So this is how it comes to pass that—the very afternoon I have arrived in Bali—I'm suddenly on the back of a motorbike, clutching my new friend Mario the Italian-Indonesian, who is speeding me through the rice terraces toward Ketut Liyer's home. For all that I've thought about this reunion with the medicine man over the last two years, I actually have no idea what I'm going to say to him when I arrive. And of course we don't have an appointment. So we show up unannounced. I recognize the sign outside his door, same as last time, saying: "Ketut Liyer—painter." It's a typical, traditional Balinese family compound. A high stone wall surrounds the entire property, there's a courtyard in the middle and a temple in the back. Several generations live out their lives together in the various interconnected small homes within these walls. We enter without knocking (no door, anyway) to the riotous dismay of a some typical Balinese watchdogs (skinny, angry) and there in the courtyard is Ketut Liyer the elderly medicine man, wearing his sarong and his golf shirt, looking precisely the same as he did two years ago when I first met him. Mario says something to Ketut, and I'm not exactly fluent in Balinese, but it sounds like a general introduction, something along the lines of, "Here's a girl from America—go for it."
因此抵达巴厘岛当天下午，我突然坐在摩托车后座，抓着“意式印尼”新朋友马里奥，他载我穿越梯田，朝老四赖爷家而去。过去两年来尽管想过与药师重聚，我却不晓得到达时跟他说什么。我们当然没有预约，因此是突然到访。我认出门口的招牌和上回一样，写着：“老四赖爷——画家”。这是巴厘岛典型的传统家庭宅院。石头高墙环绕整幢住宅，中央有中庭，后方有座寺庙。几代人同住在墙内各个彼此相连的小屋里。我们并未敲门进去（反正也没有门），惊动几条典型的巴厘岛看门狗（骨瘦如柴、凶里凶气），老药师赖爷就在中庭里，身穿沙龙裙和高尔夫衫，和我两年前第一次见到他时完全一样。马里奥对赖爷说了些话，我不熟悉巴厘语，但听起来像是简单介绍，“来了个美国姑娘——加油”之类的句子。

Ketut turns his mostly toothless smile upon me with the force of a compassionate fire hose, and this is so reassuring: I had remembered correctly, he is extraordinary. His face is a comprehensive encyclopedia of kindness. He shakes my hand with an excited and powerful grip.

赖爷朝我露出几乎没有牙齿的笑容，其力度有如慈悲的消防水龙，如此教人安心：我记得没错，他是个了不起的人。他的脸是一本兼容并蓄的和善百科全书。他激动而有力地握我的手。

"I am very happy to meet you," he says.

“很高兴认识你。”他说。

He has no idea who I am.

他不知道我是谁。

"Come, come," he says, and I'm ushered to the porch of his little house, where woven bamboo mats serve as furniture. It looks exactly as it did two years ago. We both sit down. With no hesitation, he takes my palm in his hand—assuming that, like most of his Western visitors, a palmreading is what I've come for. He gives me a quick reading, which I am reassured to see is an abridged version of exactly what he said to me last time. (He may not remember my face, but my destiny, to his practiced eye, is unchanged.) His English is better than I remembered, and also better than Mario's. Ketut speaks like the wise old Chinamen in classic kung fu movies, a form of English you could call "Grasshopperese," because you could insert the endearment "Grasshopper" into the middle of any sentence and it sounds very wise. "Ah—you have very lucky good fortune, Grasshopper . . ."

“来，来吧，”他说，我被请进他的小屋门廊，有竹席充当家具，和两年前一模一样。我们俩坐下来。他毫不迟疑地执起我的手掌——猜想我和多数西方访客一样来看手相。他很快看了我的手相，我放心地发现正是他上回告诉我的简缩版（他或许不记得我的长相，但我的命运在他熟练的眼睛看来并未更改。）他的英语比我记忆中来得好，也好过马里奥。赖爷说起话来像经典功夫片里聪明的中国老人，某种可称为"蚱蜢式"的英语，因为你可以把亲爱的"蚱蜢"插入任何句子当中，听起来非常聪明。“啊——你的命很好，蚱蜢……”