Lost In Translation Part 2

"So where do you live? Not the Minzu."

"No, I'm based at a smaller guesthouse. It's one of the old ones, a compound, with courtyards. I like it a lot-even though the utilities are, shall we say, unreliable. But I travel. And when I'm working I move to the client's hotel, so I can enjoy the amenities."

"And keep the other place? Nice."

She shrugged. "It works."

He picked up the menu. "I bet you don't eat like this, though."

"Definitely not."

"Neither do I." He snapped the menu shut and gave her a good-natured challenge with his eyes. "During this job, I want you to make sure that every meal we eat is Chinese-absolutely local-the weirder the better. Okay?"

"You're on."

"Good." He opened his notebook and wrote it down, as if it were a contract point and he planned to hold her to it. "Tell me, Alice. What made you decide to learn Chinese?"

"I guess I always wanted to." She closed her eyes. As a child, long before she had known her fate lay in China, when all she'd known was she needed another world to which she could escape, she had made up a private language for her diary. For no one would she translate. This had been her first ticket out. Then she got to Rice University, and found Chinese, and it had been so much better. A door to an alternate self. This self was another Alice, not the childhood Alice: capable, free in the world, independent.

Their bottled beer came, trickling ice-sweat, and each took a long drink. "It's a relief to have a client like you," she admitted.

"Oh?"

"Most of my jobs-selling oilfield equipment. Distributing peanut b.u.t.ter. Bartering intermediate chemicals for finished compounds. Once in a while it's something fun. Last year a company that arranges religious tours to remote monasteries hired me to ride the route ahead of time and make sure all the rural buses were functioning. That wasn't bad. But I don't meet too many outside people over here who are like you, who are"-she searched for the word-"open minded. Most Westerners seem to look right through China. They don't even see what's in front of them." She shrugged, drinking her beer, and he grinned at her. She liked his grin. He was smart, he had a nice human quality despite his oddities. For one thing, he appeared to wear a clean version of the same outfit every day: jeans and a blue chambray shirt. He must have three, four, five sets of the same thing, she thought. Strange. Still, we could be friends. I need friends. I hardly know any outside people in Beijing these days.

Alice had once had a lot of expat friends, but they were all either gone, or married, or had children; n.o.body's life now matched hers. And they clung so to their Westernness, their imported newspapers, their Sunday touch-football games in the diplomatic compound, weekly trips to McDonald's. Alice had drifted away. She spent most of her time with Chinese now, trying to fit in.

"What about you," she said. "You have a family?"

"I'm divorced." He swallowed. It still sounded strange. Divorce was a dark bridge behind him, a bad dream, something he'd never expected. Though he should have expected it. He'd waited so long to get married-until he was almost forty -and then he'd chosen too quickly. Ellen was fifteen years younger and not really ready to settle. There was always something partial and half committed between them. But two years into their marriage she had given birth to Tyler and then, finally, Spencer had known what real love was. With Tyler there was nothing he would not give, no sand-and-grit play-ground on which he would not push a swing for hours, no Sat.u.r.day cartoon he would not sit through. Ellen complained that he spoiled the child. Maybe he did. But he gave love, and got it back, in a form so unconditional that he could not even bear to go away-to a dig in the desert, say-without a worn piece of baby clothing that carried Tyler's smell. This was a rapture he'd never known with any other person.

And then Ellen had met another man and left him, moving back to northern California, taking the boy with her.

"I'm sorry," Alice said.

"Thanks." He drank. "I have a son, though: Tyler. Want to see?" He dug out his current school picture, third grade, a towheaded boy with a serious, freckle-faced gaze.

"Cute," she said. "Do you share custody?"

"I get half of each summer and school vacations."

"Oh." She nodded sympathetically, hearing the pain in his voice. "That's tough."

"Yeah." He looked at the picture for what seemed like a long time before putting it away. "You? You have kids?"

"Me? Oh, no." She picked at the label on her beer. Children were way down on the list of things she figured the universe was ever going to allow her to have. Like love. Start with love. "I'm not even married," she said.

