Lost In Translation Part 24

"Will you talk about her now?" she whispered.

"If it is what you want."

Ask him. Just ask him.

"Do you still love her?"

He stopped and looked down at her. "Yes. I've never stopped."

She looked frozen back up into his face.

"Eh, Xiao Mo." He sighed. "It's true that she has been gone for more than twenty years. But I never got any definite answer... so in my heart, and according to the law, I am still married. I was never willing to denounce her. Do you understand me or not?"

"Of course I do," she said. "But Dr. Lin, that was years ago. You have heard nothing for so long, isn't it so? Don't you think-"

"I think she is my airen," airen," he said simply, stubbornly, with an edge in his voice. he said simply, stubbornly, with an edge in his voice.

She felt stung. Airen, Airen, Loved one, the word that meant a wife, or a husband-for life. Caution, she thought. Loved one, the word that meant a wife, or a husband-for life. Caution, she thought.

"And it's a strange thing," he continued. "In some way my feeling for her is even greater now than when we were together in life."

Alice felt numb. Teilhard had written about that to Lucile: Sometimes I think that this very privation I must impose you Sometimes I think that this very privation I must impose you makes me ten times more devoted to you. makes me ten times more devoted to you. "It's a ... level of commitment," Alice said, not sure how to respond. "It's a ... level of commitment," Alice said, not sure how to respond.

"Yes," he said, looking at her strangely, "very Chinese- commitment."

"Not just Chinese," she corrected him. "All people feel this way." She knew he probably thought Western women were loose, casual, suibian. suibian. As she'd been up until recently-up until now, as a matter of fact. But she was through with that. She was going to start a new life. As she'd been up until recently-up until now, as a matter of fact. But she was through with that. She was going to start a new life.

"I don't know if all people are the same," he said. "I am Chinese. I made the commitment to my wife and I have held to it. Though lately"-he looked at her-"I begin to wonder."

Oh, this man could change, Alice thought with a streak of hope. He could. She laid her hand briefly, sympathetically, on his arm. It was the same American gesture that had made him jump like a frightened animal in the middle of the night, in the garden at the Number One. This time-though they were in public, in daylight, in a crowd-he responded by touching her hand lightly with one finger.

"My life has also been hard," Alice ventured.

He looked down, his face open.

"I mean my father. He's an elected official, very famous, I think I told you, but I am so ashamed of his beliefs. He is a racist. He thinks whites are superior to all the other races in the world."

"You mean blacks."

"I mean everyone."

"Including Chinese?"

"Yes."

Lin snorted in disbelief.

"Of course I don't agree with such things."

"No."

"But I am his daughter. It follows me everywhere."

"Terrible."

She saw the sympathy in his face and felt that she did not have to explain the Alice Speech, the thirty-year march of civil rights, the terrible immorality of racism in America. Because the immoralities in China had been equal-maybe greater- though different. And there were certainly leaders in China whose children struggled under shame the same way she did.

"So that is the thing in you I can feel," Lin said softly. "Some bitterness. Is it your father?"

"Horace," she corrected him. "Yes. And perhaps my mother too-I never had one. She died when I was a baby."

"Zhen bu rongyi, "he said, with genuine sympathy. She felt him wanting to touch her. "he said, with genuine sympathy. She felt him wanting to touch her.

"Let's sit a moment," he said. They had come to a gra.s.sy area of stone benches flanked by beds of hollyhocks. In front of them rose the ancient, paG.o.da-style drum tower.

A northern-type opera was being performed at the foot of the tower on a makeshift wooden stage. A few old men carrying wooden birdcages had gathered to watch the actors shriek and strike their poses through the story. She rather liked the sound of opera. She liked it the way she liked the sound of a baseball game on the radio-which in fact, she hated, just as much as she actually hated Chinese opera if she had to sit down and watch it. But both Chinese opera and baseball, as background noise, gave her a secure and filled-up feeling. She had a childhood memory of Horace listening to baseball on the radio.

Now she and Lin sat on the stone bench while the female impersonators in their brilliant face paint flourished their fake gilt-crusted fingernails, and the old men swung their birdcages and cracked sunflower-seed sh.e.l.ls between their teeth and laughed their bubbly phlegm laughs, and a boy in mended clothes beside the stage beat on the big bra.s.s gong.

Suddenly Lin reached over, took her hand in his, and squeezed it. Then he let go of her hand, and returned his hand to his lap. She looked. He was immobile, but his whole frame blazed with alertness. She loved this quality in Chinese men, this physical hyperawareness, this restraint. It was like a guide wire, anch.o.r.ed in her softest heart.

"Truly surprising to find the two of you here," said a voice, and they looked up. Guo Wenxiang.

"What happened?" Alice gasped. There were ugly bruises on the side of Guo's face, blurring out all around his sungla.s.ses.

"I asked too many questions about history," he said, eyes traveling briefly to Lin.

For a moment she thought he was going to say something about her asking him to look for Meiyan, but he did not.

"Can we do anything for you?" Lin asked, voice low.

"No. Part of my job. Isn't it so?"

