Rabbit in the Moon Read online

  “And did you?”

  A bitter laugh. “Hardly. The kids still called me Chink.” Lili brushed a stray wisp of raven hair from her forehead. “But that just made me more determined to be the best damned biker around.”

  Dylan glanced at a grouping of photographs on the wall. “Your parents?” he asked, pointing to a Chinese couple in a formal pose. The gray-haired man in the chair appeared at least thirty years older than the woman standing behind him.

  Lili nodded. “My father died when I was ten. My mother was his second wife.”

  “She’s very beautiful.” Dylan looked at Lili who had changed from hospital whites to an emerald green pantsuit complementing her complexion and figure. “Like her daughter.”

  A bittersweet smile. “Except for looks, we’re as different as rabbits and tigers.”

  “Rabbits and tigers?”

  “Legend has it that Buddha summoned all the animals of the world to appear before him. To those who paid him homage, he promised a year named after them. Only twelve animals came, so there is a cycle of twelve that is repeated over and over. The animal ruling the year in which you were born is said to exercise a profound influence on your life. As the Chinese say, ‘this is the animal that hides in your heart.’ ”

  “I see,” Dylan said, fascinated. “And your mother was born in the year of the rabbit.”

  Lili nodded. “The rabbit is considerate, modest, and thoughtful.” She looked at her mother’s picture for a long moment. “Certainly all the qualities my mother possesses. She’s never rocked any boats.”

  “And the tiger?”

  Lili felt her cheeks redden. “The tiger is full of vigor and love of life, passionate, daring, and unpredictable.” She turned away, embarrassed at having revealed too much. “Anyway, it’s my mother who believes in all this nonsense. Not me.”

  “A little superstition never hurt anyone.”

  This time when Lili looked up at Dylan her eyes glistened. “My mother has pancreatic cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle.

  “Because of her foolish superstitions she’s refused medical treatment. It’s her joss, she says, to die now. Just like it was her fate to lose her parents, to come to this country all alone, to live with an elderly aunt who forced her into a loveless marriage with a man old enough to be her father, to —” Lili bit her lower lip in an effort to stop the flow of tears. “She accepts everything too easily.”

  Dylan moved to put his arm around her. “Somehow I have the feeling she wouldn’t accept me with the same equanimity.”

  Lili saw the cornflower blue eyes twinkle and laughed in spite of herself. To her mother, all Caucasians were foreigners, waigorens. “You’re right.”

  “Something also tells me that wouldn’t stop you.”

  Now the eyes were searching, waiting for her answer. Dylan’s face was very close. Too close for her to prevent the kiss. Even if she’d wanted to. Lili closed her eyes, at once overwhelmed and frightened by his effect on her. No rational explanation. She hardly knew him. Yet there was no mistaking the attraction. Was it the familiarity of his kindness, the danger in his unpredictability, the foreignness of his blonde all-American handsomeness? Or was it something more? Right now she knew only one thing for sure: she was glad he had come into her life. It had been a long time since she’d felt that way.

  Opening her eyes, she sensed the warmth of his breath on her cheek, saw him watching her. “Not bad, Dr. Quan.”

  Lili returned his banter. “I’m strictly an amateur.”

  “Then I guess we’ll have to try it again some time.” His lips brushed lightly across her forehead. “They say practice makes perfect.”

  Lili smiled as she removed her hand from his. “I usually get to know someone before the first kiss.”

  “Easily remedied. What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Dylan laughed. “It’s a pretty short story. But I’ll tell you what, grab your purse and I’ll give you the sordid details on the way to dinner.”

  A few moments after Lili and Dylan had pulled from the curb in Dylan’s red Mazda Rx7, the man in the white Ford did the same, staying just close enough to follow without being seen.

  Although they’d been riding in silence for some time, it was a comfortable silence. Somehow Lili didn’t feel the need to fill empty space with idle chatter. Instead, she scrutinized Dylan’s handsome profile as the city lights illuminated it in flashes: strong chin, cute pug nose, and a shock of thick blonde hair brushed casually over a broad brow. The fingers that held the steering wheel were long and delicate. A study in contrasts, she thought.

