The car doors closed on the world outside and the cacophony subsided. The air in the steel-and-glass cocoon was still. In Nola's lap, the baby stuck its fist in its mouth. Nola stroked the soft cheek and was rewarded with a big smile. The features were wonderfully delicate, like those of a painted porcelain doll.

“This was magic.” Nola examined the fine eyebrows, the cupid mouth’s lips, the feathery eyelashes, the rounded chin. The tip of her finger traced the contour of the cheek toward a tiny, perfectly formed ear. Who was the mother? Nola tried to bring back her brief sighting of the childlike woman who had been the giver of this extraordinary gift, but the image was blurry. Thank you, Nola said in her head. You have no idea. Thank you a million times.

Leslie slid closer. His smile drew creases around his mouth. “Isn’t a baby proof of God’s optimism?”

“This baby’s people could be dangerous,” Wade muttered. “God only knows whom we’re dealing with. We can’t get involved.”

The infant let out a quick lolling of her tongue: “Lulululululululululu.”

Nola burst out laughing. “You should teach me how to do that.” She tried imitating the sound. “Lulululu.”

Her limousine swerved away toward the Gate of Heavenly Peace at the northern end of Tiananmen Square, shaking loose the last reporter. High on the red wall, a twenty-by-ten foot silk banner with Nola's picture flapped in the breeze. The billboard artist had made her seem taller than her five-foot-three and emphasized every Caucasian feature that was different from the average Chinese woman’s. Her hazel eyes blazed in a catlike green, her otherwise straight nose pointed up impertinently, her cheeks were carved hollow, and her hair flamed curlier and redder. The artist offered a peek into a cleavage more generous than Nola's already enhanced one. As the wind caught the silk banner, it bucked and flexed the muscles in the thigh gleaming through the slit of her dress and in the bicep of the arm holding the microphone.

Nola glanced at Wade for his reaction; he wasn’t one to permit artistic freedom with his promotion plans. But Wade's gaze darted from her to Leslie, and back again. “You may be tickled, but you understand that this baby is not our problem. Right? For publicity, though, in front of all those cameras, you did well not dropping it before you knew what it was.”

“This is China; ‘it’ must be a ‘she,’ ” Leslie said.

Her finger clutched in the little fist, Nola gave herself to the sense of contentment. The baby’s weight in her lap radiated happiness into the whole of her. Wade would never understand what a perfect ending the baby’s appearance was to an exhilarating performance, just as he failed to comprehend the depth of her loneliness at other times.

The baby turned her head, searching for Nola's breast.