At the Seven Whispers Garden, the air was filled with the resinous aroma of pines. Inside the gate, in a large pebbled bed, half a dozen trees stood far apart, each in the meditative state of a live sculpture. Coerced over years into dance positions, their branches formed a serene composition only a gardener with the soul of an artist could have created.

Leslie walked ahead with raised arms to contemplate divine intentions. Yoram followed at a distance as Nola pushed the stroller down mud-packed hidden paths. Light waltzed on the gravel around clusters of tall reeds and broke through manicured branches, casting bewitching shadows on the ground. Every new turn unveiled a new imaginative arrangement of plants, rocks and light, each a perfect picture framed by a trained pine or a gap in the sculptured rock.

Lulu fell asleep pressing a cloth diaper to her cheek. The yellow blanket accented her black hair and highlighted the pink of her cheeks. Nola crouched and listened to her breathing, even and worry-free. This was music she could listen to forever.

At the far end of the garden, about twenty men and women, young and old, practiced Tai Chi. Their fluid, harmonious movements flowed into one another like the gentle coursing of water. Nola was mildly surprised to spot Daniel in the group. With balletic grace, his hands traced the air, moving as though he held a tall porcelain vase, turning to hand it to an invisible maiden on his other side.

If Daniel saw her, he gave no indication, but his face glowed with an internal peace.

“He’s the most self-contained man I’ve ever seen,” Leslie said.

Nola turned away. She was intruding on something personal.

Leslie went on speaking in a hushed voice. “Martial arts steel the body and soul like no other discipline.” He paused. “Have you read any of his books?”

“About U.S.-China relations? They’re probably full of academic lingo.” She glanced at Daniel again. The man’s depths eluded her, yet attracted her, too.

“Ask for his poetry book. I’m sure he’ll sign it with a kiss.”

“What poetry book?”

“Chinese. He’s translated some into English all by his lonely self.” Leslie's hands imitated the swelling of ocean waves, or a galloping Arabian horse, beautiful all the same. His silver and turquoise necklace never moved as his back remained erect. “How he could have missed the chance to dazzle you with his poetry I don’t know.”

Nola stroked Lulu's velvety hair. “I’m only a side assignment. All he wants is to get me out of the country with as little to do as possible so he can go back to passing clandestine messages in fortune cookies to dissidents.”