who is to rule in your stead, assisted by the people’s government led by Sukebator. The new Jebtsundamba Khutukhtu and the people’s government in their turn acknowledge the help rendered to them by the People’s Soviet of Russia and seek to establish a special relationship with that country. You yourself shall become a private citizen, living in your summer residence and relinquishing your other properties and your Shabi fiefdom.
“We shall deprive you of nothing but your title and your power.
You may continue to drink. You may have as many women and boys as you like. You may keep all your toys and baubles, although you may not add to them. The state will repossess them on your death.”
And how soon would that be? he wondered. There must be a way to get Ungern here. Let them sort it out among themselves.
What had all this to do with him? He knew now who one of the children must be, of course. He had expected as much. But who was the second child?
“And if I refuse to sign?”
“You have no choice, you know that. But if you co-operate, it will make life considerably easier for you: a comfortable home, a generous allowance, gratification of worldly desire. In a way, I envy you.”
“Do you?” he said.
“Perhaps you will change places with me, then. Your eyesight for my blindness, your power for my comfort, your humanity for my divinity and my drunkenness.”
The Buriat said nothing. He had not expected him to.
“So,” he said, ‘what else do you want me to do? What other papers are there for me to sign?”
“You can help us prevent bloodshed,” said the stranger.
“Your soldiers are still loyal to you. Most of them are disaffected with von Ungern Sternberg the Khalkha Mongols, some of the Burials, the Tibetans, the Chinese you gave an amnesty to. He tries to buy them with booty, but they owe an allegiance of faith to you. Tell them to lay down their arms or to join the People’s Army. The baron will have nothing left but his Russians and the handful of Japanese he brought to Urga in February. I have a decree here in your name, instructing all Buddhist troops to stand down and await further instructions from you or one of your representatives.
It only wants your signature and your seal.”
And if there is bloodshed, he thought, whose body will be first on the gibbet?
“You have a khubilgan of your own,” he said.
“Let him sign the decree. Let him rally the faithful.”
“You know that will take time. We don’t have time. We must act now if lives are to be saved.”
Whose lives? he asked himself. Mongol lives? Or the lives of Soviet troops? He knew Red forces were already moving into the north of the country.
“That is none of my concern. But if you will permit me, I want to speak to my Minister of War.”
He reached out a hand and lifted the telephone. Dandinsuren would understand. He would send Ungern. And then he could sit and listen as they bickered for power.
The receiver was dead. He should have guessed.
“I’m sorry,” said the Buriat.
“Your telephone has been temporarily disconnected. You’ll have to make your own decisions tonight.”
He leaned back in his chair, defeated for the moment.
“Bring the boy to me,” he said.
“I want to speak with him. I want to touch him.”
There was a pause, then Zamyatin spoke quickly in bad Tibetan.
A woman answered him, but he overrode her objections. There was a shuffling sound. Someone was standing by his chair. He reached out a hand and touched a face, a child’s face.
“Come closer, boy,” he said, speaking in Tibetan.
“I can’t feel you properly. I can’t see you, so I must touch you.
Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”
But the boy remained rigid, standing just within reach, yet holding back from him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Are you afraid of me? Is that it?”
He could feel his own heart racing. It was curious, but now they were so close, he realized witrflTstart that he himself was afraid of the boy. It seemed a sort of blasphemy for them to be here together, two bodies incarnating a single godhead. In the recesses of his mind, an image formed and became clear: an endless row of shining mirrors, repeating a single figure until it grew quite dim in the distance. He understood himself better than he had ever done before: he was a mirror, and he suddenly felt fragile, like glass bending in candlelight. With the slightest touch he would shatter and fall into tiny silver pieces.
“Yes,” said the boy. His voice trembled, but it was a finely modulated voice. He was sure the boy was pretty and that his cheeks would be soft to the touch. What if they should sleep together? Would that hold the mirrors firm?
“What is there to be afraid of?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said the boy.
“But .. .”
“Yes?”
“But Tobchen told me you would try to have me killed. If you knew of me.”
He moved a finger along the slanting ridge of the boy’s cheek. It always cheered him to hear Tibetan spoken.
“Who is this Tobchen?”
“He was my tutor. And my best friend. Except for Chindamani.
He was an old man. He died while we were trying to get to Gharoling.
That was a long time ago.”
“I see,” he said.
“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry he told you I would try to kill you. Why would he want to say that?”
“Because you are my other body. Because only one of us can be Khutukhtu. They want to make me Khutukhtu in your place.”
Such soft down on the child’s face. Old Tobchen had been right, of course. He would have the boy killed if it helped him keep his throne. But the thought frightened him. If he smashed one mirror, what would happen to the images in all the others?
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “I could be your tutor. And we could become friends. I have a palace full of toys. You could stay here:
you would never grow bored or tired.” Or old, he thought.
The boy ventured a little closer.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“They say I am now called the Jebtsundamba Khutukhtu. But I find it hard to say.”
He snatched his hand away. How perverse to be caressing his own cheeks! His hand felt cold and empty.
“Do you have another name? A Tibetan name?”
“Dorje Samdup Rinpoche.”
“Dorje Samdup Rinpoche? When I was brought here first, many years ago, my name was Losang Shedub Tenpi Donme. That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? I was ten years old. How old are you, Samdup?”
“Ten, sir.”
His heart froze. Perhaps it was true, after all Perhaps a death of some sort had occurred, perhaps he had truly been reborn while still in the flesh.
“Who is the other child with you? I heard the footsteps of a second child.”
“He is a pee-ling,” replied the boy.
“His name is Wil-yarn. His grandfather is the abbot of Dorje-la. One of the men with us is his father.”
“His father is a Bolshevik?”
“No. They’ve taken him prisoner. He came to rescue Wil-yarn and me tonight.”
“I see. And who is the woman you were talking with?”
