Lost In Translation Part 6

"And they have influence?"

"Influence! One of them chairs the committee. He's in the National Academy of Sciences-teaches at Princeton. The other one teaches at Berkeley. He happens to be head of the Leakey Foundation Review Board. They both publish constantly, give papers at all the international conferences-you know."

"And these are guys you you went to graduate school with?" went to graduate school with?"

He heard the dubious note in her voice and colored ever so slightly. "Right. We all got our Ph.D.'s at Columbia together. Look, Alice, they chose big-time academia. I chose-"

"The University of Nevada at Reno."

"-No, the desert. I went to UNR because it's smack in the middle of the Great Basin, the American outback, the place where everything-the wind, the rocks, and the sand-makes me feel alive." But not complete. He hadn't felt complete, even there, until he had Tyler. And now Tyler had been all but taken away from him. He fought down the familiar panic-his boy, growing older day by day, far away. At least he still had the desert. "I love it there. Can you understand that?"

She smiled up at him suddenly, his haphazard face, his gray eyes in their baggy pouches. "I'm not one to talk, am I? I live in China."

"No," he said, looking at her thoughtfully. "You're not."

"So when do you think you'll hear? About the grant?"

"Don't worry. Any day. They have the fax number at the hotel."

"Inside," the old woman said, kicking at the door. "This is where w.a.n.g Ma put the west-ocean barbarian woman's things. It's not a bit convenient! This closet has been needed many times! But w.a.n.g Ma is a superst.i.tious old bone; she wouldn't let us remove them. She says then the woman's ghost would be ill at ease. Huh!" She shook her blunt, iron head. "Am I a credulous lump of meat from the countryside to believe such things?" She ambled away muttering.

Spencer knelt and examined the ancient, rusted-over lock. "Hasn't been opened in a long time."

She looked around the back of the si-he yuan si-he yuan on Dengshikou Hutong-the address that old Mr. Zhang at the Zhoukoudian museum had given them. The house seemed to have stayed not only intact but largely unchanged after Lucile's time. From what Alice had gleaned, this was because the widow of someone important had lived here in seclusion until her death. Now, her servants were being permitted to remain. Unusual. Alice yanked the lock once, then took a fist-sized rock. "Stand back," she said, and brought the rock down in a decisive swing. One good smash: the lock gave out a grating squeak and fell apart. on Dengshikou Hutong-the address that old Mr. Zhang at the Zhoukoudian museum had given them. The house seemed to have stayed not only intact but largely unchanged after Lucile's time. From what Alice had gleaned, this was because the widow of someone important had lived here in seclusion until her death. Now, her servants were being permitted to remain. Unusual. Alice yanked the lock once, then took a fist-sized rock. "Stand back," she said, and brought the rock down in a decisive swing. One good smash: the lock gave out a grating squeak and fell apart.

"Not bad!" Spencer punched her arm in congratulations, then jittered the door open. Inside the small, dust-choked s.p.a.ce were Chinese wooden trunks, stacked high in the narrow gloom.

They lifted the trunks out into the sun. The first one contained sculpting tools; the second, big irregular blocks of ancient desiccated clay.

"Why'd she keep this?" Spencer wondered.

"She must have thought she was coming back." Alice reached in and put her hands on the clay, thinking in a blaze of envy and admiration what it must be like to have an art. The way Lucile did. Alice pressed her fingers against the dry cake of clay, wondering.

"Here's another trunk," he said. "Look. Cooking stuff." They pawed through kettles and woks and mortar stones and cake molds and vegetable cutters in the fanciful shapes of phoenixes and dragons, but nothing remotely related to Teilhard or Peking Man. Three cases of books, all in English. Novels, dictionaries, books of poetry and philosophy. Two trunks of clothing. "Hey, maybe this could fit you," he joked, holding a floral print dress up to her. "No. You're too skinny."

"Thanks a lot."

"Just stating the facts. What's this, now?" He pried open the last trunk. It was packed with small household goods: vases, table clocks, cloisonne ware, and all the treasures of the study: brush holders, inkstones, cases for chops and the small sticky pads of crimson ink that went with them.

"That's it," he said when he had cleared everything out and was staring at the bottom of the trunk, half dazed. He twisted behind and peered into the empty, dust-billowing closet as if surely there were something else within.

"Hold on." Alice had pulled the clothing half out onto the packed earth and was searching through pockets and inner folds. She was a woman and she hid things this way all the time, in the pockets of put-away clothing: her pa.s.sport, her money, extra pieces of jewelry. Why not Lucile? "Ah!" she said. "See?"

"What is it?"

"It's a letter." With great care she pulled out the brittle, brown-mottled envelope, pressed back the flap, and drew out the folded paper. "It's in Chinese. It's-" She read. "It's not to Lucile at all. It's to Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, the address on Tizi Hutong."

