What others are saying about CHINA DOLL:

Substitute Dan Brown with CHINA DOLL and take it to the beach without the guilt of not draging War and Peace.”

--Long Island Press

Comparable to “The Poisonwood Bible”

--(ScribesWorld.com)

An emotional roller coaster that grabs the reader in chapter one and never lets go

--(Boulevard magazine)

Carner speaks beautifully for those with no voice

--(Philadelphia Exponent)

A dynamic, well-research page turner addressingreal issues

--(Jewish Book World)

Forgotten babies: A shining storytelling with haunting truths

--(New York Metro Parent)

Vivid imagery...Filled with subtleties andstruggles….

--(RoundtableReviews.com)

.A brilliantly woven tale…. Keeps the reader hooked

--(FrontStreetReviews.com)

Hard to put down… Will occupy your thoughtslong after the last page

--(BookLoons.com)

A gripping voyage of self-discovery

--(FreshFiction.com)

Deserves extra points for making you squirm inyour seat… I highly recommend it

--(ScribesWorld.com)

Impressive and thought-provoking…. Stylishread….

--(NewMysteryReview.com)

A beautiful story… Catches you by surprise

--(ReaderViews.com)

CHINA DOLL

A novel

By Talia Carner

CHINA DOLL

Talia Carner

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Talia Carner

Discover other titles by Talia Carner at Smashwords.com :

PUPPET CHILD

ISBN: 978-0-9773821-2-5

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be

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own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my father, Yitzhak Yoffe (1917-1991), who taught me that a parent’s love is not biology.

To the voiceless abandoned babies of China. This is my song for you.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

— Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

PART ONE

The Butterfly Kite

One joy scatters a hundred griefs.

—A Chinese proverb

CHAPTER 1 October 2000

The stage lights were dazzling, the drumbeats victorious, the cheering intoxicating. They exploded as though they had lain in wait throughout the years it had taken Nola to get here. She clutched the microphone, and her voice lifted above the ceremonial courtyard of the Supreme Harmony Palace, above the audience of thousands with rapture in their eyes. Yesss. These people were hers, and she was theirs. Here in the Forbidden City, she stood on the very spot where emperors of the Ming and Qing dynasties had exhorted, decreed and ordained. But while the emperors’ words had instilled fear, her songs released joy.

“We are tall, we are short, we’re black, we’re white,

We are blessed or are cursed by fate or birthright.

But the whole world over,

Peace is the color of a dove,

And we all share,

The feeling of love.”

Yes! Nola tapped her feet and flipped her head from side to side, hair swinging. The crowd was on its feet, blurry through the tangle of her rust-colored curls. She repeated the refrain in French, Spanish, and then Chinese to a field of swaying arms as thousands sang along. Their voices carried beyond the southern wall of the Forbidden City into Tiananmen Square. Eleven years after the massacre, she was the lucky one to honor the dead—and the living.

“And we all share,

The feeling of love. Love. Love.”

The breeze caressed her hot skin. She held the last note until a new round of applause exploded. “Thank you,” she called, her body resonating with the beat of the music, eager to go on. “Thank you all so very much!”

Wade, her husband, stepped out of the left wing with a glass of water. “A Divine Songbird,” he mouthed. It was the title People magazine had given her fifteen years before, when she had burst on the scene as a teenager. She gulped down the water and turned back toward the crowd.

Her gown felt light and fluid as it streamed over her body and its sequined glitter captured the rosy glow of the stage lights. She raised her arm high to unfurl the train of her dress, attached to her wrist. Like a butterfly’s wing, it flashed from pink to orange to a fiery red.

The crowd roared, demanding another encore. The hooded-eyed Chinese prime minister, seated in his cordoned box, rose to his feet and clapped. His lips read, “Bravo! Bravo!” and Nola lifted her eyes to the inky sky where her song lingered, where her mother was surely watching, still disbelieving that Nola could ever make it.

The fragrance of honeysuckle and orange blossoms wafted through the night air. Nola's fingers brushed the cords in her neck, taut, ready for more. Behind her, the band broke into “A String of Magical Moments,” and she was back with the thousands of upturned faces, singing to them and wishing this magical moment would never end. What else was there? Her offstage life, just several feet away, loomed colorless and stifling.

