Lost in Translation Page 0,19

York—"

"Just so," said the vice director. "The way of things is as clear as water. But please, ni renwei zenmoyang. Do you think it possible? Have they any chance of finding Peking Man again?"

A sad, indulgent smile flitted over Kong Zhen’s face. He shook his head slowly. "Find Peking Man? After so many years? Oh, no. I’m sorry to say it’s impossible. It would be like searching for a stone which has dropped into the ocean."

The village of Zhoukoudian nestled in a leaf-shaded bowl in the southwestern suburbs of the capital. Alice wanted to stop and get something to drink before continuing on to the Peking Man site. It was still and humid, with a hot, high-summer noon silence lying over the valley. She was thirsty.

"In the Northwest it’s desert." Adam squashed his face into a concerned frown. "You’ll have to carry a water bottle out there."

"Okay. I’ll buy one. I just hate to carry extra stuff."

"But you must." He drew his shoulders up to his ears to emphasize. "Got to carry water. You’re much too valuable to what I have to do for us to take any chances."

Alice smiled. So unconscious, so open about the fact that to him she was only a project asset, no more. At least he wasn’t like her other male clients, who usually started signaling, after a while, that they were attracted to her. Not to her, exactly, for they hardly knew her. No, her businessmen clients were excited by her because they were in a foreign country, and she was the only person they could talk to, and there was a certain magic in that. A kind of casting off and floating free. But this soft-faced late-forties American scientist was not going to put her through that. She could already tell.

The driver stopped alongside a low one-room mud-walled hut with a window full of food and cigarettes, drinks, matches, and dubbed Hong Kong videos. Spencer lumbered out and followed her in, ducking his head. "You are valuable to this expedition," he repeated, eyes widening at the tight walls packed to the ceiling with boxes and coolers and racks.

"I’m glad you think so," she said. "Speaking of which— I’d appreciate it if you could pay me the first installment of my fee before we leave Beijing. My bank is here, you see. Can you do that?"

"Yes." He hesitated and his face clouded. Reflexively he reached for his notebook, opened it as if to write. "I think I can," he said, without writing.

She straightened up from the cooler she’d been scanning and looked at him steadily. "What do you mean, you think you can?"

"Just that I don’t have the funds in hand yet—not today, I mean. But the money ought to come through before we’re ready to leave Beijing. No problem. That’s going to be a few more days anyway, isn’t it?"

"Of course—we have to get permits...."

"Right."

"So you mean you have someone in the States wiring you money or something?" Alice stopped and turned to the tiny, weather-beaten old woman in black clothes who had padded out from the back room and was standing expectantly by the counter. She smiled politely and fell into clear, unaccented Mandarin. "Elder sister, greetings. Forgive me. Trouble you to wait a moment."

The gray-headed woman nodded, little oblongs of jade gleaming in her ears.

Alice turned back to Spencer. "So you’re expecting a wire? Is that it?"

"No." He clutched his book. "Actually I’m still waiting to hear. I applied for a National Science Foundation grant for this project. I haven’t heard. I should have heard by now. But I haven’t."

She swallowed. "You came over here and hired me without funds?"

"No—no, well, not exactly. This grant is a sure thing, Alice. Peking Man is very, very big in the world of archaeology. Very important. The NSF Board met last week. Just hang on a few more days. So what are these in here—Cokes? I can’t believe it." He pulled one out and a puff of frosty smoke came with it. He peered at the bottle. "Canned in Singapore. You want one?"

"Yes," she said, distracted. "And get one for the driver too. Are you sure about this, Dr. Spencer?"

"Of course. And I told you not to call me that." He dug some renminbi out of his pocket and handed a few bills to the old lady. "Jesus," he whispered. "Look at her feet."

"They’re bound," Alice answered in English.

"My God." To him the little feet seemed hardly more than stumps, just three or four