"Tell me!"

There was a strained silence as she read through it. She looked up, green eyes big. "It's from a Mongol. He's talking about the situation in the Northwest. He's saying don't worry, the Communists won't get control out there, just like the j.a.panese never did, because the local warlord, some man named Ma Huang-gui, is so powerful. Seems the warlord executes everyone who looks at him cross-eyed-'execute ten to terrify a thousand' is the phrase." She paused, read further. "It's composed point by point, as if he's answering questions." She looked up, finishing it. "It says the region's stable, safe from civil war, safe from Communists."

Spencer's lips worked for a minute and no sound came out.

"You think he's answering questions that Teilhard wrote to him?" she asked.

"G.o.d." He exhaled in a giant push, staring ahead into nothing. "Are you kidding? Of course. He wanted a safe place to put Peking Man. It was a time of war."

"There's one other thing-in the margin. It's a drawing." She showed it to him: a monkey's face, simply but beautifully drawn, with huge staring eyes and, streaming out all around its head, a halo that looked like a crown, or the sun itself. In another way, the face of a monkey was also suggested by the little nose. "What is it?"

"Don't know," he said. "Never seen anything like it."

She squinted. "Looks like ancient art."

"Like a petroglyph, but-certainly nothing like it has been found in the Americas. Or Europe. What do those say?" He pointed to a few characters scrawled in the margin.

She tilted the page. "It says, 'This is what it looks like.' 'It'? What's 'it'?"

"I don't know. The drawing, I guess. This letter seems to be only one piece of some ongoing correspondence. Any return address?"

She examined both sides of the page, turned the envelope over. "No."

"A date?"

"March 1945."

"G.o.d." He sank into a squat.

"It does fit right in, doesn't it?" She eased the letter back into its envelope.

He looked around the empty courtyard. "Look, Alice. Ordinarily I wouldn't do this. Wouldn't take anything, disturb anything. But let me ask you a question. Do you think the people in this house have any idea this letter is here?"

"No."

"Do you think they'd care if they knew it was?"

She hesitated only a fraction. "No."

He was silent.

"You're asking if we should take the letter?"

"Yes. Listen. No one would ever find out. This stuff has been locked up here for years. It's forgotten." He stared at her, hard.

A chill ran over her. Someone had definitely been following them, although they hadn't glimpsed the man today. How much can they watch me? she wondered. Can they know everything that's in my mind? Can they know what I do in my private life? It seemed inconceivable and yet the government always knew more than one expected. Alice looked around quickly. Nothing seemed out of place. Gray stone courtyard walls. Potted camellias. Twittering birds.

"Okay," she said in a moment of firmness, handed him the letter, and watched him slip it into his notebook. "Let's move everything back."

"Good afternoon, Vice Director Han. Yes, of course we were here. We received your message. Thank you." She locked eyes with Spencer and nodded. She continued on in Chinese, trading good wishes with the vice director and chatting about what she and the American had done, their visit to the Zhoukoudian site-playing out the courteous line that was essential to any Chinese exchange, establishing the sense of connection, of relationship. She followed patiently along with the vice director. She knew he had to be the one to bring up business.

Finally he coughed as a mood break. "Oh, now that you mention the ape-man site, I have had the chance to discuss the matter of Dr. Spencer with several of my co-workers. They are considering his requests. I hope to be able to let you know soon.

She held back disappointment. He was going to stall again. "Yes, that is what we hope as well."

"You know, it is difficult. The scope of our work includes so many responsibilities. And our inst.i.tute has limited staff. We do the best we can. Unfortunately we must spend much of our time editing scientific articles and arranging for their publication. You see, it's so critical in China for scientists to publish, and to contribute to their fields internationally. It is the only way we can grow."

"Yes, I see. You're quite right," Alice said carefully. "Of course the research we propose could be of great importance to both countries."

"Perhaps. In any case, the pleasure has been mine to converse with you. Please convey to Dr. Spencer my sincere hope that his project will be reviewed soon."

"Yes, Vice Director Han." She paused.

"Is there anything else?"

"May I trouble you to hold for a moment?" She covered the mouthpiece firmly. "Offer him coauthorship," she urged in English.

"What?" Spencer's face contracted.

"Suppose you find this thing. Would it be okay if Chinese archaeologists shared authorship on your paper?"

He bit at his lip.

"Seems to be the hint he's dropping."

He paused.

"Come on, Adam. A collaboration would only enhance your credibility."

"True." He raised his brows, studied her. "You think we need to offer this?"

"I do."

"Well ... okay."

She returned to Chinese. "Please forgive me, Vice Director, for making you wait. Yes, Dr. Spencer understands your problem. It is probably of limited interest to your staff, but if his own insignificant project should engage anyone's attention, he would welcome a colleague on your side. Otherwise he would not presume."

