She looked out the window at Everest, its peak pushing through the cloud. Blackened by the winds tearing snow from its flanks. She thought of a half forgotten poem by Matthew Arnold...'And as a troupe of peddlers from Kabul pass underneath the Indian Caucasus...crossing so high that as they mount they pass long flocks of traveling birds dead in the snow' or something like that.
It had been so hard to get to Tibet. She had been crushed to the point of panic at the Chinese consulate in Kathmandu - had waited days before at last receiving her visa. In the old days of course it had been impossible. The Tibetans killed anyone who dared approach Lhasa. Adventurers of every motivation had used all kinds of subterfuge, but none had succeeded until Younghusband.
A group of Slovenians rushed from one side of the plane to the other, cameras whirring and clicking. She smiled and sipped her tea and wondered if this fluctuation of fleshly weight caused problems for the pilot.
The hotel was in the Tibetan section, on the way to the Jokang Temple. In the early morning she stood at the quilt closed door and watched pilgrims walking. They swung prayer wheels and led small dogs and murmured quiet prayer. She fed her eyes on their hard, brilliant faces. The women had red cheeks and sometimes there were chunks of turquoise in their black hair. But what she noticed most was their clothing. The coats worn on one shoulder.
The straight, smooth fronted dresses with plenty of walking room in the back.
The striped aprons. The occasional flashes of intense color.
She must have a dress.
They weren't hard to find. On the broad well-ordered streets of the Chinese part of the city clothing stores sold child size Peoples Army uniforms and plenty of Tibetan dresses.
``How much?''
``100 yuan.''
She decided to look further.
A few days later, exhausted by temples and monasteries, the scent of butter lamps and incense, she walked again in the city. On a quiet street she saw a dress shop where a woman sat at a sewing machine and a child played on the floor. She saw a dark dress that looked exactly right. She entered the shop and smiled at the child. The woman looked up expressionless from her work.
``How much?'' she asked.
The woman took a calculator and keyed in 90.
Then she remembered she had no money. The ATMs only worked on Chinese banks. She would have to go to one of the big banks and go through the lengthy ritual of cashing a traveler's check.
``I have no money with me. Tomorrow I will buy this dress.''
The woman entered 80 on the calculator.
``No you don't understand. I will be back tomorrow. Tomorrow!''
The woman keyed in 70.
``No. 70 is a very good price...''
The woman entered 60.
``I cannot...''
The woman entered 50.
``You don't understand...''
The woman looked angry and grabbed the calculator.
Desperately she rummaged in her purse, shaking out change. She felt in the secret pocket of her jacket. 42 yuan. Furious, the woman took the money. She fitted the dress and went to her sewing machine and made a few alterations. She ironed the dress and folded it carefully and handed it to this blood sucking foreigner and turned away without a word.