Jesse couldn’t believe that the police officer was backing down, walking away, allowing him to remain on the crate. He glanced at Anna. She seemed equally puzzled, but with the press here, their orders must be to show restraint, not to interfere, to allow the demonstration free rein, a tactical decision to show off the notion of American free speech, a cynical decision: but if free speech was being granted, even if it was a one-night-only show, he intended to exploit it.

From the apple crate he could see over the entire demonstration, hundreds of faces, some painted like flowers, others contorted with anger and outrage. Jesse began to speak. Timid at first, no one apart from his wife was listening to him, not even those closest to his crate. It was less like a speech and more like a crazy old man talking to himself.

—I’m here tonight…

A faltering start, unsure whether to read his material or to improvise. Deciding to use the material he’d written in his apartment, he tried to ignore the fact that no one seemed to care and concentrated on a fixed point in the crowd, pretending that he was back on the big stage with an audience of thousands of paying guests. However, his rhythm was thrown out of kilter by the incessant banging of the war protestors’ drums. His words were jumbled: he stopped midway through one point and began making another. He stopped again, returning to his first point only to wonder whether it mattered if he spoke Russian or English since no one was listening anyway. Despondent, he felt Anna take his hand. He looked down at her. She squeezed his palm and advised him:

—Just say what you feel. Talk to them like you talk to me, from the heart, that’s why people have always listened to you. Because you never lie, you never pretend, you only ever say something if you believe in it.

Jesse blocked out the sound of the drums, preparing to speak, raising his hand. Before he said a word a man called out, one of the elderly war protestors with sinewy arms, a scruffy beard and a guitar hanging around his neck. His chest was bare, painted with a red peace symbol.

—Jesse Austin!

Being recognized took him by surprise and Jesse lost his train of thought. Before he could recover, the protestor had pushed through to him, shaking his hand and saying:

—Always loved your music. Tell me, Jesse, did they kill Malcolm X because he opposed the Vietnam War? I’m sure of it. They’ll kill anyone who speaks out against this war. Malcolm X said every black man and woman should support the Vietnamese, not the US soldiers, that’s got to be why they shot him, don’t you think? Who do you support? The Vietnamese or the Americans?