Lost In Translation Part 16

"Does it last?"

"Only for a minute. Now the most important thing. Chinese men are reserved. Much more reserved than Western men."

"Reserved?"

"That's right."

He knit his yellow brows at her.

Like Jian, she thought. Jian, who had been able to communicate to her with a single hard look in some public place-on the street, or in a roomful of his friends-what he planned to do to her the minute they were alone. Jian, who had been with her for weeks before finally reaching out and touching her neck, her hair; who had taken over her body with agonizing slowness, over a period of many more weeks, showing her finally when he went to bed with her that physical s.e.x was only one more link in the chain that bound them.

"Reserved?" Spencer asked. "Okay, reserved." He licked his finger and made a final mark in the air. "Interesting. So your boyfriend in Beijing-the man you saw the night before we met-he's like that? Reserved?"

"Well ..." Alice hesitated. Lu Ming, of course, had only been reserved on the surface. He had woven his net around her with words, looks, the touch of his foot under the table. But when he had gotten her alone, he-like most of the men she picked up-had driven right into her. No reserve. Not like Jian. Jian had understood s.e.x the way that she, all her life, had understood music, and then later, language. He was aware of it: the thousand ways of touching, breathing, smelling, the rhythmic exchange of physical innuendoes. The theme and variations. She sometimes realized-faintly, as if from a distance-that she was going from one to another in search of a man like him. A man with all his subtlety, his intelligence, but a man-unlike Jian-who was willing to accept and love her true self. Though what was her true self? The vodka was like a bubble now, pushing against the top of her brain. She laughed. "I suppose I'm holding out for the true Chinese man-the type who waits until he has a woman's heart. When a man like that delivers, watch out."

"But it's just love that does that, isn't it?" Spencer asked, syllables starting to get mushed. "You can be English or Eskimo or anything. It's when you truly love someone that happens."

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back over the top of the chair.

"Don't you want love?" he pressed on. He carried his cup to the spot where his mouth was supposed to be, slopped a few drops over the side. "Don't you want to get married, settle down? What about kids? Don't you want to have kids?"

"Yes," she said. "Absolutely."

"I bet your dad wants you to have kids."

"You mean Horace. Of course he wants grandchildren, but only if they're Anglo-Saxon. That's Horace."

"You never call him Dad?"

"Horace. Look-he's my father. But I don't call him Dad, or Daddy. Dads take care of their kids, and help them, and let them be whatever they want to be. They let let them grow up. We're not a family that way, Horace and I. We're-" She stopped, stuck, not sure how to say what in fact they were. A diagram. A pattern formed by a famous politician and his daughter. Locked together. The man loving the daughter deeply, but too overpowering to know how to let her live. And the daughter needing his love, but unable to bear it. them grow up. We're not a family that way, Horace and I. We're-" She stopped, stuck, not sure how to say what in fact they were. A diagram. A pattern formed by a famous politician and his daughter. Locked together. The man loving the daughter deeply, but too overpowering to know how to let her live. And the daughter needing his love, but unable to bear it.

Was this the price of Alice's life? And why did her price seem to be so much higher than everyone else's? She thought of what Teilhard had written about evolution: Every synthesis Every synthesis costs something.... Something is finally burned in the course of costs something.... Something is finally burned in the course of every synthesis in order to pay for that synthesis. every synthesis in order to pay for that synthesis. Well, she had paid, certainly. Paid and burned. Why didn't things change? "I really do want love," she said nakedly to Adam now. "I do. I'm just waiting for it." Well, she had paid, certainly. Paid and burned. Why didn't things change? "I really do want love," she said nakedly to Adam now. "I do. I'm just waiting for it."

"You and Lucile," he said, meaning it as a joke, not meaning to hurt her, but cutting through her with the words nonetheless. Because Lucile had succ.u.mbed to self-deception. Lucile had told herself Pierre would leave his order for her, and had ended up waiting all her life in vain. As she wrote in her diary: I suppose a lot of the things I have been living on were built by my I suppose a lot of the things I have been living on were built by my own imagination-that is not his fault.... own imagination-that is not his fault....

