Lost In Translation Part 9

"Dry-cooked shredded beef," Alice said quietly. "Eggplant in garlic sauce. Four-season beans."

"I can't do this without you, you know."

She sighed. "I know."

"Here. I want to give you this. I copied it." He opened his notebook and removed a small square of paper with the pictograph traced on it, the disembodied monkey-head that looked like a sun. "I don't know what it means yet, but-keep it with you. Ask people about it. Maybe you'll run into someone who's seen it before."

"Okay," she said, sliding it into her jeans pocket. "But I don't know if I'll be going with you. I mean, if you can't pay me ..."

"I know." He raised his hands to stop her going further. "I know. Just think about it. All right?"

They went together to the Bank of China counter in the hotel.

"Dr. Spencer wishes to draw cash advances on all these credit cards." She handed the three cards across the shiny new marble counter.

"In what amount?" The clerk had one hand on a computer keypad, the other on an abacus.

"How much?" she asked him in English.

"To the limit," he whispered back.

He watched her convey this in Chinese. It seemed effortless for her, all the strange singing syllables.

She leaned close to him again. "Altogether, she says there's eighty-two hundred dollars available."

"What? I thought I had more. Ask her if she's sure."

The woman shrugged, touched something on her keyboard, and the computer spit out a little slip of white paper. She pa.s.sed it across the counter.

"s.h.i.t," Spencer said softly, studying his balance.

The woman let out a stream of Mandarin.

"You want all the eighty-two hundred?" Alice translated.

He chewed his lip.

Alice raised her eyebrows, waiting.

"What about you?" he said. "Are you coming with me?"

"I don't know yet." She closed her face off, not wanting to commit either way. The truth was, she found herself wanting to go. Lucile had taken chances. So had Teilhard. Breaking Breaking some respected boundaries means a torrent of new life, some respected boundaries means a torrent of new life, - -then I feel safer and stronger.... safer and stronger.... "I haven't decided," she said. "I haven't decided," she said.

"Okay," he said, "keep thinking. Tell her"-he nodded toward the clerk-"tell her I want all of it."

She took a bus up to the quiet, leafy neighborhood where Bruce Kaplan lived and knocked on the round wooden gate. His old Ayi, Ayi, gap toothed and steel haired, exchanged pleasantries with Alice as she led her over a succession of doorsills, under the clicking boughs of ailanthus, past wood-and-gla.s.s-walled gap toothed and steel haired, exchanged pleasantries with Alice as she led her over a succession of doorsills, under the clicking boughs of ailanthus, past wood-and-gla.s.s-walled si-he si-he courtyard rooms that Alice knew had been closed and curtained for many years, back to the inner court. When she saw Bruce she ignored the Chinese conventions she knew he now followed-the protracted interchange of dispositions- and in a rush poured out the story of Adam Spencer and Peking Man. "I don't know, Bruce. Should I go?" courtyard rooms that Alice knew had been closed and curtained for many years, back to the inner court. When she saw Bruce she ignored the Chinese conventions she knew he now followed-the protracted interchange of dispositions- and in a rush poured out the story of Adam Spencer and Peking Man. "I don't know, Bruce. Should I go?"

"Bruce." He tried to form the English word with his mouth, smiled his moonlike smile, and lapsed into Chinese. "The world calls me Guan Bai now, you know. And I find I am no longer able to speak English-even with you. It dries up in my mouth."

"Chinese, then. Eh, I forgot. But hasn't my memory long been pitiable? This letter from your mother." Alice reached into her purse and withdrew the letter she'd picked up at the American Express office. "Do you still read English or not? I could translate."

"Just leave it here." He lifted a hand toward a teakwood table, on which his Ayi Ayi had just placed a pot of tea. had just placed a pot of tea.

