‘We drink...,’ he says, ‘then we cut ourselves’

On Saturday night the Tengis kids are making money. The theater is showing the movie “Chinggis Khan,” a Japanese-produced epic about the 13th century founder of the Mongol empire. Liberty Square is overflowing with cars. The children haggle with drivers for money to watch their vehicles. Essentially, they are being paid not to steal. If the owner pays them, the car is left alone. If not, there might not be any side-view mirrors or hubcaps left when he returns.

The movie begins and the crowd disappears into the theater. The kids want to play billiards so we head to the old communist museum. Inside, an enormous Lenin head, 6 feet across, stares down from a pedestal. Communist slogans written in Cyrillic adorn a wall behind it. A dozen dimly lit pool tables sit on the floor below.

The kids are happy, flush with a bit of money. Battulga is playing against Munkhdul, a teenage boy who splits his time between the theater holes and others nearby. As he rolls up his sleeves to break, I see what looks like a giant zipper running up his right forearm. The zipper is actually a series of scars from self-inflicted cuts, arranged in neat rows like hatch marks. There are dozens of them. They commemorate fights, old girlfriends and bad days. Most of the older boys have them.

“We drink and talk about our lives,” he says. “Then we cut ourselves.”

On his left arm there is one scar longer than the others. It runs from his shoulder to his wrist and is about half an inch wide. It’s for his older brother, Soyambo, also homeless, who was stabbed to death in a fight last year.

Solongo is playing at the next table. It’s the first time in six days I’ve seen her above ground. She has been hiding from her 24-year-old brother who beats her at home.

The sight of her is shocking. She is beautiful. Her clothes are still relatively clean, her hair jet black, eyes sparkling, with a glorious smile. She seems out of place. Her name means “Rainbow” and all the boys have a crush on her. My concern that some of them might try to assault her eases when I see how they turn into puppy dogs around her. She is guarded like a rare treasure.

Aizam and Chinbayar are looking at a Bible given to them by South Korean missionaries. Since many of the children are illiterate, they sell the Bibles or use them as doodling pads. Chinbayar, who was still in school two years ago, helps Aizam spell his name. He guides Aizam’s hand like a big brother, even though Aizam is a year older and physically larger. As they laugh I think about the joy the book has given them, though not in the way the missionaries intended.

The money runs out and the kids leave. Solongo is still worried about her brother, so they retire to a hole they call the Cool Tank because its pipes are not as hot as those of other holes nearby. It’s secure, because it still has its heavy metal cover in place, and few people realize there are children living in it. It’s also in the middle of a driveway leading to the theater. All night sharp clangs echo through the chamber as cars drive over the lid. Later, when it is slid aside to let in fresh air, the tire of a minivan crashes through. The driver guns the engine, spitting gravel into the chamber as the tire spins and catches on the edge of the hole. A few minutes later a drunk falls through to the great amusement of everyone. Aizam and Sukhbaatar tell ghost stories about haunted holes nearby, holes in which people have died. Chinbayar makes shadow puppets by candlelight. Battulga falls asleep in Soyolerdene’s lap. It’s a good night.

Final Chapter: ‘I HAVE A DREAM,’ HE SAYS, BUT HE NEEDS $1 MILLION.