a missionary.”
    Christopher frowned, then understood.
    “You mean the orphanage?”
    “Yes, sahib.”
    Christopher shook his head.
    “No,” he said, “I’m not a missionary.”
    “But you are going to the Knox Homes.”
    “Yes.   Do only missionaries go there?”
    The boy shook his head.
    “I don’t think so, sahib.   All sorts of people go there.   It’s a very ‘ important place.   Important people go there.”   Again that odd look.
    “And you don’t think I look important enough or Christian enough to go there is that it?”
    The boy shrugged.   He felt he had spoken out of turn.   It was never good to cross a European.
    “I don’t know, sahib.   It’s none of my business.   Sorry, sahib.”
    He turned and slipped into the waiting shadows.
    “Boy,” called Christopher.   The boy returned.
    “What’s your name, boy?”
    , “Abdul,” the boy replied, mumbling the word as though it had a bad taste.
    i “No, it isn’t.   You’re not a Muslim.   And even if you were, Abdul’s not a proper name.   Even I know that.   So what’s your name?”
    “Lhaten, sahib.”
    “Laten, eh?”