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Extraordinary, thought Goodfellowe. Diplomat. Grandmother. And psychic. ‘May I speak personally?’
She nodded.
‘They’re barbaric, your Government’s policies on birth control. I understand the practice is often to inject the unborn foetus directly in the head to induce a miscarriage. Nothing short of barbaric. If I may speak personally.’
He had expected an animated response, but she remained collected. ‘I do not have to agree with all the acrobatics of my Government’s policies. Not here in my heart. Any more than you do, Mr Goodfellowe. But I hold my office with pride, and office brings with it responsibilities. But also certain … what is the word? Privileges. If one of those privileges is the opportunity to ensure I can have many grandchildren, don’t expect me to apologize or feel shame. Above all, my family comes first. Which is why I understand the sacrifice you have made.’ She turned the globe slowly. ‘I think we are much alike.’
‘Except there is a difference between us, or at least between our systems. We both wish to protect our families. In your system, that means you must retain your office. Yet in my system, it seems, I have to give up my office. A curious contrast.’
Her fingers began to drum in agitation, the sign of a chain-smoker denied her support. ‘I must go. My staff will be getting inquisitive. It does not do in these testing times to be out of step with one’s Government, or out of earshot of others. They become suspicious.’
‘I appreciate your staying on.’
She held out her hand. This time her grip was firm. ‘I hope we shall meet again.’
‘Me too.’
And with that she was gone.
Rain. Brutal. Belligerent. Yet the Dalai Lama left the car window open. He wanted the wind on his face, the same monsoon wind that, once it had poured its heart out on this side of the Himalayas, would climb into Tibet and quarrel its way around the dusty plains. For that reason he envied the wind. And blessed it. The wind spoke to him while he in turn whispered prayers that would be wrapped within its folds and carried all the way to his homeland, slipping clean through the outstretched fingers of the People’s Propaganda Unit.
The rain smothered the landscape in a relentless khaki shroud, turning the world to mud. Crops bent and were borne away, man and his beast stood miserable under dripping trees. The highway that had guided them away from the airport at Delhi was, ten hours later, little more than a track, and in some places not even that. Water rushed down the mountainside in great brown corkscrews, gouging and chafing at everything in its path. It was said in the state capital that at least a quarter of the road leading up into the hills from Kangra was waiting for repair; it was also said that the rest waited only for God.
The car wheels spun before finding their grip and climbing out of yet another pothole, and the Lama sighed wearily, comforting himself that after his long trip to Europe he would soon be home – or at least what passed for home in a life of exile. As the small convoy of cars with its Indian police escort began the last stretch of the journey, the drivers were tired, the road grew more tortuous and the cascade of floodwater swept ever more implacably across their path.
Trouble was inevitable, so they said. Afterwards.
Inevitable.
The Indian Army captain who conducted preliminary forensics at the scene was meticulous, and reported indications that some sort of explosion might have caused the landslide that carried away two of the cars.
His colonel, who was in charge of the investigation and up for promotion, emphasized in his own report that these traces of explosion were indistinct and inevitably ambiguous.
Meanwhile, the general in receipt of the colonel’s report weighed up the carefully worded ambiguities and found them wanting. He took advice on the matter, and as a consequence omitted all mention of explosives in the summary that was laid before the Cabinet.
The advice not to mention any explosion came from the Minister of Defence. His logic was clear. There was only one enemy of the Dalai Lama. China. But China was India’s powerful neighbour and not its enemy, not for the moment at least. And to rush into confrontation with China through uttering accusations they couldn’t support would be distinctly prejudicial, quite possibly to national security, most certainly to the accusers, be they military or Ministerial. Best say nothing, he had suggested. Not even a hint. Not until they were certain. Which, on the rain-soaked road leading up from Kangra, they never could be.
So, for want of an explanation, they simply termed the accident ‘inevitable’. An act of God. And in India they had gods galore on whom to lay the blame.
However, this explanation did not satisfy the Dalai Lama himself, who had an enquiring and almost scientific mind, and who in any event as an atheist did not believe in God.
