Lost In Translation Part 18

Lin s.h.i.+yang was walking behind Alice on the way to the dining hall that night, and he stared down at her striding along the tiled courtyard path in front of him. He was taken by her dark red hair, its gloss, the alive way it moved around her head. And she had a way of pus.h.i.+ng back a strand of hair that was bothering her, a way of twirling it around her finger and then tossing it aside. Meiyan used to do that, exactly the same way. Yet how different this woman was from Meiyan! He had never seen hair like Ai-li's, except in pictures. And he had never seen a woman smile the way she did. He forgot all that was strange about her face when she smiled. Because then, pleasure just burst out from somewhere inside her. He liked that. It was uncontrolled, it was un-Chinese, but he liked it.

At the public phone hall Alice called her father's office on Capitol Hill. He wasn't there, of course-she hadn't expected him to be. But Roger was, and a secretary went to pull him from a meeting. Alice waited.

A thousand miles away in Beijing, Supervisor Ling saw a light on her board; she pressed a b.u.t.ton and activated the preset wiretap authorized by the PLA. She pushed another b.u.t.ton; this would inform Commander Gao's office.

In Yinchuan, Alice gripped the phone. "Roger. Be straight with me. What's wrong with Horace?"

"I don't know if I should-"

"Come on, Roger, I'm in frigging Mongolia." Almost.

He sighed. "He had his routine physical. The bloodwork showed an elevated PSA. Prostate-specific antigen. It was, uh, rather sharply elevated. That can mean various things. It can mean the prostate is infected, in which case it's a simple course of antibiotics. Or ..."

"Or?"

"Or else it means prostate cancer."

"Oh, my G.o.d." She swallowed. "How bad is it?"

"They don't know yet. It might be quite far along-or it might be the kind that advances very slowly. But, Alice, often the cause of the elevated reading is merely infection. So right now they have him on an antibiotic."

"Oh." Relief flooded her. Her father, her only family, her sole living ancestor-despite all he did that was barely forgivable. "So everything's fine."

"Well, dear-we don't know yet."

"But he's on the antibiotic."

"Yes."

"Then he'll be okay."

Silence.

"Roger?"

"Yes?"

"I'll call in a few days."

"Do that. And, Alice-naturally-not a word to anyone, hmm?"

"Roger, please." She glanced through the gla.s.s booth-window at the unruly swarm of waiting Mongols. "If you could see where I'm calling from, you wouldn't waste your breath."

"Heh, heh." He emitted his humorless cackle and hung up.

It'll be okay, she told herself on the way out of the phone hall. It won't be cancer. Horace will go on like he always has. Horace has always been there, he'll never leave me. She held her breath. And I'll never be free of him either.

She boxed it up in her mind, and within minutes managed to hide it away as she walked, fast and hard, away down the baking, dust-s.h.i.+mmering Yinchuan street.

She pulled her one pair of black underpants up slowly and then tied on the antique stomach-protector. Outside, the streets were vibrant with life, the evening warm and soft. The long, pleasantly yellow light, which she knew would linger till nearly eleven, streamed over the city.

She had drawn the sheer undercurtains and now watched herself in the mirror. The phoenix, its wings a riot of color, spread beautifully across her, its small, graceful head raised in an att.i.tude of love. The female principle, enfolding. The phoenix which sought the dragon, the sign of the male.

She sighed at her reflection. Her hair was a neat, burnished wedge. Her makeup, invisible, the way she liked it. Nothing showing but copper lip gloss. She looked good.

But why look for a stranger?

She ran her hands through her hair, adjusting it.

Why not Lin?

She examined her high Irish cheekbones, her gold-flecked eyes, her freckles. Did Lin find her appealing? Did his thoughts drift to her? Was he thinking about her now?

She turned from the mirror. The only thing she knew for sure was that he was a man she couldn't toy with. A closeness with Lin would not be for one night, for pleasure; it would pull in her real self. Only, what was her real self? Again the question hung over her.

This, she thought in a prepatterned flood of resignation, the makeup and the silk stomach-protector and a night out, looking. This is me. And if Lin knew who I really was, he wouldn't have the least interest in me. He'd be repulsed.

She sighed and turned to her clothes. The black dress- no. Not in Yinchuan. Here in this tu tu provincial town she was conspicuous enough. It would be better to wear jeans. Her second pair of jeans, which were pleasingly tight. And a black T-s.h.i.+rt. provincial town she was conspicuous enough. It would be better to wear jeans. Her second pair of jeans, which were pleasingly tight. And a black T-s.h.i.+rt.

She tucked away her room key and money, renminbi. Checked her look one more time. Now. Where should she go?

