Lost in Translation.

by Nicole Mones.

Author's Note

This is a work of fiction. It includes references to real people and events, which are used to give the fiction a historical reality. In particular, although many of the facts concerning Teilhard de Chardin and Lucile Swan are accurate and the quotations from their letters come directly from published sources, their lives are used fict.i.tiously in this work. Names, characters, and incidents relating to nonhistorical figures are the product of the author's imagination. Please see the Historical Note for more information.

Material from the following sources has been reprinted by permission: The Phenomenon of Man, by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Copyright 1955 by Editions de Seuil. Copyright 1959 in the English translation by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., London, and Harper and Row, Publishers, Inc., New York. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Copyright 1955 by Editions de Seuil. Copyright 1959 in the English translation by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., London, and Harper and Row, Publishers, Inc., New York. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

The Phenomenon of Man, by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Editions de Seuil, 1951. Reprinted by permission. by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Editions de Seuil, 1951. Reprinted by permission.

"As the sun rose over the mountain..." reprinted by permission of Philomel Books from Chinese Mother Goose Rhymes, Chinese Mother Goose Rhymes, selected and edited by Robert Wyndham, 1968 by Robert Wyndham. Brief segments have also been quoted from the following works: selected and edited by Robert Wyndham, 1968 by Robert Wyndham. Brief segments have also been quoted from the following works: Letters From a Traveller, by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Copyright 1962 in the English translation by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., London, and Harper and Row, Publishers, Inc., New York. by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Copyright 1962 in the English translation by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., London, and Harper and Row, Publishers, Inc., New York.

Letters to Leontine Zanta, by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin in the English translation by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., London, and Harper and Row, Publishers, Inc., New York, 1969. by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin in the English translation by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., London, and Harper and Row, Publishers, Inc., New York, 1969.

The Letters of Teilhard de Chardin and Lucile Swan, Thomas M. King and Mary Wood Gilbert, editors. Copyright 1993 by Mary Wood Gilbert. Thomas M. King and Mary Wood Gilbert, editors. Copyright 1993 by Mary Wood Gilbert.

Since the inner face of the world is manifest deep within our human consciousness, and there reflects upon itself, it would seem that we have only got to look at ourselves in order to understand the dynamic relationships existing between the within within and the and the without without of things at a given point in the universe. of things at a given point in the universe.

In fact so to do is one of the most difficult of all things.

-Pierre Teilhard de Chardin The Phenomenon of Man The Phenomenon of Man

1.

In the lobby of the Minzu Hotel, Second Night Clerk Huang glanced out through the great gla.s.s doors just as the foreign interpreter wheeled her bicycle past. He stared, fascinated. He knew what it meant when she left, late at night, wearing a short skirt. There were no secrets in China. He smiled and turned back to his computer.

Outside, Alice Mannegan pedaled down Changan Dajie. She flew past the cobbled sidewalks, the storefronts crowded with Chinese paizi, paizi, signboards in arty, propulsive italic characters: Happy Fortune and Flying Crane and Propitious Wind. Knives and shoes and beauty supplies, bicycle parts and baling wire, all screaming for attention. signboards in arty, propulsive italic characters: Happy Fortune and Flying Crane and Propitious Wind. Knives and shoes and beauty supplies, bicycle parts and baling wire, all screaming for attention.

But their metal shutters had clanged down for the night. The black-headed crowd was gone. In daytime the boulevard throbbed with renao renao life, but now the bubbling volcano of Pekingese and frantically jingling bike bells was silent. It still smelled like Beijing, though. The air was ripe, opulent, sewerish-and thick with history. life, but now the bubbling volcano of Pekingese and frantically jingling bike bells was silent. It still smelled like Beijing, though. The air was ripe, opulent, sewerish-and thick with history.

Beyond the low row of storefronts she glimpsed the squat, ma.s.sive official buildings-the inst.i.tutes and bureaus and administrations which lined the boulevard. Changan was the main spoke of Beijing's wheel. Broad and straight, built for parades, it roared right to the heart of the capital, and of all China, the Forbidden City. The Danei, Danei, people used to call it. The Great Within. And now there it was: the ma.s.sive ocher bulwarks, the medieval walls, closed, faceless; all qi pointing inward, to what was concealed, powerful, and endlessly complex. Its entrance was crowned with the huge red-cheeked portrait of Chairman Mao, smiling down from atop the Gate of Heavenly Peace. people used to call it. The Great Within. And now there it was: the ma.s.sive ocher bulwarks, the medieval walls, closed, faceless; all qi pointing inward, to what was concealed, powerful, and endlessly complex. Its entrance was crowned with the huge red-cheeked portrait of Chairman Mao, smiling down from atop the Gate of Heavenly Peace.

