Lost in Translation Page 0,123

in Camp Fourteen with your wife. Each said they knew her fate."

"And her fate was?" Lin’s voice was deadly quiet.

"That she fell ill with cholera in 1976. Some who got sick recovered. A few, at least. Not her. She went away. That is all! I can direct you to the place where she is buried. It would not be difficult—if you want to go."

"You say there is no question, she is dead?"

"It’s a certainty! She is dead. Of course the laogai bosses, I am not surprised they never gave you this information! Many people, when they try to go through official channels to learn someone’s fate, are only told: this or that prisoner committed suicide. Eh! Well! How can it be! Do so many millions of those arrested as fan geming, then perhaps interrogated, perhaps worse, actually commit suicide? Of course not! Eh! Lin Boshi. Shi-ma?"

"Shi." Lin looked battered, as if these words themselves were the struggle sessions, the torture, the beatings, the starvation and sickness.

"Is that what they told you, then, when you made your inquiries—that she had committed suicide? Or did they tell you"—Guo twisted his mouth derisively at this particular evasion—"that they did not know her outcome?"

"I did not make those kinds of inquiries."

A balloon of silence dropped awkwardly over the room.

"But, Lin." Alice stumbled. "Why wouldn’t you have done that? Isn’t that the first thing everybody does? I thought you had done that years ago."

"Maybe I should have done it," Lin said softly. "But I didn’t. Wo pa wo renshoubuliao," I didn’t think I could bear it. "And how could I believe what they told me anyway? For that matter"—he turned his searching gaze to Guo—"how can I believe what you are telling me now?"

Guo’s face, for a moment, was as open and wondering as that of a child. "But, Professor Lin, why should you not believe me? It is not as if you have heard competing accounts of your wife’s fate! In fact, all the evidence is on the same side—the two versions I was given of Zhang Meiyan’s ending were completely alike. And, as I told you"—he stopped and nodded sympathetically—"you can go to the place where she is buried. You can see for yourself."

"Even then I could not be sure it was really she who was buried there."

"Ah, Lin ..." Alice whispered, though he did not seem to hear.

Guo drew his brows together. Until this moment he had been controlling the conversation. Now it had careened into the not quite rational. "But, Lin Shiyang. How can you tell if any person’s grave truly holds their remains? Eh? You can’t! You merely take it on faith. Faith! It’s what all people—"

"That’s enough, Guo," Alice said softly.

The thin man shrugged.

Lin stood like a stone, not answering.

"Well," Guo said, turning to Alice, "I’ve done what was asked—and more. Have I not? Now. It is my admittedly indiscreet but inescapable duty to remind you that we did not specifically discuss payment for this particular—"

"Stop it." She jabbed a finger at her lips.

He raised his palms in acquiescence.

She yanked out a desk drawer, rifled through the special small folder where she kept her passport. There; some twenty-dollar U.S. bills. She took a couple out. "Take this." She shoved it into his hands. "Now go!"

She propelled him toward the door.

He craned around. "Dr. Lin! A thousand tears of sympathy!"

Lin had lowered himself heavily to the floor. His eyes were closed.

"May the bitter sea grow sweet!"

Alice shut the door hard. She heard Guo’s tinkle of face-saving laughter from the hall, and then the sound of his footsteps, at last, receding.

"Lin," she said softly to him.

He seemed not to hear.

She sank beside him, touched his shoulder.

He twisted his body away.

She laced her hands over her forehead and held it, hard, as if otherwise it might fly apart. Zhongguo yi pan san sha, China is a plate of sand. "Do you believe it now, Shiyang? About Zhang Meiyan?"

"Why do you always press me! Can you not defer your impulses, even once—"

"I’m sorry," she said, suddenly small.

His voice softened. "One hears stories—one never knows...."

"Shiyang."

He was silent. She wanted to touch him but knew, right now, she should not. "You can go on your whole life like this, you know. You can grow old this way. It’s your choice."

He said nothing.

"Or you can accept it."

He nodded reluctantly.

A half-nauseous hook tugged at her, deep down, as she studied his face. He might never change. He seemed to have something inside him that was not on