“Got the pacifier?” Nola asked Leslie. She kicked her leg in a grand battement. Front, side, back. Then the other leg. “Even if Lulu frets, don’t take her away, or I’ll walk right off the stage and come looking for her."

Her backup singers clustered like a twittering bunch of teenagers. Dozens of dancers in sequins, fishnet stockings and ostrich feathers pranced about. Readying for the special glitzy numbers, they flexed, stretched, bent and twisted.

The musicians had taken their seats. The huge multilevel set was a masterpiece of ramps and raised platforms bordered with imitations of the Forbidden City marble balustrades. The faux marble, strategically illuminated by moonlike light, glistened in white, as in contrast, section by section, yellow and red beams of light burst upward from the floor.

A set of drums glimmered at the right side of the stage, while to the left Jean-Claude perched on a stool in front of a triple-tiered keyboard, perpendicular to a single-tiered one. On the raised platforms, a full orchestra of musicians had taken their places. They tuned their instruments, sounding like amplified crickets, but the noise charged every cell in Nola's body, readying her once again to become a conduit for the music. She bent her knees, rose on her toes, twisted her hips. Mauriello could broker for her ten more deals, she thought as a flash flood of exaltation filled her, as long as she could continue to sing. She smiled at the sight of the battery of cameramen whose equipment sported the logos of HBO, MTV, CNN and others she didn’t recognize. In addition to the tens of thousands of fans in the stadium, millions would see her performing live tonight, and many millions more would watch her later on video. And they would see Lulu.

Nola felt the radiating warmth of another, unfamiliar internal glow. Motherhood. Mommy. Her new password to life.

Roosted on his bridge high above the stage, the light engineer gave her the thumbs-up. Nola's hand swept the dazzling stage and she mouthed, “Magnificent,” then smiled at his Chinese assistants. Stone-faced, they stared back.

“Ready?” the stage director asked her.

Still hiding behind the panel, she borrowed his binoculars to scan the aisles and the viewing boxes at the periphery of the stadium. Uniformed Chinese were all over, but far enough away so as not to distract her. To hell with them all. Lulu would be all right. Nola bounced in place. In her head she heard the rumble of her internal engine revving up.

“Go spread your plumage,” Leslie said. He had changed to a satin shirt in bright green with its hem above his navel. His upward palm went up and down his chest in a gesture indicating she should take a cleansing breath. She sucked in a giant breath, then slowly let it all out. Time to make love to her audience.

“Prum-pum-pum, prum-pum-pun,” Leslie chanted. “Go for it.”