Lost In Translation Part 19

"No? You dog bones! You have to be clever. Now, listen. If she calls that number in Washington again I want her very closely watched. Is she stupid? No! She's a crafty barbarian."

"Yes, Honorable Sir!" the line of men barked.

"Move! Diu neh loh moh, " Diu neh loh moh, " Do your mothers. Do your mothers.

The men did not flinch at this Cantonese obscenity their commanding officer from the South was so fond of throwing around. They were used to it.

"Report back to me!"

They hurried out.

"See this?" said Dr. Lin, and handed it to her, a polished bone, familiar, twin k.n.o.bs at its end. "It's a human femur."

She gasped and her fingers came out, then stopped. "Can I really touch it?"

He laughed. "Of course. Gei." Gei."

She took it and almost seemed to stop breathing as she held it, studied it, felt it. "Can you tell how old it is?"

"Not here, not now. In the lab we could, since it's organic material. But when you have this kind of site you can't date things in the field. The shifting sand mixes the ages together. You see." He glanced, to ill.u.s.trate, at the chalky, fine-grained dunes of the Ordos that rolled away in front of them. They had climbed to the ridge after lunch and stepped over the Wall, and now sat, sifting through sand with their fingers. Almost immediately he had found this bone. It was just a few inches down. He had been rolling his hand through the sand, and had suddenly drawn it out, smiling, ecstatic with the discovery. When he turned to her he saw her staring, not at the bone but at his face. Quickly she'd looked away. There'd been something so unguarded in her eyes, so open-those strange agate eyes, the like of which he had never seen before on a woman.

"Just think," she said softly. "It was part of a person in Stone Age times-someone who lived, hunted, grew food. Yet he or she must have thought. Must have spoken somehow." She touched the bone wonderingly.

"You surprise me so," he said. "You are a Westerner-yet you are drawn to what is old."

"You said that before. Let it go. It's just a prejudice. When I see something this old-when I hold it-I feel the connection of the past and future. It gives me hope, though I am only one small being. Do you understand my words?" To write the To write the true natural history of the world, we should need to be able to true natural history of the world, we should need to be able to follow it from within. It would thus appear no longer as an interlockingsuccession of structural types replacing one another, but as follow it from within. It would thus appear no longer as an interlockingsuccession of structural types replacing one another, but as an ascension of inner sap spreading out in a forest of consolidated an ascension of inner sap spreading out in a forest of consolidated instincts. instincts.

"I'm not sure if I understand you or not," he said quietly. "But I want to, very much."

She lowered her eyes. They both returned to shifting sand.

Lin focused on the sand trailing from his fingers. It was so hot. The other part of the Ordos, the rocky dirt cut by canyons and shallow steppes, fell away behind them at the bottom of the ridge. This was the dune region of the Ordos, the subdesert called Maowushu. Sand rolled away over the pattern of hills in front of him, rose and fell until it ran into the blinding sky. Lin stared off to the horizon as far as he could. It was hard to believe he was here, at last, in the place he had dreamed of coming for so many years to look for Meiyan. She seemed gone, vanished. And now he sat here talking to another woman. He was not a man who was completely free to engage with a woman, yet this woman-this outside woman... He looked at her. There was something about her. When he was with her he felt happy, excited; when he was apart from her he found himself wanting to be with her again.

But she was a Westerner. What did such a woman take, what did she give? He had heard Western women were superficial, that they were interested in diversion, not love. That they could not be trusted. Was it true with Mo Ai-li? As he considered this he watched his hands, and her hands. With a jolt he saw that they were playing with the sand, in unison, a dangerous physical harmony between them. Did she notice?

Ah. She did. Because suddenly she looked up at him, reddening. "We'd better go back."

He couldn't stop himself from smiling as he got to his feet. "All right. Zou-ba." Zou-ba."

