Lost In Translation Part 15

"Please, Jian-"

"Do you understand me or not!" he cried in a swift, miserable spurt. "She's gone away!"

"What?" Gone away away was the Chinese euphemism for dead, but he couldn't mean she was dead, he couldn't possibly- was the Chinese euphemism for dead, but he couldn't mean she was dead, he couldn't possibly- "Ta zou-le, " he repeated, She's gone away. " he repeated, She's gone away.

"But what are you talking about!" she cried.

"It was her lungs-an embolism, they think. The neighbors took her to the hospital but"-now she heard his voice cracking -"it was too late."

"But I just saw her Sat.u.r.day! She was fine!"

"It happened that night. Later."

"I don't believe it!" Behind the words her heart was screaming and thrashing in her chest. "Are you sure?"

"Ai-li," he said softly. "Of course I'm sure."

"But, Jian, it's impossible."

"Ai-li, please," he said. There was a strained silence, as if he was trying to decide whether to comfort her, which was dangerous, for it might let some of the love back in between them, or whether to cut her off quickly and decisively. "Eh, "Eh, " he said gruffly. "How do you think I feel? She's my mother. But now she's gone. Gone to the Yellow Springs. You'll see her in another life. Isn't it so?" " he said gruffly. "How do you think I feel? She's my mother. But now she's gone. Gone to the Yellow Springs. You'll see her in another life. Isn't it so?"

He waited for her to answer but she couldn't, she could only stand frozen with the tears burning and forcing and finally seeping out of her eyes. She pressed the phone against her forehead. How could he expect her to answer?

"Eh, Mo Ai-li, bie ku," bie ku," Don't cry. "I'm sorry if I was rough with you the other day. I never expected to see you here. And my wife-my baby ..." Don't cry. "I'm sorry if I was rough with you the other day. I never expected to see you here. And my wife-my baby ..."

"I know," she gulped through her tears.

"I wish you good luck in your life," he said. "Really." He paused and she didn't answer. He waited a little more and finally cleared his throat. "Good-bye, Ai-li," he whispered softly, and hung up the phone.

7.

"All right," she called through the door. "I'm coming." She splashed a little more cold water on her face, then checked the mirror. Anybody could tell she'd been crying.

"What's wrong?" Spencer said instantly.

"Nothing."

"Come on. Don't be so Chinese. Something happen?"

"I just learned a friend in Beijing died."

"Oh." He studied her. "Close friend?"

"Yes."

"Hey. Sorry. Was it sudden?"

"Yes. Well, no. She was old. She had lung problems."

"That's too bad." His baggy gray eyes were kind. "Still want to go out on our mission this evening?"

"Yes," she said firmly, and wiped her face with the backs of her hands. "Yes. Let's go."

"Good. That's what Teilhard would have said, you know. He didn't let stuff keep him down. Okay. The Dutch missionary, Abel Oort. During the days that Teilhard and Licent stayed with him here in Yinchuan, they posted one letter- luckily." Spencer pulled one of the paperback editions of Teilhard's letters from his day pack, and opened it to a marked page. "Here. The heading is Gansu Street, Yinchuan." He showed it to her.

"So." She read quickly through the letter's text; it revealed nothing. "Let's start there, then. Gansu Street."

They set out in the evening light on Sun Yat-sen Boulevard, alone, their Chinese colleagues busy sorting microliths in the hotel. Through her grief she noticed that the air was soft and warm, that the boulevard was throbbing with carts, crowds, full-laden mules, and camels. Itinerant Mongols lined the sidewalk, their goods spread on hand-loomed wool blankets. Yes, she thought, pausing sadly to stare at knives and inlaid daggers, kitchenware carved from wood, and bundles of camel-hair stuffing for quilts, Mother Meng is gone. But I'm still here, living. They walked alongside the mosque and stared at it, walking past. On its mosaic steps a kneeling tile-setter pounded, his pinging hammer a high-pitched heartbeat over the crowd. s.n.a.t.c.hes of Mandarin, Mongolian, and other dialects swirled up and were gone.

Gansu Street, which marked the border between the Muslim quarter and the old Chinese neighborhood, was only partially cobbled now; it had probably been nothing but a dirt lane when Teilhard came here in 1923. Yet almost at its end the two Americans came upon a weathered stone building, sagging in disrepair, that had the triple-arched doorways and the soaring facade of a Western-style church. To one side of the entrance, there was a small metal plaque. HAPPY FORTUNE CONSULTING SERVICES.