Lucile, alone in the bitter sea, with only a priest at her side.

But Alice's life was going to be different.

"To love," she said resolutely to Spencer, and they drank.

That night, small and shiny with sweat, the vodka worn off, she lay in bed thinking about it. She was thirty-six. Old. But there was still time to change, wasn't there? And now Mother Meng was dead. Alice sighed and twisted to one side in the sheets, staring through the window.

The street outside was empty now, it was past midnight. Quiet had settled like snow, and the only sound she heard was the far-off approach of the cricket vendor. This was a sound she loved, a sound of old China: the surging waves of cricket song, and under it the sad creak of the vendor's bicycle wheels. The man approached and then seemed to pause under her window.

The chorus of crickets. It always carried her back to Houston, Texas, to running along the top of Buffalo Bayou in the dusk, the trees, the path, the bayou banks blurring to something else. Black stick or cottonmouth snake? Jump over it. Do the others hate you? Show them. You want to change yourself? Leap. Just leap.

She concentrated on the sound of crickets, and the smell of the cigarette the cricket man was smoking. She slid out of bed and to the window: yes, there it was, the leaning bicycle, the hundreds of tiny woven cages. The man was staring, shave headed, white capped, off down the deserted street. No, this was not Houston, it was bleach-dry Ningxia. And outside there was only the oasis night, the dim boxy shapes of concrete buildings, the spires of the mosque.

She gave up finally, dressed in the dark, and slipped out of Building Three. The hotel courtyard was silent except for the small slapping of fish in the pond. She padded down the covered walkway and found a spot on the little bridge that curved over the dark water. To one side was a decrepit gazebo; to the other beds of hollyhocks, bunched between intersecting stone paths. Everything had been laid out in the spirit of formal Chinese gardens, the kind that were popular back East, in towns like Suzhou and Hangzhou and Shanghai, where the affluent men of the Ming and Qing had had the time and money to create them. Here in the Number One the gardeners had made do with a pond, some aging carp, and an arched bridge cast from concrete. They had managed to raise big deciduous trees, not often seen here in Ningxia, but most of these were clumped against the two-story hotel buildings. It was a pleasant spot, if out of place. Sitting here, it didn't feel like Yinchuan, an oasis at the intersection of two deserts. A flowering patch of farmland at the foot of the Helan Shan range.

Teilhard had loved the Helan Shan, had written rapturous letters about the ways in which their purple peaks rose up to G.o.d. In the shadow of those mountains he had found his proof, Paleolithic proof. But it didn't help. Man was doomed in the Garden, they told him.

A waste, she thought, staring at the trees waving and whispering by the wall of Building Two.

There was a movement in the trees, near the door to the building: a person, perhaps, or an animal, or just a rippling bush. The motion detached and wove through the plots of hollyhock. Something white glimmered about its upper half-a shirt, maybe, pale and detached in the darkness.

A man. She squinted.

He came toward her. Only when he was almost upon her could she see it was Dr. Lin.

"Shuibu-zhao?" he whispered, Can't sleep? and squatted beside her. A carp broke the water and slid under again. Dr. Lin folded his arms over his knees. he whispered, Can't sleep? and squatted beside her. A carp broke the water and slid under again. Dr. Lin folded his arms over his knees.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Meiyou zhidao. " I didn't. " I didn't.

Then there was quiet for a stretch, in the temporarily unreal night world of the Number One courtyard. They sat so close, their legs were almost touching. She knew he spoke no English at all, so her thoughts, her mind, her senses, slid entirely into Chinese. "Dr. Lin. Do you ever wish you were somebody else?"

"Trouble you to repeat?"

"Do you wish your life had been different?"

He made a chuckle, but it was a hollow sound. "Of course, but I don't think of it that way. We Chinese can't think that way. It's different here. I don't know if you can understand."

"I think I can," she countered. "I have worked here a long time. I have listened to many people's tales."

"So you have," he said, looking briefly into her face. Privately he thought: She knows a lot. But whether or not she knew about the insides of a man after the Chaos, the barren soul, the fields sown with salt-he could not tell.