It was common ground that there had been a landslide. It was also common ground that the landslide had tossed the car carrying his private secretary and interpreter sideways into a ravine two thousand feet deep. There was still more common ground that such a landslide could have been caused by the incessant rain, as the official report suggested.
But rain, no matter how heavy, couldn’t explain why the Lama’s own car was thrown not sideways, but backwards. Neither could rain explain the sharp stench of burning that filled his nostrils for days afterwards, nor the rock that was thrown with great force through the windscreen, striking him high on the right-hand side of his face. And rain would never explain the extraordinary blue-white light that filled his head as a result, blazing with an intensity of a kind he had never experienced before.
And, when the light had finally flickered and died, would never experience again.
The rock had damaged the optic nerve. He was blind.
But what is blindness to a man who had spent a lifetime, indeed a whole succession of lifetimes, seeing beyond this world? At least, that is what the Dalai Lama told those who tried to commiserate with him. He could accept his blindness.
But what he could never accept was that he had now become a target, and as a result of being a target he had become a threat to the lives of all those around him. His own death was something his religion required him to contemplate daily and which he had never feared. Death was an achievement, in its own time. But killing, the taking of life, was as repulsive and as abominable as any act he could imagine. And now his very existence threatened to inflict precisely that on those who were closest to him.
The darkness that fell across his life as a result made blindness the lightest of his burdens.
TWO (#u02416df2-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Defunct Ministers generate surprising attributes. Such as becoming invisible. The female lobbyist who only a few weeks before had pestered him to the point of exhaustion now passed him in the crush of Parliament Street without even a fleeting sign of recognition, let alone remorse. Goodfellowe had also developed what appeared to be a case of infectious incontinence. Although he noticed no change in his own personal habits, he had become aware of the large number of people who in his presence seemed suddenly to find the need to rush away. This was particularly so in the case of the Whip who informed him that, as he was no longer a Minister, he would have to hand over possession of his large office in the House of Commons and move immediately to less salubrious surroundings. At least the Whip had the decency to appear embarrassed before rushing off. Well, perhaps it was his prostate, thought Goodfellowe kindly. But there were no kind thoughts for Maurice who, to the end, to the very end, remained the complete uncivil servant. As a final gesture Maurice had taken great delight in handing him a small plastic bag that contained all the mementoes Goodfellowe would never have wished to see again. The name card from his Ministerial door. An ashtray from some banana republic engraved with the image of its fat-jowelled president-for-life. Even a half-eaten tube of mints wrapped in a packet of tissues that had been found hiding down the back seat of his Ministerial car. Or rather, his ex-Ministerial car.
Yet perhaps the most distressing circumstance was that concerning his House of Commons secretary, Veronica, a single lady in her early forties who had been a model of efficiency, ambition and detachment. In this instance it was the second quality of ambition that led to the third, detachment, for she basked in the reflected glory of her employers and had no time for lingering in shadows. Within a month of his resignation Veronica had followed suit and thrown in her Tippex. But her prime quality of efficiency was never to be doubted; she had already found alternative employment with a Cabinet Minister.
So it had fallen to Goodfellowe to find a replacement secretary, not the easiest of tasks in the middle of a parliamentary session. They told him he would have to look outside the system and indeed he had, interviewing a succession of spinsters and matrons whom he had found to be ‘just right for the job’ – like Veronica. Yet he was still getting used to the role of the Invisible Man; he was lonely, at times despondent, in need of … well, doing something different for a change. Something unexpected. Unpredictable. Then in walked Mickey Ross. Quite literally.
