The aroma of the tea seeped out.

After pouring a cup of tea for the old man, she took out a plate of his favorite treats, long famous in the small alleys of the big city: crab cakes. A habit of many years it was for the old man to enjoy this treat only if he hadn't already eaten.

She poured herself half a cup of tea and sat down across from the old man, separated from him by the stove.

How did she know that the old man hadn't eaten?

Did she know why the old man had walked away from the dinner table?

Did she know that the old man had already retired?

Did she know that the old man had decided to move out of the small red building?

Did she know that because of all this, the old man's children had attacked him?

Did she know that his wife was prepared to fight to the death to retain the small red building?

Did she know of the looks of resentment in the eyes of the two domestics who served him his meals?

Did she know that the quiet, soft-spoken driver of many years had begun saying things to distance himself?

And even more awful things-did she know of them? That would be…

"I was afraid you might not have had dinner. Take the edge off your hunger with these snacks," she said. She looked at the old man, smiled, and took a sip of tea. She knew it all.

The old man felt transparent: he was a mass of agitation and anger. Was it necessary to tell every little detail?

Her knees were together, her feet side by side. Narrow shoulders, a slender waist, delicate fingers, a warm expression of quiet humility-as she sat with an air of quaint antiquity, her warm, peaceful humility flowed endlessly toward the old man.

The old man's frustration and anger gradually subsided.

Separated only by the stove, they gazed at each other in silence, using their beating hearts to read the history of each new wrinkle on each other's face.

The old man's face was crisscrossed with ravines.

The skin on her face had folds in length and breadth.

An abstruse heavenly tome that only the two of them could understand.

Suddenly, it dawned upon the old man that her hair had turned white. Puzzled, he wondered when it was that the last strand of black hair had disappeared.

Silently, she shook her head, releasing waves of silvery light.

Why should he be puzzled? The first strand of hair turns white, and so does the last one. What's so special about one's hair turning white? It would be strange if hair that had grown for so many years did not turn white; a person isn't truly old until the hair turns white. Her white hair was like snow, her face was like snow, kindly and yet noble. The dimple on her left cheek appeared as a hollow spot on the surface of that snow created by a hot teardrop. Therein lay the essence of old-fashioned feminine beauty. So why be sad over white hair?

The old man understood.

The tea mellowed on the second brewing. They sat facing each other without a word or a sound.

Oh, her waist was still hourglass thin. Even at her age.

Yes, she's old now. Time flies like an arrow; everyone grows old. What's so special about growing old? How boring life would be without change.

What is there to be sorry about? What else do you have? In the end, what does anyone have? Doesn't everyone come into the world naked and leave the same way? How pleasant that the stove is so warm tonight, the tea steeped so well, and that you and I can still drink a cup together.

She took a sip of tea.

The old man took a sip of tea.

The gloomy look on the old man's face vanished, replaced by a spreading glow. He was at peace, refreshed.

They sat, and they sat, and they sat, a hint of happiness and joy occasionally flickering across their stony faces.

The dark-blue flames were no longer dancing. The coals in the stove were completely red, burning silently. The rolling steam atop the kettle turned to white smoke and curled upward.

Was that a cat or a person outside? Tiptoeing back and forth, then stopping just outside the door for a long time before walking on.

The tea weakened considerably on the third brewing. The old man stood up and paced the floor. Each piece of furniture was where it had always been; only the colors had darkened-spotlessly clean, but already the color of death. The sandalwood incense had burned out; the ashes had fallen to the floor. The smell of mildew emerged from the four corners of the room. It was the old, rotten sort of mildew that the sun could not burn off or shine through.

The old man was reminded of something. He asked, "Did this flare up again?" He pointed to his heart.

Without turning her head to look, she answered clearly, "Twice, both times in the winter, and both times I was hospitalized."

The old man said, "I had two attacks, too, also in the winter, and I was hospitalized. We're the same." The old man laughed like a child. She smiled.

"Well, I should be going," said the old man.

She rose slowly and picked up his hat. The old man leaned forward and lowered his head; she stood on tiptoes to place the hat properly on the old man's head.

Oh, her waist was still hourglass thin.

The old man put his hands on the slender waist. "I'm no longer an official. I can finally relax."

"You should be going," she said.

The old man's grasp loosened. He was secretly ashamed. Had she not stopped him so quickly he might have broken his word.

In the dark shadows, she put on her once costly woolen coat and tied a scarf over her head. Looking like a baby in swaddling clothes, she raised her wrinkled forehead and said, "Come again if you haVe time."

The old man turned back and looked at the stove, at the old-fashioned armchairs, and at the two nearly empty teacups. Then he looked into her calm, quiet, humble eyes and said, "All right."

She escorted the old man to the front door, curling up inside the doorway.

The old man stopped, turned, and waved her back inside. She stayed for a moment, then retreated; the shiny black door creaked.

In the instant before the two doors met, the old man thought he saw a single teardrop ooze through the crack.

The old man hurried back to where he had been and touched the spot where the tear had emerged; it was wet. He touched his finger to the tip of his tongue and tasted it. Salty and sweet at the same time. When he touched it again, the whole door was wet. The plum rains were still falling, softly and sadly.

The fog turned the alley vast and hazy; the fog turned the street vast and hazy; the fog turned the boulevard vast and hazy. The outlines of tall buildings were blurred; dark shadows were everywhere; lights in homes were dim as starlight. The sky and the earth fused at the horizon, misty and blurred, a ball of chaos. Even if you were a good son, how could you clear away the clouds and fog and stop the wind and rain to seek a sky you yourself loved? No, let nature take its course; nature is fair, so why must we seek things by force?

Take a step back; the sea and sky are boundless.

The old man said to the driver in an unusually calm tone, "I've made you wait too long."

Translated by Scott W. Galer