The Buddha of Brewer Street. Michael Dobbs

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СКАЧАТЬ the point. ‘Splendid,’ he suggested, but the eyes remained cold and untouched.

      ‘Bad as that, eh?’

      The drowning of Goodfellowe’s teenage son Stevie in a holiday accident seven months earlier had been the cause of genuine sympathy in Westminster. Colleagues could see the loneliness in Goodfellowe’s features; those who knew him better could also detect the flecks of guilt. And it had got no better.

      ‘How’s the family?’ Matthew enquired quietly.

      Matthew had driven Goodfellowe and his wife, Elinor, and their daughter Sam to the church, not just as a close work colleague but also as a friend. He had seen the bewilderment in young Sam’s eyes and noted with concern the vacant, almost detached look in Elinor’s, as though the funeral was merely another tedious official obligation that got in the way of all the private joys she would once again share with Stevie as soon as she returned home. When her longest day was over and at last she had walked back through her front door, past his new jacket that still hung on the rack and the polished boots that still waited for the new school term, she had taken herself to bed and hadn’t appeared for a week. Waiting.

      ‘I thought Elinor was getting a little better, but …’ Goodfellowe shrugged his shoulders. That’s what men do. Shrug. Never admit to pain. ‘And it’s tough on Samantha.’

      ‘It would be on any twelve-year-old. I’m very sorry, Tom.’

      ‘Thanks. But we’ll survive.’ Sure they would. At least, that’s what he’d thought. Though now he wasn’t quite so confident. Nor were Elinor’s doctors. There was talk of a nursing home.

      Matthew could sense the loneliness. ‘You fancy coming round for a curry one evening? Flo-Jo would love to see you.’ Matthew and Goodfellowe had shared many snatched meals during their time on the Ministerial tour together and Goodfellowe had taken a particular fancy to the food that Matthew’s wife always seemed able to produce at a moment’s notice. Green chicken curry was his favourite. With extra chilli and plenty of plump, sweet sultanas.

      Mind-blowing. Flo-Jo wasn’t her real name, but a pet name insisted on by Matthew. ‘From the first night I met her she’s never hung around,’ he once explained; ‘the fastest woman I’ve ever known.’ And Goodfellowe assumed he wasn’t referring simply to her cooking.

      ‘Be great. Love to.’ And meant it. But not tonight. He wasn’t in the mood to do justice to either the cooking or the company. Lucretia, bloody Lucretia, had offended his manhood, ignored him, and after painful months being denied proper female companionship such insults were especially wounding. He had to leave, before he began to find Lucretia – or someone like her – almost desirable and made a fool of himself. He glanced at his watch. ‘Got places to go.’

      Matthew knew this was a lie. He had his own copy of the Ministerial diary. ‘Then I’ll take you.’

      ‘No, old friend. I need some time on my own.’

      ‘Then as an old friend I’ve got to tell you that’s the last thing you need.’

      ‘It’s a big day tomorrow. I’ll see you then.’ And with that Goodfellowe left one of the few reliable friends he had ever found in politics.

      Goodfellowe decided to slip out quietly. He hadn’t met the guest of honour, and to leave without exchanging some form of greeting would unquestionably be regarded as rude. But the guest was besieged by admirers and Goodfellowe had had enough of crowds and impatient elbows for one evening. Anyway, an audience was included in Goodfellowe’s diary of official duties towards the end of the week – although by that time it would scarcely matter. Nothing seemed to matter very much any more.

      He edged his way around the mass of people to the point where he was passing directly beneath the Second Earl of Cholmondeley (or at least his portrait) when his way was abruptly barred by a man clad in a wine-red shawl, right arm bare to the shoulder and holding his hands together and upright in the traditional Buddhist form of greeting.

      It was the Dalai Lama.

      Suddenly the room no longer seemed so crowded, so claustrophobic. Others had drawn back a pace, leaving Goodfellowe to effect his own introduction. ‘Thomas Goodfellowe,’ the politician offered.

      The Lama laughed, a resonant noise like drums being beaten deep within his breast, and behind his glasses the eyes puckered in humour. ‘Of course you are. Goodfellowe. Goodfellowe!’ The name seemed to cause him considerable mirth and he swiped at the name like a benevolent cat might play with a mouse. The Dalai Lama, exiled leader of the distant Buddhist kingdom of Tibet, advanced and took both of the Minister’s hands eagerly in his own, as if he were greeting a long-lost friend. He continued to chuckle and smile, nodding a head that was scraped almost hairless in monastic style. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Thomas Goodfellowe.’ The mouth and ears were small, the brown skin weathered by exposure to elements and adversity, the glasses prominent; all the features led Goodfellowe’s attention to the Lama’s eyes, which sparkled and danced, like small crescents of the moon. Some aspect of those eyes, some attribute hidden deep away, seemed somehow familiar, like an elusive memory.

      ‘I am a considerable admirer of your country,’ Goodfellowe offered, since the Lama showed no indication of wanting to lead the conversation. ‘At home I have a beautiful bronze Buddha’s head.’ He’d picked it up on impulse one Saturday morning a few years ago, from Ormonde’s in the Portobello Road, a piece whose serenity had captivated him. ‘Sadly, I suspect, torn from one of your temples.’

      ‘Everything of value has been torn from our temples, Thomas Goodfellowe.’

      ‘I am sorry,’ Goodfellowe offered, taking the Lama’s comment as a rebuke.

      But the deep bass drums within the Lama’s chest began to resound with laughter once again. ‘Better you have it and appreciate it, than it lie unnoticed beneath the boots of the Chinese Army. Indeed, perhaps that is the true task of the People’s Liberation Army. To make sure that the message and beauty of Tibetan Buddhism will be spread throughout the world.’ His arm waved expansively. ‘Like bees spreading pollen.’

      ‘I suppose so,’ Goodfellowe responded cautiously, finding the analogy uncomfortable.

      The Lama laid a hand upon Goodfellowe’s shoulder. The gesture brought them still closer together but Goodfellowe felt none of the typical English diffidence at the unexpected intimacy; somehow it felt entirely natural. ‘At last our paths cross. In this life,’ the Lama offered.

      At least, that’s what Goodfellowe thought he heard him say. Our paths cross. In this life. With the punctuation between the two thoughts definitive and deliberate. As though their paths might have crossed before.

      ‘“In this life”?’ Goodfellowe enquired.

      ‘We Buddhists believe in many lives.’ The voice was remarkably resonant; it seemed to spend an exceptionally long time travelling through the passages of the skull, giving it an unusual and deep timbre.

      ‘And you believe … we may have met before?’ Goodfellowe asked incredulously. ‘In a previous life?’

      ‘Who is to know?’ the Lama responded. ‘But the past is no more than a signpost on our way. It is the future that must concern us, Thomas Goodfellowe. You will be important to our future, I think.’

      ‘Me?’

      Someone was at the Lama’s СКАЧАТЬ