cc.goldenbuddha-第3部分

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　Karpo　Pass；　the　border　with　India；　was　less　than　a　day's　ride。　
　And　then　it　began　to　snow。　A　blizzard　with　howling　winds　and　low　clouds　hunkered　down　over　Mangmang；　the　last　Tibetan　town　before　the　Indian　border。　The　Dalai　Lama；　already　exhausted　by　the　journey　and　stressed　by　the　knowledge　that　many　of　his　countrymen　lay　dead　and　dying；　took　ill。　His　last　night　in　his　country　was　torment。　
　To　ease　his　journey；　he　was　placed　on　the　back　of　an　animal　called　a　dzomo；　which　was　a　cross　between　a　yak　and　a　horse。　As　the　dzomo　climbed　the　side　of　Karpo　Pass；　the　Dalai　Lama　paused　to　glance　at　his　beloved　Tibetan　soil　one　last　time。　
　Overholt　pulled　closer　on　his　horse。　He　waited　until　the　Dalai　Lama　glanced　his　way。　〃My　country　never　forgets；〃　he　said；　〃and　someday　we　will　bring　you　back　home。〃　
　The　Dalai　Lama　nodded；　then　patted　the　dzomo's　neck　and　steered　it　into　exile。　To　the　rear　of　the　column；　the　monk　pulling　the　cart　containing　the　priceless　artifact　braced　his　legs　as　he　crested　the　pass　and　started　down　the　grade。　The　six…hundred…pound　weight；　so　heavy　on　the　climb　up　the　pass；　now　wanted　to　run　free。　He　dug　in　his　heels。　
　
　THE　PRESENT　DAY　
　EIGHT　IN　THE　evening。　From　out　of　the　south；　like　a　dark　insect　crawling　over　a　wrinkled　blue　tablecloth；　a　tired　old　cargo　ship　pushed　her　way　through　the　Caribbean　swells　toward　the　entrance　of　Santiago　Harbor　on　the　isle　of　Cuba。　The　exhaust　from　her　single　funnel　drifted　in　a　blue　haze　under　an　easterly　breeze　as　the　sun　settled　below　the　western　horizon　and　became　a　ponderous　orange　ball　magnified　by　the　earth's　atmosphere。　
　She　was　one　of　the　last　tramp　steamers；　a　cargo　ship　that　traveled　the　sea　anonymously　to　the　exotic　and　far…flung　ports　of　the　world。　There　were　few　left　in　operation。　They　did　not　follow　a　regular　shipping　route。　Their　schedules　depended　on　the　demands　of　their　cargo　and　its　owners；　so　their　destinations　changed　from　port　to　port。　They　coasted　in；　unloaded　their　freight　and　sailed　away　like　wraiths　in　the　night。　
　Two　miles　from　shore；　a　small　boat　slapped　over　the　rolling　sea；　approached　the　ship　and　swung　around　on　a　parallel　course。　The　pilot　closed　on　the　rust…streaked　hull　as　a　boarding　ladder　was　thrown　down　from　an　open　hatch。　
　The　pilot；　a　man　in　his　fifties　with　brown　skin　and　thick　gray　hair；　stared　up　at　the　ancient　ship。　Her　black　paint　was　faded　and　badly　needed　to　be　chipped　away　and　repainted。　Streams　of　rust　flowed　from　every　opening　in　the　hull。　The　huge　anchor；　pulled　tightly　in　its　hawse…hole；　was　pletely　covered　by　corrosion。　The　pilot　read　the　letters；　barely　discernible　on　the　upper　bow。　The　weary　old　freighter　was　named　Oregon。　
　Jesus　Morales　shook　his　head　in　amazement。　It　was　a　miracle　the　ship　hadn't　been　scrapped　twenty　years　ago；　he　mused。　She　looked　more　like　a　derelict　than　a　cargo　carrier　still　in　service。　He　wondered　if　the　party　bureaucrats　in　the　Ministry　of　Transportation　had　any　idea　of　the　condition　of　the　ship　they　had　contracted　to　bring　in　a　cargo　of　chemical　fertilizer　for　the　sugar　and　tobacco　fields。　He　could　not　believe　the　ship　had　passed　maritime　insurance　inspection。　
　As　the　ship　slowed　almost　to　a　dead　stop；　Morales　stood　at　the　railing　and　the　pilot　boat's　bumpers　squeezed　against　the　freighter's　hull。　Timing　the　crest　of　a　wave　as　it　lifted　the　boat；　Morales　leaped　agilely　from　the　wet　deck　onto　the　boarding　ladder　and　climbed　to　the　hatch。　It　was　a　function　he　performed　as　often　as　ten　times　a　day。　A　pair　of　crewmen　were　waiting　beside　the　hatch　and　helped　him　up　on　the　deck。　The　two　were　both　burly…looking　individuals；　and　they　did　not　bother　to　smile　in　greeting。　One　simply　pointed　toward　the　ladder　leading　to　the　bridge。　Then　they　turned　and　left　Morales　standing　alone　on　the　deck。　Watching　them　walk　away；　Morales　hoped　that　he'd　never　have　to　meet　them　in　a　dark　alley。　
　He　paused　before　climbing　the　ladder　and　took　a　few　moments　to　study　the　upper　works　of　the　ship。　
