"Don’t know," he said. "Never seen anything like it."
She squinted. "Looks like ancient art."
"Like a petroglyph, but-certainly nothing like it has been found in the Americas. Or Europe. What do those say?" He pointed to a few characters scrawled in the margin.
She tilted the page. "It says, ’This is what it looks like.’ ’It’? What’s ’it’?"
"I don’t know. The drawing, I guess. This letter seems to be only one piece of some ongoing correspondence. Any return address?"
She examined both sides of the page, turned the envelope over. "No."
"A date?"
"March 1945."
"God." He sank into a squat.
"It does fit right in, doesn’t it?" She eased the letter back into its envelope.
He looked around the empty courtyard. "Look, Alice. Ordinarily I wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t take anything, disturb anything. But let me ask you a question. Do you think the people in this house have any idea this letter is here?"
"No."
"Do you think they’d care if they knew it was?"
She hesitated only a fraction. "No."
He was silent.
"You’re asking if we should take the letter?"
"Yes. Listen. No one would ever find out. This stuff has been locked up here for years. It’s forgotten." He stared at her, hard.
A chill ran over her. Someone had definitely been following them, although they hadn’t glimpsed the man today. How much can they watch me? she wondered. Can they know everything that’s in my mind? Can they know what I do in my private life? It seemed inconceivable and yet the government always knew more than one expected. Alice looked around quickly. Nothing seemed out of place. Gray stone courtyard walls. Potted camellias. Twittering birds.
"Okay," she said in a moment of firmness, handed him the letter, and watched him slip it into his notebook. "Let’s move everything back."
"Good afternoon, Vice Director Han. Yes, of course we were here. We received your message. Thank you." She locked eyes with Spencer and nodded. She continued on in Chinese, trading good wishes with the vice director and chatting about what she and the American had done, their visit to the Zhoukoudian site-playing out the courteous line that was essential to any Chinese exchange, establishing the sense of connection, of relationship. She followed patiently along with the vice director. She knew he had to be the one to bring up business.
Finally he coughed as a mood break. "Oh, now that you mention the ape-man site, I have had the chance to discuss the matter of Dr. Spencer with several of my co-workers. They are considering his requests. I hope to be able to let you know soon.
She held back disappointment. He was going to stall again. "Yes, that is what we hope as well."
"You know, it is difficult. The scope of our work includes so many responsibilities. And our institute has limited staff. We do the best we can. Unfortunately we must spend much of our time editing scientific articles and arranging for their publication. You see, it’s so critical in China for scientists to publish, and to contribute to their fields internationally. It is the only way we can grow."
"Yes, I see. You’re quite right," Alice said carefully. "Of course the research we propose could be of great importance to both countries."
"Perhaps. In any case, the pleasure has been mine to converse with you. Please convey to Dr. Spencer my sincere hope that his project will be reviewed soon."
"Yes, Vice Director Han." She paused.
"Is there anything else?"
"May I trouble you to hold for a moment?" She covered the mouthpiece firmly. "Offer him coauthorship," she urged in English.
"What?" Spencer’s face contracted.
"Suppose you find this thing. Would it be okay if Chinese archaeologists shared authorship on your paper?"
He bit at his lip.
"Seems to be the hint he’s dropping."
He paused.
"Come on, Adam. A collaboration would only enhance your credibility."
"True." He raised his brows, studied her. "You think we need to offer this?"
"I do."
"Well… okay."
She returned to Chinese. "Please forgive me, Vice Director, for making you wait. Yes, Dr. Spencer understands your problem. It is probably of limited interest to your staff, but if his own insignificant project should engage anyone’s attention, he would welcome a colleague on your side. Otherwise he would not presume."
The vice director’s voice was neutral. Only the alacrity of his answer betrayed his satisfaction. "Eh, is it so? Well, I will mention it and see if any of our scientists are so inclined. Pardon me, Interpreter Mo, I have taken too much of your time. I know you are busy."
"Not at all. Don’t be polite."
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye," she repeated, and hung up the phone. "Okay," she said to Adam, "he’s interested. Now you should host a dinner."
"I’m listening."
"Invite him and the colleagues of his choice to a restaurant as your guests. Strictly social. No negotiation. But an essential stage of Chinese business relations."
"All right-if you say. Will you call him back?"
"Of course." Alice was thinking of a certain restaurant in Beihai Park which served food in the imperial style-scaled-down versions of the meals eaten in the Manchu court throughout the Qing dynasty. "I’ll call him back-but not today. Tomorrow. We don’t want to look too eager."
"Yi jin. " Alice pointed to the shredded lamb in the street-side stall. One pound.
The rotund Chinese in the stained white apron emitted a rude monosyllable of agreement, ladled up the raw, ruby-colored meat, weighed it out, and dropped it with an ear-splitting sizzle on the huge meter-wide griddle in front of him. With one hand he added deft scoops of vinegar, soy sauce, and bean sauce. With the other he moved the quick-cooking meat around in rapid staccato swipes.
"It smells great," Spencer said. "But how much did you order?"
"One pound."
Spencer’s eyes widened.
She shrugged, watching the cook’s assistant pile hot xiaobing, sesame buns, on the plates. Meanwhile the cook was adding handfuls of green onion and cilantro to the lamb, and then, before the vegetables could wilt, whisking the whole thing off the griddle and mounding it on the two plates. "Xiayige!" the cook shouted, Next!
They crossed the dirty tile floor and squeezed into an empty spot on the jammed trestle table. "Venerable brother, excuse us," Alice said politely to the man next to them.
"Eh!" he grunted, turned away angrily, and spat on the floor.
She ignored him. They sat down.
"There are so many people here," Adam said, staring at the tightly packed, boisterous little room. As with all Chinese eating spots, the light was overpoweringly bright, the noise riotous. "Everyplace is so crowded."
"Oh, this is nothing," she said lightly. "Shanghai’s much more crowded than this."
"More crowded than this?" Following her, he split the xiaobing open and stuffed in the steaming shredded lamb, then added a squirt of hot sauce from the common bottle on the table. "But the strange thing is, I haven’t seen any street people, any beggars. Have I missed something? Are there street people here?"
"There are a few beggars. Though you don’t see homeless people, people living outdoors like you see in America. But there’s something else, that actually runs into millions of people. The floating population."
He paused, bing half up to his mouth. "Floating population."
"Right. People without housing registrations. A housing registration is the key to life in China. Without it you can’t get an apartment, get free medical care, work in the system, or buy food that’s on ration."