Lost in Translation Page 0,11

it, remembering the picture of an expanding universe, the sense of Christian revelation, the coherent, unified vision of human growth. Whereas her own evolution had been stalled forever. "Are you interested in Teilhard’s philosophy, then?"

"No. I find it a little hard to read. I’m interested in his life here in China—who he knew, where he went. Because somewhere here, he hid Peking Man."

She closed the book. "So tell me about his life, then. Here in Peking. He lived here on and off for..."

"Twenty-three years. Nineteen twenty-two to 1945. He went back to Europe and America a few times, but this is where he lived."

"He had a lot of friends?"

"Everybody knew him. The foreigners’ community was a small one. And he was an explorer, a scientist—a real man of the world. Women found him fascinating. One woman in particular. Lucile Swan."

"Who was she?"

"An American in her thirties, a sculptor. She had come to Peking from New York after a bad divorce, and stayed on. Peking was a fantasy world then. Foreigners could have anything, live any way they wanted, cheaply. I think all she wanted to do was sculpt, and find a man to love. Couldn’t have been easy for her in China."

"I think she sounds interesting."

"You do?" He drank from his bottle, and thought: Of course you do, she’s right up your alley.

"Did she ever fall in love?"

"Yes—with Teilhard. Unfortunately, he was a priest. That kind of limited things." Spencer smiled.

"Did they..."

"Doubtful. I don’t think so. I think they were so emotionally enmeshed it didn’t matter. I haven’t researched her too much—I’m pretty sure she had nothing to do with where he hid Peking Man. But if you’re interested, you can read their correspondence. It was recently published, all twenty-three years of it."

"I think I’ll start with this one." She glanced at the volume in her hand, Teilhard’s masterpiece of theology. "Thank you, Dr. Spencer."

"Don’t call me that."

"What, then?"

"I don’t know—Adam? Spencer? But no ’Doctor.’ "

"Okay." She liked the detached, friendly way he talked. He didn’t seem interested in her as a woman any more than she was interested in him as a man. Which was not at all. Western men didn’t get to her.

"You ready?" he said.

As they crossed the gleaming floor of the lobby he tapped her elbow. She took in the row of girls flaunting brief skirts and pouty, red-painted lips. They were giggling and whispering. One of them got up and intercepted a foreign man in a business suit, said something to him, and smiled prettily.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Sure."

"What? You mean they’re—"

"Hookers," Alice supplied.

"In China?" He was incredulous.

"Of course. Prostitution did disappear for a few decades, obviously, but now—now that we have the kai fang, the open door, it’s back." She made her voice mischievous. "Commerce is booming everywhere in the Middle Kingdom, Adam. In all forms."

"But who’s"—he looked around—"are they just independents, coming in here?"

"You mean who’s running their business? The PLA."

"What!" Now his voice was a minor screech.

"That’s right, the PLA." She was enjoying his reaction. "The Army owns this hotel. They control the girls and, of course, the profits. Or so everyone says."

"The Army? I can’t believe it."

"The Army is business," she told him, suddenly sober. "Very serious business. Remember that. You don’t ever want to cross them. Don’t be fooled by all these big glitzy hotels. Regardless of all the new stuff you see around you—all the Big Macs and the Italian shoes and the Seiko watches—the Army’s power in this country is still absolute."

She left Spencer at their hotel and stepped into a taxi. "Where go?" the driver bawled in bad English.

"Am I a miserable white ghost from the western sea, ignorant of civilized speech?" she asked sharply. "The American Express office, quickly. And don’t take Changan. The traffic’s a dammed-up river which threatens to overflow its banks."

"The honored foreigner speaks." He pulled out from the curb. "Ten thousand pardons."

"None needed," she murmured, knowing she had been short with him, feeling her stomach knot up as it always did when she went to check for mail and faxes from her father. She had to go, she hadn’t gone in too long. Plus, this time of the month, he usually sent her money. She closed her eyes, hating herself for wanting the money and relying on it; at the same time so glad it was coming.

The driver swung onto Ximen and crawled north through the traffic. He leaned on his horn and swore constantly at the swarm of cars