The mind police also had their way with Nina Simone. To explain away her rage and demean the racial protests of her songs, they diagnosed her with mental illnesses, they medicated her and took her out of action! Her androgyny, they said, must be related to bipolarity. Her rage, to psychotic breaks. But what about all the people who admired her? Were they crazy too? He cackles, caught up in his tirade. Do you know who Nick Cave is?, he asks then. Very slowly Soon repeats: Nick Cave … no. Who is he? One of the many musicians who adored her. They shared a stage at the end of the nineties, and by then they’d really done a number on Nina! Before the concert, someone came in and asked her if she wanted anything. Nina was lying down with her eyes closed, and she raised her head, opened her eyes, and you know what she asked for? The scene reminds Soon of those movies where prisoners condemned to die are asked what they want for their last meal. What did she ask for, Old Man?, she inquires. And he replies, oh, this is great, Nina said: I’d like some champagne, some cocaine, and some sausages. Champagne, cocaine, and sausages!, he repeats. It’s a brilliant answer! Tremendous! Soon doesn’t understand why it’s so tremendous. She suspects that it’s only because Nina said it, reason enough for Old Man. And did they give it to her?, she asks reservedly, startled at Old Man’s casual yet fascinated manner when he mentions cocaine. Yes, of course they did, you don’t refuse a diva anything! Before she started to sing, Nina took her gum out of her mouth and left it stuck to the side of the piano; supposedly, Nick Cave’s violinist, Warren Ellis, put it in a napkin and he still has it, like a relic. Old Man has written to Nick Cave’s label offering to buy that gum! He’s offered thousands of dollars—dollars he doesn’t have, of course, although who knows, the point is to take the first step—but he never got a reply! And why does he want a piece of chewed-up gum? That’s lame, Old Man, murmurs Soon with a trace of disdain.

(When Old Man talks about his diva so devotedly, she confronts a previously unknown blend of feelings, one that includes, no doubt about it, jealously.)

All the girls in my class have boyfriends, she blurts out suddenly, on impulse, staring at the ground and digging her sneakers into the dirt. Old Man looks at her without understanding what that assertion means to her, whether she thinks it’s a good thing or not. Oh, no, I don’t care, she replies when he asks her, it’s just that they all have boyfriends, like it’s in fashion; last year none of them did—or maybe just one or two, the most developed ones—and now they all do, they couple up as soon as they can, even if they don’t like the boy they happen to get, just because, or because not having a boyfriend means you’re a loser. What about you? Do you have a boyfriend? She shakes her head hard. No, of course not, gross. She will never have a boyfriend, never ever. Boys are disgusting. Always playing pranks, always competing with each other. So rough and stupid. And what do the girls do with their boyfriends? Soon answers reluctantly, seeming to forget she was the one who started this conversation: they go to the movies or the mall, they hide in the parks to make out, on weekends they meet up at the underage club, the one that closes at eleven at night, an awful place: she went one time and never wants to go back.