Lost in Translation Page 0,5

finds in the history of archaeology, a whole hominid settlement. At a time when people were still questioning the theory of evolution, suddenly here were these bones—obviously a human predecessor. Half man, half... something. And now we get to our research, Alice, because that’s what I’ve come to China to look for—Peking Man. Sinanthropus."

"It’s missing?"

"Don’t you know? It disappeared during the Second World War. It’s never been found."

She stopped chewing, eyebrows in a half lilt. "Really."

He nodded. "By 1941 China was dangerous. The Japanese had occupied Peking since ’37 and were gradually swallowing up the rest of the country. So the foreigners crated up the bones—they were priceless, you know, a really comprehensive find—to send to the Museum of Natural History in New York." He put his chopsticks down, excited. "But just as the fossils were to be shipped out, hidden in the luggage of this American naval officer, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Suddenly America was in the war. Ships leaving Peking for the States were blockaded. The few U.S. troops here were quickly overwhelmed. The naval officer who was going to carry Peking Man to New York was hauled off to a prison camp down in Shanghai. Months went by. Finally he got his luggage back. But guess what? The bones had been removed."

She considered. "So the Japanese got it."

"Well, that’s what the Americans thought. Not the Chinese! Some of them still think the Americans conspired to steal it. Of course"—he spread his hands—"that’s silly."

Now she swallowed back an ache of sexual awareness, for the gesture brought washing over her and twining back around her the ivory arms and legs of Lu Ming. He had spread his hands that way, in the Brilliant Coffee. You see, Yulian, I am completely selfish— Not that Dr. Spencer, a white man, had the same effect on her. White men never had that effect on her. Though he was nice, this archaeologist. She liked him. "So." She pushed food around on her plate. "What do you think happened to Peking Man? And what does it have to do with Teilhard de Chardin?"

Conspiratorial pleasure flickered in his eyes. "I think Teilhard got the bones back in the last days of the war."

"You’re kidding."

"And I think he hid them here in China."

"What!"

"It’s true. Listen." He strained forward. "My grandfather was this famous geologist. Henry Bingham. Taught at Stanford, knew Teilhard well. Teilhard came to Stanford a couple of times, you know. Anyway, Teilhard told him he was getting Peking Man back. Swore him to secrecy."

"Your grandfather told you this?"

"Yes."

"And did he tell you what Teilhard did with Peking Man?"

"That he didn’t know. He got only hints. But I’ve studied the whole picture—Teilhard’s letters, diaries, books of philosophy—and I think the bones were hidden out in northwest China. Somewhere in the desert."

"Incredible." She laid her chopsticks on the table, pushed back her plate. A silence fell between them, one that was instantly filled by the dining room’s clatter of dishes and its multilingual well of voices.

Then their waitress was there. "Chibao-le?" she barked, Are you finished?

"Eh." Alice glanced up, nodded. "Suanrzhang?" she murmured.

"You speak great Chinese," he marveled, closing his notebook and slipping it into his pocket.

"That! I was just asking for the bill."

"No, you do." He turned serious. "There is one thing I’ve been wondering about you. May I ask—I’ve been thinking— ever since we talked on the phone—you’re not any relation, are you? To Horace Mannegan? The congressman?"

She hesitated and he saw her face pinch in ever so slightly.

"So he is your father! I thought he might be. After all— the ’Alice Speech.’ The firebombing. You know, I have a little girl named Alice. I mean, your name is Alice."

"Yes." She closed her eyes against the naked free-fall.

"So you’re the Alice." He reached over and squeezed her arm. "Man. Rough on you. Wasn’t it? Growing up with that. Those three little girls who were killed..." He shook his head sympathetically.

Oh, yes. Alice knew the deaths of those three girls. Knew their smiling school before-pictures, the ones in all the papers, soft brown eyes and shy expressions and plastic barrettes. Knew the TV-news images of their parents screaming.

It was the thing that seemed to have been frozen around her forever. The warm evening, the crowd packed into the stadium to listen to her father’s acceptance speech to Congress. She remembered huddling with her small hands covering her ears as the throng whooped and cheered his every word, their arms waving and punching the hot