“Chinese opera is a centuries-old art form. It is not affected by winds of change or passing fads,” Kong Ruiji said. His hands demonstrated an undulating expressive dance. “The mimes lull you with their magic until you forget all your worries and focus only on the tragedy of others. You realize that other people’s lives are more complex than yours, you sympathize, then go back home to your own troubles much happier.”

Nola sucked in air. This, then, was his answer to the question she hadn’t even uttered. He knew Lulu had disappeared. His people had committed the atrocious act. A chill traversed her body. She accepted a cup of green tea from a willowy teenager in an embroidered kimono, and wrapped both hands around its warmth. But when she sipped some, the tea tasted like grass clippings, and the frozen center inside her could not be thawed.

She was caught in a diplomatic dance, and she had to learn its steps—fast. If only she could talk to Daniel. She turned to scan the crowd and found him seated a few rows behind, but he only nodded toward her with the hint of a smile. She couldn’t just get up, pull him away, and find a corner to talk. She smiled back. She couldn’t decide if either of the two Western women flanking him was his date for the evening or belonged to the men seated next to them. She wondered whether he had friends. Whom, besides his parents, had he leaned on during his worst hours?

As the evening wore on, the high-pitched voices, the foreign musical notes, so odd and quaint yet obeying their own internal logic, pooled in Nola's brain and heart, bringing her their odd tranquility. The brocade and silk costumes, in bright primary colors rich with designs, were complemented by facial expressions painted in black and red on the actors’ chalk-white faces. There was no doubt about good and evil, or pride or humility. All emotions were out in the open, exaggerated, accompanied by mime that, while complex in its artistry, left little for interpretation. Taking in as much as her fogged brain could absorb, Nola studied the unfamiliar string, wind and percussion instruments and admired the singers’ high-resonant voices. After a while, her spirits were lightened somewhat. To a small degree, Kong Ruiji was right. The tragedies of others were no less monumental.

If only she knew for sure that right that moment Lulu was safe.

During a set change, her host remained seated and she beside him, listening to his rich English as he went on explaining the opera. Lust, jealousy, love, sacrifice and greed. All so universal, yet transformed by artistic expression. Nola waited for him to mention parental love, the strongest of universal emotions. Instead, he stressed filial responsibility.

“It’s a Chinese traditional value that supersedes all others,” he explained. “The young owes the old, not the other way around as the West believes.”