"Mr. Tang," Alice said, reading the name of the yin-yang master off of his card, "I have come to you about the death of someone I love." She glanced around his cluttered reception room. In addition to the stacks of well-thumbed almanacs there was, on every shelf and counter, a bizarre jumble of paper objects meant to serve the dead in the underworld. Small reproductions of horses, grain carts, wine pitchers, rice bowls, stacks of play money, paper clothing and linens, miniature chests and beds and tables, and even tiny models of servants and concubines and family members, all cleverly fashioned and folded and printed in a riot of garish paper colors.

"Mo Ai-li, Interpreter," he read from her card. "This is most uncommon. No waiguoren waiguoren has ever come to me before. Even among Chinese, only the old ones still come. You are perhaps researching feudal culture?" has ever come to me before. Even among Chinese, only the old ones still come. You are perhaps researching feudal culture?"

"No. I require your services, that's all."

He raised his scanty white eyebrows and laid her card carefully on his desk, then focused his lidded, rheumy black eyes. "Please explain."

"A woman has just died who was like a mother to me, though she was Chinese and not my real mother. I fear she has not been properly mourned."

"What of her children?"

"One son. He does not follow the old ways."

"Husband?"

"Died a few years ago."

"Eh! A bitterness. But this is a Chinese family. Not your own."

"It's so...."

"You are not Chinese," he reminded her.

"Yes," she said heavily. "I know."

"Yet you wish to observe the rituals. What about your own ancestors? Do you serve them?"

Alice thought of Horace. This was her Fall-just being born with the Mannegan name. "Yes," she evaded. "I have ancestors." But I need new ones, she thought.

"If you are sure you wish to proceed..." He lifted his shoulders in the cla.s.sic Chinese att.i.tude of disavowal. "A few questions. At the time of the woman's death, was an auspicious object placed in her mouth-a pearl, or a coin? Were mirrors placed about her body?"

"I was not present."

He paused, cleared his throat. "Was notice of her death given to the local G.o.ds? Was a geomancer engaged to determine the proper siting of her grave?"

"I'm sorry, Master Tang, I don't know, but I believe none of this was done. She lived in the city-in Beijing. They don't do these things there anymore." She didn't want to say aloud what they both also knew: that when people died in the big cities now their bodies were disposed of quickly, quietly, through routine cremation.

"The date of her death, please?"

"July fourteenth." Alice closed her eyes and pictured Meng and Jian. "Her son-he loved her. But I don't think he will worship her spirit." I could, she thought. I could be the worthy spirit child of Meng Shaowen.

And Lucile Swan too.

Why not? The practice of filial piety was one of the many things about old China she'd always found appealing. She had just never had the right kind of parent. Now, though ... She cleared her throat. "Is it possible-may I make this woman my ancestor?"

Avoiding her eyes, Master Tang tented his gnarled fingers and regarded them. "It is sometimes done. But only by Chinese. And always when the departed one is childless. You say she has a son?"

"Yes."

"One must consider him."

She saw Jian in her mind with the open-faced wife, the perfect baby. "He will never follow the rituals."

He pondered. "Xing. "Xing. I will prepare her I will prepare her ling-pai, ling-pai, the spirit tablet. We will meet again in seven days for the rituals of the spirit tablet. We will meet again in seven days for the rituals of ci ci ling and ling and an-zhu, an-zhu, which will call her spirit back to the tablet and then enshrine it in your home. This makes her your ancestor and a part of your family forever. You understand the responsibilities?" which will call her spirit back to the tablet and then enshrine it in your home. This makes her your ancestor and a part of your family forever. You understand the responsibilities?"

"I do."

"You'll make regular offerings? You'll honor her every year on Qing-Ming?"

"I will."

"Good. I will come to your room one week from today. In the meantime, you must go to the temple and complete the bao-miao bao-miao ritual. This will announce her death to the neighborhood G.o.ds. Yet you can't-you say she lived in Beijing...." He stopped and considered the problem. ritual. This will announce her death to the neighborhood G.o.ds. Yet you can't-you say she lived in Beijing...." He stopped and considered the problem.