But Wade’s hand signaled a T from behind the silk-embroidered curtain. Her time was up. If he didn’t monitor the instant the audience’s fervor for her peaked, she would linger like a guest overstaying her welcome.

Single flowers wrapped in fine rice paper and bouquets tied with silk ribbons flew up and landed at her feet. Stealing time, she gathered a few flowers, selected an orchid and presented it to Jean-Claude, her musical director. He tossed his shaggy dark hair off his shoulders, and his eyes held hers in a shared moment of victory. Reluctantly, she broke the contact, blew a kiss to her musicians and waved again to the crowd. “I love you so very much,” she said into the microphone.

With rehearsed grace she glided off the stage, her head turned back to the light as though it were oxygen. HBO’s overhead camera zoomed away on its cable across the plaza to take in the mass of people, while the crane camera, hanging on its jib, coasted just above Nola's head. It followed her until she rounded the curtain. In the sudden darkness, hands caught her as she groped her way backstage. The video crew Wade had hired in hopes of selling footage to the smaller networks made room for her to pass. Her eyes strained to adjust. Perspiration collected in the hollows of her collarbones and trickled down between her breasts. She gathered up her hair with both hands and someone dabbed her face, neck and back with a cold sponge. She shut her eyes, listening to the audience out there. In the rising collective murmurs of the dispersing crowd there was a resignation to the fact that there would be no more music tonight. Her best show ever was over, and she had triumphed.

An arm wrapped around her sticky skin. Nola recognized it before she heard Wade’s voice.

“I’m so proud of you!,” he said. “Lucky the audience missed that B flat—”

Her eyes still shut, her chest heaving, she cut him off. “Not even Yanni got this many encores here.” She wiped her face with a small towel, surreptitiously dabbing her eyes before opening them fully. She let out a spent smile. In her high heels, she looked directly at Wade’s newly laminated teeth. Wade Dalton, her husband, her manager. Seldom her lover.

“Tonight you’ve conquered China,” she heard a man say.

Her glance took in the tall Eurasian in a black suit, who stood a step away, his body so still he seemed unaffected by the activity around them.

Wade slapped the man’s shoulder. “Daniel Chen, the U.S. Cultural Attaché to China.”

A reserved smile played on the planes of the man’s cheeks and in the eyes that hinted at his Chinese genes. His gaze was direct—not curious, but possessing knowledge. With a nod, Daniel Chen handed Nola a small brocade box tied with gold string. His fingers were long and tapered, like those of a pianist.

“Nola’s the best goodwill ambassador the U.S. ever had here,” Wade said. When the man did not reply, he added, “It was a fortunate turn of events that the Chinese rejected Madonna. Too racy for them.”

Untying the string, Nola shot Wade a look that said to ease up. This dignified man must have heard the criticism Wade had leveled at her. And Daniel Chen must have known that several other almost-at-the-top singers like her had vied for the spot Wade had somehow managed to win for her.

Daniel Chen did not even glance in Wade's direction, but regarded Nola like a man trying to read her, not a fan in the presence of a star. She wondered why, given his job title, he had made himself scarce in the few days she’d been in China.

Her stylist draped a shawl over her shoulders. She winked at him in a gesture of thanks.

“Fifteen minutes to change before your grand backstage exit.” Wade's teeth shone like those of an animal in the presence of a rival. He patted Nola's bottom, and, responding to a signal from the producer, walked away, taking the assistants with him.

Nola released the lid of the box. On a bed of ruffled satin lay a small, disk-shaped bottle. She held it up to the light to study the miniature image of a firebird, its tail feathers curling downward through the cage bars.

“It’s not painted on the bottle’s exterior, but underneath the glass!” she exclaimed and examined the dainty, exact brushstrokes. “How exquisite.”

Daniel Chen finally spoke again. “It’s the ancient Chinese art of ‘reverse painting.’ The last details are drawn first, inside the bottle.” His voice was unassuming, yet wrapped around something solid. “The artist figures out where to place the wisps of feathers before there’s a wing.”