"I know it was bad," she said in a softer voice, respectful, knowing something terrible must have happened with his wife.

He nodded.

She sighed, aware that he saw her as an outsider. They all did, at first. If he got to know her, he would see that she was more Chinese than American. Wasn't she? Sometimes, when she looked back on the thick, damp air of Houston, she wondered if she had ever really lived there at all, if it had been anything other than a strange dream of before. Not that Dr. Lin would have understood this. Not that she felt ready to say it.

He let a beat of quiet fall before he continued. "Hao chang "Hao chang shijian han xin ru ku, shijian han xin ru ku, " It's such a long time we've been drinking from the bitter cup. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his large, hairless hands. "But this is our circ.u.mstance. These are our times. And the road behind cannot be changed." " It's such a long time we've been drinking from the bitter cup. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his large, hairless hands. "But this is our circ.u.mstance. These are our times. And the road behind cannot be changed."

"What of the road ahead?"

He smiled. "What of it?"

"Can you change it?"

He considered silently. His road was made up of everything he was and everything he had endured, so it was deeply paved already. All he had allowed himself to feel and all he had walled off from his feeling. Like his wife, led away one day, one look back, over her shoulder, and then a universe of nothing ever after. Years of nothing. He would, of course, not say such a thing to an outside woman, whom he barely knew, in the middle of the night. Instead he said: "I don't think the road can change."

"I used to agree with that," she said slowly. "Lately I feel different." She thought of herself in bed earlier that evening, reading The Phenomenon of Man. In fact I doubt whether there is The Phenomenon of Man. In fact I doubt whether there is a more decisive moment for a thinking being than when the scales a more decisive moment for a thinking being than when the scales fall from his eyes and he fall from his eyes and he ... ... realises that a universal will to live realises that a universal will to live converges and is hominised in him... the axis and leading converges and is hominised in him... the axis and leading shoot of evolution. shoot of evolution. She breathed in fully, deeply. He had a spicy, wonderful Chinese smell, Lin Shiyang. She breathed in fully, deeply. He had a spicy, wonderful Chinese smell, Lin Shiyang.

"Perhaps you are right. Eh, Mo Ai-li, I can't believe I'm talking to you in the middle of the night like this. You're a strange woman. Are other outside women like you?"

She laughed. "No."

"May I ask, are you married?"

"No," she said, and then added, "not yet."

He looked into her face but she couldn't read him in the dark.

"You were married," she said boldly.

"Yes."

"Are you still?" Her heart beat faster. Had he put his wife aside, that's what she wanted to know, had he huaqing jiexian, huaqing jiexian, drawn a clear line between them, as so many Chinese had been coerced into doing in those years? drawn a clear line between them, as so many Chinese had been coerced into doing in those years?

"Eh, yes. I suppose I am still married." He looked at her through the dark. "Xiao Mo, I've said too much to you."

"No," she insisted. "Not too much."

But the slight cramp of pain crossed him again. "It's been a long time since I talked to anyone of my wife, and now here I am dropping my guard and clearing my heart. So you know my wife was sent to Ningxia. Zhang Meiyan was her name."

So that was her name, Meiyan, it meant "beautiful swallow." How could she be named Beautiful Swallow in an era when most girls had been named Benefit China or Serve Truth? Old-fashioned parents, maybe, why hadn't she changed it- You're jealous, she stopped herself.

"Yes, Zhang Meiyan," Lin said again. He had so few chances to even say her name anymore. And yet he never forgot her. Meiyan.

"So you don't know what happened to her?"

He shook his head.

"Kelian, " she said with feeling. " she said with feeling.

"Of course, she may be dead."

May be dead? Alice thought. Kind of an understatement. "How long since you've heard?"

"Over twenty years," he said, finding that he wanted to sit here, wanted to talk to Mo Ai-li. There was something about her that pulled at him, something at once female and unearthly. "It's a long time. So I do not know her fate."

I think you do, Alice thought.

