Nola submitted to Leslie’s ministrations. As he massaged her scalp, the only sounds in the room were Vivaldi’s “Winter” turned low and Lulu's babbles. Her mind on Ashford’s words, hanging onto his final statement that he and the Chinese would take care of their important guest, she flipped through a folder Wade had left behind. There were Internet printouts of Billboard, MTV and foreign press reviews. Unlike the collection of blurbs sent weekly by the clipping service in an album, these photocopies were full-length articles. She picked a loose page and scanned it.

“…with the U.S. and China’s mutual enemy—the Soviet regime—out of the race, these two leading global powers are jostling for supremacy, a struggle in which there can only be one winner…. Chinese leaders use unabashed xenophobia, portraying both the West and their neighbors as bloodthirsty and imperialistic…. This new century will see China becoming the most powerful military force on earth, with economic power to match…. The Chinese are exploiting U.S. naiveté by acquiring as much American scientific and military technology as they can through open channels, and then proceeding to obtain more through clandestine, illegal means.”

On the carpet, Lulu plopped on her back, rolled on her stomach, and, with a grunt, raised herself on all fours. She lifted and placed one hand forward, then another, and then collapsed. She laughed and rose again. How could Wade not see how enthralling this baby was?

Nola waved at the newspaper clipping. “Leslie, listen to this. We can learn something.” She began to read aloud.

“You’re giving me an idea for a new dance number inspired by Chinese costumes.” Leslie’s feet moved in staccato steps, and he broke into a short choreographed jig. “This is good stuff. Conflict. A great dance number with theatrical visuals. The world going up in smoke….”

Nola raised her voice. “The White House should wake up from its euphoric ignorance to smell the tea. Instead, it has mustered its most formidable weapon: a cultural dose of pop music! Send Nola Sands and let this China doll reset the buttons on the control boards of history.

“The Chinese, chuckling behind their bamboo screens, act too polite to refuse the gesture, which they regard as an asinine, disingenuous Western notion of friendship....”

If it weren’t for Leslie's fingers tangled in her hair, Nola would have jumped up. “Gosh! What an insult to me, to my role here—”

“Nasty people—Brrrrr.” Leslie faked a shiver. “You’re supposed to read only good reviews.” He took the page out of her hands and jammed it back into the folder. “It’s politics. Of the worst kind. Now relax.” He rubbed gel into his palms and pinched the ends of her hair.