Alice turned, skirting Tiananmen Square. A breeze rustled leaves above her head and sent an empty fast-food container skipping across the pavement. She glanced right and left at the sound. No one.

She pedaled harder, the summer night wind silky on her face. Past the great stone Qianmen arch, then south on Qianmen Boulevard into the old Chinese City with its riot of shops, restaurants, theaters. She veered off the boulevard, through the tangle of narrow hutongs. hutongs. She loved this ancient maze of dirt-packed lanes. To her this was the true heart of the capital, not the colossal high-walled palace behind her. Here in the gracefully repeating pattern of silvery stone walls and tile roofs, Alice sometimes felt China in her grasp. Sometimes. She turned again, right, then left. Now she crossed the familiar intersection, with the old capped-over stone well in the center. She steered into a brick-paved, stone-walled alley so narrow, her bicycle could barely pa.s.s. There. The Brilliant Coffee. She loved this ancient maze of dirt-packed lanes. To her this was the true heart of the capital, not the colossal high-walled palace behind her. Here in the gracefully repeating pattern of silvery stone walls and tile roofs, Alice sometimes felt China in her grasp. Sometimes. She turned again, right, then left. Now she crossed the familiar intersection, with the old capped-over stone well in the center. She steered into a brick-paved, stone-walled alley so narrow, her bicycle could barely pa.s.s. There. The Brilliant Coffee.

The neon sign screamed COFFEE in English, English being very fashionable in Beijing just now, but of course coffee had very little to do with the purposes of this establishment. She chained her bike to the crowded metal rack. There was one door, painted black, and a row of windows sealed over to make the place appear closed. There were no signs of life. But it was Friday night, almost midnight, and Alice knew better.

She pushed open the door. Instantly she was. .h.i.t with the pounding, insistent karaoke ba.s.s and above that the roaring stutter of a smoking, chattering crowd. Hip, dazzlingly dressed Chinese, fresh out of their cultural confinement and keening to be part of the exploding yangqi, yangqi, the now, crammed in shoulder to shoulder. Not a seat anywhere, she thought, looking around. Hardly a place to stand. the now, crammed in shoulder to shoulder. Not a seat anywhere, she thought, looking around. Hardly a place to stand.

Across the low-ceilinged room she watched a slight man with a closely cropped black head and antique round gla.s.ses take the stage and begin belting a nineteen fifties R&B tune. He lurched from one foot to the other, out of time with the music, swinging the microphone stand from side to side as he shouted out each syllable.

She smiled. G.o.d, she loved Beijing. Tomorrow she would meet her new client. Tonight was free. She scanned the packed tables as the horns took off in a smart, prerecorded flourish.

A man slid into place beside her. He had wide shoulders, a deep waist, and black eyes flat in his head. "You await someone?" he said in Chinese.

"Wo zai deng, wo bu zai deng, " she shrugged, her intonation almost perfect. I'm waiting, but then again I'm not. "What about you?" " she shrugged, her intonation almost perfect. I'm waiting, but then again I'm not. "What about you?"

He smiled, pleased with her subtlety, and it warmed her all over, because it was an uncontrolled streak of pleasure that opened his ivory-colored face suddenly into something unprotected, almost innocent-though innocence, in a place like the Brilliant Coffee, would be impossible. People kept themselves well concealed in places like this. Which suited Alice fine.

He laughed softly. "I wait for you," he said. "And an outside person too. Imagine."

"Yes. An outside person." Behind his smile she caught the usual male reserve, the relaxed sense of his own racial superiority which always made her tremble with fear and hope and excitement.

"Please." He signaled with a sidelong glance, then turned and threaded through the crowd away from her, not leading her, not even looking back at her, but knowing she would follow. A waiter jostled past them with a full tray. She felt the Chinese eyes: Look, a Western woman in a short black dress, red hair, birdlike, freckled. She liked being noticed. It heightened the satisfaction of nights like these, nights she allowed herself because, after all, she was a woman and when there wasn't real love in her life she needed, at least, some attention. Now-a miracle. The man was producing two empty chairs.

