The flight lasted for several hours that seemed like several days, at the end of which they made a nosedive landing onto a short field cleared in the midst of thick green. From the air they had seen the wonderful countryside of the Forbidden Kingdom: a majestic chain of snow-capped mountains and a series of narrow valleys and terraced hillsides covered with lush semitropical vegetation. The villages looked like clusters of little dollhouses, scattered here and there in almost inaccessible sites. The capital lay in a long narrow valley enclosed on all sides by mountains. It seemed impossible that a plane could land there, but the pilot knew his job well. When at last they touched down, everyone applauded, celebrating his amazing skill. Steps soon were run up to the plane. When the door was opened, the passengers got to their feet with great difficulty and staggered toward the exit, afraid that at any minute they might vomit or faint—all, that is, except for the cool and composed Judit Kinski.
Kate was the first to reach the door. A breath of fresh air hit her in the face, reviving her. She was surprised to see a beautifully woven carpet that ran from the steps to the door of a small building of polychrome wood with a pagoda roof. On either side of the carpet, children waited with baskets of flowers. Set all along the path were slim poles topped with billowing silk banners. Several musicians dressed in vibrant colors and large hats were playing drums and brass instruments.
Right at the foot of the steps stood four dignitaries attired in full ceremonial garb: silk skirts bound at the waist with tight, dark blue sashes, a sign of ministerial rank; long jackets embroidered with coral and turquoise, and tall, pointed leather hats brightened with gold ornamentation and ribbons. They held delicate white scarves.
“Goodness! I wasn’t expecting this kind of reception,” the writer exclaimed, smoothing her spiky hair and unfashionable thousand-pocketed jacket.
She descended the steps, followed by her companions, smiling and waving, but no one waved back. Her crew passed by the dignitaries and the children holding the flowers without winning a single glance; it was as if they didn’t exist.
Judit followed behind, calm, smiling, perfectly poised. At that moment the musicians struck up a deafening chorus, the children began tossing a rain of rose petals, and the dignitaries bowed deeply. Judit Kinski returned their greetings with a modest bow, then held her arms out as the dignitaries stepped forward and draped scarves called katas across them.
The reporters from International Geographic watched as a party of richly attired individuals emerged from the small building with the pagoda roof. In the center was a man taller than the others, about sixty years old, though young in bearing, wearing a simple, long, dark red skirt, or sarong, that covered the lower half of his body, and a saffron-colored cloth folded over one shoulder. His head was uncovered and shaved. He was barefoot, and his only adornments were a prayer bracelet made of amber beads and a medallion on his chest. Despite his extreme simplicity, which contrasted with the luxurious garb of the others, no one had any doubt that this man was the king. The foreigners stepped aside to let him pass, and automatically bowed deeply, as others were doing. Such was the authority the monarch communicated.
The king greeted Judit Kinski with a nod, which she returned in silence. Then they exchanged scarves with a series of complicated bows. She performed the steps of the ceremony perfectly. She wasn’t joking when she told Kate that she had carefully studied the customs of the country. At the end of the ceremony the monarch and the landscape designer smiled openly and shook hands in Western fashion.
“Welcome to our humble country,” the sovereign said in a British-accented English.
The monarch and his guest withdrew, followed by the king’s entourage, as Kate and her group scratched their heads, confused by what they had just seen. Judit must have made an extraordinary impression on the ruler, who was treating her as he would an honored ambassador, not a landscaper contracted to plant tulips in his garden.
They were collecting their luggage, which included the bundles containing the photographers’ cameras and tripods, when a man approached them and introduced himself as Wandgi, their guide and interpreter. He was wearing the typical sarong tied at the waist with a striped sash, a short, sleeveless jacket, and soft hide boots. Kate noticed his hat, which was the kind the Italian mobsters wear in the movies.
They loaded their equipment onto a broken-down Jeep, settled in as well as they could, and started off for the capital, which, according to Wandgi, was “just over there,” but turned out to be a trip of nearly three hours. What he called “the highway” was in fact a narrow curving road. The guide spoke an old-fashioned English and had an accent that was difficult to understand, as if he had learned it from a textbook without having had many opportunities to practice.
Along the way they drove past monks and nuns of all ages, some no more than five or six years old, all with their bowls for begging food. There were also many farm people on foot carrying bundles, young people on bicycles, and carts pulled by buffaloes. These were a very handsome people of medium stature, with aristocratic features and dignified bearing. They were always smiling, as if they were genuinely content. The only motorized vehicles they saw were a very old motorcycle with a parasol serving as improvised roof, and a small bus painted a thousand colors and overflowing with passengers, animals, and bundles. To pass the bus, the Jeep had to pull off to one side, because there wasn’t room for two vehicles on the narrow road. Wandgi informed them that his majesty had several modern automobiles and that Judit Kinski was surely at the hotel by now.
“The king dresses like a monk,” Alexander observed.
“His majesty is our spiritual leader. He lived the early years of his life in a monastery in Tibet. He is a very devoted man,” the guide explained, joining his hands before his face and bowing as a sign of respect.
“I thought monks were celibate,” said Kate.