　From　his　long　experience　and　knowledge　of　ships；　he　judged　her　length　at　560　feet；　with　a　75…foot　beam。　Probably　a　gross　tonnage　　around　11；000。　Five　derricks；　two　behind　the　funnel　and　superstructure　and　three　on　the　forward　deck；　stood　waiting　to　unload　her　cargo。　He　counted　six　holds　with　twelve　hatches。　In　her　prime；　she　would　have　been　classed　as　an　express　cargo　liner。　He　guessed　that　she　had　been　built　and　launched　in　the　early　1960s。　The　flag　on　her　stern　was　Iranian。　Not　a　registry　Morales　had　seen　very　often。　
　If　the　Oregon　looked　shabby　from　the　waterline；　she　looked　downright　squalid　from　her　main　deck。　Rust　covered　every　piece　of　deck　machinery　from　winches　to　chains；　but　the　hardware　at　least　appeared　to　be　in　usable　condition。　By　parison；　the　derricks　looked　as　if　they　hadn't　been　operated　in　years。　
　To　add　further　insult；　battered　drums；　tools　and　what　could　only　be　described　as　junked　equipment　were　scattered　around　the　decks。　In　all　his　years　as　a　harbor　pilot；　Morales　had　never　seen　a　ship　in　such　filthy　condition。　
　He　climbed　the　ladder　steps　leading　to　the　bridge；　past　bulkheads　with　flaking　paint　and　portholes　whose　lenses　were　cracked　and　yellowed。　Then　he　paused　before　finally　swinging　the　door　open。　The　interior　of　the　vessel　was　as　bad；　if　not　worse。　The　wheelhouse　was　dirty；　with　the　scars　of　cigarette　burns　on　the　counters　and　on　what　had　once　been　a　polished　teak　deck。　Dead　flies　littered　the　windowsills；　the　smell　assaulted　his　nose。　And　then　there　was　the　captain。　
　Morales　was　greeted　by　a　great　slob　of　a　man　with　an　immense　stomach　that　sagged　over　his　belt　line。　The　face　was　scarred；　and　the　nose　so　badly　broken　it　slanted　toward　the　left　cheek。　The　thick　black　hair　was　plastered　back　with　some　kind　of　greasy　cream　and　his　beard　was　scruffy　and　stringy。　The　captain　was　a　cacophony　of　colors。　His　eyes　were　red　and　his　teeth　yellow…brown；　while　his　arms　were　covered　with　blue　tattoos。　A　grimy　yachtsman's　cap　sat　perched　on　the　back　of　his　head　and　he　wore　dingy　coveralls。　The　tropical　heat　and　the　humidity　on　the　non…air…conditioned　bridge　made　it　obvious　to　Morales　that　the　man　had　not　bathed　for　at　least　a　month。　Any　dog　worth　his　salt　would　have　tried　to　bury　the　man。　
　He　extended　a　sweaty　hand　to　Morales　and　spoke　in　English。　〃Glad　to　see　you。　I'm　Captain　Jed　Smith。〃　
　〃Jesus　Morales。　Pilot　for　the　Harbor　Office　of　Santiago。〃　Morales　felt　unfortable。　Smith　spoke　English　with　an　American　accentnot　what　he'd　expected　on　a　ship　of　Iranian　registry。　
　Smith　handed　him　a　packet　of　papers。　〃Here's　our　registration　and　cargo　manifest。〃　
　Morales　merely　cast　a　brief　glance　at　the　documents。　Officials　on　the　docks　would　study　them　more　closely。　His　only　concern　was　that　the　ship　had　permission　to　enter　the　port。　He　handed　back　the　packet　and　said；　〃Shall　we　proceed？〃　
　Smith　waved　a　hand　toward　a　wooden　helm　that　somehow　seemed　terribly　old…fashioned　for　a　ship　built　in　the　sixties。　〃She's　all　yours；　Senor　Morales。　What　dock　do　you　want　us　to　moor　at？〃　
　〃There　are　no　docks　available　until　Thursday。　You　will　have　to　anchor　in　the　middle　of　the　harbor　until　then。〃　
　〃That's　four　days　from　now。　We　have　a　schedule　to　meet。　We　can't　sit　around　for　four　days　waiting　to　unload　our　cargo。〃　
　Morales　shrugged。　〃I　have　no　control　over　the　harbormaster。　Besides；　the　docks　are　full　with　ships　unloading　new　farm　machinery　and　automobiles；　now　that　the　embargo　has　been　lifted。　These　have　priority　over　your　cargo。〃　
　Smith　threw　up　his　hands。　〃All　right。　I　guess　it's　not　the　first　time　we　had　to　twiddle　our　thumbs　waiting　to　unload。〃　He　gave　a　broad；　rotten…toothed　grin。　〃I　guess　me　and　my　crew　will　just　have　to　e　ashore　and　make　friends　with　your　Cuban　women。〃　
　The　thought　made　Morales's　skin　crawl。　Without　further　conversation；　he　stepped　over　to　the　helm　as　Smith　called　the　engine　room　and　ordered　half　speed。　The　pilot　felt　the　engine's　vibrations　through　the　deck　as　the　tired　old　ship　began　to　make　way　again；　and　he　aimed　her　bow　toward　the　narrow　entrance　of　Santiago　Harbor；　which　was　bordered　by　high　bluffs　that　rose　from　the　sea。　
　From　offshore；　the　channel　that　led　inside　to　the　bellows…shaped　harbor　was　invisible　until　a　ship　was　nearly　on　top　of　it。