jefflong.yearzero-第23部分

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；　children's　laughter。　They　made　him　ache　for　a　place　and　people　of　his　own。　Nights　he　lay　on　the　dirt　by　his　bike　and　watched　the　distant　lights　of　candles　and　fires　wink　out。　One　afternoon；　he　looked　down　from　a　bend　and　spied　boys　playing　soccer　on　a　flat　section　of　the　road。　But　they　were　long　gone　by　his　arrival。
　In　his　role　as　cannibal　and　leper；　Nathan　Lee　had　e　to　take　loathing　for　granted。　This　was　different。　These　people　didn't　know　him　except　as　an　outsider　in　the　far　distance。　It　wasn't　his　reputation　that　frightened　them；　but　the　mere　approach　of　a　stranger。　He　had　never　known　Nepalis　to　act　that　way。
　He　held　on　to　his　theory　that　the　new　king　had　made　up　the　plague　to　scare　his　people　out　of　democracy　and　back　into　the　fourteenth　century。　It　wouldn't　be　the　first　time。　Pol　Pot　had　done　it　in　Cambodia；　Hoxha　in　Soviet　Albania；　bin　Laden　with　Islam。　The　fact　was　he　had　no　proof　either　way。　Mile　after　mile；　he　saw　no　sign　of　medical　clinics　or　health　workers。　He　saw　no　sick　people。　No　stacks　of　dead。　It　was　so　much　less　plicated　to　believe　the　plague　was　imaginary。
　Nearing　the　border；　Nathan　Lee　kept　anticipating　soldiers。　If　Nepal　had　locked　itself　in　feudal　antiquity；　then　someone　had　to　be　keeping　the　outside　world　at　bay。　While　he　pedaled；　he　worked　up　an　elaborate　story　to　bluff　his　way　through。　But　when　he　got　to　the　crossing；　there　was　not　a　sentry　in　sight；　even　on　the　Chinese　side。　He　simply　pedaled　across　the　bright　yellow　stripe　in　the　middle　of　the　Friendship　Bridge　and　exchanged　one　country　for　the　next。　First　an　imaginary　plague；　now　an　imaginary　border。
　The　river　thundered　below；　fed　by　Himalayan　snow。　Langur　monkeys　barked　and　sprang　through　green　rhododendron　forests　glued　to　the　gorge　walls。　A　large　red　flag　of　the　People's　Republic　hung　in　limp　tatters。　Nathan　Lee　didn't　like　the　looks　of　that。　It　was　one　thing　for　a　tiny　kingdom　to　fall　into　neglect。　But　a　whole　empire？　Maybe；　he　considered；　the　Bamboo　Curtain　had　fallen。　Maybe　China　was　fracturing　into　independent　states。　Maybe　they'd　given　Tibet　back　to　the　Dalai　Lama　for　his　dream　of　an　Asian　Switzerland。　The　French　woman's　word　came　back　to　him。　Shambala。
　A　mile　further　up　the　steep　road；　the　town　of　Tingri　perched　upon　a　mountainside。　As　he　pushed　his　bicycle　along　the　single；　winding　street；　there　was　not　a　movement　or　sound。　It　was　not　like　in　Nepal　where　windows　and　doors　were　tightly　shut　while　entire　villages　waited　for　him　to　pass　on。　There　you　could　smell　the　life。　Here　the　doors　and　shutters　flapped　open。　Tingri　didn't　smell　like　a　town。　It　smelled　like　a　cold　rock。　Not　a　soul　stirred。　Oddly；　that　gave　him　hope。　In　the　plague　chronicles　he'd　read；　from　Thucydides　to　Camus；　there　was　always　some　stubborn　old　woman　or　a　simpleton　or　blind　man　who　remained　behind。　With　his　mother　in　Africa；　he'd　passed　through　ghost　towns　ravaged　by　AIDS；　and　there　was　always　someone　left。
　The　door　to　the　customs　post　yawned　wide。　Inside　the　floor　was　littered　with　application　forms　that　had　blown　from　the　counter。　The　bureaucrats　had　been　in　such　a　rush　they'd　even　left　their　rubber　stamps。　On　a　whim；　Nathan　Lee　took　out　his　book　of　fairytales　and　stamped　a　Chinese　visa　on　a　blank　page。　Grace　would　like　that。
