“No, it’s not. We’re married by music, remember? No sex, only music marriage.” He ran through a few scales on the piano. Then he turned to the triple keyboard and pounded a series of angry notes. He dropped his hands on his lap and hung his chin on his chest.

In the silence, she heard the lingering argument.

She was almost relieved to see Roberta sailing into the ballroom, her nose upturned like a dog scenting food. Roberta's finger on her mouth shushed the five reporters following her for a peek at rehearsal.

Nola crossed the vast floor toward them. Vanity Fair had a three-months lead time for publication. Supermarket tabloids were weeklies, but didn’t indulge in serious journalism. Broadcast was the fastest, but the morning shows with their snippets of information wouldn’t do. For the kind of investigative reporting she needed, she should talk to Don Hewitt from 60 Minutes or Stone Phillips from Dateline. Their programs, though, had very long lead times. If she could get hold of a journalist from a daily like The New York Times or The Washington Post, she’d give them the story.

“Hi. What’s the word on the street about my baby?” she asked, scanning the reporters’ I.D. tags.

An older man whose I.D. identified him as working for The Star said, “The Russians have kidnapped her to cause a rift between the U.S. and China.”

The Vanity Fair reporter shook her head. “Lulu was an ‘out-of-quota’ baby. Her mother wanted her to receive your blessing so she won’t be exterminated.”

But the young MTV host threw his bleached head back in exaggerated hilarity. “Isn’t it a publicity stunt coming out of your own camp?”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“How come the cultural attaché who objects to your concert tour is the one in charge of it?”

“What? Daniel Chen?” Nola asked.

“Politics,” Roberta cut in. “We’ve lived through enough misquotes and survived them.”

Nola half-turned to Roberta. “Get me all the clippings and videos covering Lulu, will you, please?”

“Pronto,” Roberta replied, her tone sarcastic.

Nola took in the five reporters and smiled. They weren’t her first or second choice, but they were the only ones present. “Here’s a statement. Neither government is cooperating. They hope I’ll forget about my baby. But I won’t—and neither should you. Stay tuned. I’ll deliver a message at my concert in Shanghai tomorrow night.”

Roberta called to the reporters, “Let’s hold off on this statement, okay? Off the record for now, please?” To Nola she hissed, “You’re a loose cannon.”

“My name is ‘Bashful Fire,’ remember? It was your idea, with emphasis on ‘Fire,’ until I get Lulu back.” Nola left. She must get hold of some phone numbers, but there was no point in asking Roberta for them.