The vice director's voice was neutral. Only the alacrity of his answer betrayed his satisfaction. "Eh, is it so? Well, I will mention it and see if any of our scientists are so inclined. Pardon me, Interpreter Mo, I have taken too much of your time. I know you are busy."

"Not at all. Don't be polite."

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye," she repeated, and hung up the phone. "Okay," she said to Adam, "he's interested. Now you should host a dinner."

"I'm listening."

"Invite him and the colleagues of his choice to a restaurant as your guests. Strictly social. No negotiation. But an essential stage of Chinese business relations."

"All right-if you say. Will you call him back?"

"Of course." Alice was thinking of a certain restaurant in Beihai Park which served food in the imperial style-scaled-down versions of the meals eaten in the Manchu court throughout the Qing dynasty. "I'll call him back-but not today. Tomorrow. We don't want to look too eager."

"Yi jin. " Alice pointed to the shredded lamb in the street-side stall. One pound. Alice pointed to the shredded lamb in the street-side stall. One pound.

The rotund Chinese in the stained white ap.r.o.n emitted a rude monosyllable of agreement, ladled up the raw, ruby-colored meat, weighed it out, and dropped it with an ear-splitting sizzle on the huge meter-wide griddle in front of him. With one hand he added deft scoops of vinegar, soy sauce, and bean sauce. With the other he moved the quick-cooking meat around in rapid staccato swipes.

"It smells great," Spencer said. "But how much did you order?"

"One pound."

Spencer's eyes widened.

She shrugged, watching the cook's a.s.sistant pile hot xiao xiao bing, bing, sesame buns, on the plates. Meanwhile the cook was adding handfuls of green onion and cilantro to the lamb, and then, before the vegetables could wilt, whisking the whole thing off the griddle and mounding it on the two plates. sesame buns, on the plates. Meanwhile the cook was adding handfuls of green onion and cilantro to the lamb, and then, before the vegetables could wilt, whisking the whole thing off the griddle and mounding it on the two plates. "Xia "Xia yige!" yige!" the cook shouted, Next! the cook shouted, Next!

They crossed the dirty tile floor and squeezed into an empty spot on the jammed trestle table. "Venerable brother, excuse us," Alice said politely to the man next to them.

"Eh!" he grunted, turned away angrily, and spat on the floor.

She ignored him. They sat down.

"There are so many people here," Adam said, staring at the tightly packed, boisterous little room. As with all Chinese eating spots, the light was overpoweringly bright, the noise riotous. "Everyplace is so crowded."

"Oh, this is nothing," she said lightly. "Shanghai's much more crowded than this."

"More crowded than this?" this?" Following her, he split the Following her, he split the xiao xiao bing bing open and stuffed in the steaming shredded lamb, then added a squirt of hot sauce from the common bottle on the table. "But the strange thing is, I haven't seen any street people, any beggars. Have I missed something? Are there street people here?" open and stuffed in the steaming shredded lamb, then added a squirt of hot sauce from the common bottle on the table. "But the strange thing is, I haven't seen any street people, any beggars. Have I missed something? Are there street people here?"

"There are a few beggars. Though you don't see homeless people, people living outdoors like you see in America. But there's something else, that actually runs into millions of people. The floating population."

He paused, bing bing half up to his mouth. "Floating population." half up to his mouth. "Floating population."

"Right. People without housing registrations. A housing registration is the key to life in China. Without it you can't get an apartment, get free medical care, work in the system, or buy food that's on ration."

"And why is it millions of people can't get housing registrations?"

"It's not that they can't get them. They can. They just don't want to live where their housing registration is, in some poverty-stricken remote village or wherever, so they leave and go someplace else. Someplace where they're not registered. They join the floating population."

"So then where do they live?"

"On the margins. Some of them get rich. But most of them-well-crash somewhere, if you know what I mean. Stay with friends, or relatives. Patch something together."

He bit into his bing. bing. "Alice, you were right. This is great. And for street food! Oh. Here. I almost forgot." He dug into his pocket and handed her a small, two-inch-square newspaper clipping. "Alice, you were right. This is great. And for street food! Oh. Here. I almost forgot." He dug into his pocket and handed her a small, two-inch-square newspaper clipping.

Lucile Swan, 75, died May 2, 1965, at her home in New York. Noted artist and lifelong confidante of the Catholic mystic Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. The cause was heart failure....

"Her obituary," Alice smiled. "Where did you get it?"

"When I first started researching all this I went back and poked around a little bit in New York. That's where Teilhard died too. But they didn't see that much of each other in those last years, even though they both lived in New York."

"There was a lot of bitterness-she was resentful and jealous," Alice said. "I can tell from their letters, the book we bought at Zhoukoudian. It's fascinating."