"Do you want to say who they were?" Lin asked.

Guo laughed, long and thin. "I'm not even sure." Then he turned, and wove away from them into the crowd.

Alice and Lin exchanged brief glances. "My G.o.d, Lin," she breathed. "Is that going to happen to us next?"

"Oh, no." He touched her knee. "They wouldn't dare! You are not one of us. You're an outsider. This is international cooperation. Really, Mo Ai-li, you are safe."

How I wish it, she thought, looking up at him.

11.

First they had to cross the Helan Shan. Through most of its length, running north-south parallel to the local flow of the Yellow River, it was a towering escarpment-completely impa.s.sable. Its limestone walls rose from four thousand to thirteen thousand feet in less than a mile. So they had to drive around to the south end, where the range crumbled down to brown peaks of dirt and rock and was cut by pa.s.ses. They rattled up the burning asphalt road. The jeep engine groaned down a gear. Alice laid her head on the seat and watched the gray specter of the Helan Shan's crest, the wall of rock Teilhard had loved, a million years in the making.

Through the pa.s.s itself there was a brief shady forest of cedar and pine. This was not the highest zone: in the upper elevations, to the north, Alice could see the deep green belt of spruce. Higher still, above the tree line, rose the glaciated peaks of bare stone.

This long, thin range divided the two deserts Teilhard had written about, the Tengger and the Ordos. It was the Tengger that spread out in front of them now, as they roared down the Mongolian slope. The road was less steep on this side, winding a little more gently down through the oak brush and rock piles. It settled finally into a long, rocky alluvial ap.r.o.n that landed in a sea of stabilized dunes, shadowed with a thin, patchy cover of brush.

Near the bottom they pa.s.sed a few dwellings, simple earth boxes with holes cut for their doors and windows. Roofs of mud and straw, held by a jutting row of rafters. These were the only signs of human habitation.

The last half hour into Eren Obo was on a dusty, unpaved road cut with deep ruts and potholes. And then Eren Obo itself: a desert town frozen in time.

To Alice, Eren Obo was another Tonopah, Nevada-the way Tonopah had looked to her when, years before, she'd first driven out west from Texas. Just the sight, now, of these low sand-colored buildings, this contained little grid backed right up to a tributary range of brown desert mountains and the blazing blue sky, brought back the memory of being a college student, on the highway, in an open car, pretending she was flying away from her life as she drove west.

But this was Mongolia. The streets were full of dark, chisel-faced men, laughing over their complicated board games on the sidewalk, piloting pickups through the unpaved streets.

"This is the hotel?" Spencer asked. It was a two-story stucco building with gla.s.s doors, linoleum in the lobby. And no other guests besides themselves.

A fuwuyuan fuwuyuan took them up to their plain white-walled rooms, each with a narrow bed and toilet dry as bone. And a powdery sink-also never used. There appeared to be no running water. So why had they installed the plumbing? Alice switched the plaintive faucet on and off. There was a TV, though-naturally! She flicked it on. Only one channel, a horse-oriented sporting event in Mongolian. took them up to their plain white-walled rooms, each with a narrow bed and toilet dry as bone. And a powdery sink-also never used. There appeared to be no running water. So why had they installed the plumbing? Alice switched the plaintive faucet on and off. There was a TV, though-naturally! She flicked it on. Only one channel, a horse-oriented sporting event in Mongolian.

"Will you be comfortable?" came a voice in Chinese.

She turned. Lin in the doorway. "And where is your room?" she asked.

"Duimian, " Across the hall. " Across the hall.

"Amazing. We are near each other."

He inclined his head.

"Do you like that?" she asked boldly.

"Lin Boshi!" They heard from downstairs. Kong's voice. They heard from downstairs. Kong's voice.

"You should come, bring Dr. Spencer," Lin said. "The forestry man's downstairs."

"Xing."

On the first floor they found a kind-faced, rough-and-ready Mongol in loose clothes. "I am called Kuyuk," he said in heavily accented Chinese. "Is it true you're looking for the ape-man?"

They walked into a side room off the lobby and eased into upholstered chairs around a low wooden table. "This is what I was told," Kuyuk continued. "But ape-man fossils have never been found here. Never! I am therefore not sure how to help you."

"We're not looking for a new ape-man site," Spencer explained. "We're looking for the original cache of Peking Man bones-the artifacts from 1929."

Alice's translation caught up, and Kuyuk's sun- and wind-burned face with its towering cheekbones creased in bewilderment. "Peking Man! But why here? We are so remote."

"We think there's a chance it was hidden near here at the end of the war. We need to determine first if anybody is alive who might know whether a tall, thin Frenchman visited the town in the spring of 1945. Here is his picture." Spencer produced an old photograph and pa.s.sed it around. Kuyuk studied it seriously, as if Father Teilhard were someone he might have seen recently on the desert-dirt streets.

