The Buddha of Brewer Street

by Michael Dobbs

  Goodfellowe nodded indulgently. ‘I shall accept your advice in everything, Mr Chou. Including the prawns.’ Chou looked relieved. ‘But if I were Chinese, with bad friends, I could get help in Chinatown?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘A lot of help? An entire army, perhaps?’

  The answer dribbled out slowly. ‘May-be.’

  Oh, no, concluded Goodfellowe, no maybe about it. For sure. And someone had done it. Got themselves an entire private army roaming the country looking for one small boy.

  ‘I hadn’t realized there were so many – how can I put it? – possibilities in Chinatown.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand Chinese in Britain. Plenty possibilities, Mr Minister.’

  Two hundred thousand, thought Goodfellowe. And barely two hundred Tibetans. A thousand to one. He hadn’t realized the odds were so immense. Or that it might be so easy to get someone burgled, battered or even burnt out.

  You could do anything in Chinatown with money. Buy a woman, a man, a life.

  Or a child.

  Mickey arrived carrying a pile of mail, behind which were lurking two new shirts. She had a habit of bringing him items of clothing – shirts, sometimes a sweater, and since he’d begun to trim up in the gym even some exotic underwear. She had a cousin in the trade, she told him, which was true, who gave her samples, which was only half the truth. The items were inexpensive, for what they were, but not free. Her treat. And, for the sake of his male pride, her little secret.

  Goodfellowe was a challenge. It wasn’t that he enjoyed being unkempt, more that he had mislaid the art of looking at himself critically. With a wife in a nursing home and a daughter at private school, the end of most months left him with little to look at other than bank charges. His own needs came so low down his list of priorities that all too often they simply dropped out of sight. So Mickey helped. In little ways. And usually without Goodfellowe knowing. Getting deals on office equipment. Making sure he claimed all his allowable expenses – and, it had to be admitted, occasionally some that might not have been technically allowable. Finding a dry-cleaners that didn’t kick the stuffing out of his suits. And, of course, fresh shirts and ties. His life was a mess, but he didn’t have to look it. Not all the time, at least. Not until his next bike ride in the rain.

  This morning, however, she seemed to have lost the battle. ‘You’ve got that completely bonked-about look. As if you’ve had no sleep at all,’ Mickey offered, studying the tussles in his hair. She took a flier. ‘Your date with Elizabeth catch fire?’

  Goodfellowe growled like a cornered dog. He’d been trying to call Elizabeth all morning and kept getting the answering machine.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ he began. ‘I’ve been burgled. I have a pregnant teenage daughter who’s been attacked in the street, and a girlfriend who isn’t talking to me. I also have a splitting headache, a rude letter from the credit card company and you as my secretary. In ascending order of aggravation. I also have a group of Tibetan friends who are a complete and utter pain in the bicycle seat. Meanwhile I’m also expected to rescue the rainforests by lunchtime. Does that explain it clearly enough for you?’

  ‘Great. Here’s your mail,’ she replied, dumping the most enormous pile of papers on his desk. ‘And there’s a running three-line Whip that should keep you out of mischief until well after midnight.’

  ‘Bugger off.’ It was all he could find to say.

  ‘There you go, being all intellectual again.’ She smiled sweetly, and kissed him on his forehead. ‘And here’s a couple of new shirts. Pink. And a cheerful primrose yellow. To brighten up your miserable life and that bloody awful grey suit.’

  She dropped them on the desk in front of him. He had the grace to look suitably mortified.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ he mumbled, as though her kindness had cheated him of an excellent opportunity to denounce the wickedness of the world. ‘You know, at times I get fed up having to say sorry to you. Anyway – sorry.’ He struggled to find some way out of the hole he had dug for himself. ‘Er, so how was your evening?’

  ‘Me, I had a wonderful night. Dreamt of ceramic tiles and a deposit on my own flat.’

  He didn’t want to do it but he had no option. He laughed.

  ‘That’s better then,’ she concluded.

  ‘Oh, if only it were, Mickey. It’s just that I haven’t got the slightest idea what to do about any of the complications in my life. What did Sun Tzu say? Something about being killed with confusion?’