Alice examined him compa.s.sionately. Bruce Kaplan- Guan Bai-lived in another world. Whenever Alice visited him she always found him seated in this same spot, under this plum tree; only the leaves changed with the seasons, and his clothing changed from the lumpish, thickly padded robes of winter to the thin, loose silks of summer. Now his hand played over the book he'd been reading, Mengzi, Mengzi, the Confucian masterpiece of Mencius. Written more than two thousand years ago. She checked the characters on the book's cover. Archaic. Of course. the Confucian masterpiece of Mencius. Written more than two thousand years ago. She checked the characters on the book's cover. Archaic. Of course.

Bruce was far down the road, farther than she'd realized.

"What are the opinions of your other friends?" he asked her.

"Those I know in Beijing now are few."

"Is it so? What about Tom and Maureen, the journalists? And that German diplomat-Otto, wasn't it?"

She shrugged.

"They've moved away?"

"No, they're here. Things change." She felt she could not really explain to Bruce, who led the secluded life of a Chinese scholar, how her friends had grown up. How their concerns were different: the hardships of bringing up children in China, the struggle to find good Ayis, Ayis, the schools, the apartments, the price of imported milk. And like a barb in the center of it all the fact that she herself was single, and over thirty; an almost unmentionable creature in China. The expatriates, like the Chinese, seemed almost not to know what to make of her now. In the States, not marrying might have been acceptable. Here it was an embarra.s.sment. She couldn't deal with her old friends. She stopped calling them. the schools, the apartments, the price of imported milk. And like a barb in the center of it all the fact that she herself was single, and over thirty; an almost unmentionable creature in China. The expatriates, like the Chinese, seemed almost not to know what to make of her now. In the States, not marrying might have been acceptable. Here it was an embarra.s.sment. She couldn't deal with her old friends. She stopped calling them.

"It would be interesting for you to see northwestern China," Guan Bai offered.

"That's so."

He poured tea out of the ancient brown Yixing pot. A real one. "And what about this American archaeologist? Is he interesting?"

"Yes. Hapless in a way-but interesting."

"Not someone with whom you could be close."

"No."

"Why? Because he's American?"

"Partly. You know I am not not an American, not anymore, not really." an American, not anymore, not really."

"I used to think that of myself," he said wistfully. "Now I'm not so sure. But the archaeologist-he's not someone you could be interested in."

She shook her head. "No. Definitely-no. But"-she brightened-"I have have been reading these last few days about a mesmerizing love affair that took place here, in Beijing, sixty years ago." been reading these last few days about a mesmerizing love affair that took place here, in Beijing, sixty years ago."

He hoisted his brows, amused.

"Between two people who agreed never to become lovers. The French priest Teilhard de Chardin and the American sculptress Lucile Swan."

"Ah, the philosopher. He lived here in the city, didn't he? "

"Yes. Loved this woman. Really loved her. And she loved him. So she gave up the physical part, buying into this idea that they'd reach something higher. She went with him, you know?" G.o.d, Alice thought as she said it, what commitment.

"And did they reach something higher through this love? Or was it only his way of asking for her on his terms?"

Alice smiled, enjoying his intelligence. "Wo bu zhidao, "Wo bu zhidao, " I don't know. " I don't know.

"Was she happy about it?"

"Oh, no," Alice said promptly. "She wasn't."

"Would you be happy in that arrangement?"

"Of course not." She bristled. "I'd go crazy."

He lifted his tiny brown sand-textured cup and looked at it lovingly. "I see. Yet I wonder whether Lucile Swan wouldn't go crazy trying to live life the way you do. Ai-li, many are the years we've been friends. It is curious, is it not? The myriad eddies and whirlpools in the river along the way."

She waited at Mrs. Meng's door, clutching half a Yunnan ham wrapped in brown paper.

No answer. She pressed her ear to the door. Voices within. She tapped once more. This time, footsteps. Laughter. A male voice gaining.

Fumbling, the doork.n.o.b, creaking open.

Jian.

His long oval face froze, the color running out of it.

Ah, she thought helplessly, it's you.

In the next instant she saw how he'd aged in the couple of years since she'd last seen him. His skin showed the soon-to-crackle veneer of Chinese middle age and his eyes revealed a tired urbanity-the story of pain he'd endured and then given along to others.

He must hate me, she thought.