"We have evidence he was corresponding with someone here at that time. That someone sent him a drawing of your local rock art. Here." Spencer pulled out a sketch of the monkey sun G.o.d and showed it to the Mongol. "What if the French priest hid Peking Man near Eren Obo? Somewhere near"-he pointed to the drawing-"one of these? As a forestry manager you know the land. You know where these petroglyphs are. We need you to help us pin down the places he might have put it."

The man stared into s.p.a.ce for a moment, rubbing his brown hands, then said: "Yes, of course-I have seen this rock art up in the Helan Shan. But you will have to talk with our Leader. Anyway tonight, at six o'clock, we hold a dinner for you. The Leader will attend. The Leader knows more about past events than anyone else. See you at six."

A silence fell after Kuyuk walked out. "Who's the Leader?" Alice asked.

"Ah!" Kong smiled. "They used to call the man who controls Alashan Banner the Prince. Now he is simply the Leader." In the last few days Kong had become more relaxed. He had stopped clipping his cell phone to his belt, since they were out of range. There were no lines for his fax. He had changed his suit pants for khakis and his white athletic shoes were streaked with dust.

"Whoever he is," Spencer said, "let's hope he kept good records."

The Leader waited at the banquet table in the small outbuilding that pa.s.sed as the guesthouse dining room. Kuyuk sat on his left. A young woman with high, narrow eyes and a wide, composed slash of a mouth was to his right. Other Mongols lounged against the walls.

"Sit!" the Leader barked. He spoke Chinese with an accent. He was in his mid-fifties, vigorous, the black hair racing straight back from his bronzed forehead. He half rose from the round table set with plates and teacups and tiny wine cups. "Tea!" he called. One of the men from the wall sprang up and poured. "You know Kuyuk," he said, and then indicated the woman on his left. "Ssanang. My daughter. Eh, it's a long time since an outsider came to Eren Obo. The last one was a soil-conservation man from Australia. Let me see-five years ago. Welcome. Trouble you to explain your work."

Spencer fell right into his theory. The Leader listened carefully as the American told how Teilhard got the bones back late in the war. Everyone at the table looked at the drawing of the petroglyph. "So you see, we have to think like Teilhard," Spencer concluded.

"Cigarette?" the Leader asked. He held out a pack of the smelly local brand.

"Uh"-Spencer drew back-"no thanks."

The pack went around the table. Kuyuk and Kong helped themselves. The woman Ssanang declined. Alice stole a glance at Lin. No. He didn't take one.

The Leader leaned to Kuyuk, accepted a light. All around, the Leader's men took out smokes and lit up. The discreet fffft fffft of matches, the pull of indrawn breath circled them, then the cigarette smell rolled overhead. of matches, the pull of indrawn breath circled them, then the cigarette smell rolled overhead.

"Now," said the Leader, exhaling a pale cloud, "you say we must think like the Frenchman. First?"

"First"-Spencer grinned-"he loved it here-the countryside, the Helan Shan. Okay. I figure to Teilhard, the Helan Shan might have been a perfect place. It was a landmark, a mountain range. It had unique rock art, a motif that was found no place else in the world. Something to guide scientists to the spot later. But more! He sensed beauty here. I mean divine beauty. He said in his letters that here he felt close to G.o.d."

The Leader listened closely to her translation, approval replacing the neutral glaze on his face. "It's so! Any man with a heart would feel that in the Helan Shan!"

"Yet it was remote," Spencer pointed out. "He could hide something and know it would never be disturbed. There'd be a marker-the petroglyph. And a dry, favorable climate.

"Other types of terrain around this village, I think Teilhard would have pa.s.sed over. He wouldn't have hidden anything in the desert floor, for instance. The sand shifts too much. He might never find it again. And the alluvial fans are no good either-flash flooding. So if he got Peking Man back, if in fact he came out here with it in 1945-I say he took it up to the mountains. Near some rock art." Spencer sat back.

"Interesting." The Leader stubbed out his cigarette. The doors flung open at the end of the room and three garishly made-up Mongol girls twirled in with platters above their heads. With a flourish they set down steaming platters of sculpture : sauteed eggplant and hair vegetable, arranged in small mountains and canyons to look like the desert's wide open s.p.a.ces, with a Great Wall of crenelated Spam down the middle of each plate. "Please," said the Leader happily, and he helped himself.

Alice stared. So different from Chinese manners! In China the host would serve others first, would not eat until the guests began. She bit into the eggplant; it was simple, but fresh and perfectly cooked. The Spam she pushed discreetly to the side. This was just the first course, she knew. She loved banquets. They always included a stupefying parade of food, endless dishes, five times as much as anyone could eat. In America, where food was plentiful, such a display would be impolite. In Asia it was de rigueur. She ate happily.

"To your visit," the Leader cried, and raised his tiny cup.

They all drank. She had to hold in a yell, the alcohol was so strong. It burned all the way to her stomach.

"That's some moonshine," Spencer sputtered. "So." He wiped his mouth. "What do you think about my idea?"

"Most interesting." The Leader reached into his shirt and withdrew an envelope.

"What's that?"

"Please have a look." He handed it over.

Spencer opened it and gently extracted a frayed, folded paper. Then he almost tipped over his chair.