  She retrieved the slim volume from the shelf and placed it on top of his correspondence. He’d grown attached to it and would often spend an idle moment meandering through its pages.

  ‘Anyway, if you’ve got time this morning for anything important, you might want to join the fun about the Minister for Sport,’ she continued. ‘Seems she’s got herself pregnant, which is wonderful. Historic. Never happened before, a Minister giving birth. Trouble is, her husband had a vasectomy five years ago and we’ve opened a book about who the randy rogue is. It’s neck-and-neck at the moment between the Junior Minister for Agriculture and the goalie at Blackburn Rovers, although she did take a close interest this past season in the English rugby squad and my money’s on … Goodfellowe? Are you joining us today, Goodfellowe?’

  He was lost in another world, the volume of Sun Tzu open on his lap.

  ‘Could it be? Could it be?’ he whispered softly.

  ‘Be what?’

  ‘That the Dalai Lama was telling us all along where we should look?’

  ‘How would he know? He’s dead.’

  ‘Mickey, this might just—’

  The ringing of the telephone cut through his thoughts. Mickey answered it.

  ‘Confusion travels fast, and has arrived,’ she answered. ‘Your Tibetans are waiting in Central Lobby.’

  ‘Of course they are!’ he exclaimed, suddenly full of enthusiasm, and dashed for the door. He was about to disappear when he turned. ‘Oh, and the shirts are great. Thanks. I mean it. For everything.’

  ‘Go lose yourself, Goodfellowe.’

  Five minutes later they were all gathered in one of the airless basement meeting rooms beside the Great Hall, booked on the telephone that morning when he’d realized they could no longer go on meeting in his compromised apartment. His home had become a target, too. The Palace of Westminster offered security and, amongst the crowds of tourists flocking through, four foreign faces were unlikely to attract attention. But he found the Tibetans downcast, deflated. Their mood grew even darker as he recounted the story of his burglary and the assault on Sam.

  ‘There have been other assaults, too,’ Phuntsog added, ‘on Tibetans. The Chinese are growing more desperate.’

  ‘Which means they haven’t found the child.’

  ‘But neither have we.’

  The Tibetans fell to arguing amongst themselves.

  ‘We’ve checked every family twice and three times. Found nothing.’

  ‘There is no boy in the whole of the Tibetan community who is two years old, or anything like it.’

  ‘There is. There must be.’

  ‘A different age, perhaps?’

  ‘Not possible.’

  ‘Another country?’

  Kunga gazed at his palm and shook his head.

  ‘I told you. We’ve got it wrong. He doesn’t exist,’ Phuntsog muttered.

  They were on the edge of despair; defeat would not be far behind.

  ‘Or maybe he’s not Tibetan at all.’

  Goodfellowe’s words hit them like smelling salts. They looked at him as though he were mad.

  ‘Of course he’s Tibetan,’ Wangyal exclaimed. ‘He’s the Dalai Lama!’

  ‘Not one of us? You may as well question whether the sky is blue.’

  ‘Or a mountain high.’

  Only Kunga did not join the attack. ‘What is in your mind, Tummo?’

  ‘When I met His Holiness, he said something very curious to me. I’ve always remembered it, though never understood it. He
said the future had a Chinese face. What did he mean?’

  The question was met with a row of blank faces.

  ‘Then just a few days before he died he sent me this book,’ Goodfellowe continued, waving the volume of Sun Tzu. ‘Once more he wrote in it, that the future has a Chinese face. He emphasized the point.’ He passed the book around for them all to see.

  ‘A message of failure?’ Wangyal asked mournfully.

  Or perhaps a message of hope,’ Goodfellowe replied.

  ‘Hope, Tummo?’

  ‘Do you accept that the new Dalai Lama is the future?’

  Of course.’

  ‘And the future has a Chinese face?’

  ‘If His Holiness said so.’

  ‘Then the new Dalai Lama is Chinese.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘Unthinkable.’

  ‘Monstrous!’

