Lost in Translation Page 0,47

ceiling was high, vaulted stone, and it turned the noise of the crowd into a bouncing roar.

"Qi shi ba hao!" a voice sang over the din, and Alice threaded back to the counter to be directed to a phone booth. As she eased down onto the polished wooden stool in the wood-paneled cubicle, she fought down apprehension. She stared at the black metal phone, the beautiful old rotary kind she hadn’t seen in the United States in forever. Why would Horace sound so agitated?

She eased up the receiver. "Wei!"

’’Meiguo dianhua! Deng yixia!" the operator screamed, Phone call to the U.S., hang on.

The faint stew of indiscernible languages, the trans-Pacific phone lines, and then the far-off ring of an American phone. Horace’s private line, the small phone on his desk, next to the framed pictures of herself and her mother—young, fresh faced. She was already so much older than her mother was then. A second ring. Was he at his desk?

"Mannegan," he answered crisply.

"Horace, it’s me." She’d intended to be the concerned, bustling caretaker. She’d also intended to remain Alice, separate, safe on the other side of the world. But as usual, the minute she heard her father’s voice she felt the rush of belonging. He was the one person in the world to whom she was permanently connected. "How are you?" she asked.

"Alice! So good to hear your voice. I’m fine, sweetheart."

"I was a little worried about you. Nothing’s wrong, is there? With you?"

"With me? Oh, no. Everything’s all right."

"It was such a weird message. You sounded—" Her voice caught and she closed her eyes. For a moment she was a girl again, a girl on her own in the world, with no one but Horace. Horace, who took care of her with all his power, his clout, his strength.

"Wait a moment, darling." He put her on hold; clearing out his office, probably. He came back on. "Now, my favorite girl, that’s better. Don’t worry, everything’s terrific. Where are you?"

"China, Horace. Of course."

"And what are you doing right now?"

"Working for an archaeologist. He’s looking for some proof about the origins of man."

"That sounds interesting."

"It is," she said, and felt herself smile, the echo of Pierre and Lucile coming to her mind, the ghost of the Peking Man skull. "But I was worried, Horace. The message you and Roger left—"

"Oh, that was nothing," he assured her. "I’m perfectly strong."

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing, really. An anomalous number on my blood test."

"What blood test?" Her stomach dropped.

His voice was casual. "I had an elevated PSA level, that’s all."

"What’s that?"

He paused. "Prostate."

"But what does it mean?"

"Nothing much. An infection. Don’t worry! You’re not getting rid of me that easily."

"Oh, Horace." She kept a chuckle in her voice but inside she felt she might collapse, she was so washed with relief. The stasis she had built around herself was teeteringly fragile, and Horace’s continuing presence in her life—from a distance— was one of its building blocks. But he was okay. He was.

"Call me in ten days or so when the antibiotic’s finished, if you like."

"Okay—"

"Or better yet, come home and visit. You haven’t come in two years. Please, darling. I’d love to see you."

"I don’t know, Horace. I’ll try. But please take care of yourself—"

He cut in, his voice different, businesslike. "My meeting’s here now. Got to go."

"Bye, Horace—"

But the line had gone dead.

She sat staring at it before she replaced it in its heavy black cradle. Then it rang again.

She jumped. "Wei?"

"Shuo-wan-le ma?" the operator screamed, Are you finished?

"Wan-le, " she answered, fighting back her apprehension, I’m finished. She tumbled the phone back down.

In Beijing, International Operator Yu finished filling out the little onionskin form with its six layers of carbon. She filed one copy in her logbook and carried the rest to her supervisor. "This call was to an official government office," she told the older woman. "It came up on our highest-level track."

"Well done, Fourth Apprentice Yu." Supervisor Ling did not conceal her excitement. Phone numbers that sorted to top diplomatic status were always reported. And this call originated from the people they’d already been asked to record—by the Army, no less. By the PLA. Supervisor Ling set aside the stack of paperwork she’d been sorting through, and lifted her tea mug for a long lukewarm drink. She clicked the ceramic lid back on the cup decisively.

"Try to get through to District Commander Gao of the PLA," she ordered the apprentice. She watched the girl hurry to an empty desk and dial.

"It’s ringing,"