"Oh," he answered, as if he didn't know, but of course he knew already, for he had seen her riding her bicycle back to the hotel in a short black dress, had seen her walk into the building at dawn, tugging her hem down over her thighs. Then at breakfast it was obvious. He had not written it in his book, it was a private observation, but he'd seen: she was single. Very. He'd been drawn to women like her when he was much younger, when excitement was the thing he wanted. When he had not yet learned to a.s.sess how twisted up a girl was inside. Not anymore. Not now. If it ever happened for him again it would be with a woman who could be trusted. But not now, not soon. All he wanted now was his son. And to get his career back on track. Peking Man.

Yet this interpreter was interesting. Likable-as long as he didn't get too close. "By the way, Alice. I brought you a book." He removed The Phenomenon of Man The Phenomenon of Man from his day pack and pushed it across the table. "Father Teilhard's best seller. Thought you might want to reread it." from his day pack and pushed it across the table. "Father Teilhard's best seller. Thought you might want to reread it."

"Hey. Thanks." She flipped through it, remembering the picture of an expanding universe, the sense of Christian revelation, the coherent, unified vision of human growth. Whereas her own evolution had been stalled forever. "Are you interested in Teilhard's philosophy, then?"

"No. I find it a little hard to read. I'm interested in his life here in China-who he knew, where he went. Because somewhere here, he hid Peking Man."

She closed the book. "So tell me about his life, then. Here in Peking. He lived here on and off for..."

"Twenty-three years. Nineteen twenty-two to 1945. He went back to Europe and America a few times, but this is where he lived."

"He had a lot of friends?"

"Everybody knew him. The foreigners' community was a small one. And he was an explorer, a scientist-a real man of the world. Women found him fascinating. One woman in particular. Lucile Swan."

"Who was she?"

"An American in her thirties, a sculptor. She had come to Peking from New York after a bad divorce, and stayed on. Peking was a fantasy world then. Foreigners could have anything, live any way they wanted, cheaply. I think all she wanted to do was sculpt, and find a man to love. Couldn't have been easy for her in China."

"I think she sounds interesting."

"You do?" He drank from his bottle, and thought: Of course you do, she's right up your alley.

"Did she ever fall in love?"

"Yes-with Teilhard. Unfortunately, he was a priest. That kind of limited things." Spencer smiled.

"Did they..."

"Doubtful. I don't think so. I think they were so emotionally enmeshed it didn't matter. I haven't researched her too much-I'm pretty sure she had nothing to do with where he hid Peking Man. But if you're interested, you can read their correspondence. It was recently published, all twenty-three years of it."

"I think I'll start with this one." She glanced at the volume in her hand, Teilhard's masterpiece of theology. "Thank you, Dr. Spencer."

"Don't call me that."

"What, then?"

"I don't know-Adam? Spencer? But no 'Doctor.' "

"Okay." She liked the detached, friendly way he talked. He didn't seem interested in her as a woman any more than she was interested in him as a man. Which was not at all. Western men didn't get to her.

"You ready?" he said.

As they crossed the gleaming floor of the lobby he tapped her elbow. She took in the row of girls flaunting brief skirts and pouty, red-painted lips. They were giggling and whispering. One of them got up and intercepted a foreign man in a business suit, said something to him, and smiled prettily.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Sure."

"What? You mean they're-"

"Hookers," Alice supplied.

"In China?" He was incredulous.

"Of course. Prost.i.tution did disappear for a few decades, obviously, but now-now that we have the kai fang, kai fang, the open door, it's back." She made her voice mischievous. "Commerce is booming everywhere in the Middle Kingdom, Adam. In all forms." the open door, it's back." She made her voice mischievous. "Commerce is booming everywhere in the Middle Kingdom, Adam. In all forms."

"But who's"-he looked around-"are they just independents, coming in here?"

"You mean who's running their business? The PLA."

"What!" Now his voice was a minor screech.

"That's right, the PLA." She was enjoying his reaction. "The Army owns this hotel. They control the girls and, of course, the profits. Or so everyone says."

"The Army? I can't believe it."

"The Army is business," she told him, suddenly sober. "Very "Very serious business. Remember that. You don't ever want to cross them. Don't be fooled by all these big glitzy hotels. Regardless of all the new stuff you see around you-all the Big Macs and the Italian shoes and the Seiko watches-the Army's power in this country is still absolute." serious business. Remember that. You don't ever want to cross them. Don't be fooled by all these big glitzy hotels. Regardless of all the new stuff you see around you-all the Big Macs and the Italian shoes and the Seiko watches-the Army's power in this country is still absolute."

