We hear how Lucian starts with his subjects’ eyes (sometimes teary or doe-eyed) and then appraises and reconsiders their intelligent faces. Next he paints and repaints their sagging lips, sweaty armpits, vivid paunches, pubic growths, stray wisps of facial hair, and weary (non-erotic) genitals.

His fluid depictions are not idealized. Lucian says, "I could never put anything in a picture that isn't exactly in front of me. That would be a pointless lie, a mere bit of artfulness." Not one for decorativeness or artistic flattery, Lucian recalls that when commissioned to paint Queen Elizabeth II, he famously showed her with a 5 o’clock shadow and a fright wig.

She was fully dressed, our Elisabeth (Lloyd) points out.

We don’t feel sorry for Her Highness, for it’s not as if the Queen is unpainted. We’re told she’s sat for 120 other portraits.

Just when Lucian was telling me that, yes, he does converse with his models (through tales, songs, poems, and anecdotes), President Hu arrives. So what if he's late -- at least he's here.

Looking out our door, I see his limousine is parked not in front of our place but in front of our neighbors, the Wellbornes. In response to Barb, Hu says that his staff members there will not need take-out from us –- they’ve brought their own food, drink, and self-improvement materials.

Tonight Hu has left his BlackBerry behind in the limo, which I interpret as a compliment to our company tonight.

Live from our front porch.

If all goes according to plan, tonight I will make a new friend. I’ve rigged it so he could arrive first. That is, weeks ago when phoning Jackie Robinson, I set the gathering time as 20 minutes ahead of the others. I might have coaxed him to stay for a one-to-one after Perween Warsi and Muhammad Yunus had left, but I didn’t want to risk offending the uncoaxed South Asians.

I've respected the chap for 61 years. Don't give me stuff about propagating the recent stereotype of the black male as ball player.

He's here. I boom out, “How’s your game?” -- meaning “I hope you’ll tell me that you are fine.” Jackie is either being oblique or his head right now is somewhere else. He says his best game was basketball. But during his twenties, with more opportunities beckoning in the “Pitch Black” (Negro) Baseball League, “baseball was the draw.”

It’s a warm evening, Jackie’s outdoorsy, and so before we sit in the shade of the porch, I pick up one of my sons’ bats. It happens to be laying around.

“I’m a little rusty. Check out my swing, could you?”

There's nothing worse than a complacent performer, and Jackie’s a performer who assumes a degree of responsibility to his audience, even an audience of one. He demonstrates how to take a wider stance. How to grasp the bat with the knob nearer the shoulder, higher and more erect. How to level the bat to the top of my imaginary strike zone. I do some moves, take some swings.