"Welcome to the new China," Alice said. Something like a smile stretched her mouth, piercing her pain for a moment.

Spencer knocked, then pushed the handle. It was unlocked. Inside they stepped through the darkened, gritty-floored nave and into the church itself, with high vaulted ceilings where sparrows beat at the air. No pews. No altar. Empty.

"Wonder where Happy Fortune Consulting Services is?" Her voice bounced unpleasantly around the hall.

They stepped back into the nave and ventured up a narrow stone stairway. At the top there was a small office, its desk cluttered with papers as well as a modern phone and fax machine.

"We strike out again." Spencer stared at the empty chair.

Alice leaned over the pile of faxes. "Looks like his name is Guo Wenxiang. I'll leave a note." She picked up a pen and paper and sketched out the quick characters: Esteemed Mr. Guo- I am an American named Mo Ai-li, visiting at the Number One Guesthouse. I want to ask you a few questions on behalf of my employer. Thank you for contacting me there in Room 542.

Outside the church, Yinchuan was just slipping into the day's last mysterious margin of light. Alice and Spencer fell into the moving crowd and walked on.

Lin Shiyang left the hotel, having been vague about his errand to Kong Zhen. He murmured a few words about something he needed, something at the light industrial store-one of the small requirements of travel. Kong had nodded absently, immersed in his fine pebbly mountain of artifacts.

"I'll see you later, then," Lin told him, and left.

From the Number One he walked quickly east, toward the drum tower, along one of the main arteries of the old town. Behind the gray blocks of commercial-looking buildings life descended abruptly into narrow streets lined with close-fitted apartment houses and small, back-street establishments like market stalls, barbershops, cafes. Into one of these, a corner ground-floor room in a nondescript structure, Lin stepped.

"Xi fan, " he told the man behind the counter as he sat at one of the three tiny tables, Rice gruel, the simplest of Chinese comfort foods. A stumpy lady in her sixties bent over at the table next to him, slurping " he told the man behind the counter as he sat at one of the three tiny tables, Rice gruel, the simplest of Chinese comfort foods. A stumpy lady in her sixties bent over at the table next to him, slurping xi fan. xi fan. He had seen her eating it and ordered the same. She was not a person of his educational cla.s.s; on the contrary she appeared to be a simpleminded, He had seen her eating it and ordered the same. She was not a person of his educational cla.s.s; on the contrary she appeared to be a simpleminded, tu tu woman. But she would serve his purpose. woman. But she would serve his purpose.

"It's good, elder sister, is it not?" he had said politely when his came and he started spooning it down.

"Eh?" She looked up. "Hao chi, "Hao chi, " Delicious. " Delicious.

He ate for a minute.

"You're not from around here," she observed.

"You're right."

"I knew! You have a southern accent. Shanghai?"

"Eh, sister, your intelligence surpa.s.ses me. You're right. I lived there as a boy."

She laughed, finished her bowl, put it down.

He cleared his throat. "Wo xiang qing wen yixia. "Wo xiang qing wen yixia. Do you know-do you happen to know-were all the camps in this area closed or are any still open? I am talking of the women's camps. " Do you know-do you happen to know-were all the camps in this area closed or are any still open? I am talking of the women's camps. "

"Eh, younger brother, it's not always good to speak so boldly."

"I know," he said. He was careful to look away from her now. One never knew who might be watching.

"But you have a good face, an open face. I'll tell you to the limit of my knowing. All of them were closed, the last ones more than five years ago."

"Thank you," he said softly, and finished his porridge, not speaking to her or glancing at her again. As he left he did not notice a man observing him, a man who stood in a doorway on the other side of the road staring distractedly, now, at the ground. A man who at this moment was swiftly recataloguing in his mind every movement Dr. Lin had made, his route here from the hotel, his time inside the little cafe. In which a conversation seemed to have taken place, but too far away for the man to hear.

Dr. Lin turned the corner to walk back toward the Number One.

The man stepped into the street and followed him.

The four of them plodded the steep, rock-rubbled canyons for a few days more and found nothing. The third night Spencer walked into her room with a bottle of Russian vodka. "Do you mind?" he said, his face squished over to one side by his lopsided grin. "I really hate to drink alone."

