English, and he trotted importantly beside Houston, chattering, as they pushed their way through the crowded market to the hotel.
Houston had noticed here and there small groups of men in fur caps, warmly clad except for their arms which were left bare, and he inquired who they were.
‘Tibet men,’ the boy said, gesturing upwards to the darkening sky; and Houston who had been gazing up at the curiously massive cloud formations, gazed again. The clouds were mountains.
Tibet men and mountains. He thought he was near his journey’s end.
3
As Lister-Lawrence had said, Kalimpong was a rather jolly place. Houston liked it. He had dined well at the hotel and had slept soundly between clean sheets, and he was up and out early in the morning. The air had the kind of snap and brilliancy that he associated with the Vosges mountains in France, and the surrounding landscape, although on a more massive scale, had the same nature: great green hills that crept towards the sky, and a feeling of high places beyond. The peaks that had closed in with nightfall were far away.
He went to the offices of the Tibetan representative, and found a substantial building with a courtyard that wasthronged with people. A few mules and horses stood blinking in the bright sun, and groups of men squatted on the ground, chattering and smoking. The small porter of the preceding evening had been waiting for him as he left the hotel and had attached himself again. He ran into the building before Houston and came out again, grinning.
‘No room in there, sahib,’ he said. ‘Many men there today.’
Houston inspected the interior himself and found that this was the case.
‘Is it always like this?’
‘No, sahib. Caravan comes today. All caravan men here.’
‘Will they be here all day?’
‘Two, three days, maybe. They get chitty,’ the boy said, pounding an imaginary rubber stamp with his small brown hands.
Houston was somewhat at a loss. He could see nobody who was obviously an official. He wondered whom to consult.
The boy had the answer for him. ‘You come to see Michaelson Sahib, sahib,’ he said. ‘I take you.’
They returned through the market square and down a maze of busy streets to a part of the town that seemed to be occupied by warehouses. Lines of mules were being unloaded and their burdens swung up on ropes to first-floor lofts. Directing operations outside the largest warehouse was Michaelson Sahib, who proved to be an enormously fat, elderly man in a bushwacker’s hat; he was checking off invoices and smoking a small black cheroot.
Houston introduced himself.
‘Glad to know you, sport. You’ve caught me at a busy moment.’
‘So I see. I’ve been trying to get in to see the Tibetan consul. There seems a bit of a crowd there.’
‘A caravan’s just arrived. I’d give it away for today, sport, if I were you.’
‘I hear it’s going to be like this for two or three days.’
‘You don’t have to bother about that. Look, I’ll drop by for a quick one with you this evening. I’m just too tied up now.’
‘All right,’ Houston said, a bit put-out, and wandered away with the boy.
His feeling of offence did not persist; for the more he saw of the town the more he liked it. There was a smell of wood- smoke and spices in the clean air, and a sensation of heights. He found himself smiling, with the heady feeling he had felt before in mountains.
There were a number of small teashops in the town; ramshackle sheds with trestle tables containing tea urns and trays of sweetmeats; and he had several cups of sweet, frothy tea as he loitered about the streets with the boy. Caravan teamsters strolled everywhere; but although many different races seemed to be represented, he noticed no Tibetans. He asked the boy why.
‘They sleep, maybe, sahib. Tibet men no like it down here. They like Tibet.’ He raised his eyes again to the sky as he spoke, and Houston was amused and yet vaguely disturbed at this suggestion, even in
Houston had noticed here and there small groups of men in fur caps, warmly clad except for their arms which were left bare, and he inquired who they were.
‘Tibet men,’ the boy said, gesturing upwards to the darkening sky; and Houston who had been gazing up at the curiously massive cloud formations, gazed again. The clouds were mountains.
Tibet men and mountains. He thought he was near his journey’s end.
3
As Lister-Lawrence had said, Kalimpong was a rather jolly place. Houston liked it. He had dined well at the hotel and had slept soundly between clean sheets, and he was up and out early in the morning. The air had the kind of snap and brilliancy that he associated with the Vosges mountains in France, and the surrounding landscape, although on a more massive scale, had the same nature: great green hills that crept towards the sky, and a feeling of high places beyond. The peaks that had closed in with nightfall were far away.
He went to the offices of the Tibetan representative, and found a substantial building with a courtyard that wasthronged with people. A few mules and horses stood blinking in the bright sun, and groups of men squatted on the ground, chattering and smoking. The small porter of the preceding evening had been waiting for him as he left the hotel and had attached himself again. He ran into the building before Houston and came out again, grinning.
‘No room in there, sahib,’ he said. ‘Many men there today.’
Houston inspected the interior himself and found that this was the case.
‘Is it always like this?’
‘No, sahib. Caravan comes today. All caravan men here.’
‘Will they be here all day?’
‘Two, three days, maybe. They get chitty,’ the boy said, pounding an imaginary rubber stamp with his small brown hands.
Houston was somewhat at a loss. He could see nobody who was obviously an official. He wondered whom to consult.
The boy had the answer for him. ‘You come to see Michaelson Sahib, sahib,’ he said. ‘I take you.’
They returned through the market square and down a maze of busy streets to a part of the town that seemed to be occupied by warehouses. Lines of mules were being unloaded and their burdens swung up on ropes to first-floor lofts. Directing operations outside the largest warehouse was Michaelson Sahib, who proved to be an enormously fat, elderly man in a bushwacker’s hat; he was checking off invoices and smoking a small black cheroot.
Houston introduced himself.
‘Glad to know you, sport. You’ve caught me at a busy moment.’
‘So I see. I’ve been trying to get in to see the Tibetan consul. There seems a bit of a crowd there.’
‘A caravan’s just arrived. I’d give it away for today, sport, if I were you.’
‘I hear it’s going to be like this for two or three days.’
‘You don’t have to bother about that. Look, I’ll drop by for a quick one with you this evening. I’m just too tied up now.’
‘All right,’ Houston said, a bit put-out, and wandered away with the boy.
His feeling of offence did not persist; for the more he saw of the town the more he liked it. There was a smell of wood- smoke and spices in the clean air, and a sensation of heights. He found himself smiling, with the heady feeling he had felt before in mountains.
There were a number of small teashops in the town; ramshackle sheds with trestle tables containing tea urns and trays of sweetmeats; and he had several cups of sweet, frothy tea as he loitered about the streets with the boy. Caravan teamsters strolled everywhere; but although many different races seemed to be represented, he noticed no Tibetans. He asked the boy why.
‘They sleep, maybe, sahib. Tibet men no like it down here. They like Tibet.’ He raised his eyes again to the sky as he spoke, and Houston was amused and yet vaguely disturbed at this suggestion, even in
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