The Buddha of Brewer Street. Michael Dobbs

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      Even as the secretaries fluttered at the prospect of Bognor, Mo felt sick with frustration. And his sickness grew. One day he had been permitted (after first reporting to Security) to walk to the Chinese pharmacy in Shaftesbury Avenue so that he might pick up some herbs for the Ambassador. Just down from the pharmacy he had found a young man and his dog, wrapped in a blanket in a doorway. A beggar in the midst of plenty. Proof before his eyes of the Western disease. Except that in his bowl the young man and his dog had made more money in a morning than Mo could spare in a week. A Chinese diplomat, yet he couldn’t even look an English beggar in the eye.

      It could have been worse, of course. Mo was already on the ladder of privilege which, as he climbed, would eventually bring him advantage and reward. Yes, eventually. He’d just decided it would make sense to short-circuit the system a little. To grab some of the benefits before he was too old to enjoy them. Certainly before he was as old as Madame Lin. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. So he said nothing, simply returning her stare defiantly. Why should he incriminate himself? But in spite of his silence, she knew.

      ‘I see. You had touched forbidden fruit and decided to taste it for yourself.’

      ‘What do you propose to do?’

      ‘The rules say I should send you back to Beijing.’

      He flinched. ‘Where the People’s Republic will show its gratitude by taking me to a football stadium, placing me on my knees in front of the crowd and blowing my brains out through my ears.’

      ‘You have broken the rules.’

      ‘As did your predecessor,’ he protested with vehemence. ‘But I doubt that he will be kneeling beside me. There are privileges that accompany rank, even in the People’s Republic.’

      ‘Perhaps particularly in the People’s Republic.’

      Mo started. The prospect of being done to death permitted a measure of cynicism. But he hadn’t expected Madame Lin to reciprocate.

      ‘Simply because I am an Ambassador does not make me blind, Mo. And simply because I am old does not make me forget.’

      ‘Forget what?’

      ‘That I too was once young. A Red Guard. We shot people too, during the terror of the Cultural Revolution. We shot people who had done much less than you. Some who had done nothing at all. We made mistakes far worse than yours.’ She paused. ‘There has been too much shooting.’

      His heart stuttered in hope and disbelief. An old woman, an old revolutionary, come to repentance? ‘What do you intend to do with me?’

      ‘Mo, you are no older than my own daughter. You are a fool in some matters, like politics. But you are adventurous. And adaptable. Such qualities will be necessary in the difficult times ahead.’

      ‘So … what do you intend?’ he repeated.

      She left him hanging for a few pain-filled moments, like a fish impaled on a hook. ‘I intend that you should notice the gap on my mantelpiece, Mo. Where there should be something very old.’ She reeled him in. ‘Perhaps your cousin can fill it for me.’

      They came together to remember him in many corners of the globe. Particularly in Tibet, before the baton charges and electric prods of the People’s Armed Police forced them to flee. Around the world they gathered in small groups, and in vast crowds, the high and the humble, monarchs and those who were merely mortal, to give thanks for the life of Tenzin Gyatso, the fourteenth Dalai Lama.

      On the mountainside in McLeod Ganj, in front of the steps that led to the temple of the Naingyal Monastery, they built a great brass chorten, a tomb which they covered in gold leaf and decorated with many precious stones. And above it they built a canopy of blue, yellow, white, red and green, the symbolic colours of the sky, the earth, water, fire and air. And the body of the Dalai Lama was taken from its cave and prepared by embalmers in the ancient tradition, washing the eviscerated body in milk and rubbing it with salt. The face and hands were also covered in gold leaf and the body, wrapped in brocade robes, was placed in its position of meditation within the chorten.

      A small window was left in the side of the chorten so that the body might never leave his followers’ sight.

      The monks, led by the abbot of Namgyal, began to chant the protector rights, praying that his teachings might be preserved and the body might be safeguarded, and also that the reincarnation would be swift. The national flag of Tibet that in normal times flew above the monastery was hauled down and would not be raised again until many weeks of mourning were complete.

      And when gifts had been bestowed upon those monks and craftsmen who had laboured to build the chorten, the ordinary people came to offer their own prayers and tears, and to make prostrations, giving thanks for his life and many works. And across his empty throne they placed a mountain of white prayer scarves.

      Then they waited for his return.

       THREE

      More than three years had passed since the death of the Lama. Years of emptiness and anticipation for those who were waiting in the hope, or in the fear, that he would come again.

      It was spring. Violent. Unpredictable. The ageing sash windows were locked against the dampness but as always they leaked and rattled. All winter long she had nagged her husband to fix them, concerned that the chill winds would get into the child’s chest. To no avail; he was always so busy. By the time the task had grabbed his attention it would be high summer. ‘There, I told you not to bother,’ he would say, looking up from his tea and laughing at her. ‘I was born in a mud hut up a mountain and you go on about a few draughts. The child needs a bit of fresh air. You worry too much.’ In less defensive moments he had promised that one day they would move into a larger place where she could have room not only for herself but maybe even for another baby, somewhere away from the noise and the traffic. One day, he promised, but for the moment she must be content. The laundry business on the ground floor was still no better than struggling, not a time yet for taking great leaps. She was impatient, at times angry. This was not a part of town to set up a family, and in her opinion it was scarcely a part of town to set up a cleaning business either, not with the condition of some of the clothes and bed linen that were brought in. Only this morning she had repaired one of Sophie’s costumes. It had clearly been slashed with a razor. Yet Sophie had merely given her that bold, brash, sad smile of hers and made some excuse about another day, another downer. Do your best, Sophie had asked, and she had done, but the best in this place, like the windows, was never good enough.

      She should have fixed the windows herself. Never too late. It only needed a few twists of paper to be forced into the gaps. So she found a roll of brown wrapping paper in the back of the cupboard and began cutting it into pieces. ‘Paper. Paper,’ she said to the child, encouraging him to repeat the sound, but as yet he had shown no inclination to talk, even at two years of age. He preferred to sit and watch her, as he was doing now, his eyes bright and aware, and exceptionally dark, even for an Oriental. ‘Paper, paper,’ she repeated, but he merely chuckled and tried to bite the head off his Teletubby.

      ‘You’re stubborn. You get that from your father,’ she chided, opening the window. From the narrow street below came the clatter of the open-air market. Customers complaining. Car horns blaring. Traders tossing argument and optimism back and forth to get themselves through their long days.

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