But hate was not his first feeling. "Ai-li," he whispered.

"Jian."

"Hao chang shijian, " Long time. A grin tugged at his rice-grain-shaped face. "Still beautiful." " Long time. A grin tugged at his rice-grain-shaped face. "Still beautiful."

She felt the pull to him, the pull they had always felt together. But she could also feel the other anchor, the one that dropped straight down into her private well of failure and regret.

He met her gaze, and she felt him remembering everything. His eyes hardened. "Yes. But what are you doing here?"

"I came to see your mother."

"My mother?" His composure faltered.

"I visit her often."

He looked at Meng Shaowen for confirmation. Then back, suspicious, angry. "How dare you come here?"

"Jian, please, I'm sorry it didn't work out. But-I loved you."

"Don't use such words," he said softly, repulsed now by her use of the word ai, ai, love. Americans always used that word so freely. At first, with Alice, he had found such liberty exciting. Now he knew better. love. Americans always used that word so freely. At first, with Alice, he had found such liberty exciting. Now he knew better.

Alice felt lost in him, staring at him, remembering what had happened nine years before.

She had written that she was in love with a Chinese intellectual, talking about marriage. Horace replied at once, by cable, instructing her to meet him in Hong Kong three days later. The ticket was prepaid, the room reserved. He had not booked one of the fantastically expensive hotels-not the Peninsula, not the Mandarin-but the Holiday Inn, Kowloon. Just to remind her who filled her rice bowl.

So she had flown to Hong Kong, checked in, taken the elevator up to her room. She changed her blouse, adjusted her jeans, and studied herself in the mirror. Why did she look so girlish and frightened? She should be strong, a.s.sured. She was a grown woman. Her father had no right to tell her what to do.

But he was going to try-that was obvious. He hadn't come all the way over here to say, "Congratulations, honey: I'm happy for you." Alice steeled herself.

Jian had offered to come with her. She had said no. "First I have to see him alone. When he's used to the idea, when he accepts it, then we'll meet him together."

"What could he find so difficult to accept?" Jian had asked her, eyes narrow, not understanding.

"You're Chinese!"

He shook his head. "But I am the one who should be worried about this. I I am the one who should hope for am the one who should hope for you you to be accepted. I am Chinese. You are-I'm sorry to say it-a Westerner." to be accepted. I am Chinese. You are-I'm sorry to say it-a Westerner."

She sighed. "My father sees things differently."

"And you?" The faintest edge seeped into his voice.

"What?"

"Do you see things as your father does? Does his mind live within yours?"

"No! No, no, no."

"Yet you don't want me to come with you."

"No," she said heavily. "I don't. I have to face him by myself."

He had looked at her for a long time, and then had finally nodded his agreement. And she was here, without Jian. The way she'd wanted it to be.

I don't have to listen to my father, she thought now in Hong Kong, gazing into the hotel mirror. If he tries to turn me against Jian I'll just leave, just turn around and walk out and let him go back to America....

She walked into the hotel restaurant, heart quickening. There he was, Horace, rising to his feet in slacks and an open sport jacket. He looked older. She put her arms around him, tentative at first. Then she felt the flash of warmth and gladness -through all the trepidation it was still good to see him-and hugged him a little harder.

He hugged her back. "Thanks for coming, Alice."

"You came the longest way."

"Well, I had to talk to you. This is a very very big decision." big decision."

They took their chairs and she blinked, trying to adjust to the buzzing brightness of the Hong Kong restaurant. It looked so alien to her, everything from the packets of sugar in the metal holder to the ketchup bottles and the garish yellow light globes overhead. And Horace. He sat in his loafers like an affluent tourist, legs crossed, American. Am I from him? she thought. Am I really? She sighed. "I know marriage is a big decision."

Then the waitress was there, and Alice asked for coffee in pa.s.sable Cantonese, pinning the tones-so different from those in Mandarin-a little too tightly to sound truly colloquial.

He listened. "That's Chinese?"

"Cantonese," she said. "A different dialect than the one I speak-"