  ‘But wait.’ It was Kunga, holding back their outrage. ‘His Holiness spoke to me of how his rebirth was to be dedicated to peace. Reconciliation through reincarnation, he said. Bringing China and Tibet together. Saving our country. Showing the Chinese they have nothing to fear. What better way might he have chosen than this?’

  ‘No, Kunga!’ The other Tibetans were as one.

  ‘But when has the colour of his nose or the slant of his eyes been of such importance? What matters is the spirit inside, not the shape of the body.’

  ‘Can you truly believe this, Kunga?’

  He picked up the battered book, one of the last things his master had touched before he died. Kunga examined the inscription, stroked the spine, closed his eyes to make contact, to hear its message. He spoke simply. ‘These things are a matter of faith. But I believe you, Tummo Godfella.’

  They fell to silence. Most of them didn’t want to believe what they were being told. It went against the grain of their history and all the lessons it had taught them. But who were they to argue with a holy man? They had no choice. It was Phuntsog, caustic and sceptical, who eventually spoke.

  ‘So how on earth are we supposed to find one small boy amongst two hundred thousand Chinese?’

  ‘A good point,’ Goodfellowe conceded. ‘But at least we have one advantage. We’ll be the only ones looking.’

  But, once again, he was wrong.

  It was barely a day later when Mo found her in her study. Froggie was with her kicking up a racket that echoed from every wall of this vast office, running back and forth between her desk and the door and discovering he could slide on the polished marble floor. He was sliding just as Mo entered the room, which resulted in him banging himself on the door and erupting into tears.

  ‘Mo! If you can’t be more careful I shall put a bell round your neck!’ Madame Lin rebuked, hugging the child to her.

  ‘My apologies. Ambassador,’ Mo managed to mutter through clenched teeth. She’d been in such a foul mood in recent days that he wasn’t keen to provoke any unnecessary outburst. The necessary ones would more than suffice.

  The flood of tears was stanched with a bribe of chocolate and Froggie was soon back at his game of slide ‘n‘ scream. ‘Such a wonderful boy,’ she exclaimed. How could she be so blind? Mo thought. She read his mind.

  ‘You think I’m an old fool, don’t you, little Mo?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘You see me as nothing but a ridiculous grandmother.’

  ‘Ambassador, I would rather die—’

  ‘And you probably will.’ She paused, her jaw working in agitation. ‘With me right alongside you.’

  ‘Ambassador?’

  She picked up a diplomatic telegram that lay on the top of her pile of papers and waved it in his direction. ‘It seems our mighty masters in Beijing are displeased with us. They demand to know how it is that we keep asking for so much money yet cannot find the boy.’

  ‘And how are we supposed to find the boy when the money we ask for is not sent?’ Mo countered angrily.

  ‘They are suspicious of everything nowadays. So much corruption. It seems that everyone in Beijing is lining their own pockets and assumes the rest of us are doing the same.’

  ‘Then I pray we get back to Beijing speedily, Ambassador.’

  Disconsolate, she let the telegram fall back to the desk and lit another cigarette. The morning’s ashtray was already full, the atmosphere heavy. ‘You may get your wish more speedily than you realize. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is threatening to recall me. In disgrace.’

  ‘That cannot be,’ he gasped in astonishment. ‘But why. Ambassador?’

  ‘Because we have failed. Because you have failed, Mo. You have not found the boy!’

  ‘Ambassador, I have just this moment returned from Jiang. They are searching everywhere but still there is no trace.’

  ‘Remember, Mo, if I get sent back to Beijing, you will be sent back too. And thanks to the revolutionary zeal of our masters there are now even more football stadiums in which you can be shot!’

  ‘We will find him.’

  ‘But when? Time runs out.’

  Madame Lin scowled in distraction. Froggie was standing beside her, pulling the leaves off a large spider grass plant. Madame Lin reached out and smacked the back of his hand. He howled. Mo started. He had never seen her chastise the boy before. She was anxious. She meant business.

  ‘It is not an easy task, Ambassador. Many of the Tibetans have hidden their children, even the girls. So I have instructed Jiang that any child who is even suspected of being the right target is to be taken. By whatever means. You understand?’