　He　looted　a　bit　and　found　a　pair　of　quilted　pants　to　go　with　the　Jagged　Edge　parka　he'd　stolen　from　a　trek　shop　in　Kathmandu。　Then　he　continued　upward　and　north。　The　air　poured　cold　through　the　shadows　of　the　gorge。　On　his　first　day　in　Tibet　he　more　than　doubled　his　altitude。
　Long　ago；　when　he　was　seventeen　years　old；　Nathan　Lee　had　taken　this　very　road　on　his　way　to　Everest　with　his　father。　Just　as　he　remembered；　the　dirt　road　was　carved　from　cliffsides　and　skirted　waterfalls。　But　rockslides　had　not　been　cleared　away　in　months。　Ominously；　certain　sections　looked　dynamited；　as　if　the　Chinese　were　trying　to　close　the　door　behind　them。　There　could　be　only　one　reason　they　would　do　such　a　thing。　His　high　hopes　faded。　Maybe　the　plague　was　real。
　His　progress　up　the　canyon　became　a　crawl。　The　larger　rockslides　forced　multiple　trips　back　and　forth　to　transfer　his　food；　gear；　and　bike。　The　rubble　shifted；　threatening　to　spill　him　hundreds　of　feet　to　the　river。　Every　slide　cost　him　hours。　One　day　he　covered　less　than　a　mile。　At　that　rate；　with　a　mere　12；000　miles　to　go；　he　might　as　well　have　stayed　in　jail。　〃God　damn　it；〃　he　shouted　at　the　empty　sky。　His　words　rounded　back　on　him　in　echoes。
　Every　day　was　a　fight　to　keep　his　spirits　up。　He　reminded　himself　that　the　slow　pace　was　allowing　his　body　to　acclimate　to　the　thin　air　and　dropping　temperatures。　His　aching　muscles　were　proof　of　his　convalescence。　Legs；　lungs；　and　calluses：　he　was　regaining　his　body。
　　
　AT　LAST；　after　a　fortnight　in　the　bleak　gorge；　Nathan　Lee　reached　the　high　side　of　the　Himalayan　barrier。　He　came　to　the　Chinese　highway　at　12；000　feet　above　sea　level。　It　was　a　glorified　dirt　road　running　from　west　to　east；　built　to　supply　soldiers　on　the　far　borders　and　transport　ore　to　the　interior。　Tibetan　pilgrims　used　it　on　their　overland　treks　to　the　holy　mountain　Kailas。　Tourists　rode　it　to　Lhasa。　This　morning；　as　far　as　the　eye　could　see；　the　highway　was　empty　in　both　directions。　The　Tibetan　Plateau　lay　polished　bare。　The　absence　of　people　was　beginning　to　rattle　him。　They　had　been　swept　away；　it　seemed；　even　the　animals。　Even　the　birds。　What　did　the　solitude　mean？　How　far　did　it　stretch？
　Nathan　Lee　headed　due　east；　which　put　the　wind；　in　general；　at　his　back。　During　the　first　few　days；　he　felt　weled　into　this　land　of　wind　and　light。　The　sun　warmed　him。　For　hours　at　a　time；　the　wind　would　blow　so　smoothly　from　behind　that　he　didn't　need　to　pedal。　With　his　back　and　shoulders　as　a　mast；　it　felt　as　if　he　might　sail　the　whole　way　home。　For　the　time　being　there　was　no　need　for　a　map。　Instead　of　a　magnetic　north；　he　had　the　southern　horizon　studded　with　giant　white　mountains。　He　had　memories。
　His　father's　idea　of　a　present　had　always　been　some　invitation　into　his　own　world。　For　his　tenth　birthday；　Nathan　Lee　got　a　pair　of　crampons。　While　other　kids　his　age　were　plowing　intoSilver　Surfer　orConan　orPlayboy；　Nathan　Lee　was　stuck　with　books　by　Hermann　Hesse；　Rene　Daumal；　Han　Shan；　and　other　mountain　mystics。　Like　many　American　climbers　of　his　era；　his　father　treated　the　mountains　as　a　blue　collar　shaolin　temple　filled　with　special　wisdom　and　muscular；　brooding　fraternity。　Poverty；　risk；　even　death：　they　were　all　part　of　the　vertical　Way。We're　made　in　the　image　of　the　mountains；　Nate；　his　father　would　spontaneously　declare。There's　no　hiding　who　we　are。　Our　souls　stand　out　against　the　sky。　Embarked　on　her　own　magical　mystery　tour；　his　mother　went　along　with　these　noble　chestnuts；　helplessly　in　love　with　the　man。
