Shen Le drew in a deep breath.
Then he straightened his clothes, composed his expression, and set down the two shoulder-swallowing beasts he had been holding. He placed them to either side, even pressing their heads down to keep them from looking up toward the green light.
Only after doing all this did he properly lower his head toward the portrait hanging in the center of the innermost part of the room, set apart from all the thangkas around it, with flowers and plain fruit offerings placed beneath it.
Behind him, Langga Zhaxi, the painter of the thangkas, and the two young men from the Special Affairs Bureau all stood solemnly with their heads lowered.
The room was silent. Only the ticking of the clock and the long wind whistling past the mountains outside could be heard.
After five or six seconds of silence, Shen Le finally let out a long breath when the children's laughter drew nearer from afar. He asked softly:
"You... also enshrine a portrait of the Chairman?"
The room was filled with thangkas, large and small, some vivid and brilliant, others grave and solemn. There were portraits of Shakyamuni that Shen Le recognized at a glance, as well as images of various Vajras and Taras that he could not quite identify.
Yet the one enshrined in the central place of honor contained no cinnabar, no lapis lazuli, no precious minerals, pearls, or gemstones. It was merely an ordinary paper print.
The figure in it looked dignified and solemn, yet gentle and kind. It was the portrait of the Chairman known to all Chinese people.
"Yes," Langga Zhaxi answered without hesitation. After a brief pause, he stepped forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with Shen Le.
"Everyone here remembers the kindness he showed us."
Shen Le fell