The indigo-blue waves of the Yarlung Zangbo river, like huge fingers, skirted the ankles of the piers of the bridge in a leisurely fashion.
Ennio, still carrying the frozen, bloody remains of the stewardess in his boot, exited the Mount Galashan tunnel and drove onto the bridge. Then he realized Chinese soldiers stood guard at the other end of it.
‘I’ll have to get rid of this whore somewhere else, otherwise they’ll see me,’ he mumbled, scanning the countryside. Or I may wait until night falls. No. They’ll get here by nightfall. He thought of Ma-gios and his father, Kunga. Damn it, I must hurry.
He made a U-turn on the bridge and turned right onto the dirt road that led away from the entrance to the tunnel. The soldiers standing guard at the other end of the bridge followed his car with idiotic expressions.
He drove first through a village where grey, dice-shaped houses with carmine, copper-plated doors were being built. What atrocious taste they have around here. He was on edge because somehow the road did not seem to be getting any closer to the river. Finally, after half an hour’s driving, he saw a ledge he deemed appropriate. It looked ideal as the bank was a steep cliff dropping directly into the river. Ennio pulled over and stopped. The cloud of dust lifting in his wake dispersed, revealing a sparkling blue horizon. The mountains and the sky exchanged an eternal kiss while Ennio gathered stones from the roadside. He looked back towards the road he had come along but, unsurprisingly for Tibet, not a single soul could be seen. He opened the boot and unzipped the suitcases. He slit open each horrendous-looking sack a bit in turn. A stomach-churning odour emanated from them, but he ignored it and packed stones and pebbles of different sizes into them swiftly.
‘Dammit, Jiang Li, you should have a bath, you stink. Well, don’t worry …’ he grumbled and lifted one of the heaviest sacks ‘… you’re going to get a chance to soak your limbs at last.’
He flung the sack so violently into the river that he lost his balance and almost fell after it.
‘Dammit!’ he shouted, but cooled down when he had heard the splash of the sack on the water.
‘Deep down, love. Don’t come back again.’
He grabbed the other sack, the one with the bowels and the upper body in it, by the neck. Jiang Li’s last scream, just before the deadly blow of the hammer hit her, was still frozen on the face inside it. The girl was already purple and swollen. He flung it after the other.
‘Bye, Jiang Li. You won’t get a parting kiss. We’ll meet in hell.’
When that sack had sunk, he dusted his trousers, clapped his hands and laughed, relieved. He did not turn back immediately as he wanted to enjoy the magic of the moment. Life came back to his unresponsive limbs. Having committed a pleasure murder made his heart bloom.
Back in Lhasa, he checked into another hotel, returned the rental car and walked back to the hotel Xueyu Tiantang, where he had arranged to meet Ma-gios and his father. I hope they’ll be punctual. I don’t trust these Tibetans. He was wrong, Ma-gios and his father were already waiting at the hotel entrance. He had just realized he did not speak a word of Chinese or Tibetan. The interpreter in the Vatican translated everything necessary and gave me his private number as well. There won’t be any trouble. Buck up … Oh, God, they look so primitive.
They were at a stone’s throw from each other when Kunga and Ma-gios saw him. They were standing there like two beggars. It’s a wonder the receptionists haven’t thrown them out. The two “beggars” whispered to each other, then looked at him. Ma-gios began to chuckle. Curiosity swirled under Kunga’s lambskin cap, his brown fur coat and shabby felt trousers clung to his body.
’Look, son,’ he said to Ma-gios, ‘we’re going for a walk with a minister.’
’And how shiny his shoes are! And what are those grey things he’s wearing? There’s a Chinese word for them, you’ve said …’
‘Tào zhuāng*.’
’Yes, that’s it, tào zhuāng.’ The boy was delighted, but then Ennio reached them, slicked back his sparse hair, adjusted his glasses and summoned a diplomatic smile that rather resembled a grin.
‘Ennio Marino,’ he said, bowing before them.
‘Kunga.’ The puggish father with a face like a loaf returned the greeting.
Ennio held out his hand to be shaken. Kunga did not move, he only stared at the extended hand, as if with a presentiment. He may have been alarmed by a premonition that, should he take it, there was no turning back. He looked into the eyes of the archbishop, then darted a glance at Ma-gios, who could do nothing but accept his fate and shake hands with the archbishop.
‘Lhasa Badacang Hotel,’ the archbishop said, pointing towards the end of the street, then thought, He could have reserved a room for them at the Xueyu Tiantang too, but he was unwilling to attract attention. These two would simply not be let in here.
Kunga nodded, told Ma-gios something and they collected their things. There was some indescribable torment in his eyes, which even moved Ennio into picking up one of their bundles. They revolted him, but their confidence had to be won. Kunga smiled.