He had been in the Central Lobby one afternoon chatting to Gladstone. Gladstone was a tramp. He slept in the doorway of a gentleman’s tailor in the Strand and frequently came to the Central Lobby to exercise his democratic right to comfort and a little companionship. He’d become something of a celebrity fixture. Although he was homeless he managed to dress himself in an orderly fashion and possessed a wit as polished as his shoes were scuffed. No one knew his real name but he held court at the foot of the statue of the great nineteenth-century Prime Minister and night stalker, after whom he was affectionately known. One ‘senior backbencher’ – the parliamentary term usually reserved for someone who had achieved very little and had stretched it over a great period of time – had once indulged in the folly of seeking Gladstone’s removal from his place of comfort. A waspish article in that day’s Evening Standard had ensured the request was hastily withdrawn and Gladstone informally offered tenure of the end of his leather bench. And Goodfellowe rather enjoyed his company, for the tramp was a great observer of people and life. It was while they were chatting away contrasting the qualities of Bulgarian Riesling and surgical spirit that he felt a hand on his sleeve.
‘Excuse me. Do you work here?’ It was a young woman, handsome and earnest.
‘I suppose I do.’
‘It’s just that I’m looking for a job. Don’t know if there’s any going, do you?’
He stared hard. She had a raw energy and an almost combative presence that he found immensely appealing. And a touch of East End in her elocution. No nonsense.
‘What sort of job?’
‘Secretary, I guess. Or personal assistant. I’ve got GCSEs.’
‘Happens I might know someone. Care to talk about it over a drink?’
‘Champagne?’
‘No, only tea, I’m afraid.’
‘Then you’re on. My mother told me never to drink champagne with a man until you know his name.’
‘Tom Goodfellowe,’ he offered.
‘I’m sure you are,’ she replied, holding out her hand. ‘Mickey Ross.’
And he had taken her down to the Terrace of the House of Commons, which overlooks the Thames. There was a gentle breeze and the sun played on the bow waves of the tugs and pleasure cruisers that plied back and forth. It also shone on her hair, auburn, which had been brushed to perfection. She was meticulous about her appearance. Women with large breasts such as hers could sometimes look so untidy, but every part of Mickey Ross looked as though it knew what it was about.
‘As it happens, I’m looking for a secretary.’
‘Who are you then, Tom?’
‘The Member of Parliament for Marshwood.’
‘Whoops. Never figured it, not with you talking to that tramp.’
‘That is not a tramp, that is Gladstone.’
‘Gladstone was a randy old sod who spent his days making great moral statements while he spent his evenings wandering around the streets of London picking up women of doubtful virtue. I’ve always wondered if that’s why he didn’t manage to get the relief column to Khartoum in time to rescue General Gordon. You know: too many distractions.’
He bowed his head in deference. ‘You are remarkably well informed.’
‘As I said, I’ve got my GCSEs.’
He chuckled in admiration. Several Members who passed by took note, staring just a little too long. A Whip frowned and raised an eyebrow, rather like a warning flag on a beach. Treacherous Bathing. Do Not Enter These Waters. He was right, of course. She was far too young, lacking in the long years of experience that would allow her to dominate the job. And she was also far, far too obviously feminine for Goodfellowe’s comfort. And Jewish. He had made a mistake.
‘This can be rather a dull job at times,’ Goodfellowe suggested, deciding he should let her down gently.
‘It would be different. I might be willing to give it a go.’
‘A lot of dusty procedure.’
‘That’s no problem. I work extremely hard.’ She smiled, two large dimples appearing on her cheeks. ‘And I pick things up easily.’
Her eyes held a glint of dark mischief which Goodfellowe decided could so easily turn to mayhem. He concentrated on his tea.
‘But why do you want to work in Westminster?’
She paused, considering her reply. ‘I could tell you of my fascination with politics, my respect for the great institutions of state. Or do you want the truth?’
‘This is the House of Commons. But let’s start with the truth.’
‘A bet. I did it for a bet.’
‘You what?’
‘I was bored with my old job in the City. And my boss and I fell out. We had very different ideas about holiday entitlement. He seemed to think he was entitled to take me on his holidays, or at least his weekends away.’
‘You disapprove of such goings-on?’ Goodfellowe nodded in rather avuncular fashion, then despised himself. He knew he’d like nothing better.