  ‘I understand, Mo, that you are a ruthless peasant who would do anything to save his own skin, including slaughtering half the children in this country.’

  ‘And you, Madame Ambassador?’ he challenged.

  For a while she did not answer. When she finally spoke, her tone was more matter-of-fact.

  ‘Your instructions will have to be changed, Mo.’

  ‘But why?’

  She exhaled a long plume of tobacco smoke. ‘Because you have been looking in the wrong place. The child is not Tibetan. He is Chinese.’

  ‘This must be a joke. And a poor one.’

  ‘I am not in a mood for joking, Mo. Not with the threat of being recalled to Beijing hanging over my head!’

  ‘Chinese? It sounds absurd.’

  ‘No! Open your imagination, Mo. It is a brilliant ploy. The Lama’s master stroke. Identifying such a successor will confuse everything. Appealing over our heads to the Chinese people. He is laughing at us from beyond the grave.’

  ‘What will Beijing say?’

  ‘To damnation with Beijing! Curse them!’

  ‘But don’t forget them.’

  ‘No. We can never forget them.’

  ‘So what must I do. Ambassador?’

  ‘You need a new approach. Mo. Tell Jiang to look for a Chinese child. Ransack the community. Get everyone looking for him. But …’ – she wagged a finger in warning – ‘no threats, no intimidation. Offer inducement. Tell them that when the child is discovered, he and his entire family will be taken back to Beijing in luxury. They will be heroes, with riches beyond their dreams. They will never have to worry about being in want again.’

  ‘Will that be true?’

  ‘Who knows? I will try to make it so, but our masters in Beijing are as constant as the wind in autumn. Yet it must be done. Your life and mine depend on it.’

  ‘This will cost far, far more money.’

  ‘Then get your cousin to work all night. Strip the Embassy. Sell the secretaries into slavery for all I care. Just make sure it is done.’

  Froggie had grown bored with being ignored and was tugging at his grandmother’s dress demanding attention. She lifted him onto her lap and began a counting game on his fingers. But Mo was still unsettled.

  ‘How will we know when we have found the right child. Ambassador? There must be a thousand of the right age out there.’

  ‘According to the Tibetans, this child is not like others. He has the wisdom of ag
es sitting on his shoulders. It will leave its mark.’ She was running her fingers through her grandson’s hair. He looked up and chuckled with pleasure.

  ‘But even so,’ Mo persisted, ‘there may be a dozen or more like that. How can we tell which one the Tibetans will choose?’

  ‘We may not be able to tell.’

  ‘Then what shall we do?’

  She kissed the child’s forehead. ‘In that case, dear Mo, we shall just have to take the lot.’

  The child had developed the habit as soon as he was old enough to be released from his high chair. He would sit at the end of the table, in the position of authority, as though in charge. When he had first done so his father had laughed and pushed him aside, but the ensuing riot had convinced everyone that it wasn’t worth the hassle. So he sat and banged his spoon, and soon was not simply repeating their mealtime grace but initiating it, even adding new words and thoughts. The new thoughts were usually humorous. At least, his parents found them so, although the boy was clearly too young to understand the true wit of his own words.

  Yet he clearly understood laughter. After his breakfast he would stand before their small shrine, with its prayer scarves and photograph of the Dalai Lama and offering bowls, and place a small amount of his own cereal in one of the bowls. Then he would laugh, pointing at the photograph and shaking with mirth as though it were a cartoon show.

  A strange lad, his father occasionally thought, with his spontaneous outbursts of laughter and yet with a deep frown that made him appear as though he were struggling with the problems of the whole world. But he and his wife had waited so long for children, so many anxious fruitless years, that this child was always going to be special. For them at least. And the boy possessed an extraordinary ability to surprise. When one of the laundry machines had broken down the father had spent several frustrating hours trying to fix it, until the boy had toddled along, reached around the back and presented him with a small spring. A missing spring, without which the machine wouldn’t work. It was almost as though the boy knew.