Lost In Translation Part 7

"Really?" He ate thoughtfully.

"Oh, yes. I can really relate to her life. What I wouldn't have given to have had somebody like her, so smart, so aware, for a mother."

"What was your mother like?" He added more hot sauce.

"Died when I was a baby. Never had one."

He looked up, penetrating. "That's too bad. G.o.d. Some life. At least you have your dad."

"Who?"

"Your dad."

"Oh, you mean Horace." She smiled wryly. "I never call him Dad."

"You don't?" He stared for a second. "Hey. Look. I've been meaning to apologize for bringing all that up, the first day we met, at breakfast. You know, the Alice Speech. I know it made you uncomfortable. I feel bad about it. I won't mention your father at all if you like."

"I don't really care that much," she said, staring at the obituary. "I hate everything he stands for. Basically, I don't have anything to do with him."

"Ah." He examined her face. "That simple?"

"That simple."

"Well. Anyway." He nodded at the newspaper clipping. "I got to wondering about Lucile's death, so I looked up the records. This is all I found." He saw how Alice was looking at it. "Why don't you keep it?" he said kindly. "It's not like I need it for the research."

"Really? Are you sure? I'd like to have this."

"Keep it." He resumed eating. Just then the Chinese couple on their left got up to leave, and the man pushed against Alice so hard, she almost fell into Spencer's lap. Instead of apologizing he muttered, "Waiguoren," "Waiguoren," Foreigner, and stalked off. Foreigner, and stalked off.

Spencer stared after him. "The Chinese don't like us too much, huh?"

"Not a bit," she said. "We're barbarians. Ghosts. Even the lowest laborer feels superior to the most educated, most successful foreigner. You'll see."

"That must be hard for you, being an American."

She tore into her third bing. bing. "I'm not what you'd really call an American," she said between bites. "And believe it or not, that att.i.tude is actually one of the things about the place I find appealing." She could feel his stare, but there was no use explaining. He'd never understand the safe, settled feeling it gave her to be a foreigner in China, an outside person, barely tolerated. The way the geometry of her world seemed righted here, all weights and balances, all retributions, called into play. "I'm not what you'd really call an American," she said between bites. "And believe it or not, that att.i.tude is actually one of the things about the place I find appealing." She could feel his stare, but there was no use explaining. He'd never understand the safe, settled feeling it gave her to be a foreigner in China, an outside person, barely tolerated. The way the geometry of her world seemed righted here, all weights and balances, all retributions, called into play.

He put down his bing bing and pushed his plate away. "Best lamb I've had in years. But I can't finish it." and pushed his plate away. "Best lamb I've had in years. But I can't finish it."

She eyed his food. "Really? You're not going to eat any more?"

"No."

She pulled it over and started in.

"Alice. How do you do it?"

"I don't know. I just do."

"But you're so-so slim!"

"Yeah. I keep eating and eating, and I don't get fat. Sometimes I even think I'm trying trying-to pack something in around me. And then other times I realize that actually, I'm not even hungry. But I just keep eating anyway."

Alice sat on the bed naked except for the antique red silk stomach-protector, two strings tied around her neck, two around her waist. It was no more than a silk trapezoid with four strings. As an undergarment its purpose had never been clear to Alice, for it covered only the belly and left the b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the genitals bare. She had always a.s.sumed its function had been to conserve qi, the vital energy traditionally thought to be centered around the navel-but she wasn't sure. In any case she felt good in it, and it suited her, since she never wore a bra. She loved the way she felt in it, especially when she went out at night.

She opened the book of Teilhard and Lucile's letters to a pa.s.sage she had marked the night before, this a letter Teilhard had written to Lucile: Sometimes, I think I would like to vanish Sometimes, I think I would like to vanish before you before you into into some thing which would be bigger some thing which would be bigger than than myself myself,- your real yourself, Lucile, your real yourself, Lucile, - - your real life, your G.o.d. And then I your real life, your G.o.d. And then I should be yours, completely. should be yours, completely.

