The door was opened by Bodoo’s daughter. A boyish-looking girl in her late teens. We noted that my host was expected. Suhbataar guessed that she was alone in the house.
‘Let’s keep this painless,’ said Suhbataar. ‘You know who I am and what I want. Where is your father?’
This girl had attitude. ‘You don’t really expect me just to turn in my own father? We don’t even know the charge?’
Suhbataar smiled. Something in the dark hole was humming. His eyes ran over the girl’s body, and imagined slashing it. He stepped forward, gripping her forearm.
But for once Suhbataar was not going to get what he wanted.
I implanted an overwhelming desire to drive to Copenhagen via Baghdad into Suhbataar’s mind, and made him throw his wallet containing several hundred dollars at Bodoo’s daughter’s feet. I transmigrated through the young woman’s forearm. It was difficult — the girl’s defences were high and thick, and she was about to scream.
I was in. I clamped the scream shut. We watched the dreaded KGB agent throw money at her feet, spring into his Toyota and drive west at breakneck speed. My order might not get Suhbataar quite as far as Caspar’s flowerbeds, but it should take him well clear of Dalanzagad, and into a displeased border patrol in a volatile country where nobody spoke Russian or Mongolian.
My new host watched Suhbataar’s car disappear. The screeching tyres flung ribbons of dust to the desert wind.
I saw her name, Baljin. A dead mother. There! The three who think about the fate of the world. A different version, but the same story. Her mother is weaving by firelight, on the far side of the room. Baljin is safe and warm. The loom clanks.
Now all I had to do was find out where the story is from. I overrode Baljin’s relief and took us into her father’s study, which was also his bedroom and the dining room. Baljin was her father’s amanuensis, and accompanied him on fieldwork. The notes for his book were in the drawer. Not good! Bodoo had taken them with him when he fled.
I laid Baljin down on the bed and closed down her consciousness while I searched her memory for information on the origin of the tale. In what town is it still known and told? I spent half the afternoon searching, even for after-memories, but Baljin’s only certainty is that her father knows.
So where was Bodoo? Yesterday he left for his brother’s ger, two hours’ ride west of Dalanzagad. Unless he received an all-clear message from Baljin by noon that day he would depart for Bayanhongoor, five hundred kilometres north-west across the desert. I woke Baljin, and looked at her watch. It was already three. I assured her the danger had passed, that the KGB do not want to question her father about anything, and that he can be contacted safely and told to come home. I waited for Baljin to choose the next logical step.
We needed to borrow a horse, or maybe a motorbike.
Two hours later we were thirty kilometres west of Dalanzagad in a sketchy village known only in the local dialect as ‘The bend in the river’. Baljin found her uncle, Bodoo’s brother, repairing his jeep. I had missed Bodoo by five hours. He left before noon, believing that the KGB must have reopened the file on his part in the democracy demonstrations. Baljin told her uncle about the wallet thrown at her feet. I had erased the memories of Suhbataar’s aggression. Bodoo’s brother, a tough herder who can wrestle rams to the ground and slit their throats in ten seconds, laughed. He stopped laughing when Baljin gave him half the money. This would feed his family for a year.
We could go after his brother in the jeep, if we could get it working. I transmigrated, and with Jargal Chinzoreg’s automotive knowledge started reassembling the engine.
Evening came before I got the engine working. My host considered it dangerous to leave after nightfall, so we decided to wait until dawn of the following day. Baljin brought her uncle a cup of airag. In the cold river children were swimming and women were washing clothes. The river flowed from springs at the feet of Gov’-Altai mountains, born of winter snow. The sunset smelt of cooking. Baljin’s niece was practising the shudraga, a long-necked lute. An old man was summoning goats. How I envy these humans their sense of belonging.
Men arrived on horseback from the town, hungry for news. They had learned of Suhbataar’s visit two days ago from the truck drivers’ grapevine. They sat around the fire as Baljin told the story yet again, and an impromptu party got going. The younger men showed off their horsemanship to Baljin. Baljin was respected as one of the finest archers in all Dalanzagad, male or female, and she was unbetrothed, and the daughter of a government employee. Baljin’s aunt made some fresh airag, stirring mare’s milk into fermented milk. The mares were grazed on the previous autumn’s taana grass, which makes the best airag. It grew dark, and fires were lit.
‘Tell us a story, Aunt Baljin,’ says my host’s eight year-old. ‘You know the best ones.’
‘How come?’ says a little snotty boy.
‘Because of Grandpa Bodoo’s book, stupid. My Aunt Baljin helped him write it, didn’t you, Aunt Baljin?’
‘What book?’ says Snotty.
‘The book of stories, stupid.’
‘What stories?’
‘You are so facile!’ The girl exhibits her recent acquisition. ‘Aunt Baljin, tell us The Camel and the Deer.’
Baljin smiles. She has a lovely smile.
Now; long, long ago, the camel had antlers. Beautiful twelve-pronged antlers. And not only antlers! The camel also had a long, thick, tail, lustrous as your hair, my darling.
[‘What’s “lustous”?’ asked Snotty.]
[‘Shut up, stupid, or Aunt Baljin will stop, won’t you, Aunt Baljin?’]
At that time the deer had no antlers. It was bald, and to be truthful rather ugly. And as for the horse, the horse had no lovely tail, either. Just a short little stumpy thing.
One day the camel went to drink at the lake. He was charmed by the beauty of his reflection. ‘How magnificent!’ thought the camel. ‘What a gorgeous beast am I!’
Just then, who should come wandering out of the forest, but the deer? The deer was sighing.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked the camel. ‘You’ve got a face on you like a wet sun.’
‘I was invited to the animals’ feast, as the guest of honour.’
‘You can’t beat a free nosh-up,’ said the camel.
‘How can I go with a forehead as bare and ugly as mine? The tiger will be there, with her beautiful coat. And the eagle, with her swanky feathers. Please, camel, just for two or three hours, lend me your antlers. I promise I’ll give them back. First thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Well,’ said the camel, magnanimously. ‘You do look pretty dreadful the way you are, I agree. I’ll take pity on you. Here you are.’ And the camel took off the antlers, and gave them to the deer, who pranced off. ‘And mind you don’t spill any, er, berry juice on them or whatever it is you forest animals drink at these dos.’
The deer met the horse.
‘Hey,’ said the horse. ‘Nice antlers.’
‘Yes, they are, aren’t they?’ replied the deer. ‘The camel gave them to me.’
‘Mmmn,’ mused the horse. ‘Maybe the camel will give me something, too, if I ask nicely.’
The camel was still at the lake, drinking, and looking at the desert moon.
‘Good evening, my dear camel. I was wondering, would you swap your beautiful tail with me for the evening? I’m going to see this finely built young filly I know, and she’s long been an admirer of yours. I know she’d simply melt if I turned up in her paddock wearing your tail.’