Soon, serenity lifted Nola's spirits. That was it. She couldn’t wait for the concert to begin, for the music to sweep her, for the fans to shout her name with love. To hell with their government.

A light knock on the door caused her to open her eyes. The willowy figure of her stage interpreter stood by the door.

The girl with eyes full of adulation was a promising singer from the Beijing Music Conservatory. She had done a fine job at the Forbidden City concert translating Nola's transitional patter as well as the key lyrics. She now held the song list approved by the minister of culture, along with a brief synopsis of Nola's introduction for each song. “I’m ready when you are,” she said.

Meeting this Chinese artist was a customary courtesy, but this time Nola gauged her with a different eye. This singer must enjoy the support of her government to be singled out for such a plum assignment. Her future surely depended upon her acquiescence. What if they had asked her to kidnap Lulu?

From the arena came the steady clapping of an impatient crowd. At the same time, shouts broke through the exposed cinder block walls. Nola tightened her robe around her. “What’s that?” she asked the interpreter.

The young woman lowered her gaze to the tips of her shoes.

Just then, Yoram, by the door, muttered into his sleeve. The shouts outside grew louder, rhythmic, chanting, “Ya-Ke-Go-Ho.”

“What’s going on?” Nola asked, but Yoram, still speaking into his sleeve, strode out.

“Ya-Ke-Go-Ho. Ya-Ke-Go-Ho.”

Nola climbed on a chair to peek through the small window. Her dressing room was set against the outside wall of the giant arena, and she was startled to see, cordoned off by police, a mob carrying placards. Most of the protesters were very young—not the mixed-age crowd that had attended her Forbidden City concert. She blinked, once, twice as she recognized the Chinese character of her name, Bashful Fire. At the same time she spotted a sign painted in crude English letters, the words stumbling drunkenly across it.

“Yankee Go Home.”

The ramifications of this demonstration spread through her like an ink stain. She jumped down from the chair and yanked out the oversized rollers Leslie kept in her hair until the last moment. “That’s it. I’ve had it with these games!”

She picked up Leslie's cell phone and retrieved Daniel's number. When Daniel answered, she asked, “Nothing here is done without a government directive. What’s this protest about?”

“They’ve bussed in students and incited them with inflammatory comments about your remarks. The leaflets say that you’re an actress in the service of the CIA.”

She flipped shut the phone. The hostile shouts from outside hit her like hundreds of darts.

Someone must have summoned the minister of culture, for he strode in while Nola was zipping up her pants.