"No. No-it's fine," she answered. She'd been sitting alone, staring out the window, replaying Meng Shaowen's death in her mind. Now the sight of Spencer's soft, lived-in face and his worn American jeans was a welcome relief. I need a friend, she thought. "Come in."

"Thanks." He strolled past her, dropped into one of the two armchairs, and twisted the cap off the bottle. "You feeling better about your friend's death?"

"Actually no," she said. "I'm not feeling better."

He shook his head, uncovered the ceramic tea mugs, and gurgled vodka into them. "Here." He handed her one. "My sympathies. "

They clicked teacups and drank.

"Grief is a killer, isn't it?" he said. "Brings you right up to the truth."

Truth. Sometimes she wasn't sure what the word even meant. What had Teilhard written? Truth lies in seeing that Truth lies in seeing that everything gives way in the direction, and under the influence, of everything gives way in the direction, and under the influence, of beauty and goodness. That is the inner face of evolution.... beauty and goodness. That is the inner face of evolution....

"Like me," Spencer was saying. "I have this son. Tyler. Before his mother and I split I used to take him everywhere with me-when I wasn't working, I mean. We'd go out to one of the rock ranches and dig agates, cheer at the ball games, drive around the desert to the old mining ghost towns. I used to put him to sleep every night. Now he doesn't even live in the same state as me. He's growing up and I'm not even getting to see it." Spencer's eyes clouded, pinched; he looked away from her.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Yeah. Well."

"Maybe one day you'll get married again. Then he can live with you."

"Married?" He let out a short, empty laugh. "Impossible. I'd have to have s.e.x again first."

"Frightening, isn't it?" She laughed, working hard not to show her discomfort.

He took a sip of vodka and closed his eyes for a second. "Look, Alice, maybe we could just talk about this. We're on this trip together, I'm a single man, you're a single woman. But believe me, I'm not coming after you. I can't deal with any of that stuff at the moment. The only person I care about is Tyler. So. You can relax." He glanced at her.

"Thanks. I appreciate it. Male clients are one of my occupational hazards. They're always coming on to me."

"I won't. Don't worry. "

"And I feel the same way about you. I mean," she said delicately, "I'm not interested."

"Friends, then."

"Friends."

He held out his cup and she tapped hers against it. He was glad they had gotten it out on the table, glad he had not mentioned the real reason he would never approach her, which was that she seemed far too various. He would never let himself trust a woman like her, not at this point in his life. Permanence, that was what he wanted now. Loyalty. "Can I ask you a question, though?"

She nodded.

"There is something different about you-I can't quite place it." He studied her. "It's almost like you're off the board somehow. Like you're not playing on the same field. You know?"

"No. I don't."

"I remember the first time I saw you-at five in the morning, you were coming back to the hotel on a bicycle. Wearing some little black dress. So I figured you probably had a boyfriend in Beijing-what, a Chinese guy?" He stopped, saw the click in her eyes, and understood. "So that's it, then. You only like Chinese guys. That's it, isn't it?"

"Full marks, Dr. Spencer." She smiled, drained off her cup and held it out for a refill.

He poured for both of them. "So, I was right."

"Hardly a state secret. I love Chinese men."

"Really? What is it about them?"

She thought. "They incite a certain race memory in me."

"Very funny."

"Not a joke."

"Seriously. What is it? It has something to do with your father, right?"

"No!" she answered, a few notches higher.

"Okay!" He put his hands up. "Okay. Sorry. I said I wouldn't mention him, I know. So why, then?"

"Well. They're beautiful, for one thing. Chinese men and women both-haven't you noticed? Edgar Snow once wrote that the Chinese were arguably the most intelligent yet certainly, certainly,without a doubt, the best-looking people on earth. It's true."

"So they're beautiful, that's one thing." He licked his index finger and tagged the air.

"Yes. And another thing. Their skin is different. Smooth. Almost hairless. Not like barbarians."

"Number two, smooth skin." He marked the air again. "Wait a minute. Aren't you a barbarian?"

"Not really. Inside I'm half Chinese. Okay: another thing. You have s.e.x with one of them, you have s.e.x with China. Know what I mean? You're not on the outside anymore."