‘To Grimsby, sure I do. If he wants the seaside, what’s wrong with Venice? Anyway, it was time for a change. I was at a hen night. A girlfriend bet me I couldn’t get a job in the Palace. I think she meant Buckingham Palace, but I couldn’t work in a place filled with all that museum furniture. And far too many divorced men. So I decided to try the Palace of Westminster.’
‘Doesn’t sound like high motivation, Miss Ross.’ He found himself sounding pompous.
She retaliated. ‘I thought of joining the Army. You know, all that foreign travel. But have you seen the footwear?’ She studied her hands. ‘And what would it do to my manicure?’
‘Sorry. I get the message.’
‘Seriously, I’m twenty-two. I’m not sure what I want to do. Whatever I do is going to be a leap into the unknown. What matters to me is the people I take that leap with. Whether we’re right for each other.’
‘A fair point. You ought to know that my personal circumstances aren’t easy. I’m not flavour of the month. I’ve just resigned from the Government. My family life is difficult, intrusive.’ He sighed. He really must dissuade her. What the hell, he knew he was trying to dissuade himself. She couldn’t possibly work out. This isn’t the most glamorous post in Parliament.’
‘Now I remember. You’re that Goodfellowe. The one who resigned because of his family. I read about you. I admire what you’ve done. Is it all right to say that?’
This was impossible, he decided. Ankles and admiration. He was hiding in his tea again; she resolved to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Anyway, I’m not certain I want the job yet. I need more information about the perks and conditions. Do I get Jewish holidays and my mother’s birthday off? Is there a Face Lift Fund?’
‘A what?’
‘A Face Lift Fund. Insurance. Like a pension plan. A girl’s got to look ahead, Mr Goodfellowe.’
Goodfellowe began wriggling, trying to suppress the laughter, and failed. The Whip turned to stare from his nearby table, the flag hoisted and warning of storms, damn him. It had been such a long time since Goodfellowe had laughed.
He wiped an eye. ‘I needed that. Cheering up.’
‘Hey, then I’m your girl.’
He took a deep breath, felt a touch of vertigo, then dived in. ‘You know, Miss Ross, I think perhaps you are.’
* * *
The mouth of the cave was well concealed. Although the boy thought he knew every boulder and crevice on this side of the mountain, he hadn’t discovered this cave before, and wouldn’t have discovered it now had it not been for the curious old monk. Every day at dawn for almost two weeks Lobsang had watched the monk make his solitary way up the path to the point beyond the shrivelled fir, disappearing behind the great temple-sized slab of granite, from where he didn’t return until last light. Lobsang was rather afraid of this monk with the strange, twisted hands and sad face, who seemed to know more about Lobsang’s playground than the boy did himself, but he was of an age when in the end curiosity inevitably overcame caution. Today Lobsang had followed.
Behind the temple-boulder he discovered a narrow fissure that formed a path of loose rock and slippery lichens. Step by uncertain step, the pathway led him up to a point overlooking the Kangra Valley, from where he could see out to the endless plains of India, a view of mists and soaring snow eagles. Even for young eyes accustomed to such sights, this was special. Beneath him, nestling in forests of sugar pine and oak, was McLeod Ganj and beyond, on top of a ridge, stood the low roofs of Namgyal Monastery. Lobsang had unsound views about the monastery. It was said that when he finished his next year at school he might join his brother there as a novice monk. A great blessing, his grandmother had said, but to Lobsang it seemed a blessing of a particularly well-hidden kind. It would mean rising at four thirty every morning to sit on the cold floor of the memorizing class in order to drum into his brain the texts and scriptures that bound together a monk’s world. And the food, although plentiful, was dull. He had decided – though he hadn’t yet told his grandmother – that he’d rather go to Switzerland and become a banker, like his cousin Trijang. There he could earn enough money to support a hundred monks. Or maybe he would go to America and become an astronaut.
Next to the monastery, almost hidden behind a screen of fruit trees and rhododendron bushes, he could see the low, single-storey residence where the Dalai Lama lived. Every year since he had been born, Lobsang had been taken by his parents to the courtyard outside the monastery to line up with the thousands of others who crammed into the tiny space in order to receive the Lama’s blessing. As the Lama passed by his parents always cried; Lobsang didn’t understand why. But afterwards there would always be a special meal with honey sweets and puppet dancing and stories about life in old Tibet. Lobsang always looked forward to the sweets.