"How are you called?" He leaned close to shut out the wall of music.

She answered "Yulian," the Chinese name she currently used for these situations. Yulian was an old-fashioned name; it meant Fragrant Lotus. It was a name that rang on many levels. The bound feet had been called lotuses, and there was also that famous heroine of Chinese erotic fiction, the Golden Lotus.

These allusions were not lost on him. He pressed his mouth together in amus.e.m.e.nt. "I'm Lu Ming."

A hollow-chested young waiter with a sharp, acne-cratered face materialized. "Bai jiu, "Bai jiu," Lu Ming told him, slang for the steamroller 120-proof rice spirits popular in China. Then he turned to Alice: "Unless you'd rather have a"-he interrupted his Chinese to try to p.r.o.nounce it the English way-"Coca-Cola?"

"Bai jiu ye xing," she answered. Good, she thought, rice spirits, one shot, maybe two. It was better to be high. "Good. Bai jiu." Bai jiu."

The spirits arrived, clear liquid in two tiny gla.s.ses. Lu Ming toasted their friendship with a standard phrase, and then added, "Gan-bei," "Gan-bei," dry gla.s.s, and they both drained it and laughed. The fire burned through her stomach and rose instantly to her head. How long since she'd eaten? dry gla.s.s, and they both drained it and laughed. The fire burned through her stomach and rose instantly to her head. How long since she'd eaten?

"What are you doing in Beijing?" Lu Ming asked, circling his empty gla.s.s on the wet tabletop.

She paused. Sometimes she invented professions; tonight, on a whim, she decided to tell the truth. "I'm an interpreter."

"Trade?"

"Freelance. I'm about to start a job with an archaeologist. Something to do with h.o.m.o erectus." erectus."

"Eh?" he squinted.

"You know, h.o.m.o erectus, erectus, our ancestors, the missing link? Like Peking Man." our ancestors, the missing link? Like Peking Man."

"You mean the ape-man?" he chortled, using the street word, yuanren. yuanren. "I doubt very much if the Chinese people could be descended from the ape-man!" "I doubt very much if the Chinese people could be descended from the ape-man!"

"Well"-she tensed slightly at this prejudice-"I don't know anything about it, really. I'm just a translator."

Still Lu Ming did not let it go. "But such an expedition must cost huge money!" He raised his hand in a two-fingered signal to the pa.s.sing waiter. "And for what? For history? Eh, it's a waste!" Two new, full gla.s.ses appeared in front of them. The music blasted away. "History is but a hobby. It's for old men with no yang yang left." left."

"I like history," she said defensively. "I think old things are beautiful."

"What counts now and for the future is modernization. Commerce." He leaned into her. "Money."

"To money." She forced a smile. It was no use arguing with Chinese men. Especially if you were a woman. And a foreigner. Their probing interest in her-the free American mind, the direct laughter, the pale, willing body-always held the potential for an edge of contempt. If she could stay back from that edge, though, the excitement was unmatched. The two of them drank. "And you, Lu Ming? What do you do?"

"I'm in business," he said simply, as if no further explanation were needed of this most glorious word. Gracefully he withdrew a white card from his black jacket.

She glanced at the characters. "Lu Investment Consulting Group?"

He touched his forelock in mock salute.

"Well, Chairman Lu, to your profits." She smiled, pleased to see that there was now yet another tiny, full gla.s.s in front of her. "Gan-bei." "Gan-bei." They drank and gasped together. The booming room shuddered. "These must be good times for you," she said, rolling the empty gla.s.s between her palms. "The current leaders." They drank and gasped together. The booming room shuddered. "These must be good times for you," she said, rolling the empty gla.s.s between her palms. "The current leaders."

"Eh, it's so. It's because of old Deng Xiao-ping we have all this." He paused and with a rapid sweep of his eyes managed to include the frenzied crowd, the recorded tidal wave of guitar and saxophones, the rolling static of laughter, and, last and most pointedly, his square white business card half splashed now with rice brandy on the table. "Ta-de kai fang "Ta-de kai fang zheng che, liufang bai shi; danshi Liu-Si zheng che, liufang bai shi; danshi Liu-Si ye ye jiang yichou wan jiang yichou wannian, " The open door will hand down a good reputation for a hundred generations, but the Six-Four will leave a stink for ten thousand years.