"Master Tang, I know nothing, I am an outside person of low intelligence, but may I humbly suggest we use a local temple to the G.o.ddess of Mercy, Guanyin?"

"It will suffice, I suppose." He prepared his inkstone, took up a brush, and with perfect form, despite the swollen joints of his long fingers, wrote a few characters. "The temple address," he said, and pushed it across the desk. "Now. So I can prepare the ling-pai, ling-pai, your friend's name?" your friend's name?"

"Meng Shaowen."

"Which Meng?"

"Mengzi-de Meng, " she clarified, and he wrote the characters down. " she clarified, and he wrote the characters down.

"There is one more matter, Mo Ai-li. You must choose some spirit objects to send on to Meng Shaowen. Things that would have meaning to her and ease her life beyond the Yellow Springs. These objects are to be burned in the next seven days, preferably at the intersection of two streets. This is jiao-hun, jiao-hun, Calling back the soul. Well?" Calling back the soul. Well?"

She stared helplessly around her at the welter of paper symbols crowding the room.

"I see you do not know. Most people select spirit money, food vessels, wine cups-such things as these."

"Ah," Alice said. She rose and circled the room, scanning the miniature world of flawless, loudly colored paper replicas. For Meng she chose kitchen goods, a tiny chest for wardrobe, and a paper Victrola. Then there was Lucile. The women were connected now in her mind. Every prayer, every ritual, would be for both of them. For Lucile she selected a tiny bed, a pile of paper linens, and a little paper man. He was meant to be wearing old-fashioned Chinese robes, but it could have been the raiment of a priest. It could have been Teilhard.

"These things," she said, and handed them to Master Tang.

The Temple to Guanyin, G.o.ddess of Mercy, was on the edge of the old Chinese quarter. It was a Qing-era building with elaborate red-and-blue frescoes painted along the curving eaves, ornate but run down. Inside Alice found no one except a novice monk, a boy no older than fifteen with a saffron robe and a close-shaven black fuzz covering his head.

"Wo lai lai bao-miao, bao-miao, " she said to him tentatively, I've come for the ritual of reporting a death at the temple. " she said to him tentatively, I've come for the ritual of reporting a death at the temple.

He looked at her blankly.

"My friend has died," she explained.

He removed a packet of incense wrapped in red paper from a pile of supplies on a side table, and handed it to her. "Si "Si mao san," mao san," he said absently, Forty-three cents. he said absently, Forty-three cents.

She counted out the coins.

He waved her toward the altar, a bank of Buddhas rising up behind a sweet-faced, larger-than-life statue of the G.o.ddess of Mercy, Guanyin.

She lit the incense, stuck it into one of the sand-filled bowls, and bowed three times. "Meng Shaowen," she whispered, "on July fourteenth of this year, you drifted away from this world and went to the Yellow Springs. There you met Old Woman w.a.n.g, who gave you the wine of forgetfulness to drink. In this way you could go on to your next life with your sins, your memories, wiped away...." Another start, Alice thought. It was what she needed too.

She stood silent, staring up at the statue. Guanyin had a beautiful face, shaped like an almond, narrow black eyes, and a rosebud mouth. She stood with her hands outstretched, her colored robes swirling gracefully around her.

It occurred to Alice, for the first time, that Guanyin looked exactly like the Virgin Mary.

Strange she'd never noticed.

A note from Guo Wenxiang was slipped beneath her door at the Number One: Mo Ai-li, I am happy to inform you that I have obtained some information about the Dutch missionary Abel Oort.

He died in Yinchuan in 1934. Tomorrow evening, if you are free, I will take you and Dr. Spencer to his grave.

She wrote the English translation beneath the spidery characters and slid the note under Spencer's door.

