It took twenty-five minutes for Nan to finish translating the article. Then they resumed talking about the people they knew living in New York. Bao confessed he had fallen in love with a Chinese woman two years before, but her parents despised him and wouldn't let her marry him. In their eyes he was a ne'er-do-well, not a match for their daughter, who was now working on a Ph.D. in biology at Vanderbilt. He followed her to Nashville, though her mother had said to his face that he was merely a toad dreaming of nabbing a swan. "I give them ten my best paintings," he told the guests.

"They must be rich now," Dick said.

"I don't think so."

Brian put in, "They used his paintings as tablecloths, and one by one they ruined them. Then, last fall, they went to Bao's show in D.C. and were flabbergasted at the sight of the prices. They couldn't take their eyes off the price tags, man: six or seven thousand bucks apiece. The fact is that those paintings they destroyed were worth much more."

"That's old story," Bao said calmly. "It's over between she and I. We have no luck, no chance, no together. After she go away for another guy, I move to the mountain and work harder here. I'm stupid man, no luck with ladies."

Nan laughed, then checked himself. He remembered that Bao had once been a goatish fellow. How come this libertine had changed so much? Probably his success had given him more confidence and made him want to be a responsible man.

Bao let out a feeble sigh and said to Nan, "That relationship hurt me deeply. It changed me. All of a sudden I felt old, eager to settle down and start a family."

Nan thought about that and decided Bao might be a better man now.

Dick and Tim got up and went out to the trailer to use the toilet. Nan was curious about Bao's success, wondering why he would paint at such a pace, one piece a day, which must have made him work like a manufacturer. No artist should force himself to do such a thing. He ventured, "Why do you paint so fast?"

"There will be a show in Raleigh next month. I must give them ten pieces. "

"Do you really need to rush?"

"I ought to keep the momentum. My paintings have been selling very well in Hong Kong and Taiwan. People often ask, 'Who is this fellow, Bao Yuan?' They saw my work hang in the same halls as those done by some master painters." His tone of voice betrayed some complacence, which made Nan uneasy.

"To be honest, Bao," Nan said, "you shouldn't work at such a reckless pace. Slow down a little. Now it's time to consolidate your success. Don't rush."

Bao looked amazed, then said, "Tell me honestly what I should do, Nan. If truth be told, success can be nerve-racking. It frightens me sometimes. I just dabble a piece for an hour or two and it can sell for hundreds of dollars, sometimes even more than a thousand. This gives me the willies."

"Forget about making money. Remember your true ambition. Your rivals are not your contemporaries but some dead masters."

Bao's eyes sparkled. "That's a brilliant thing to say, Nan. I told Dick you're one of the most intelligent men I knew. Now I must say you're also wise. Very true, I should think of immortal work now. All wealth and fame are transitory and extrinsic, not an inherent part of myself." He stretched up his arms as if lifting a weight.

"Yes, we're already middle-aged and should plan our ambitions carefully." Nan sighed, remembering his own situation. He had written little in the last five years, always offering himself the excuse that his English wasn't sufficient.

" Yes, I must keep that in mind," agreed the host.

Then Bao told him that he was going to China to do some paintings, because his agent loved his Venice series so much that he wanted him to paint a Shanghai series to accompany it. Bao would leave for China after the Raleigh show. Also, he wanted to marry his fiancee in the fall if everything worked out in his favor. Nan asked, "So the Chinese government will let you go back? Didn't they arrest you two years ago?"

"I'm no longer a democracy activist, they know. I can return as a working artist anytime. Things have changed. Don't you want to go back and see your parents?"

"I do, but my situation is different-I'm not afraid of the government but the children of some top officials. There's some bad blood between them and me. Once I'm naturalized, I may go back for a visit." As they were conversing, Nan realized that his friend might have written a statement, as required by the Chinese government, declaring that he had quit political activities once and for all.

Brian came back from Postelle, the nearest town, with some cartons of Chinese food for lunch. While they were eating, Bao again talked to Nan about his bride-to-be.

" Where is she now?" asked Nan.

"She's in Guangzhou with her family."

"Why don't you bring her here?"

"I've been trying. That's why we'll get married as soon as possible. I've also applied for naturalization. Once I'm a citizen, she can immigrate."

"So before you're naturalized she can't come?"

"She can, but she's quite comfortable with her folks there. Her family owns a factory, is prosperous. I have to make a lot of money to let her live well here. I'm thinking of building a home in this area."

" You mean near your studio?"

"Correct. I can buy a piece of land from Frank."

"That's crazy. What makes you think your bride can stand this kind of isolation? You have your work, but what will she do here? Raise chickens and ducks? You can't treat her like that."

"Good, I need your advice."

" Maybe you should build a home in a city, Knoxville or Atlanta or

D.C., with a studio in the backyard. You can't let your bride live your kind of life. Besides, you'll have children. You have to take their schooling into consideration too."

Shaking his stubbly chin, Bao said, "You're such a wise man. Why don't you learn how to paint so that we can work as a team?"

"I have my own difficulties. I've been trying to write poetry."

"In English?" Bao asked matter-of-factly.

Nan realized he must have heard about this from Dick. "Yes, a big struggle," he admitted.

"But you're a brave man, determined to blaze your own path."

"Honestly I don't know what to do exactly. My wife is pregnant and we're going to have a baby girl. That's what I really care about now. I want to be a good, responsible father, a real family man."

"That's very meaningful too," Bao said thoughtfully. "Not many Chinese men of our generation are good fathers and considerate husbands. Some of us don't even know how to fend for ourselves. We're often possessed with ideals and ambitions, too high-minded, but in all candor many of us are just ignoramuses."

Nan was moved by Bao's words, but on second thought wondered whether his friend had spoken from his heart or merely rehashed someone else's remarks. Bao loosened his belt a notch, then bent forward a little. Although none of the others could understand Chinese, he said to Nan in a voice just above a whisper, "May I ask you a favor?"

" Sure. "

"Can you translate Tim's article for me? You don't have to do a thorough job, just make the meaning clear."

Tim heard his name mentioned and squinted at his teacher. Hesitantly Nan answered, "I can do that. I'll mail the translation to you." In spite of his agreement, he felt as uneasy as if he had been taken in. Bao jotted down his address on the back of his former business card. He used a post office box in Postelle.

After lunch, Frank left for Chattanooga to meet a client, and the rest of them went to a reservoir on the mountain to swim. On the low dam stood a small power plant, no longer in operation. They parked the van at the waterside and shed their T-shirts and pants. Brian, Tim, and Bao wore swimming trunks while the guests had on their briefs. As Nan put his wristwatch into his sneaker, he noticed Dick stealing glances at Brian's slender, muscular body, which was remarkably well proportioned and much more youthful than his face. With a loud, exhilarated whoop, Bao jumped into the cool water, and the others followed him. Their shouting and splashing echoed off the mountain while a few waterfowl glided slowly against the woods on the distant shore, crying softly.