"True," she said, recognizing the colloquial term Six-Four -shorthand for the Tiananmen incident, which had occurred on June fourth. Chinese liked to remember things by their numbers. "Do you think new leaders might change the situation?"

He lowered his voice, conjuring a bond between them. "It's a mistake to think it matters who's in charge. Of course the old leaders die. But then not much changes. The wolf just becomes a dog. Though as for the open door"-by this he meant China's new liberalism-"I am sure it will remain as it is. They'll never be able to close it." Under the table he placed his foot alongside hers, a gentle but insistent message. "You see," he said, and spread his hands disarmingly, "I care only for my personal success now. Completely selfish! But I'm educated. And-everyone agrees on this, Yulian-my heart is good. Therefore"-he leaned in and locked on her eyes- "will Yulian now go with me to some more peaceful place where friends can speak with their hearts at ease?"

Cigarette smoke, laughter, the throbbing ba.s.s swirled around her. Suddenly the Brilliant Coffee was a box of thunder, of unbearable noise. He really wants me, she thought with the familiar thrill. And then she hesitated.

He rubbed her foot with his. It was soft, he wore only a sock, when had he taken off his shoe? "Yi bu zuo, "Yi bu zuo, er er bu xiu, bu xiu, " he whispered, Once a thing is begun, no one can stop it until it is finished. " he whispered, Once a thing is begun, no one can stop it until it is finished.

He moved his foot away, not touching her now, only leaning close-but his entire body flamed with attention. Hers did too. She closed her eyes. Pretend, tonight. She felt a pull to the center of him, where surely lay entry to all China. "Wei "Wei shenmo bu," shenmo bu," she whispered finally, Why not. she whispered finally, Why not.

He didn't speak as they pedaled side by side through the mud-rutted lanes that coiled away from the Brilliant Coffee- she remembered this the next morning as she rode her bicycle back in the misty, unfurling dawn to the Minzu Hotel. He had smiled at her once, radiantly, but said nothing. It was like a Chinese man not to speak, not now, not when it was about to happen. They all had this magnificent reserve. She knew how this wall of reserve would come to an end, too, and she had been right: even now, pedaling hard through the early half-light of w.a.n.gfujing Boulevard, her thighs cramped with desire when she remembered the way the door had closed behind them in his apartment and he had turned to her, reached for her, and all in one motion carried her down with him to the floor where in an instant the verbal, astute, urbane man he had been at the Brilliant Coffee vanished and in his place was a purely physical being, urgently male, frantic to enter her.

Later, when they were lying naked under sheets by the open window, he asked her whether, since she was based in Beijing, they could be friends. She didn't answer right away. This was the hard part for her. She loved it when they first touched her, and she would always cringe a little, pull back, savor the waves of shame and shyness and then, finally, surrender. That was the pleasure. But it always ended. The s.e.x always ended and the talking came back, and with it the lines she could never seem to cross.

"Of course I couldn't visit you at your hotel." He lit a cigarette and exhaled a blue cloud toward the ceiling. "It would cause too much talk. You're waiguoren, waiguoren, an outside-country person. Not Chinese. But you could come here, at night." an outside-country person. Not Chinese. But you could come here, at night."

Did he have to say all this? Though of course a lot of men talked too much, and unwisely, in the temporary state of total spread-legged candor which followed s.e.x.

"Well?" he asked softly, fingers moving through her hair.

She guarded herself. "I know all about what you are saying."

He smiled. "Mingbai jiu hao," "Mingbai jiu hao," he whispered back happily, I'm glad you understand. he whispered back happily, I'm glad you understand.

She let his words trail off. In a few minutes he slept.

She moved away from him in the strange bed. And the next morning, when she rose in the half-light and tied on her antique Chinese stomach-protector and zipped up her black dress, and he whispered to her from the bed to write down where he could get in touch with her, she wrote just the characters for the phony name, Yulian, and a fictional Beijing number.

Sometimes, when she got up and dressed before dawn, the men didn't ask for her number. They would watch her go without a word. They seemed to know better than to say anything to her at all.