She left Spencer at their hotel and stepped into a taxi. "Where go?" the driver bawled in bad English.

"Am I a miserable white ghost from the western sea, ignorant of civilized speech?" she asked sharply. "The American Express office, quickly. And don't take Changan. The traffic's a dammed-up river which threatens to overflow its banks."

"The honored foreigner speaks." He pulled out from the curb. "Ten thousand pardons."

"None needed," she murmured, knowing she had been short with him, feeling her stomach knot up as it always did when she went to check for mail and faxes from her father. She had to go, she hadn't gone in too long. Plus, this time of the month, he usually sent her money. She closed her eyes, hating herself for wanting the money and relying on it; at the same time so glad it was coming.

The driver swung onto Ximen and crawled north through the traffic. He leaned on his horn and swore constantly at the swarm of cars and bicycles in front of him. "Sons of turtles!"

"Too many cars." G.o.d, she thought, fourteen years ago there was barely a car on the street here. Just bicycles. And I was a wide-eyed graduate student, freshly arrived, ecstatic to have escaped America and finally be smack in the middle of the oldest, most complex, most intricately structured society on earth. Safely walled in by what was different. By the labyrinth. She leaned her head back on the overstuffed, antimaca.s.sared seat and watched the bustling free-market stalls, the parade of offices and restaurants and shops, the lit-up character signs more discreet than the visual cacophony of Hong Kong and Taipei, but still so earthily and ineluctably Chinese. The pyramids of cabbages stacked on the stone sidewalks. The post-Soviet dinginess of the low block buildings. The fetid smell of rotting garbage and untreated sewage. The remarkable light, crystalline white when the air pollution cleared, which always seemed to Alice at its most beautiful in the hutongs, hutongs, where it bathed the traditional gray courtyard houses in its distinctive weightless glow. where it bathed the traditional gray courtyard houses in its distinctive weightless glow.

"Wait for me," she told the driver when he ground to a halt. She dashed inside.

The American Express office was empty. Young Wu looked up from behind the counter and broke into a smile.

"Eh, Mo Ai-li, truly it's a long time we haven't met," he said, even though she'd come in only a few weeks ago. "You're well?"

"Not bad." She smiled back. "Any mail?"

"Oh, yes. I always keep it for you, special."

"Sure you do."

"Eh! Aren't we 'old friends'?"

She laughed. "Of course," she lied. She had been picking up mail from Young Wu for almost two years, but the catch-phrase old friend old friend meant more, so much more, and they both knew it: permanent loyalty, mutual obligation, the promise to deliver on almost any favor when asked. And to weigh carefully before asking. meant more, so much more, and they both knew it: permanent loyalty, mutual obligation, the promise to deliver on almost any favor when asked. And to weigh carefully before asking.

"Anyway ..." He grinned. He reached under the counter and brought out a thin sheaf of faxes and letters.

She paged through the faxes. Most were from the U.S.-China Chamber of Commerce, relaying inquiries about her services from prospective clients. These she put aside for later. Two letters. One was addressed to Bruce Kaplan care of Alice Mannegan, from his mother. Bruce was one of Alice's few local foreigner friends: a bookish, reclusive American who had lived in Beijing for years. His mother knew he never went to collect his own mail, so she occasionally sent him letters, like this one, through Alice. She tucked the envelope in her purse.

Then, on the bottom, the letter from Horace. His precise handwriting.

"Mind if I sit down a moment?" she asked Wu.

"Take your ease." Wu pointed to a generic waiting-room couch along the far wall.

She tore the envelope open. Immediately the check tumbled out, $1,000 U.S., not enough really to live on but, in combination with what she earned, a cushion that kept her always comfortable. Even if she was an outside person and had to pay more for everything. She folded the check and put it in her wallet, her heart banging with relief and shame. Another month set, walled in, and she could go on pretending that this freelance life she had carved out actually made her financially secure-when in truth without her father's help she'd be, sometimes, downright sc.r.a.ping.

She unfolded the letter. It was brief. The usual. His life in Washington, gearing up for the election next year. He always got reelected. As usual, no reference to the money. He never mentioned enclosing it and she never acknowledged receiving it. Finally, at the end, something new: I wish you'd put some thought into coming back. I think about it now because we're coming up on the anniversary of her pa.s.sing again. Will you think about it, Alice?

