Lost in Translation Page 0,8
facet of this American hypothesis that was irresistible to him—its potential for ruling out the distasteful possibility that the Chinese race might be descended from Africans. It would all be worth it just for that. And if Peking Man were by some miracle found, and he prevented the foreigners from stealing it, the face he personally would gain would be endless. Ah, yes. Endless.
Through these thoughts he noted that the foreign woman retained herself implacably. At least she had control, unlike the yellow-haired man. Interesting.
Another possibility: If he allowed the expedition he could send along his father’s second cousin, an archaeology professor from Huabei University. Then he could monitor things as closely as he liked.
And there was a final, even more delightful consideration —the Americans had money to spend.
"I will take this matter up with my colleagues," he told her, his Mandarin rich and educated but still trailing the liquid burr of the native Beijing-ren. "We will consider each aspect and discuss back and forth."
"Thank you. It’s a great trouble." Unconsciously she, too, was now rolling and drawing out her r-sounds, unable as always to check this chameleon quality of her Chinese-speaking. She invariably absorbed and replayed the other speaker’s accents.
"No trouble," he answered, hearing the local patina of her speech. Impressive. And she still sat cross-legged in a small calm. Where was her husband? Could she be unmarried? Strange. But he had heard enough. "So sorry, I have another appointment. Can you return next week? Maybe Tuesday? We’ll discuss this again."
"Ah. Tuesday." She pressed her lips together.
"I will need time to consult others. But in the meantime you should visit the Zhoukoudian site, where Peking Man was found. Tell me the day you choose. I will arrange for you to pass the tourist barriers."
"Ah." Now she smiled. It was obvious she understood this hint of positive inclination. She turned to the American. There was the bubble of English again, then her "Thank you. And regarding the research—Dr. Spencer says he is sure both sides will benefit."
"Both sides benefit," he repeated, and hid a surge of contempt. This was a thin Western fantasy. Pathetic. One side always won. The other lost. Win, that was the thing, and get the others to pay. Oh, yes, he looked at the American man with satisfaction, you’ll pay, vehicles and supplies and personnel at four times the rate we get normally, and it’s still nothing to you, money drips from your hands like water.
He glanced over at the brief redheaded woman, contained and watchful. And you, he thought, you can talk, but you don’t know so much and you are not Chinese. "May I say, Mo Ai-li, how pleasant it is to meet an outsider who really understands China. So many don’t. Really. You are an expert."
She looked at him, for an instant, unprotected. First he saw the quick confusion—should she believe he was sincere? Certainly not, he wasn’t—and behind that, in a frightened leap like a rabbit, snared quickly and then hushed behind her eyes before her control arose again and locked in around her, he saw her longing. It was only an instant, her eyes flicked away, but he saw it. This woman actually wanted to be Chinese!
"Thank you, Vice Director Han." She folded her freckled hands.
Through his well-crusted, many-lacquered shell, layered on through the childhood of world war, revolution, then the antirightist movements, the Great Famine, the Chaos, then fi-nally the death of Mao, the gradual normalcy, through it all he felt a brief scratching flare of compassion for her dislocation. He noted this and pushed it aside. There would always be wildcat foreigners in China, running from their lives. There always had been, ever since the arrival of the first Jesuit missionaries five hundred years before. He had never understood it. But he was a busy man, with no time for reflection.
"Wish you good luck," he said brusquely, and ended the meeting.
After he heard the elevator door open for them, Vice Director Han pressed a small metal button, discreetly positioned on the side of his desk. Instantly his secretary appeared. She wore Western-style jeans, a glossy synthetic blouse, and a bright red false flower in her up-to-date, overpermed hair. "Sir?" She shut the door.
"First, get Commander Gao on the line. PLA, Beijing District Command." Commander Gao was his brother-in-law, but this relationship was not something he would mention to his secretary.
"Commander Gao? Oh. Yes, sir." She scribbled.
"I think we’ll have to have these waiguoren followed."
She nodded, pen poised.
"Next, contact Professor