Her real self, Alice thought, her real life. Somehow Lucile had accomplished a thing Alice had only imagined: gotten her true core coupled with Teilhard. Even if they'd never fully committed to each other.

She put the book down and opened The Phenomenon of The Phenomenon of Man. To connect the two energies, of the body and the soul, in a Man. To connect the two energies, of the body and the soul, in a coherent manner ... coherent manner ... Had Pierre and Lucile achieved that? Maybe. Though Lucile's letters and diary entries-also included in the book-made it clear she was dissatisfied. Had Pierre and Lucile achieved that? Maybe. Though Lucile's letters and diary entries-also included in the book-made it clear she was dissatisfied. The The live, physical, real you, all of you. I want you so terribly and I'm live, physical, real you, all of you. I want you so terribly and I'm trying so hard to understand.... trying so hard to understand....

She rolled over on her stomach and dropped the books to the floor. She figured she, Alice, could connect the body and the soul-definitely, she could, if she just found the right man. A Chinese man, maybe. Though would there ever be one who'd accept her?

Of all the men she'd known, only Jian had come close. He'd understood her; he'd taken the time. But in the end he didn't love her enough to fight for her. His separateness, his Chineseness, had won.

And who had she known who'd truly accepted her? Who'd been truly, seamlessly unconditional?

Only Horace.

G.o.d. She groaned and covered her eyes. He never understood her, it was true, but he was loyal and he never wavered. It was a kind of love. Punishing maybe, unfair, controlling, but love nevertheless.

Like the day she graduated from Rice University.

He had flown in early. As a senior member of the Texas delegation to the U.S. House of Representatives, Horace didn't get back home to Houston much. But she knew he would come to her graduation from anywhere. From Boston. From Bahrain.

She could still see the dorm room, the books and typewriter and stereo packed in their boxes, the posters down, the bare-box walls bereft. Outside, the sweat-bath Houston summer was already rising from the ground in waves. Then he got off the elevator. She could hear the special tap of his walk. She felt the ripple of recognition, the thrill that followed him as he strode down the hall.

He stepped in the door, saw her. His face brightened with joy. "Too long, darling." He put his arms around her and squeezed. "So good to see you."

"You too." She smiled. He was someone who'd always known her. At school she'd been mostly on her own.

"I'm proud of you, Alice." He stood back and admired her.

"Thanks. Hard to believe it's over." She looked balefully around the room. "And still so much to pack!"

"Go on, continue. I'll watch." He sat on her plastic desk-chair in his gray tropical suit and wine-colored tie. He was a small man, exact, articulate. When he was onstage he grew to evangelical stature-but now, in repose, it was easy to see why he was the perfect elected official, conservative, smiling, devoted to the business and progress of the South. "Congratulations. And graduating c.u.m laude too!"

"Oh, Horace." She'd gone back to pulling folded clothes out of her bureau drawers and stacking them in their cardboard box.

"Really, sweetheart, I mean it. You've done a great job."

She let out a modest laugh.

"And now you can come to work."

She looked up sharply. Had he said come to work?

"You see, I've talked it over with Roger." Happiness played around her father's mouth, so proud and pleased was he with the prize he had to offer. "You know Roger oversees all my staff needs. And he's already terminated someone so that the a.s.sistant-director position in the head office in Washington is open. For you." He beamed.

"Horace." She stared, stricken, the words all mashed up in her throat. "I can't work for you."

"Now, honey, I know what you're thinking. Working for Daddy!"

My G.o.d, she thought.

"But you won't report to me, or Roger. We have it all worked out-"

"No," she interrupted. "It's impossible. I can't be around your life, your people. The things you stand for." If there was one thing she knew by then, by age twenty-two, it was that she had to get far away and stay away. Here in his world she was trapped in an intolerable corner, which seemed to grow tighter and tighter each year. And now no place in America felt right.

How clearly she remembered the night she'd first realized it.

She'd been only eleven then, exactly half her age on that day of college graduation. It was a regular dinner at the home of Janie Boudreau, her best friend from school. Alice was a frequent guest. She knew the Boudreaus felt sorry for her- there was no mother in Alice's big house, only Horace and a housekeeper.