Her pa.s.sing. Alice's mother had died when she was a baby, too young for Alice to remember. It was a source of loss for Horace still, after all these years, but to Alice just an empty place. She thought she should feel more for it than she actually felt. Naturally her life would have been different if she'd had a mother-but there was no use thinking about it. She folded her father's letter back into the envelope. Alice's mother had died when she was a baby, too young for Alice to remember. It was a source of loss for Horace still, after all these years, but to Alice just an empty place. She thought she should feel more for it than she actually felt. Naturally her life would have been different if she'd had a mother-but there was no use thinking about it. She folded her father's letter back into the envelope.

"Are you by any chance free now, Mo Ai-li?" Young Wu inquired from across the room. "I am closing in ten minutes and wondered if you would care to go and drink coffee with my lowly self."

"Oh." She looked up. "Oh, thanks, Young Wu, but no. I have to go back and meet my client."

"Another time," he said smoothly, concealing his disappointment. He had asked her before, always in a casual way, to go out with him and she had always refused. Interpreter Mo Ai-li was appealingly piaoliang piaoliang for a foreigner: small, intelligent looking, with a face that was pretty in a neat, trim sort of way. It was also said of her that she liked Chinese for a foreigner: small, intelligent looking, with a face that was pretty in a neat, trim sort of way. It was also said of her that she liked Chinese yang. yang. He had always wanted to learn for himself whether it was true or not. Even if she was a few years older. He had always wanted to learn for himself whether it was true or not. Even if she was a few years older.

"Zai jian, zai. jian," she said absently, stuffing the papers into her handbag. She rose and pushed through the revolving door.

"Zai jian, " he answered, watching her go, watching her carry her body with frank, hip-rolling confidence the way a Chinese woman never would. She climbed back in the taxi and it roared away. " he answered, watching her go, watching her carry her body with frank, hip-rolling confidence the way a Chinese woman never would. She climbed back in the taxi and it roared away.

Wu put all his supplies in order and checked the fax machine to make sure it had a fat roll of paper and was set to receive overnight. He glanced at the clock. Four fifty-five. Well. He might as well lock up. He was just removing the key from the drawer when the door hissed and a bespectacled, pinch-chested Chinese man strode in. The man took out a name card and slid it across the counter.

Wu didn't look at it. "I'm closing," he said, still arranging things in the drawer.

"Wu Litang," the man said.

Young Wu looked up sharply. Somehow this man knew his real name, not his work name, not his school name, but the name his parents had given him at birth before his ancestors.

"Did you recognize the foreign ghost woman who was just in here?"

"No," Wu said automatically, and then glanced at the man's card. Ice stabbed through him, not at the name-which was unimportant and undoubtedly false-but at the danwei: danwei: PLA, Beijing District Command. PLA, Beijing District Command.

"You've never seen her before?"

"She could have come in before," Wu evaded. "I'm not too clear. The foreigners who come in here are numerous."

"Well, Wu Litang." The man placed a delicate emphasis on his true and private given name. "Listen well. The next time she receives mail, or faxes, you are to call me at this number at once. I'll examine them before she picks them up. And any mail for a certain other American person, an archaeologist." He leaned over and wrote out the American names on his card. "Is it clear?"

"Yes," Wu said, hating him for knowing his name and using it so rudely, hating him because he was PLA and the Six-Four at Tiananmen was so unforgivable.

"Remember," the man ordered, and walked out.

Discourteous bag of flatulence, Wu thought. As soon as he saw the man step into a waiting car and slam the door, he picked up the card and crumpled it into the wastebasket.

He would certainly inform Interpreter Mo of this the next time he saw her. Though, of course, there was no telling when that would be. Foreign clocks and calendars running as they did, differently. Inexplicably.

"This used to be called Morrison Street." Alice pointed down congested w.a.n.gfujing Boulevard. She opened her antique guidebook to the city, published sixty years before. "Something to do with a British newspaperman who lived here a hundred years ago. Now. According to the headings on Teilhard's letters, the Jesuit House was off Morrison in Tizi Hutong. Ladder Lane." She leafed through to the index. "Ah, here. In the upper part of what used to be the Tartar City. This way."