The Ninth Buddha by Daniel Easterman

  There were far fewer Sak-ya-pas and fewer Sak-ya-pa monasteries.
    Norbhu Dzasa described for Christopher the dress of a Sak-yapa lama:
    the low, conical hat with ear-flaps, the red robes, the broad-sleeved over-mantle for travelling, the distinctive girdle.
    “Yes,” said Christopher, ‘he was dressed very like that.”   But he wanted to move on, to narrow the field even more.
    “Did you find anything,” he continued, ‘that might have told you where he came from?   The name of his monastery, perhaps?”
    Norbhu could see what the Englishman was trying to do.   Why was he playing such games with him?   Did he take him for a fool?
    “Where your friend come from?”   he asked.
    Christopher hesitated.
    “He didn’t say.   Do you know where the dead man came from?”
    The tsong-chi smiled.
    “Not every mountain has a god,” he said.
    “Not every monastery has a name.”   If the Englishman expected him to play the part of the wily and enigmatic Oriental in this masquerade, he would at least put on a virtuoso performance.
    Christopher recognized the shift in mood.   He would have to change tack.
    “Did you see this man Tsewong before he died?   This house is on the road he must have taken to reach Kalimpong.   Perhaps he called here.   Perhaps you saw him.   You or one of your staff?”
    Norbhu Dzasa shook his head.
    “Not see.   No-one see.”   There was a pause.   The tsong-chi looked at Christopher intently.
    “What you really look for, Wylam-la?   What thing you look for?   What person?”
    Christopher hesitated again before answering.   Did the little Tibetan know?   Was he teasing him with this questioning?
    “My son,” he said.
    “I’m looking for my son.”
    The tsong-chi sipped tea from his cup and set it down elegantly.
    “Not find him here.   Understanding, perhaps.   Wisdom, perhaps.
    Or things you not wish to find.   But no son.   Please, Wylam-la, I advise you.   Go home.   Back to own country.   The mountains here very treacherous.   Very high.   Very cold.”
    The two men eyed each other closely, like fencers with raised foils. In the silence, the mantra sounded clearer than before.
    “Tell me,” Norbhu Dzasa said abruptly.
    “Is Wylam a common name?”
    Christopher shook his head.   Not common.   Not not common, he wanted to say.   But he didn’t.
    “No.   There aren’t many Wylams.   Lots of Christophers but not many Wylams.”
    Norbhu Dzasa smiled again.   There was something about his smile that unsettled Christopher.   A lamp on the altar spluttered briefly and went out.
    “I knew man called Wylam,” the tsong-chi said.
    “Many years ago.
    In India.   Look very much like you.   Father perhaps?”
    Had Norbhu Dzasa suspected all along?   Christopher wondered.
    “Perhaps,” he said.
    “My father was a political agent.   He died many years ago.”
    Norbhu Dzasa looked hard at Christopher.
    “Your tea getting cold,” he said.
    Christopher lifted his cup and drank quickly.   The thick, lukewarm liquid clung to his palate and his throat.
    “I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr.   Dzasa,” he said.
    “I’m sorry to have wasted it on a wild-goose chase.”
    “No matter,” answered the little man.
    “There are other geese.”
    He rose and clapped his hands twice.   The sound of the hand-claps rang out dully in the shimmering room.
    The door opened and the servant came to show Christopher out.
    “Goodbye, Wylam-la,” Norbhu Dzasa said.
    “I am sorry not more help.”
    “I’m sorry too,” said Christopher.   The heavy tea was making him feel slightly nauseous.   He wanted to get out of the stuffy room.
    Norbhu Dzasa bowed and Christopher left, escorted by the servant.   The tsong-chi sighed audibly.   He missed his wife and children.   They had gone to Lhasa for the New Year celebrations at the end of January and the three-week Monlam Festival that would follow.   It might be months before they returned.   His new wife