　Cho　Oyu　appeared；　then　Everest；　thirty　miles　off；　the　summit　plume　smoking　like　a　volcano。　Nathan　Lee's　memories　of　the　expedition　with　his　father　were　clean　and　simple。　He'd　been　a　happy…go…lucky　kid　back　then；　a　favorite　with　everyone；　helpful　on　the　trail；　guileless；　strong　as　a　yak。　Stronger；　it　turned　out；　than　his　own　father。　They　were　both　surprised　by　that。　Neither　was　quite　ready　for　it。　One　stormy　afternoon　near　the　end　of　the　expedition；　he　and　his　father　had　climbed　to　the　North　Col　to　strike　the　last　tent。　It　wasn't　high；　but　the　saddle　dropped　off　on　either　side　and　made　for　good　theater。　〃Here；〃　his　father　said；　and　gave　Nathan　Lee　his　ice　axe。　That　was　a　big　moment。　Then　they　went　down。
　He　moved　deeper　into　Tibet。　The　sky　was　so　blue　it　verged　on　black。　Night　was　worst。　It　was　so　cold。　He　had　stolen　a　tent　in　Kathmandu；　then　discarded　it。　Now　he　suffered　in　the　open。　Mostly　he　curled　in　shallow　pits　along　the　road　or　huddled　behind　rocks。　The　wind　stalked　him。　The　stars　strafed　him。
　He　came　upon　an　olddzong　or　fortress　and　sheltered　in　its　roofless　ruins。　One　night　he　found　a　meditation　chamber　cut　into　the　earth。　Monk　after　monk　had　taken　turns　here；　spending　months；　even　years；　walled　inside　the　hole；　praying　and　fasting。　It　was　scarcely　bigger　than　a　coffin；　and　he　had　nightmares　of　jail。　Another　time　he　crawled　into　a　cave　and　slept　atop　a　pile　of　hundreds　of　crumbling　clay　plaques　imprinted　with　Buddhas。
　One　afternoon　he　stopped　by　a　road　sign　with　faded　Chinese　characters　that　meant　nothing　to　him。　Tibetan　pilgrims　had　tied　one　end　of　their　long　streamers　of　prayer　flags　to　the　metal　post。　Most　of　the　prayer　flags　were　stamped　with　a　cartoon　horse。　Among　the　monsters　and　gods　of　Tibet；　thelung　ta　…or　wind　horse…was　an　important　creature。　Animated　by　the　wind；　the　little　horse　flew　to　the　heavens　with　prayers　on　its　back。　Nathan　Lee　cut　down　a　flag。　It　weighed　as　much　as　a　feather。　You　could　see　right　through　the　fabric；　except　for　the　ink　of　the　horse。　He　laid　it　betwen　the　pages　for　Grace。
　The　helpful　wind　turned　mean　and　fitful。　Gusts　slapped　him　from　the　sides。　Weaving　like　a　drunk；　he　would　make　a　few　hard　miles。　Day　after　day　he　fought　the　wind。　It　bruised　his　face。　Dust　caked　his　mouth　and　fouled　his　sinuses。　Bit　by　bit；　the　green　paint　on　his　bike　was　sand…blasted　to　bare　metal。
　By　mid…December　he　still　hadn't　reached　Lhasa。　In　the　lee　of　a　shattered　monastery；　he　spread　out　his　Bartholomew's　map　of　Asia　and　pinned　the　edges　with　rocks。　He'd　traced　three　major　alternatives；　one　along　the　Yangtze　River　to　the　South　China　Sea；　and　one　boldly　to　Beijing；　where　he　fantasized　the　American　Embassy　might　take　pity　on　him。　His　final　option；　the　most　lonely；　was　to　stick　to　the　wastelands。　By　threading　the　Gobi　Desert　north　through　Mongolia；　he　could　strike　out　across　Siberia　and　try　to　reach　the　Bering　Sea。
　Looking　at　the　map　debilitated　him　more　than　the　wind　or　cold。　It　showed　him　reality。　Even　once　he　reached　Lhasa；　he　would　barely　have　gone　an　inch。　Getting　home　was　going　to　take　him　many　months；　maybe　even　years。　After　so　much　patience　learned　in　jail；　Nathan　Lee　hated　the　idea　of　being　patient　longer。
　Then　one　day　the　dirt　road　became　asphalt。　It　transformed　slowly。　Heaps　of　brown　dirt　had　drifted　across　the　highway；　and　the　asphalt　surfaced　like　an　old　memory。　Gradually　the　puddles　of　blacktop　spanned　open。　Nathan　Lee　lay　down　his　bike。　He　lifted　his　eyes　and　the　paved　road　stretched　off　into　the　distance　and　went　around　a