As the boy climbed he could see the monk sitting outside the mouth of the cave, staring into its depths and mouthing silent mantras. Between the crooked fingers of his hands was stretched a string of beads which he manipulated with difficulty, counting off his prayers one by one. Lobsang crept closer. Flat stones had been placed at the entrance to the cave on which flickered butter candles; beside them was an offering of fruit. A holy place, evidently. The air was still, like fresh crystals of ice, and silent. No birds here, no rustling of breeze and leaves. It was as though Nature itself was waiting. But waiting for what?
Lobsang drew closer still, anxious, intruding. He could see something in the dark recesses, but what type of thing he couldn’t quite make out – some figure, some form, almost like a … As he stretched to see his foot found loose scree and he slipped, sending a cascade of stones quarrelling down the mountainside. The monk turned.
His face was almost completely round, wrinkled and carved with time like a bodhi seed. The skull was scraped to the point of being hairless. Lobsang’s first impression was that the monk was as old as Life itself, yet the ears were large and pointed, giving him the appearance of a mischievous sprite. And the eyes brimmed with curiosity. Perhaps he wasn’t as ancient as Lobsang had first thought; the body, like the hands, seemed bowed by adversity as much as by age. The hands were now clasped uneasily together for support and were beckoning.
‘Come, my little friend. Share some fruit. I’m sure the spirits can spare a few mouthfuls.’
Kunga Tashi held out a pomegranate from the offering bowl and Lobsang, more than a little nervous, stepped forward.
‘So you have found my secret place,’ the old monk offered in congratulation, and Lobsang nodded, biting greedily into the sweet-sour flesh of the fruit. The juice dribbled down his chin which he wiped with the back of his hand. Then he froze. He could see it now, in the shadow at the back of the cave. A man, bare-chested, sitting in the lotus position in the manner of a meditating monk. The eyes were closed. Not the smallest sign of movement, not the flicker of an eyelid, not even the shallowest of breaths. It was as though the figure had become part of the rock itself.
‘It is His Holiness,’ Kunga said. ‘The Dalai Lama.’
‘He’s lost his glasses.’
Kunga smiled sadly. ‘He doesn’t need them any more.’
‘Is he meditating?’ Lobsang whispered.
‘No. He is preparing to die.’
Everything was impermanence, of course. Particularly here, in this place, McLeod Ganj, in the mountains just above Dharamsala. The last time Kunga had been here was more than twenty years ago, when it had been little more than a tiny frontier post, a remnant of the British Raj squeezed into that mountainous part of northern India that lay between Kashmir and Tibet. In those days it had been almost unwanted, a sleepy collection of tin huts and a few crumbling masonry buildings that had somehow survived the great earthquake; now it seemed to him that the old village had disappeared beneath a flood of refugees that had turned every piece of pavement into a private emporium. The narrow, muddy streets bustled and sang. Here it seemed you could buy or sell almost anything.
Its crowded central square was awash with the colours of Pathan, of Tibetan, Hindu, holy men and hippie, Kashmiri and Sikh. And, of course, the claret-robed Buddhist monks. A confusion of cultures – which made it an excellent place for him to hide. For when they had summoned him they had told Kunga that he must hide. There was danger here, great danger, and not just for the monk.
They had brought him from his monastery in Tibet in the greatest secrecy. In normal circumstances such trips out of Tibet were difficult and frequently dangerous, the Chinese authorities suspicious of the activities of all monks and particularly those who held senior positions, as Kunga once had. But there was an advantage in being crippled, an anonymity that blinded officialdom and had eased his way through checkpoints and border crossings. He had only to stretch out his withered hands, like the claws of the Devil, and they would retreat in revulsion and confusion, never meeting his eyes. So he had arrived in McLeod Ganj, as he had been instructed, unseen and unannounced.