  “I’m ready for that short story,” she said when they had stopped at a red light. “But first one question.”

  “Sure.”

  “You said you were first-generation Irish.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yet Dylan is a Welsh name.”

  “Sharp lady.”

  “I was an English major at Wellesley. Dylan Thomas has always been one of my favorite poets.”

  “My mother’s as well,” Dylan replied. “An extraordinary individualist she used to tell me. Wanted me to grow up to be like my namesake. The problem is she didn’t know he wasn’t Irish. Worse, she didn’t know the Welsh have always sided with the British and —”

  “And the British hate the Irish,” Lili interrupted.

  “Let’s just say, they usually don’t drink in the same pubs.”

  “So how did your mother get away with giving you such a controversial name?”

  Dylan’s laugh was measured. “Norwegians have a stubborn streak almost as fierce as the Irish. Besides, I was born during one of my father’s drinking binges. When he came to, Dylan was officially on my birth certificate.”

  “Your mother sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

  “If you mean a fighter, that she is.”

  “And your father?”

  “He left Belfast at seventeen. Not much work for an uneducated Catholic kid in a Protestant town. Came to Chicago where his uncle pulled a few favors with the Democratic organization to get him work for the city.”

  “What did he do?”

  Dylan stared at the street signal. “Dad called it civil engineer, but garbage man was what he was.”

  “Honest work,” Lili said matter-of-factly.

  “Sure. Labor omnia vincit improbus.”

  Vergil. Lili translated the Latin: “Labor conquers everything.”

  “Not everything.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Dylan was silent for another moment, as if hesitating. then began to describe his background. “I was born on the wrong side of the tracks. North Chicago. St. Gregory’s parish. Not everyone was Irish. It was a melting pot for new immigrants. That’s where my parents met — Mom’s folks were fresh from Norway. They got married, had eight kids, played Dennis Day records on Friday nights, and served soda bread and butter for breakfast. I went to Quigley North with the Catholic sons of other blue-collar workers and worked summers as a busboy at the fancy country clubs. That’s where I met the sons of the La Salle Street lawyers and stockbrokers.”

  Dylan’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel. “Of course they never invited me to their homes on the north shore.” His tone became bitter. “So superior. Like I came from another world.”

  The switch astonished Lili.

  “I guess I did. None of their fathers came home smelling of garbage with their hands so callused they felt like sandpaper.” Another uncomfortable pause. “I hated them for looking down at me and, yet, I wanted to be just like them.” Dylan glanced at Lili. “You probably can’t understand that.”

  A wry smile. “More than you think.”

  “I spent everyday at the library and every extra dollar on books, determined to be better than any of them. Dad never understood that working for the city wasn’t good enough for me. Luckily I managed to get a college scholarship to Georg
etown, then a military scholarship to Bethesda Medical.”

  “That’s pretty impressive,” Lili said. “But how did you end up in research?”

  “To be honest, I never really liked medicine. Dealing with patients just didn’t turn me on like it does you.”

  They turned east onto Wilshire Boulevard.

  “For me, med school was just a ticket out of poverty.” He stared at her for a moment, then looked away. “During my last year I needed a summer job. There was a professor working in immunogenetics at Bethesda who needed a tech. I got hooked on the main histocompatibility complex.”

  “The what?” Lili asked. She’d majored in genetics in college, but her background was more basic.

  “MCH — that’s the master genetic control of the immune system. I’m working on a theory that the MHC may be one of the gene systems controlling aging.”

  “Tell me more,” Lili urged, fascinated.

  “You’re sure? I can bore the hell out of people when I get started.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, pleased at the change in his mood.