“Many are, but the king must marry in order to provide sons to the crown. His majesty is a widower. His beloved wife died ten years ago.”
“How many children did they have?”
“They were blessed with four sons and five daughters. One of his sons will be king. Here it is not as it is in England, where the oldest offspring inherits the crown. The prince with the purest heart becomes our king upon the death of his father,” said Wandgi.
“And how do they know which one has the purest heart?” Nadia asked.
“The king and queen know their children well, and usually they simply know, but their decision must be confirmed by the High Lama, who studies the astral signs and subjects the chosen child to several tests before deciding if he or she is truly the reincarnation of an earlier monarch.”
He explained that the tests were foolproof. For example, during one of them, the prince or princess recognizes seven objects used by the first ruler of the Kingdom of the Golden Dragon eighteen hundred years before. The objects are placed on the floor, mixed in with others, and the child must choose. If he passes that first test, he must ride a wild stallion. If he is the reincarnation of a king, the beast will recognize his authority and be as tame as if it had been broken. The child must also swim the roaring, icy waters of the sacred river. The current helps those of pure heart; all others drown. This method of testing heirs to the throne had never failed.
Throughout its history, the Forbidden Kingdom has always had fair and visionary monarchs, Wandgi said, and added that the country had never been invaded or colonized, even though it lacked an army capable of confronting its powerful neighbors, India and China. In the present generation, the youngest son, who was only a baby when his mother died, had been chosen to succeed his father. He had passed all the tests at the age of six. The lamas had given him the name he bore in earlier incarnations: Dil Bahadur, “brave heart.” No one had seen him since his selection; he was being given instruction in a secret location.
Kate seized the opportunity to ask the guide about the mysterious Golden Dragon. Wandgi did not seem disposed to talk about it, but the
group from International Geographic were able to deduce a few facts from his evasive answers. Apparently the statue could predict the future, but only the king could decipher the coded language of the prophecies. The reason it was essential for the king or queen to be pure of heart was that the power of the Golden Dragon could be used only to protect the nation, never for personal ends. There could be no greed in the heart of the monarch.
On their way to the capital, the International Geographic crew saw peasant homes and many temples, which they identified immediately by the prayer banners similar to the ones they’d seen fluttering in the wind at the airport. The guide exchanged greetings with each person they saw; apparently everyone knew everyone.
They passed lines of boys dressed in the dark red of the monks’ tunics, and the guide explained that most teaching took place in the monasteries, where students lived from the time they were five or six years old. Some never left the monastery, because they chose to follow in the footsteps of their teachers, the lamas. Girls went to different schools. There was a university, but usually professionals were trained in India, and in some cases, when the family could afford it or the student won a government scholarship, in England.
The group saw television antennas on a couple of modest shops. Wandgi told them that people in the neighborhood gathered around during the hours programs were broadcast, but that there were frequent blackouts and the daily schedule varied. He added that most of the country was linked by telephone. To make a call you went to the post office—if there was one nearby—or to a school where there was always a telephone available. No one had a phone in their house, of course; there was no need for one. Timothy Bruce and Joel González exchanged doubtful glances. Was it all right to use their cell phones in the Land of the Golden Dragon?
“The range of mobile telephones is greatly limited by the mountains, so they are virtually unknown here. I’ve been told that no one speaks face to face in your country anymore, only by telephone,” the guide said.
“And by e-mail,” Alexander added.
“I’ve heard about that, but I haven’t seen it,” Wandgi commented.
The landscape was like a dream, untouched by modern technology. Land was cultivated behind slow and patient buffaloes. Emerald rice paddies glowed on terraces that had been carved out of the sides of the mountains. Unfamiliar trees and flowers grew on the berm along the road, and in the background rose the snowy peaks of the Himalayas.
Alexander made the observation that the agricultural methods seemed far behind the times, but his grandmother pointed out that not everything is measured in terms of productivity, and added that this was the only country in the world in which the ecology was far more important than the economy. Wandgi was pleased by Kate’s words, but did not comment further in order not to embarrass these visitors who came from a country where, from what he had heard, business was definitely more important.
Two hours later the sun had dropped behind the mountains, and evening shadows were stretching across the green rice paddies. In the scattered homes and temples they could see the quavering flames of small yak butter–burning lamps. Faintly, they could hear the guttural sounds from the huge trumpets of the monks calling for evening prayer.
Shortly after, far in the distance, they saw the first buildings of Tunkhala, the capital, which looked like little more than a village. The main street boasted a few street lamps, so they could appreciate the cleanliness and order that were the rule everywhere, as well as the contradictions: yaks plodded through the street beside Italian Vespas, grandmothers carried their grandchildren strapped to their backs, and police dressed like ancient princes directed traffic. The doors of many houses stood wide open, and Wandgi explained that there was virtually no crime, after all, they all knew each other; anyone who came into your house was probably a friend or a relative. The police had very little to do except guard the borders, maintain order during festivals, and control rebellious students.