He closed his eyes, remembering. "I was told to forget her. Do you understand me or not? We were never actually divorced. But I was told to remain in Zhengzhou. It was later, after the Chaos ended, that I came to Huabei University. It's a good life there, teaching. I don't want to lose it."

"But?"

"Yin hun hun bu san, bu san, "The ghost refuses to leave. "And I need to know what happened to her. So now-now that I am in Ningxia anyway ..." "The ghost refuses to leave. "And I need to know what happened to her. So now-now that I am in Ningxia anyway ..."

"You'll try to find out."

Lin turned to her. "Don't speak of this to the others."

"Ni fang-xin ba," fang-xin ba," she said. She wished she could lean over, just a few inches, and rest her shoulder against his. She wished she could sit here with him all night. she said. She wished she could lean over, just a few inches, and rest her shoulder against his. She wished she could sit here with him all night. "Fang xin hao-le, "Fang xin hao-le, " she said again, and touched his smooth forearm briefly with the cool flat of her palm. It was a casual gesture in the West, a gesture almost purely conversational, but here in China it burned with physical presumption. " she said again, and touched his smooth forearm briefly with the cool flat of her palm. It was a casual gesture in the West, a gesture almost purely conversational, but here in China it burned with physical presumption.

Dr. Lin withdrew his arm and got to his feet in a quick stumble. "Eh. Well."

She stood up sadly.

"At breakfast. See you."

"See you."

He was already walking away.

She went in to breakfast the next morning and sat with her back to the dining-hall door. She could barely sit still on her seat, waiting for Lin to arrive.

Finally she heard the two sets of footsteps, the brisk tread of Kong and the listing walk of Lin.

The screen door clicked open, banged shut.

"Zao, " said Dr. Kong. " said Dr. Kong.

"Zao, " she returned, Morning, and she slid her smile over both of them. " she returned, Morning, and she slid her smile over both of them.

"We've been talking about the site," Kong said. "So far there's been no sign of the Mongols at Shuidonggou."

"That's true," said Spencer, looking dejected.

"Then what about going to Eren Obo next?" Lin put in. He leaned intently toward the American. "The rock art drawing in that letter to Teilhard definitely comes from around Eren Obo. To find Peking Man again, Dr. Spencer-it would change everything in our field. It would bring our h.o.m.o erectus h.o.m.o erectus studies back to life." Lin paused. He did not say aloud his private reason for wanting to find Peking Man so badly, that it would be the highest tribute to Meiyan-or to her memory, if she no longer lived. studies back to life." Lin paused. He did not say aloud his private reason for wanting to find Peking Man so badly, that it would be the highest tribute to Meiyan-or to her memory, if she no longer lived. "Wo henbude," "Wo henbude," he said, I want this so powerfully. He looked from one to the other. "If there is even the smallest chance your theory is correct, we must try everything. We must go everywhere." he said, I want this so powerfully. He looked from one to the other. "If there is even the smallest chance your theory is correct, we must try everything. We must go everywhere."

Pa.s.sion! Alice thought. She put his words in English.

"Of course," Spencer agreed. "I'm with you on that. But let's give Shuidonggou a little longer. We haven't covered the whole area yet."

"True," Kong said. "It will take days to get the visas anyway. Crossing the Helan Shan and taking you to Eren Obo will require very special permission. So Dr. Lin and I should not go with you today. We should go to the bureau and work on it."

Spencer looked worried. "Do we have to go back to Beijing for these visas, to Vice Director Han?"

Kong and Lin exchanged tactful glances. "Why don't we seek this permit locally," Kong said.

"All right," Adam said, understanding. "If you say so."

As she translated this Alice locked eyes briefly with Dr. Lin. He didn't smile at her exactly. What he did do was incline his head ever so slightly, and place his gaze fleetingly on her as if to say: Yes, I was there last night. I remember.

Driving out of the city, thinking about Mother Meng, she noticed an unusual sign.

YIN YANG XIANSHENG, Yin-yang master.

What was that?

"Driver." She leaned over the seat. "Trouble you with a question. What does a yin-yang master do?"

"Eh, that's from feudal times. Like wind-and-water masters?"