  “Well, we know that certain substances — superoxide dismutase or SOD and the mixed-function oxidases — protect against damage by free radicals that cause age changes while cyclic nucleotides are involved in cell differentiation and proliferation. We also know that all three are on the same chromosome and are genetically linked to the MHC. In humans, they’re found on chromosome 6; in mice it’s number 17.”

  Lili considered his explanation. “Let me see if I understand. You think because the substances are all genetically linked, these chromosomes may be the focus for age changes.”

  Dylan shook his head, impressed. “You’re a quick study. I haven’t broken the code yet. But somehow the MHC regulates DNA repair. When the process breaks down, the result is a decreased immune response.”

  “That would certainly explain the increase in certain infections in old people.”

  Dylan nodded. “Two hundred years ago the average American lived to be thirty-five. Today we can expect to reach seventy.”

  “Like the Bible says: three score and ten.”

  “I think we can improve on the good book, Lili. By finding the key to what turns these genes on and off, we might be able to control the rate of aging, prolong human life span to one hundred twenty, one hundred fifty, who knows how long?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Deadly serious. The eagle and swan live to be one hundred, the carp and pike are believed to reach one hundred fifty, and the whale leads the mammalian group at five hundred years. I tell you, Lili, with a four-fold increase in the over sixty-five population since the turn of the century, there’ll be literally millions clamoring for this tecnhology. Nobel prize. Fame and fortune.”

  Lili didn’t know what to say. Extending the longevity of mankind through genetic engineering. She couldn’t even begin to comprehend the enormity of such a discovery. If Dylan was right, the stakes were high indeed. What wouldn’t most people give to live longer, to see one more sunrise, one more glimpse of a child, one more moment stolen from the inexorable passage of time? “Are many others doing this kind of research?”

  “Until about ten years ago, the field was pretty much dominated by pseudo-scientists and charlatans. Now every country is seriously pursuing aging research. But we’ve got the jump on all of them. As long as our grant money keeps coming.”

  “I’d think this kind of work would be easy to fund.”

  Dylan maneuvered his car onto Gayley Avenue. “These days wrangling money is a full-time job. Thank God for Richard Trenton and his Washington connections. When we lost the NIH grant, he pulled strings with some drug company to fund the work. That’s how we ended up in Los Angeles.”

  Richard Trenton? “You mean Dr. Trenton?” Lili asked at the same time that she realized they were headed back to the L.A. University campus.

  “Yeah. He’s the professor I was talking about. When I met him, he was one of the few people doing serious research on aging. His wife had Alzheimer’s. He was desperate to find a cure.”

  “I didn’t know,” Lili said.

  “He won’t talk about her. She died in a private institution in Arlington, Virginia.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Dylan stopped in front of the Faculty Club entrance.

  “Is this where we’re having dinner?” Only university faculty belonged to the swank campus eating club.

  Dylan nodded. “Guess I forgot to tell you. The chief’s invited some of his research staff to meet the drug company rep.”

  Lili panicked. “You really think this is a good idea? If I remember our orientation correctly, Trenton’s number one rule: no fraternizing among the troops.”

  “I’ll admit he can be a stickler for rules,” Dylan agreed. “But you’ve got nothing to worry about. This was his idea.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m serious,” Dylan said, turning off the motor. “He’s also invited some visiting physician. Apparently, this guy’s interested in meeting a few of the clinical staff.”

  Lili looked at Dylan, weighing whether she ought to tell him about her run-in with Trenton that morning. “One question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When did Dr. Trenton actually suggest I come to this dinner?”

  “Yesterday,” Dylan replied, getting out of the car.

  Great. That’s just great, Lili thought as she watched him circle to her side.

  He offered his hand. “Why? Is there a problem?”

  She forced a smile as she stepped onto the curb. “None at all.” Except for the fact that she was already on her way to ruining her own career with Trenton and she now might take Dylan down too.

  Thirty years before, a wealthy alumnus had left a significant portion of his estate to the Faculty Club, stipulating only that a peach sorbet be served between each course at dinner. That tradition still persisted along with the impeccable service, soft classical music, and the often quotable conversation.