There were bars in Yinchuan, only not the kind she wanted. She'd slipped into one a few evenings before, a karaoke bar, just to check it out. She'd known immediately she wouldn't come back. It was full of Mongols, high flat faces staring sullenly into s.p.a.ce, none of them willing to get up onstage and sing along with the blaring Madonna songs. She had heard other foreign women say that Mongol men were fabulously virile, but she had also heard that they all wore daggers at their belts, and though they approached women confidently, they tended to be dangerously possessive once the deed was done. It was a little too tu tu for her. for her.

Anyway, maybe it was time to move forward. She should try to meet the type of man she could be herself with-not be Yulian. The very idea that her real life and her s.e.xual life could come together seemed strange, yet ever since she met Lin she'd been thinking about it. To be all of herself, together, to feel as Lucile felt when she wrote in a private note: I am so happy and I am so happy and feel so completely yours. feel so completely yours.

Yes, Alice thought. Tonight would be different. She would try the local college.

She took a pedicab to Xibei University. Normally she avoided pedicabs, there being something feudal and horrible about being pulled around in a cart by a sweating, brown, sinewy man. On this evening, though, Alice did not want to be observed. She pressed herself all the way to the back of the cracked leather seat, and the ancient awning made her all but invisible to those who pa.s.sed by.

She got off at the campus, a forest of low concrete buildings. She had watched through the awning cracks as best she could while they crossed the city, and had not seen anyone tailing them. She glanced around quickly as the man pedaled away. Nothing unusual. She walked onto the campus.

Like most Chinese universities it was mainly a clump of buildings, with none of the academic-village atmosphere for which Western inst.i.tutions strived. In China, of course, colleges did not have to please students. Violent compet.i.tion raged for the privilege of attending at all. Once in, the lucky few took what they got. Because unless one had a key to the back door through family connections, it was the only way up and out.

And that's how it's been here for thousands of years, she thought, it's just a new version of the imperial examination system. And today's students, these pinch-chested, pimply-faced kids, here because they won the top scores on the national exams, were the new incarnations of the Ming and Qing mandarins.

But they're all too young for me, she thought bitterly, too young and too awkward. Weren't there any older men around -any professors?

She watched the girls and boys on foot, back and forth, carrying their books.

Somebody like Dr. Lin.

She parked herself on a bench and waited.

It was almost an hour before a man near her own age walked up and sat next to her. He was not like the men in the bars. He was faintly disheveled, with a high, spa.r.s.ely fringed forehead and a bulging briefcase.

He looked at her sideways. "Dong Zhongwen-ma?" "Dong Zhongwen-ma?" he asked softly, Do you understand Chinese? he asked softly, Do you understand Chinese?

"Dong, " she said simply, I do. " she said simply, I do.

His eyes widened and a kindly chuckle bubbled up. "I never thought I'd sit here on a bench on this campus with an outside woman who was able to talk. I'm surnamed w.a.n.g." His grin was controlled, intelligent; it made his middle-aged face seem pleasantly companionable. "How are you called?"

"Yulian," she answered, Fragrant Lotus. She noted his slight confusion. she answered, Fragrant Lotus. She noted his slight confusion.

"But what are you surnamed?"

"Bai, " she lied. Usually the men in the bars didn't ask for a surname. In China, to allow someone to call you by your given name was in itself an act of intimacy. When she introduced herself in these encounters with the name Fragrant Lotus, no surname, it was like honey in her mouth, and the men in the bars always understood. Their usual response was a sly smile. However, this was Yinchuan. The provinces. " she lied. Usually the men in the bars didn't ask for a surname. In China, to allow someone to call you by your given name was in itself an act of intimacy. When she introduced herself in these encounters with the name Fragrant Lotus, no surname, it was like honey in her mouth, and the men in the bars always understood. Their usual response was a sly smile. However, this was Yinchuan. The provinces.

"My wife was surnamed Bai," this man w.a.n.g said slowly.

Oh, no. "Is she-"

"She died in the Cultural Revolution."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Years pa.s.s like water."

"Did you have children?"

"One daughter. She was raised by my parents in Shanghai. That was after I was a.s.signed here."

"And you remained here after the Cultural Revolution ended?"

"Yes. That's how it was." His look revealed his clear surprise that she appeared to know all about the Chaos, the forced rea.s.signment of workers, the tearing up of families.

"It's a bitter road," she said softly.

"Yes. But now it's not bad. The university is a good danwei. danwei. You know what they say. A brave man bows to circ.u.mstances as gra.s.s does before wind." You know what they say. A brave man bows to circ.u.mstances as gra.s.s does before wind."

"So now you're a teacher?"

"Administration."

She thought it over for a minute, and then laid her freckled hand over his smooth brown one in sympathy.

He stared at it.

She did not remove it.

"Yulian," he said slowly, wonderingly, "would you like to return to my place for tea?" He looked at her, everything in his face certain she would say no.

"I would." She smiled.