There was still a lot of activity. Wandgi stopped the Jeep before a shop little larger than a closet, where they sold toothpaste, sweets, Kodak film, sun-faded postcards, and a few newspapers and magazines from Nepal, India, and China. They noticed that empty tin cans, bottles, and bundles of used paper were also being sold. Everything, even the most insignificant object, had value, because everything was in limited supply. Nothing was wasted; everything was used or recycled. A plastic bag or a glass bottle was a treasure.
“This is my humble shop and beside it is my small home, where it will be my great honor to welcome you,” Wandgi announced, blushing; he did not want the foreigners to think he was boasting.
A young girl of fifteen came out to greet them.
“And this is my daughter Pema. Her name means ‘lotus flower,’” the guide added.
“The lotus flower is a symbol of purity and beauty,” said Alexander, blushing like Wandgi, because the moment he said it he felt ridiculous.
Kate cast a sidelong glance at him, surprised. He winked and said that he’d read that in a book in the library before they left.
“What else did you find out?” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.
“Ask and ye shall know, Kate. I know almost as much as Judit Kinski,” Alexander replied in the same tone.
Pema smiled with irresistible charm, joined her hands before her face, and bowed in the traditional greeting. She was as slim and straight as a bamboo cane; in the yellow light of the lamps her skin looked like ivory and her large eyes shone playfully. Her black hair fell like a fine mantle across her shoulders and back. She was dressed like everyone they had seen. There was little difference between male and female clothing; everyone wore a skirt or a sarong, and a jacket or blouse.
Nadia and Pema looked at each other with mutual astonishment. On the one hand there was this girl from the heart of South America, with feathers in her hair and a black monkey clinging to her neck; on the other, a girl with the grace of a ballerina who had been born among the highest peaks of Asia. The two girls felt connected by an instantaneous current of friendship.
“If you want, perhaps tomorrow Pema can teach the girl and the Little Grandmother how to wear a sarong,” suggested the guide, with obvious concern.
Alexander cringed when he heard the words “little grandmother,” but Kate did not react. The writer had just realized that the shorts she and Nadia were wearing were offensive in this country.
“We would be very grateful,” Kate replied, bowing in turn, with her hands joined before her face.
• • •
Finally the exhausted travelers reached the hotel, the only one in the capital, or anywhere in the Forbidden Kingdom. The few tourists who ventured out into the countryside slept in the homes of peasants, where they were always welcomed. No one was refused hospitality. The International Geographic group dragged their luggage to the two rooms they were to share—Kate and Nadia in one and the men in the other. Compared to the incredible luxury of the maharajah’s palace in India, the rooms in this hotel seemed like monks’ cells. They fell into beds without washing or undressing, bone weary, but they soon awoke, stiff with cold. The temperature had dropped sharply. They pulled out their flashlights and found some heavy wool throws stacked neatly in a corner; they wrapped up in those and slept till dawn when they were awakened by the mournful sound of the long, heavy trumpets that called the monks to their prayers.
Wandgi and Pema were waiting with the good news that the king was willing to receive them the next day. As they savored a delicious breakfast of tea, vegetables, and rice balls, which they ate using the three fingers of the right hand, as good manners demanded, the guide gave them a brief course on the protocol for visiting the palace.
To begin with, they would need to buy proper clothing for Nadia and Kate. And the men should wear jackets. The king was a very tolerant person and surely would understand that they were outfitted for their work; nonetheless, it would be more polite to show the proper respect. Wandgi explained how to exchange the katas,
and told them that they should kneel in the places assigned to them until it was indicated that they might take seats, and that they should not speak to the king before he spoke to them. If they were offered food or tea, they should refuse three times, then eat silently and slowly to demonstrate that they appreciated the food. And it was considered bad form to speak while eating. Borobá would stay with Pema. Wandgi did not know the protocol in regard to monkeys.
Kate succeeded in connecting her laptop to one of the two telephone lines in the hotel and sent messages to the International Geographic and to Professor Leblanc. The man might be a neurotic, but she could not deny that he was an inexhaustible source of information. The writer asked him to send her what he knew about how the kings were trained, and about the legend of the Golden Dragon. She promptly received his communication on those subjects.
Pema took Kate and Nadia to a house where sarongs were sold, and each of them bought three; it rained several times a day and they had to allow time for the skirts to dry. It wasn’t easy for either of them to learn how to wrap the cloth around their bodies and secure it with the sash. First they got them so tight that they couldn’t take a step; then they wound them so loosely that they fell off with the first movement. Nadia mastered the technique after a few tries, but Kate still looked like a mummy. She couldn’t sit down, and she walked like a prisoner in shackles. Alexander and the two photographers burst out in fits of uncontrollable laughter when they saw Kate hobbling along, grumbling and coughing.
The royal palace was the largest building in Tunkhala, with more than a thousand rooms distributed on three visible floors and two below ground level. It was strategically located on a steep hill, and was approached by a curving road lined with prayer flags mounted on flexible bamboo poles. The king’s residence was the same elegant style as every other home, including the most modest, but it had several roof levels, tiled and crowned with ancient ceramic figures of mythological creatures. The balconies, doors, and windows were painted in designs of extraordinary colors.