BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. VIOLET
  3. VIOLET
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. Epilogue
  48. Acknowledgements
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  50. Copyright

‘Where did you get that?’ We’ve been together the whole time since we got on the train in Beijing. She definitely hasn’t been to a cashpoint – because if she had, surely she’d have suggested I take some money out too? Somehow, up to now, I’ve managed to get away without spending any money. She seems oblivious to what she’s paying out.

‘Got it in Beijing. Didn’t know what the bank situation would be like. See you back here in twenty?’

She marches off before I can say anything else. I glance around, taking in the high ceilings, the staircase. The openings to each of the various halls. People scurry around, chattering, busy with their day, not interested in me, and I stare up at the ceiling. At the peeling paintwork. I close my eyes, trying to block it all out. Then I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and paste on a smile. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go somewhere else, where I can ask Carrie more questions about herself, and tell her as little as possible about me.

The local crafts floor is just as you’d expect it to be. Lots of knitted or woven items – I touch a jumper and the wool is scratchy. The woman behind the table smiles at me but she can obviously tell I am not going to buy it. I wander through the aisles separating the various tables of trinkets, and come to a stand with hundreds of small woollen bags hanging off it. They are made of the same rough wool as the jumper, but it seems to work better for bags. I pick up a yellow one with a maroon rose, and a blue one with white stitching around the edges. ‘How much are these?’ I ask a woman standing nearby, who I assume is the seller.

The woman frowns, then takes a small notebook and pen from the pocket of her tabard. She scribbles something on it and holds it up for me to see.

‘20,000 MNT’, it says. I pull the notes from my pocket. I have two 20,000s and a 10,000. Pink and green, orange and brown, respectively. Both denominations have the same face, which I recognise as Genghis Khan. Is he the only famous Mongolian? He certainly seems to dominate the guidebook.