The odd group made for the hotel three streets away, which was by no means as elegant as Ennio’s previous accommodation. Its yellowed façade was staring into the bustle in the street with gaudy red-and-yellow windows; the blinds hanging from them had shrivelled into grey eyebrows. The archbishop had reserved a large room to share with his guests, one with two huge couches and an extra bed. Kunga and his son eyed the room, the windows and the doors with dislike, as if planning their escape. While Ennio called the interpreter via reception, Ma-gios quenched his thirst from the toilet bowl. Recognising what it was, and proud that he had already seen a water closet, Kunga rolled about on the floor in rough hoots of laughter, at which Ma-gios also began to laugh and cleaned his mouth with toilet paper.
Both of them were greatly surprised, however, when the Vatican interpreter talked to them through the hands-free telephone. They listened attentively as he informed them of their journey’s goal and gave them the required information. Ma-gios began to giggle in the middle of the monologue but Kunga hushed him. Inadvertently, the interpreter mixed up the words for excrement and present. Ennio kept butting in in Italian, then ripped open an envelope and gave Kunga their dearly obtained passports. It had been difficult to get through the labyrinth of Chinese bureaucracy. Procuring passports for two Tibetan nomads? Electing a pope is a simpler procedure. Father and son fingered the wine-red booklets all about themselves with pleasure. After telling them about everything, the interpreter stayed on the line for a bit longer. Kunga was at last able to pose the question Ennio had always feared.
‘What exactly does my son have to do there?’
The interpreter translated the question instantly. Silence followed at the other end of the line too. Ennio felt it was not only Kunga who was waiting for an answer.
‘I can’t give you precise details of the work, since I won’t be the only one to teach the boy.’
‘Teach?’ asked Kunga.
‘Yes, the work includes a short period of preparation as well, but I’m sure Ma-gios can manage everything,’ he said through the interpreter.
Kunga did not budge.
‘How long is my son going to be there? Can I stay with him?’
Forever, Ennio thought, then applied a simple trick. ‘Of course. And I’d like to give you the first instalment of the fee as a down payment from our organization.’
He smiled widely and handed over thirty thousand yuan to Kunga. The amount was several months’ income for a Tibetan worker. Kunga was scared by the three pale red bundles that were placed in his rough hands.
‘Oh, Mr Marino, this is too much money,’ he stammered.
‘This trifling amount may be enough to start our fruitful work together. Will that be enough?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
Kunga was thinking of how many animals they could buy afterwards. He could also provide for Ma-gios’s education. Poverty and hardship were over. They would be honourable people. And the archbishop? He was bursting with pride because his theory that almost all people fall on their knees before the paper-based earthly god had again been proved true. Except Francesca, he thought with regret – with her, all his chicanery fell flat.
Ennio said goodbye to the interpreter, who remarked jokingly that those thirty thousand yuan could tell the nomads more than any top-notch interpreter.
That evening, Ennio tried to persuade Kunga and his son to have a bath several times. All he managed to achieve was to get Ma-gios to splash away the whole bottle of fluid soap. At least his hands are clean. The archbishop amused himself with the thought in the midst of the animal stench permeating the room.
The buffet dinner was copious; there was meat and cheese galore. Father and son, chattering away all the while, ate as if they wanted to eat enough for their whole life. Not understanding a word of what they were saying, Ennio tried to guess their feelings from their countenances. He found it remarkable how strong a connection existed between Ma-gios and Kunga. Watching those two wretched people, he was overcome by heavy feelings, including compassion, but he dismissed them irritably. He was flooded by anger when he saw that Kunga and Ma-gios were preparing themselves a bed on the floorboards. Beggars. He was an enemy of mediocrity in the Vatican too. Then they put the lights out and the room fell into darkness. Only the gauze veils of the four-poster beds stirred in the permanent draught.
‘Dad,’ whispered Ma-gios, ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, I know.’ The response filtered through the darkness.
Ennio pricked up his ears. The desire to understand burnt him, but the family remained a closed book.
‘Can I beat my fear? I know that it’s important for us to have money to live on, now that Mummy has died.’
‘Ma-gios, you are my treasure.’
‘And Daddy, do you promise never to leave me?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I’d like us to die together, you and I.’
A short silence ensued. Kunga leaned on his elbow.
‘You know it’s not up to us to decide on that. Sleep, son.’
‘All right,’ the boy whispered, ‘but even so.’
Kunga smiled.
‘I’ll never leave you, Ma-gios, I love you.’
Ma-gios crawled over to snuggle up to him like a kitten to its mother’s belly. He did not fully wake up at daybreak, but kept clinging to his father’s neck while they were driven to the airport.