  Lili and Dylan were ushered into a private dining room where they found forty or so other guests and a buffet table overflowing with international delicacies: Moroccan couscous, Indonesian satay, Greek moussaka, Russian caviar. Served at the bar: a half dozen wines and a serious champagne. Looking over the crowd, Lili realized most were from the medical research staff. Except for her colleague, Ed Baxter, who had just cut in line ahead of them, she was the only clinician.

  “Quite a spread,” Baxter observed, loading up his plate. “Guess our invitation means we’re both still in the running for the geriatrics fellowship.”

  “Guess so,” Lili responded, hoping Dylan hadn’t heard.

  Luckily, he was engrossed in conversation with a young Indian researcher.

  Finally, the researcher walked away and Dylan turned to her. “Saleh Bodie. Ph.D. from Duke. He’s into glucose transport,” he whispered, as they continued down the line past the salads to the entrees. At the bread table, he introduced Lili to Elaine Morgan, a buxom biochemist from Harvard, whose cool smile turned to stone when she realized Lili was Dylan’s date.

  “I hope our boy genius hasn’t bored you with the wonders of the MHC, Miss —”

  “Dr. Quan,” Lili prompted.

  “Oh yes, Dylan did say you were a medical doctor. But of course, clinicians are really ignorant when it comes to understanding what we scientists do.” Her saccharine smile did not belie the barracuda.

  “Don’t you know what Plato said about ignorance?” Lili questioned.

  “Excuse me?”

  “There are two kinds of ignorance: simple ignorance, which is the source of lighter offenses and double ignorance, which is accompanied by a conceit of wisdom.” Lili leaned forward and lowered her voice so Elaine had to move closer to hear. “I hope yours, Dr. Morgan,” she said, returning the fake smile, ”is the former.”

  Dylan was still laughing a few moments later as they headed for one of the round tables in the adjoining room. “You re
ally are something.”

  “Yes,” she replied, distracted. Dr. Trenton was approaching.

  “Dr. Quan,” he said, extending his hand. “Delighted you could make it this evening.”

  Lili returned his greeting, relieved he hadn’t mentioned the morning’s incident.

  Trenton guided them to a table where he introduced them to a few of the people seated there including Martin Carpenter, vice president of Aligen International and Dr. Ma-Yan Seng, a visiting professor from China. “Dr. Seng is medical director of the Xi’an Institute at Shaanxi Provincial People’s Hospital. Dr. O’Hara is a research associate and Dr. Quan is one of our medical residents.”

  Trenton turned to Dylan. “Dr. O’Hara. If I could have a word with you. Excuse us for a moment,” he said, leading Dylan to a corner. Lili watched, wondering if they were talking about her. I am getting paranoid, she told herself.

  At the same time, the moon-faced Chinese professor stood and bowed to her. “Ni hao ma.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t speak Chinese.”

  “I understand,” Seng replied in perfect English, the slight Russian intonations virtually indiscernible except to the best linguistically trained ear. “It is a hard language to master, harder still to maintain in a foreign land.”

  Something about his look made her uncomfortable. Even defensive. Lili realized his words had been spoken so softly, they were meant for her ears only. The others at the table were engaged in polite small talk that included the obligatory comparisons of West versus East Coast living, the latest basketball scores, and the sorry state of live theater.

  “Laid back.”

  “Great weather.”

  “Too many sprouts!”

  “Can you believe those Lakers?”

  “If Shakespeare were alive today —”

  “— he’d probably be Neil Simon —”

  “Or Sidney Sheldon!”

  Polite laughter.

  Lili turned to Carpenter. “I understand your company funds some of the research here, doctor.”

  “I’m strictly ‘mister’ — Wharton MBA. I leave medicine to people like yourself.” Carpenter smiled. “And yes, this is just one of twenty-some university and private foundations Aligen sponsors. Our company spends close to three hundred million dollars a year on R&D.”