Back inside, her door locked, she removed all her clothes and stood in front of the mirror. Too boyish, that was her problem. A spare, narrow-hipped frame that rose from slim, wiry legs. Not much of a waist. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelled out only slightly. Well shaped, though, she thought, twisting her body to put one of them into silhouette. And she had a reasonably good-looking bottom. She turned and looked at it over her shoulder. Her pigu, pigu, as the Chinese called it. Round and white and no droop. Not yet. She faced front again. Her eyes trailed down her pale belly past her legs to her feet, knotty and curiously strong looking. Too long for her small body, not soft and white as they should have been, but at least they were not all wide and splayed out. as the Chinese called it. Round and white and no droop. Not yet. She faced front again. Her eyes trailed down her pale belly past her legs to her feet, knotty and curiously strong looking. Too long for her small body, not soft and white as they should have been, but at least they were not all wide and splayed out.

Feet were important to Chinese men, or at least they had once been. Alice, as yet another way of achieving separation with herself, had often imagined herself with bound feet. Three inches long, that had been the ideal, and the helpless woman with soft pleading and submissiveness in her eyes would sway above them in that lotus-foot gait. Take me. Alice had read that the most profound s.e.xual act in old China was when a woman actually allowed a man to remove her foot bandages and do things with her deformed foot. She knew that many women were married to men all their lives, bore them many sons, and never let them do it.

Often Alice had imagined it: the soft-eyed woman finally saying yes, the yards and yards of white bandage spiraling into a heap on the floor, the tiny wrinkled hoof, bare, the smaller toes bent under, sometimes fallen off. The strange smell of decayed flesh mixed with sweet talc.u.m. The foot, pitiable, longed for, lifted at last in the man's ivory hands.

"Horace," she said, glancing at her watch in the dim flickering public phone stall-it was four forty-five in the morning where he was, "-why didn't you tell me there was a problem?"

"There is no problem," came back the sleepy, insistent voice.

"But Roger told me there was a chance it might be-" She stopped, not wanting to say the word, cancer. "He said it might be something serious."

"Did he? Well, it's not, though I love hearing from you. Alice darling, you haven't called me so much in years! Not since your first week at college."

"I got a little scared when I heard your message, Horace. And then when I talked to you and Roger. You can understand that." She pressed her lips together, holding back the words and the thoughts. To be any kind of person she needed, desperately, to stay away from him. With him, she was Alice Mannegan. The Alice from the Alice Speech. Prejudice and revulsion clung to her like a smell. And it was her own personal curse that she lacked the authority to tell him so, bluntly. She just couldn't. He was too powerful, too in control. All she could do was stay away.

And yet Horace was all she had. She was in so many ways his issue: the auburn hair, the small frame, the high intelligence. There was a confused stream of familial commitment between them that-despite everything-still survived and still had love in it. It was an alliance Alice couldn't imagine living without.

And she knew Horace couldn't imagine it either. "Come back, sweetheart. Please. Come back and visit me."

"I can't right now. Soon maybe, but not now. I'm on a job."

"I miss you so much."

"I know. Me too. Horace, come on. Tell me what's going on."

He coughed. He had stopped smoking years ago, at her urging, but he still coughed, especially in the morning. "I'm just on the antibiotic, sweetheart. Really. It's okay."

"Are you taking care of yourself? Are you getting enough sleep?"

"Are you coming home?"

She sighed. "Horace ..."

"Seriously," he continued. "It's a big country, America. There's lots of room. You could come back. You don't have to be anywhere near your old dad."

"Oh, Horace," she said, instantly moving the conversation away from the word Dad, as she always did.

"You could come back and live somewhere else," he insisted.

"It's not that. It's just that this is my life-working-you know." She didn't want to say what she felt, what she knew to be true: that he had ruined America for her, that she could no longer be there, that for better or worse she was entwined here in China. Though what would her life be like after-if-Horace was gone? She tried briefly to imagine a world without him. His dominance, his paternalism, vanished. Would she be free, then? Could she be herself, could she love someone?

These thoughts, first shafts of light in darkness, made her wince; she quickly closed them off. No, she thought, taking a deep, jagged breath. Losing Horace would be awful.

Her father was still talking, a stubborn edge to his voice. "Well, then, just come and visit."

"I'll try."