On this night Janie's older cousin was there, visiting from Dallas. "So you're the the Alice, aren't you?" He looked at her hard, through narrowed eyes. Alice, aren't you?" He looked at her hard, through narrowed eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Well-you're Horace Mannegan's girl, aren't you?"

"Yes." She glanced quickly at her friend. Janie's eyes slid away.

"I knew it! You're the one who didn't want to go to school with colored kids, right?"

"No," Alice insisted. It hadn't been her idea! Not her, never.

"Yeah-come on. I remember. You didn't want to go to a mixed school! Then your father made that speech, then the riots got started, and that's how those girls got killed."

"It wasn't me," she pleaded. "I never said-"

"Of course it was you! You're Alice Mannegan. Alice Mannegan! Right, Aunt Dee? Huh?"

"Yes, Jackson," Janie's mother had said in a quietly stern voice. "But Alice is Janie's friend. Let's talk about something else. Come. Who wants dessert?"

By that point, though, a messy silence had squashed down over the table. Everyone avoided everyone else's eyes. The meal sc.r.a.ped to a nauseated conclusion.

It was only the first time, the first of many. After that night she'd known she was doomed. And she was. She grew up in the center of it, everyone's lightning rod for pity, loathing, fascination, the whole freight train of emotions that followed the charging tension between the races.

Now, packing up her dorm room at Rice, she looked at her father, stunned. What he was suggesting was horrible, unthinkable. And as usual he didn't even see it.

"I can't work for you! Sorry, but it's out of the question. Everyplace I went I'd be the 'Alice' from the 'Alice Speech'! Especially in Washington. I'd never get away from it."

"Alice!" He got up, disturbed, and circled his chair a couple of times. "That speech was years ago! And we were only trying to restore a little bit of what was so good about America, what this great country has lost-"

"Like slavery?" she said bitterly.

"Please," he said mildly, as if she referred to something that was simply a bygone fashion and not a searing fount of human shame. "All I did was make a speech. It's not as if I I went out and burned the Fourth Ward down." went out and burned the Fourth Ward down."

What? Her mouth fell open.

Just then a giggling group of girls stopped outside the open door.

"It isn't-"

"I told you, her father's Horace Mannegan!"

"Alice, is that your daddy?"

"No," she said sullenly. "It's Horace."

"See! I told you, it's him."

"You go in!"

"You!"

"Mr. Mannegan, sir, may I have your autograph?" The girl had long honey-colored limbs, short blond hair, and a string of pearls over her pale green silk blouse. The hand that thrust the pen and paper toward him had perfectly manicured pink nails.

"Yes, of course, dear." Horace smiled benignly, uncapped his gold corporate-looking pen, and signed. "We'll be counting on your support in the next election."

"Oh, yes! Yes, sir! My parents-we always vote for you, sir!"

"Good. Don't ever give up on this great country of ours."

"No, sir!"

"Here. Anyone else?" He signed autographs for all of them.

"Thank you, sir! Bye, Alice!"

"Bye," she said, hating them.

Horace turned back to her the instant they were gone and she saw his composed, boardroom mask drop away and leave, in its place, a father's hurt and confusion. "I always a.s.sumed you would come to work for me."

Alice closed her eyes.

"I need you, Alice. I ... depend on you."

"I know," she said. He depended on her to be the family in his life. When she was young, and living with him, she was the one who'd made sure he ate right, who told him it was time to stop working and go to bed. No one else ever told him he needed rest, or he was drinking too much, or he ought to cancel a meeting or an airplane trip because he was sick. She did. And he showered her with most everything she wanted in return. Everything except the freedom to be what she wanted to be-whatever that was. She had to break away. Whether he liked it or not. She had to.

Tell him. "Horace, I'm going to China."

"Where?"

"China."

"China! Why?"

"Please, Horace! You are aware, aren't you, that for the last four years I've been earning a degree in Chinese?"