After a spotty and insubstantial sleep, Dr. Adam Spencer dragged his sluggish forty-eight-year-old body out of bed. It was only five A.M. but he was all out of sync and there was no way, his first night in China, he was going to be able to sleep anymore. So he shaved, tugged on his clothes, then pulled his son's photo from his wallet and looked at it for a minute. He was trying not to think about the fact that it was midafternoon back home in Nevada. And in California, where his son now lived. He replaced the photo and surveyed himself in the mirror. Bone tired, his blond hair straggly, but still pretty fit and not bad looking, in a middle-aged, soft-faced kind of way. He knew his reflection well, his plain gray eyes and his cheeks that seemed to have no bones under them and his round mouth, which had once been boyish; he had been used to himself for a long time.

He sat down in a scuffed armchair, flicked on a puddle of yellow lamplight, and paged through one of the many books by Teilhard de Chardin he had brought-this one a volume of the great man's letters from China-forced down a cup of hot, iron-tasting tea, and began to make notes in his habitual blue pocket notebook. After a time he switched off the light and wandered to the window to part the curtains. A faint gray dawn was rising over the city. Changan Boulevard, the Boulevard of Long Peace, was waking up: here came rumbling what looked like an Army truck, and there, half real in the mist, was a clopping mule-drawn cart.

And there-what was that?

He pressed his forehead to the gla.s.s. G.o.d, it was a Western woman on a bicycle! He squinted through the gla.s.s.

She wheeled quickly across the parking lot and disappeared alongside the building. In a moment she emerged on foot. He could see she was delicately built. She glanced furtively from one side to the other, and then darted inside.

Gone. He stared down at the parking lot, narrowed his eyes, wondering.

He was to meet his interpreter in the hotel restaurant at seven-thirty. He sat down and glanced through the mostly Chinese menu, flush with the thrill of finally being here. It had taken more than a year to make it happen. First studying everything published about China's northwestern deserts, reading all that was available in English and even sc.r.a.ping together the money to have some of the Chinese stuff translated. Retracing Pierre Teilhard de Chardin's desert expeditions of more than seventy years before. Reviewing the whole career of Father Teilhard, who had been an important paleontologist in his time and then, after his death, become famous for his books of transcendent Christian philosophy. Sifting clues out of his books, his published letters and diaries. All of it sparked by the secret Spencer's grandfather-in his own youth a well-known geologist, a friend of Teilhard's-had confided to him, the grandson, shortly before he died. Gradually seeing how the puzzle fit. Then writing the grant proposal. Getting leave from the university. Finding the interpreter.

He was startled by the sound of a chair sc.r.a.ping over the floor, and then: "You're Dr. Spencer?"

He looked up and swallowed. The red-haired woman.

She was dressed in blue jeans now, and a simple cropped T-shirt, but it was her. Unmistakably. The hair was tucked behind her ears and she had a pleasingly freckled, high-cheeked little face with moss-colored eyes.

"Good morning," she said, and stuck out her hand. "Zaochen hao. "Zaochen hao. I'm Alice Mannegan." I'm Alice Mannegan."

"Adam Spencer." They shook. Her hand felt small and fine-boned. "Sorry, I'm a little surprised." He smiled apologetically. "Because I saw you this morning."

"Saw me?"

"Before dawn. That was you, wasn't it? Coming back to the hotel on a bicycle?"

She paused and looked at him. Something indecipherable ran across her face. "Yes. That was me."

"Well." He bit back any more questions. "Anyway."

"Anyway." She sat down, beckoned a waitress, and ordered food in rapid Chinese. She centered her plate and dark wood chopsticks on the tablecloth. "Your flight was okay?"

"It was fine. Thanks. It's great to be in China."

"Oh, yes-I love China." Her face lit; for a moment everything about her seemed to lock happily together. "I love it, the sense of the past, the civilization, the language. And it could hardly be any more different from"-she paused- "America."

"You don't like America."

She moved her shoulders.

"But you grew up there?"

"That doesn't mean I liked it. Anyway, welcome." She settled against the back of her chair. "Now tell me about this job."

"Okay. Right." He took out his notebook and set it open on the table, uncapped a cheap ballpoint. "Do you know the work of Teilhard de Chardin?"

"Teilhard de Chardin-yes, a little. The Jesuit. I think it was in college I read The Phenomenon of Man. Actually I haven't read him in years. Though he did live in China for a long time. I guess you know that."

"Yes." He made a note. "And I guess you know he was a famous paleontologist as well as a theologian. That's what got him exiled to China. The essays he wrote about evolution were a little too real for the Vatican. Their idea of the origin of man was Adam and Eve. Period."