Puffing from the steep climb of the last steps to Lao-Tze's cabin in the pass, Fan found the middle-age man sitting on the porch working on a small watercolor of the glorious valley.

Without looking at her, Lao-Tze said, "The morning fog is hanging protectively around the pines, like a nurse going off-shift doing last minute things for a favorite patient."

This set Fan's teeth on edge. "Sounds pretty damn pompous to me. Here, I brought you your mail."

Still not looking up, Lao-Tze said, "There must be some mistake. I am as invisible to governments as I am to most people. I don't get mail."

"Today you do," Fan smiled and handed him a sealed envelop. "From me."

"No, not even from you, my favorite non-pupil. What could I possibly find of interest in words written by someone who thinks life is sacred?"

They had had many versions of this conversation, and Fan had hoped by writing to preempt it, so disturbing and incomprehensible were Lao-Tze's attitudes. Fan walked in front of him and stood looking directly at him. "I think I could one day get angry at you."

"Don't flatter yourself. You would not be the first."

"Very angry."

"Forget me. Go away. Never come back. I am not worth the climb." He panted in gentle imitation. "There, it's finished." He handed her the simple aquatint which, she saw, contained a swirl of colors.

"Turner?"

"Yes, he was here once. Made rather a nuisance of himself, actually. I couldn’t put brush to paper without him hanging over my shoulder offering the most laughingly inappropriate critiques."

"No. I meant, your work shows you must like Turner."

"You're supposed to ask me when he was here."

"Joseph Turner was here? Uh, when?"

"Just last year, I believe."

"Right. And the Pope is Chinese."

"Not yet, but she will be soon."

"She."

Both were silent for some time.

"Please. Have a seat, have a seat. How rude of me. Come here on the porch. Let me get tea."

She sat. He brought tea, and a tiny TV, which he turned on and together they watched a few minutes of CNN.

At the conclusion of a report on the surprisingly rapid stablization of fauna around the recently formed San Andreas Bay in California, Lao-Tze said, "Do I ever waver?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, do I ever, sort of, you know, begin to fade in your eyes, as if I were about to disappear?"

"Not that I've noticed, though sometimes I've wished you would."

"Extraordinary. Not only did you manage to find me, apparently quite against your will. You continue to see me here, though you also continue to hold the most amazingly retro beliefs."

"Retro. Right. Pain and poverty are bad. The weak and helpless should be attended to. Greedy persons deserve less mercy."

"Ah. We begin again. Same plot, different dialog. My dear Fan, those are not the beliefs which I was referring to."

"Oh yes, and this is where you come out with one of your fucking paradoxes. 'Only the blind eye sees.' Or whatever."

"I like 'whatever.' Is the tea OK? It's harsh and green and very stimulating."

"Will you read the letter?"

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."