The Buddha of Brewer Street by Michael Dobbs Read Free Book Online Page B

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