At the intersection below, hundreds of bicyclists stopped at the traffic light, allowing a crossing army of more cyclists to pass. Handlebars touching, wheels aligned like in a giant sardine can, they filled each side of the road, with motorized vehicles in the minority. In the midst of traffic, farmers pushed handcarts or rode tricycles with supported flatbeds heaped with fruits and vegetables.

Leslie finished laying out the ultra-pale pink silk shantung suit for Nola to wear for her interviews and added a short, belly-revealing lace camisole.

When she did not move from her spot at the window, he joined her. “Look at all that food. Remember Russia? It was pitiful the way people were reduced to becoming gatherers.”

“China feeds its people. Daniel Chen says that with twenty-two percent of the planet’s population and only seven percent of the arable land, this is quite a feat.”

“‘Daniel says,’ ” Leslie repeated. “The silent intellectual with a soft spot for all wretched humanity. A martial-arts expert, a writer, and drop-dead gorgeous. How very romantic.”

Nola's mind quivered with forbidden imagery. She pushed it away; she had promised herself to give Wade more of her attention. “You’re a yenta twice over,” she said to Leslie.

“The sexually downtrodden can’t be a yenta.” He grinned. “And then there’s this secret job of his.”

“What’s that?”

“That ‘cultural attaché’ title is a hoax. Daniel's probably a spy.”

She giggled. “That would be too obvious.”

“Have you noticed the scar on his cheek? Spy, for sure. In case you’re interested, I’ll pick up some gossip, find out about his love life—”

“There’s no need to intrude on his privacy,” she replied. Whatever Daniel wanted to reveal he would do at his own pace. As in poetry, there was as much meaning to the white spaces around this man’s words as in the words themselves.

It was early afternoon when, in her fourth costume change—a multi-layered sheer jersey dress in varying shades of pale blue—Nola twirled and bumped and grinded her way through the market. The wide center aisle was lined with thousands of people held back by her civil security. The uniformed police had to be kept out of the cameras’ sight.

Under the clear October sky, the air was warm and zesty with the aroma of ripe fruit and baked sugary desserts. On cue, smiling at the crowd, occasionally reaching a hand to touch an infant, Nola sang. She summoned all her emotions, aware of the cameras that recorded every expression on her face. Her sound tracks, though, would be redubbed with studio-quality recordings, while selected background noises would be inserted for effect.