oney?"

"Some, anyway."

"What do you really like to do?" Mo took a mouthful of rice. Her eyes
were wide open, looking directly at him.

"Uh . . . I like to write about things."

"Aha," she said.

"How do you get by?" he asked.

"I do all right with photography, commercial work. I teach a couple of
courses. When I get the chance, I do my own stuff; I have a show every
couple of years if I can."

"The only photographer besides Ansel Adams and Cartier-Bresson that I
can remember is the Hungarian guy, Kertesz." Mo looked at him sharply.
"His pictures of New York are so still," Joe said, "like etchings, but
they're awake. There is always something--tracks in the snow, a falling
leaf, something that echoes time."

"Wonderful," she agreed. "I love his early Paris shots. You know about
Kertesz? You're full of surprises."

"My father is a painter."

"So you grew up with it?"

"Actually, I was raised by my grandparents. My mother died when I was a
kid. Did you ever hear of Franz Griessler, the painter?"

"Yes, I've seen some of his work."

"I met him once. Want to hear about it?"

"Sure. How about dessert?"

"Absolutely." They ordered.

"I used to drive a Charley's cab. A woman flagged me down in the
shopping center one day. She was holding a flat package in both hands,
wiggling her fingers. She was slim, intense, in her late thirties, with
high coloring and black hair pulled into a bun. She was damned good
looking--hapa--Asian, French maybe. She lived nearby, just behind The
Pagoda, but the package was clumsy to carry. It was a drawing of hers.
We got to talking, and she asked if I'd ever modeled."

"Had you?"

"Nope. She talked me into it. The next day I drove her to Franz
Griessler's studio, way up the mountain on Round Top Drive, and sat for
her drawing class."

"What was he like?"

"Short. Square. Close cut gray hair. Powerful guy. Lili--that was her
name--told me afterwards that he was 82. Hard to believe. I was very
tense at first. I thought for a few minutes that I couldn't do it,
couldn't just sit there with people looking at me. Drops of sweat
started to form over my eyebrows. I wanted to run away. But something
happened. I began to enjoy listening to the charcoal scratching and the
small noises people made as they concentrated. The sweat disappeared. I
felt part of a tradition. I felt that I belonged."

The waitress brought dessert and cleared the table.

"At break time, Franz showed m