The days passed, the nullity abided. Jake dreamed of nothing. He stared at the sky. The day of their departure approached.
On the seventh day following the failed operation, Jake woke early and looked across the bed.
It was empty.
There was a note on Chemda’s pillow, in an envelope.
He took out the notepaper and read.
I know you don’t love me anymore; and I know you can’t help it. This is too painful for me: because I still love you.
Goodbye.
C
He put the note back in the envelope; he dressed. Trying not to think. The very last truck was due to leave Bala this afternoon. He wanted to run outside and race down the valley. He didn’t know what to do.
Julia was sitting on the terrace.
She stared at him, and her gaze was searching. “I know. She told me last night. A villager was taking his fruit to Zhongdian market at dawn. She went with him in the pickup. I’m sorry, Jake.”
He sat down. Staring at his own hands, then at Julia.
“What are you going to do? When we finally get … away?”
The American woman sighed. Her expression was strained.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Not anymore.”
Jake said nothing. But the silence seemed to embarrass Julia, so he stood, straightened his chair, and continued his walk past the terrace tables.
The day was bright and clear, sharp and mountainous. The villagers were tilling their steep brown fields. One old woman gave him a broken smile as he walked the path to the stupa.
Positioned on a large, high promontory of rock, the stupa overlooked one of the most spectacular stretches of the canyon. Down there were the heaven villages; much farther down was the cascading river, a juvenile tributary of the Mekong.
The Mekong. The very concept threw up a kaleidoscopic series of recent memories. It seemed to Jake as though he had been following the great Mekong all these weeks, from Vang Vieng to Luang Prabang to Phnom Penh to Yunnan. The mighty Mekong. And now he was near the source, where the crystal waters tumbled, violent and tragic.
He climbed the last steps and placed a hand on the stupa. Silence enveloped him.
The only noise came from the wind horses—the prayer flags fluttering in a stiff sunlit breeze. Each flag, of red and blue and faded yellow, was written with the wishes of the villagers, praying to the holy mountains.
Remorse fell like a silent snow. What had he done? He had lost everyone. His sister, his mother, his friend, now Chemda.
In a few hours the last truck would leave Bala village and take the long road to Zhongdian. And he would be on it. Running after Chemda. He was going to find her. He knew he would spend the rest of his life trying to find her, if that’s what it took. He could feel the wind carrying him.
A chillier gust kicked up. The little prayer flags fluttered in the silent breeze, petitioning the universe, filling the quietness. Arms of snow embraced the rocky summit of White Buddha Mountain: like a mother, folding a son in her love, and never letting go.