The Buddha of Brewer Street. Michael Dobbs

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СКАЧАТЬ And also his friend.’

      ‘But he looks so … alive,’ Lobsang exclaimed. He knew that death was corruption, rotten flesh, decay. Yet the Dalai Lama looked as if he were simply asleep.

      ‘Great Lamas don’t die like the rest. They pass on. Their spirit leaves their body so gently that the body barely notices. So it doesn’t decay, not for a long time.’

      Lobsang was gripping the monk’s hand for comfort, too distressed to notice that it was little more than a formless mass of bone and skin.

      ‘Remember that in death there is always new life. And new hope. The spirit is reborn in a new body,’ Kunga encouraged – just as the Dalai Lama had encouraged them, the three he had gathered together. He had explained his purpose the following day as they sat in his garden, a garden that he himself had planned and planted, a place where they could be overheard only by the birds and the Lama’s favourite cats.

      ‘My task is simple, my friends. To die. There is nothing simpler. But your task will be far more hazardous. Your task is to live. If you can. To ensure that my rebirth is safeguarded, to seek out and protect my incarnation.’ His voice tightened in sadness, as though a screw were being turned within. ‘In that search you will encounter many dangers. And great pain. You may come to envy the peace with which I shall pass from this life.’

      The Searchers had argued with him, passionately, and with more than a little fear.

      ‘We want to serve you alive, not dead.’

      ‘Without you – we’re lost.’

      ‘And without you Tibet is lost!’

      ‘More than ever we need you …’

      Until at last he had grown exasperated. ‘No more! Enough!’ The Lama raised his voice, a rare event, his passion more than a match for theirs. The cats scattered in alarm.

      ‘Listen to me. For a thousand years in Tibet we hid behind the great walls of the Himalayas. Untouched – but also untouching.

      We guarded our truths selfishly, reluctant to share them. Yet look around. Our world has more wickedness than it has ever known. The people suffer. They need us.’

      ‘So does Tibet,’ Gompo responded defiantly.

      The Lama raised his hand and pointed beyond the mountains, his voice burning with emotion. ‘Our Tibet, that ancient homeland we loved, is no more. It is gone. Perhaps for all time.’

      He challenged them to deny it, but no one spoke. What was the point? Hope might spring eternal yet it had no more strength than a summer breeze. And the People’s Liberation Army wasn’t going to be blown away by a puff of wind.

      ‘We can’t go back, not to the way things were. But Tibet is more than just mountains and monasteries. It is a faith, a way of life.’

      ‘And of death?’

      ‘Think of our exile as an opportunity. A chance to send down new roots, to find new strength. And think of my death as a new beginning, not just for me but for all our people.’

      ‘A new beginning? For that we need an army!’

      ‘Perhaps there is another way. A way in which Chinese and Tibetan can be brought together, not in confrontation, but in reconciliation.’

      ‘Reconciliation? How?’ demanded Gompo, as ever sceptical.

      ‘Reconciliation … through reincarnation!’

      The Lama had laughed, a deep booming drum of hope. And cautiously the cats had begun to creep back …

      Now, as Kunga stared into the shadows of the cave, where the Dalai Lama had taken himself to meditate and to die, he struggled hard to recapture the Lama’s optimism. Beside him Lobsang began to shiver.

      ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Kunga encouraged, placing an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

      ‘It is the end.’ Lobsang’s voice was mournful.

      ‘It is also a beginning. The body is like a set of clothes. When it gets old, you discard it for a fresh one. That’s all he has done, decided to discard his body. But not the spirit. That lives on. And will find a new body.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘Soon.’

      ‘Where?’

      Kunga gave a low sigh. ‘Ah, now that is the mystery.’

      The light was fading fast, Kunga trimmed the butter lamps. The last of the gentle breeze had vanished with the light, the flames did not flicker. Everything was still.

      ‘It is almost over, I sense it. Time for you to go, little friend.’

      ‘I’d like to stay. Please? To help you.’ A quieter voice. ‘To help him.’

      And so they had settled for the night, Kunga sitting before the cave, and Lobsang close before him, wrapped in the monk’s thick robe, waiting for the Dalai Lama to die.

      Kunga had been determined to stay awake and vigilant, but he couldn’t help himself. He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. It was Lobsang who woke first.

      ‘He’s moved,’ the boy whispered, tugging at the monk’s robe.

      Kunga brushed the night from his eyes and stared. The sun was beginning to light the sky, deepening the shade within the cave, and for a moment his tired eyes struggled to adjust.

      ‘He has moved,’ Lobsang insisted. ‘That must mean he’s still alive, mustn’t it?’

      It is given to few in the world of Buddhist mysteries to know when the spirit has finally departed; Kunga was one of the few. He shook his head. ‘No. It is over. He is gone.’

      The Dalai Lama was dead.

      But the boy was right, the body had moved. In death the face had turned as though looking out across the world below. Towards the west. It was a sign.

      And Kunga felt a strange sensation in his hand. When his hands had been pulverized by the rifle butt of the Chinese soldier, a large fragment of the clay statue had buried itself deep into the flesh of his palm, leaving a vivid scar that had never fully healed. On the day the Lama had taken himself to his cave, the scar had begun to burn, the first sensation other than constant pain he had felt in forty years, a sensation that had grown more fierce with every passing day. Now it felt as though it was on fire. He rubbed the palm against his chest, but it burned still more fiercely. The outline of the scar had grown red, like a map drawn on the parchment of his skin. A map of what, he had no idea. But he knew it was another sign.

      The book and the black eye arrived in his office together, both being carried by Mickey.

      ‘What the hell have you been up to?’ Goodfellowe growled, seeing the mark that not even a copious sponging of Clinique concealer had been able to hide. Then, remembering his manners: ‘You all right?’

      ‘Just a little accident.’

      ‘Accident? СКАЧАТЬ