After the terror of the flight, they were welcomed in Rome by a whole delegation. The rolling steel monstrosity Ma-gios had never sat in cut across the city jungle and cast them out into a garden fragrant with flowers. At nightfall, when the noises of the city pulsated through the windows like the murmur of organ pipes, Kunga sat his son on his lap.
‘Do you mind that we’ve come here, son?’
‘We’ve been told we’ll get a lot of money for it. We need money, don’t we, Dad?’
Kunga’s face softened.
‘But that’s not the most important thing. Aren’t you sad about it?’
‘No, Dad, I’m not. Though I prefer the mountains to these low, gaping pygmies with flashing eyes.’
‘They are blocks of flats, Ma-gios.’
‘I know lots of people live in them. I wouldn’t, if you ask me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d always fret about the one above me suddenly falling on me.’
The man pondered. ‘Well, I suppose people here have got used to that kind of danger.’
‘Sure. But if I had to live here, I’d only like to live at the top.’
Kunga smiled.
The following morning they woke up in a plain, deserted room. After a fine brunch, a nice woman in deep blue clothes came to pick up Ma-gios. At first, the little boy hid under the bed in fear but, at a bowl full of chocolates, his protest abated and he left the room hand-in-hand with the woman.
The development of Ma-gios’ extraordinary abilities started. He was astounded to find out that a photograph album had been made about his short life. Someone said ‘You’ll sleep deeply now’, and then his words, uttered in deep hypnosis, were recorded on a Dictaphone. Everybody was interested in the evening when Rabten had been killed by the leopard. In the afternoon, he was allowed to return to his father. He told Kunga with shining eyes how important he had become.
‘I was taken into a huge room filled with books to the ceiling, Daddy. There was the scent of wood everywhere. Aunty Ines and I chased each other around the shelves and she said I could ask for any game. They were terribly pleased with me – but all I did was have a little sleep.’
‘I’m happy to hear that, son, but haven’t they told you how long we’d have to stay?’
‘Not that, Daddy. But I’ve never been to such a great place!’ he shouted. Then he was ashamed and added, ‘But of course, it was better when I was with Mum and you.’
Kunga took his son into his lap. The boy’s hands and feet were still moving about, so he stroked him. During the day he had had the opportunity to look around the building more thoroughly, but he was tactfully sent back into the compound when, in his curiosity, he wanted to go into the street.
‘You’re not safe outside, sir. You’d easily lose your way,’ the guard at the gate had warned him. He did not understand any of it, he only noticed the forbidding gesture.
Roses were blooming like a flaming sea of red brocade in the inner garden, but Kunga had already begun to get bored of the full service, kind manners and cleanliness. Ma-gios’s head was being crammed full of knowledge, but he was left to wither in the sun, or huddle in their boring room. He decided to slink out to the street the following day, but his plans were upset by wicked schemes. Ma-gios having been taken away to education around eight as usual, two men in white shirts who seemed to be nurses came in to see him and presented him with a piece of paper. On it was written, in Tibetan:
Please follow these men, who’ll escort you to me – Ennio Marino
Kunga dragged himself to his feet, although he did not feel like going anywhere with them. He was thinking of his little plan and the sightseeing that had now been foiled. One man was walking before him, the other behind. Kunga glanced back sometimes, but thought about the signature and was not afraid.
Suddenly, the green-painted corridor with the shimmering neon light came to an end and they started down the stairs leading down to the basement. Kunga halted, but the man behind him pushed him forward gently. He thought of Ma-gios and was overcome by panic. They reached a small door. That was when Kunga lost his patience. He spun around and, skirting the man marching behind him, took to his heels. He heard shouting punctuated by ‘Oh no!’ sounds behind his back, then the thumping of feet. Racing upstairs he instinctively ran towards what he thought was the door. He ran along the corridor like a gust of wind and when he reached a massive wooden door, he kicked it hard a few times, but it did not open. His pursuers caught up with him. He struggled, bit and scratched like a lion, but a well-directed blow to the back of his head silenced him forever. He collapsed like a puppet.
‘Merda![1]’ The bigger ‘nurse’ wheezed, having switched off his expendable baton**. ‘É una bestia!***’
That was the last day Kunga ever saw Ma-gios.
* suit (Tibetan)
[1] Shit! (Italian)
** Police weapon typically composed of a cylindrical outer shaft containing telescoping inner shafts that lock into each other when expanded and are usually made of steel. There may be a solid tip at the outer end of the innermost shaft, with the purpose of maximizing the power of a strike when the baton is used as an impact weapon.
*** A beest (Italian)
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