"Zou-ba, "he said with an amazed crack in his voice, Then let's go. He stood with his briefcase. "he said with an amazed crack in his voice, Then let's go. He stood with his briefcase.

They walked in silence. He lived behind the university, in an expressionless block of high-rises. They climbed up six flights of gray concrete, lined with a plain metal rail, to his apartment. Yet once he opened the door they were in another world, for like the carefully maintained interiors of so many private s.p.a.ces in China, it was spotlessly clean and pleasingly fitted out. A scroll painting and a Xinjiang carpet of surprising quality dominated the room, and brilliantly colored cloths were spread over the table and the bed. In the window above the sink hung an ornate wooden cage with a twittering brown lark.

w.a.n.g put down his briefcase and turned to her, his eyes soft. "Do you like flowers?" he said. He drew a red peony from a porcelain jar on the table and cupped it in both hands.

"Yes," she said.

"I do too." He touched the flower to his cheek, then to hers. Just for an instant. She closed her eyes at its softness. She felt his fingers gently seeking hers.

They stood for a moment, their hands joined, and then she turned her back to him and began to remove her T-s.h.i.+rt. She liked to do it that way. From behind they would see nothing except the red silk strings. Then she would turn around, and watch their faces when they saw the phoenix spread across her middle-nude above, nude below- This time, though, in Mr. w.a.n.g's gracious little room, she stopped, with her T-s.h.i.+rt almost to her armpits. This was not her. Not really her. She dropped her s.h.i.+rt.

"Yulian," w.a.n.g said.

All she could think about was Dr. Lin, Lin s.h.i.+yang, the tall man from Zhengzhou who seemed to be watching her all the time.

He stepped close to her. "Shenmo?" "Shenmo?" he whispered, What is it? he whispered, What is it?

She put her hands up to her face. "I can't."

He touched her arm. "Yulian."

I feel so completely yours. She could almost hear Lucile's voice, speaking to Pierre, the man she loved. Lucile had found real love in Chinese rooms like this. Even though she agonized over the one thing Pierre Teilhard de Chardin could not give her, and this thing ballooned in importance until it all but obsessed her. Still she returned his love. Why couldn't Alice make that commitment? Even half that commitment? She could almost hear Lucile's voice, speaking to Pierre, the man she loved. Lucile had found real love in Chinese rooms like this. Even though she agonized over the one thing Pierre Teilhard de Chardin could not give her, and this thing ballooned in importance until it all but obsessed her. Still she returned his love. Why couldn't Alice make that commitment? Even half that commitment?

"I'm sorry," she said to w.a.n.g. "It's not your fault."

"So you will come another day?"

"Yes. Of course." Though she knew she would not.

"I will call you, then." He fetched a paper and pen from the table and held them out to her. She scrawled the name, Yulian, and a nonsense phone number.

"Remember where I live," he said. "Come anytime."

She walked heavily to the bottom floor and back into the fading light. Beating in her ear like a faint night insect was the drab awareness of life. Her life. She was still alive and Mother Meng was dead. If only she could connect with Mother Meng one more time, talk to her... maybe she should go see the yin-yang master. Maybe, through him, she could reach the old lady again. Because Mother Meng had said to find a man. And it was impossible.

On Shanxi Avenue, in front of the university, she found another pedicab. "Number One Guesthouse," she said.

"Eh," he agreed, glancing back at her. He noticed the tight press of her mouth, and the way she sat with her fist pressed against her forehead. He pulled out into the street, straining against the pedals, picking up speed.

He saw a man jump into a pedicab and follow them, never deviating, never veering away, staying behind them no matter how many twists and unexpected turns he added to the route as he pulled the foreign woman across town. When they stopped, he meant to tell her. But when he turned and he saw her strange, freckled, tofu-colored face streaked with tears, he said nothing. He accepted her money, let out another monosyllable, and pedaled away.

She squeezed onto the polished stool in the booth at the public phone hall. The signal came from the operator and she picked it up. Come on Horace, she thought, be home. Please be home. She swallowed. Eleven in the evening in Was.h.i.+ngton. Come on.

The burping disturbance to the ring, and then his recorded voice mail. She listened to his greeting: calm, smooth, businesslike. When the tone sounded and the inert void of the recorder came on, she spoke in a thin, childish voice, made tight by worry: "It's just me. Wondering how you are.

"Bye," she said, and reluctantly hung up.

Lieutenant Shan, Army commander for the Ningxia-Inner Mongolia region, snapped the report he'd been given back down on his desk. "So the oily-mouth from the Golden Country only stayed inside the man's apartment ten minutes, eh? Ten minutes! What could they do! Are the west-ocean ghosts not strange!"

His men looked at each other.

"Did you find out anything about her yet? The other American's a scientist, what about her? She's a scientist too?"

"No, sir. We don't know."