Lost in Translation Page 0,22

him stop, move his papery mouth in a soundless swallow. He had used the cautious euphemism bu wen, unstable, but she knew something of the war and the famine and the chaos behind the word; she knew how many terrible years there had been. She stayed silent a moment, to show him respect, and then cleared her throat. "Do you remember much about the priest? Or his American friend, Lucile Swan?"

"Eh, Miss Swan. Of course." His voice was thin. "They were very close."

"Did she mention—perhaps—near the end of the war, might she or Teilhard have said anything about Peking Man?"

"Eh, no, no, that was lost much earlier, near the beginning of the world war."

"Yes, I know, but—well. I suppose they said nothing."

He shook his head.

Alice quickly translated the exchange for Spencer.

"What sort of road did her life take?" the old man was asking.

"Ah." She delivered the answer as if she had known it for years, when in fact she had heard it moments before from Dr. Spencer. "Miss Swan returned to the United States. She died in New York in 1965."

"Eh. It is hard for my heart to hear it."

"Yes."

"Well. May I see your name card?"

She took one out and handed it to him. "We’ve troubled you too much."

" ’Mo Ai-li,’ " he read. " ’Interpreter.’ I am Mr. Zhang. The pleasure’s all on my side. Shuoqilai, " he said, By the way. "I knew the widow who took over Miss Swan’s house when she left. Of course, she has long since gone away from the world. I do not know what has become of the place."

"Really?" She felt a racing in her chest. "Lucile’s house?"

"Do you wish to go there? I will give you the address." He uncapped a pen and began writing.

"We did go to the old Jesuit House, where Father Teilhard lived," Alice told him. "But it was locked up."

"Eh, but I can take you to that place too," the man said, lowering his voice a notch. "It was owned for a long time after the Europeans left by the Chinese Antiquities Association. I know the gentleman who occupies it now. Tomorrow night? Seven? I will meet you there. But better we do not talk anymore, not here." He blinked at her.

"As you say." She hadn’t been aware of anyone else around, but she knew that, in China, eyes and ears were everywhere.

He finished writing. "Here." He pushed the paper with Lucile’s address across the table.

"Deeply indebted."

He made his face blank and waved them away.

3

They had been walking for more than an hour up Wangfujing through the crush of Chinese that spilled over the sidewalk and crowded into the street itself, leaving barely enough room for the trucks and cars and bicycles and buses to force their way through. Still the man was following them. Spencer aimed a quick look over his shoulder, keeping full stride. "He’s there, all right."

"I don’t know if we can lose him this time." Damn, she thought. They’re paying too much attention to us, and for what? Because this American is looking for some bones that have been missing for fifty-odd years? "We’re supposed to meet Mr. Zhang at the Jesuit House at seven." She checked her watch. "There’s not time for a detour."

"Screw it, then, let the guy follow us. I don’t care."

"Yes, but I care," she said, controlling her impatience. "And Mr. Zhang will care. Believe me."

"Why?" He took one of his hands from its habitual resting place in his pocket and put it to his head, pushing back his sparse hair.

"Arrest, interrogation, the threat of losing his housing registration—any of those ring a bell? And there’s the whole prison camp system too. Don’t forget."

"Prison camps? Come on. Isn’t the Cultural Revolution over?"

"Don’t kid yourself. The government hasn’t changed that much."

"You’re actually saying Mr. Zhang could be arrested, for talking to us?"

"I’m saying you never know, here."

"My God." He stared at her. "Well. We shouldn’t put Mr. Zhang at risk. That wouldn’t be right."

"And what about me?" She stopped dead on the sidewalk and challenged him with her eyes. "I don’t want to have to leave China. I told you that before! This is my home." China, home: it was at least one thing about herself, one thing she was willing to say, which was profoundly true.

"But why would you have to leave China?" His voice grew still with bewilderment. "We haven’t done anything wrong. And we won’t either."

She sighed. "I know—"

"Alice," Spencer interjected. "Look! He’s leaving."

She craned over the