Lieutenant Shan emitted the small hospitable sounds which were correct in such situations. These monosyllables conveyed his pleasure at meeting them, but by their brevity reminded everyone of his very busy, very superior position.
Ah, good, Alice thought, watching him. He still didn’t know she spoke Chinese. Kuyuk had not identified her as the interpreter, just introduced her by name. Now Shan was directing himself entirely at Kuyuk, Lin, and Kong-ignoring her and Spencer, obviously assuming the two Americans didn’t understand him. It’s too good to be true, she thought. He still doesn’t know.
Of course, before the meeting’s over he’s going to find out I speak Chinese, but I can control when it happens. When? she thought. What moment do I select to make it crystal clear that when his soldiers brought me in the other day I understood every single vulgar word he said? She drew a careful breath, kept her face neutral.
Now Kuyuk delineated their research in Chinese, explaining why they believed Peking Man to be in the cave. Shan listened, impassive.
She stepped close to Spencer and delivered a soft, discreet translation into his ear.
When Kuyuk completed his monologue Shan cleared his throat. "It is our honor to welcome you to the Alashan Banner of Inner Mongolia. As you have surmised, the cave in question is part of our installation. It cannot be entered, I’m afraid. The equipment inside is very sensitive, highly sophisticated. Exceedingly dangerous."
Alice’s lips parted in surprise. So polished! And he’d been so crude and foul-mouthed the week before… Watch yourself, she thought. Be careful.
Shan took out a pack of Chinese cigarettes and offered them around. Kuyuk and Kong accepted and, along with Shan, lit up. As he had before, that other day in Yinchuan, Lieutenant Shan did not seem to inhale and exhale, but rather to take smoke into his mouth and then just begin speaking, so that the smoke drifted in and out around his words.
"You will understand, then, why I could never permit you to enter the cave," Shan finished easily. "It’s impossible."
"Ask him if there’s any way he’d consider us entering together with his men," Spencer whispered.
Now, she thought.
She took a step forward and cleared her throat.
"Esteemed Lieutenant," she announced in her most precise, snobbish, Peking-accented Mandarin. "This miserable interpreter would speak. The American scientist asks if our team may search the cave under the protection and guidance of your technicians. Of course we would follow their instructions in every particular."
Shan’s mouth fell slightly slack. Smoke eddied out.
Yes! she thought.
The lieutenant stubbed out his cigarette hurriedly. He lit another.
"I beg you to forgive my execrable Chinese," she added gleefully. "I’m nothing but a foreigner. My Mandarin is hopelessly inadequate."
"It’s excellent," he murmured.
You bet your sorry ass it is! "Lieutenant. Have you not heard it said? The superior man is well versed in both polite letters and military affairs. I, a mere outsider, can claim neither. Unlike your honorable self."
Lin Shiyang stared at the little russet-haired foreigner. It was all he could do not to throw his head back and laugh, right in front of all of them, from sheer delight. How many women would do such a thing? "It’s true," he put in to support her. "The lieutenant is an exalted official of high sensibilities."
"Ni shuo shenmo?" What are you saying? Kong whispered urgently in his ear.
"Just listen," Lin whispered back.
"I will have to take this request of yours under advisement," Shan said, his control slipping.
"Lieutenant," Kuyuk put in, attempting to steer the conversation back where it belonged, "if you would consider. The recovery of Peking Man will bring glory to our country."
"I know." Shan ground out his second cigarette.
"Esteemed sir," Alice cut in boldly. "I note by your accent that you are from the South. You’re Cantonese?"
Now Lin stared at her.
She held him off with the tiniest movement of her head.
"Yes," Shan answered her reluctantly. "I’m Cantonese."
"So far away! Your mother-she’s still living?"
"Yes…"
"You must think of her often," Alice said sweetly. "With every sentence you speak."
Understanding, knowing the Cantonese phrase in question, Lin broke into a grin. The other Chinese speakers stood confounded.
"Anyway," she concluded, "we hope you will consider our request yourself. Personally. It is so tiresome to have to report everything to Beijing. I mean everything. Isn’t it so?"
"You will have to forgive me," the lieutenant blurted finally. "I have another appointment. As to the matter of entering the cave, I will see what can be done. Give me a little time. A technical escort would have to be very, very carefully arranged. I will think back and forth."
Alice repeated this in English, trying to keep triumph out of her voice.
"Jesus and Mary." Spencer squeezed his eyes shut. "What was that, anyway? What did you say?"
"I negotiated." She laughed. "Chinese style."
As they walked out of the building into the white desert sunlight, Lin stepped close to her. "The final stroke of jia chibu dian, playing stupid while being smart." His face was radiant. "Well done. Truly, Mo Ai-li, you are more than Mu-lan. You surpass her."
"To you I must seem"-she swallowed. Was she too aggressive for him, too un-Chinese?-"too direct," she finished.
"But that is you, Interpreter Mo," he said, surprised.
That is me. She thought of Pierre’s letter to Lucile: Whydo you ask me to forgive you anything about it? You are so true inwhat you say, -so yourself,-"si belle," dearest… She looked at Lin now, climbing into the jeep, fitting himself into the backseat. He glanced down at her, happy, face open. Did he actually see her, the real Alice?
Back at the guesthouse, washed, refreshed, she left her room thinking about the real reason she had bested Shan. It was because she had thought as a Chinese: know your enemy, conceal your knowledge, then when the time is right feint to the east and attack to the west. An ancient technique, one she had absorbed, living here, almost without knowing it. Still effective.
Oh, she loved the haze, the hallucinogenic dream that came over her when she managed to merge, for even an instant, with the Chinese way of thinking. Usually it was when she was alone in China for long periods, speaking, thinking, dreaming, only in Mandarin. She would imagine herself part of it. An illusion, of course. She knew that.
As she came down the stairs she heard the wind groaning. It rattled the windows.
"Xiao Mo!"
She blinked. Lin’s voice, imperative. But from where?
She walked out across the empty floor.
"Xiao Mo."
Behind her. She turned. He stood in an alcove behind the staircase.
She glanced around, confused. No one else there.
"Guolai, " he whispered, Come here.
She strode quickly to him and he took a step back, grasping her by the elbows, drawing her into the shadows with him.
From in front of the building erupted the babble of Chinese voices, rising over the wind.
The door clattered open.
Lin laid one dark finger on her lips, shook his head.
Along with the jumble of shoes on stone she heard the spurt of Mandarin: the nasal, deliberate tones of Kong and the harsher-sounding Mongol-accented banter of Kuyuk.
She pressed against Lin’s white-shirted chest, laid her cheek against the cloth. Why doesn’t he put his arms around me? she thought.
The noisy footsteps passed them, clattered on up the steps, faded into the hallway above their heads. The voices grew smaller and smaller until they were gone.