The hours stretched on. Nola's hair reeked of spices and her skin was sticky from perspiration and insect repellent. Again and again she shucked costumes and changed, then reshot scenes to give each crew different footage. The smallest detail had been choreographed; nothing had been left to chance, yet the texture of life pulsated with its own rhythm and its unpredictability added the exotic touch that would be incorporated into the recording.

An old chicken merchant with a thin pigtail under a peaked coolie hat inched his bicycle through the intersection, oblivious to the scene he was entering. Cages made of woven twigs were mounted on the front and back of his bike, and heads of chickens clucking helplessly poked out. On the director’s cue the man was allowed to proceed. Continuing to spin and prance around him, Nola ignored the rankness of the terrified fowl and focused on her song and the steps.

The cameras were rolling when one of the guitarists cut off his playing with a shout. “No! Another Chink spits his gob!” The Chinese people’s habit of hawking phlegm and spitting it on the ground regardless of who was standing there had become a joke among the staff. Now the musician went for the man’s throat.

In the chaos that ensued, Wade calmed the musician and, with the help of an interpreter, apologized to the stunned Chinese man.

Just as the shooting restarted, Nola heard Lulu wail. Her voice halted and she looked away.

“Cut!” yelled the director.

Nola dashed over to the baby and picked her up. “I’m here,” she cooed. “Dumpling, I’m here.”

“Will the talent please get back in place?” the director called.

Lulu bawled. Ignoring Yoram and two of his security men trailing her, Nola rounded the corner into a quieter side street, where vertical lines of Chinese calligraphy decorated the stores. Each door, painted red for good luck, led to a tiny food establishment that sold hot noodles or sticky, doughy cakes. The proprietors stood outside and stirred chest-high steamy pots that gave off a fishy odor. Here and there, a customer sat on a chair on the sidewalk, a bowl near his chin, his chopsticks shoving noodles into his mouth.

Bouncing in Nola's arms, Lulu stopped crying. A thought sprouted in Nola's head. Was Lulu’s mother in the crowd, too, watching, checking to see that her crying baby was cared for?

Wade approached with Jean-Claude and Leslie’s assistant. “Ready?” he asked Nola and nodded toward the aide. “The baby’s a distraction. She’ll keep it inside the trailer.”

“This place is an overload of sights, smells and sounds for Lulu,” Nola replied. “Just give me a half-hour break, and I’ll take her upstairs to our suite where it’s quiet.”

“Run off in the middle of the shoot?” Jean-Claude glared at her, his bony fingers dancing at his sides on invisible keyboards.