The snuff bottle’s opening was tiny, the details smaller than she thought possible. What was the subtle Chinese meaning of this gift? Nola's nail traced the fine lines of magenta and mint and aqua in the curling tail. “This is the finest piece of art I’ve ever seen,” she whispered.

“Like your art,” Daniel said. “Few historical figures have imprinted words on people’s hearts the way you did tonight. Your songs unite people with universal emotions.”

Some admirers’ words thrilled her more than others’. A surge of her earlier euphoria swelled up in her. “Thanks.” She smiled at him and was surprised at the glimmer of green in his eyes.

Her stomach rumbled. The only food in her dressing room would be a banana for her potassium fix, but it would have to do. She started walking toward the area below the stage, fearing reaching her dressing room, her reentry to her empty off-stage world. Daniel matched his steps to hers while her bodyguard hung back at a respectable distance.

“You have more power than you may know,” Daniel said.

She laughed softly. “The only ‘power’ a singer has is to make people happy for the moment, for the hour, maybe for the day.”

“Ms. Sands, there’s a place you should see.”

“You must be the one who prepared my itinerary. Isn’t it full?”

His gaze penetrated her, cutting through glamour and fame. “It’s an orphanage that’s not on your official schedule.”

She tightened the shawl about her. We are blessed or are cursed by fate or birthright.

Daniel could not know how narrowly she had escaped being one of those institutionalized children herself, nor could he know that her foundation supported such homes; Wade had hidden certain facts of her life.

“I’m sure your cause is worthy,” she said, her tone tender. “But I can’t risk offending my hosts.” Or Wade. Or the orchestrated plan that, at long last, had taken her to the top.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to impose on you.”

Her finger found a sharp corner of the small gift box. The edge pressed the soft tissue. “We each give what we can,” she said, and resumed walking.

The sucking sound of a hydraulic lift, the banging of hammers and the shouts of stagehands calling orders grew louder. A couple of assistants peeked at her and disappeared, but their presence hung in the air like an order to prepare for her next obligation.

She tossed her hair back. “What does a cultural attaché do? China doesn’t get enough visiting American artists to keep one busy.”

“I’m on a human rights watch for the United States.”

“Oh. My goodwill concert tour is merely a distraction, I guess.”

Across the crescent crease of his smile she noticed the fine slash of a scar. “Judging by tonight’s performance, a welcome break,” he said.

At a narrow hallway of straw mats and canvas sheets nailed over two-by-fours, bare light bulbs threw shadows down more arteries that crisscrossed under the stage and were teeming with people. Four of her American musicians huddled together, and the sweet smell of marijuana reached Nola. She would ignore it; the musicians had worked hard for her tonight.

Wade would have raised hell, for the Chinese authorities had warned they’d cancel the entire tour if anyone were caught with illegal drugs.

She caught Daniel glancing at three security men as they beamed their flashlights behind partitions. “Deranged fans can pull off demented stunts,” she said by way of explanation, “and Wade’s not one to leave anything to chance.”

“Neither would the Chinese,” he said. “Dissidents are under house arrest in each of the six cities of your tour.”

A string tugged in her heart. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for them?”

“You are bringing a taste of democracy. Their confinement is the small price they’re willing to pay.”

She stopped in front of her door, her hand on the bamboo latch, hesitating to undo it. From the next room over rolled the laughter of her stylist and his staffers. Two roadies, wearing the tour’s black Double Happiness shirts that sported the Chinese four-loop calligraphy in gold, squeezed a dolly down the narrow passage. She waved at them to pass while Daniel flattened himself against the wall.

She cracked the door open, wishing to linger, even if she wasn’t up to Daniel's challenge. “Thanks for the gift,” she said. “I’ll cherish it.”

“Thank you for your gift of music.” Again that hint of a smile played in the corner of his lips.

Nola shut the door behind her, dropped into an armchair upholstered in brocade, and kicked off her shoes. The room, although temporary, was filled with mahogany furniture, brocade draperies, silk rugs, lamps, objets d’art. Wade had spared no expense in creating for her a scene of unbridled excess. A beautiful interview setting. A dungeon of loneliness.

She wiggled her toes on the rug with its lone pink lily floating on blue water and dropped her face into her hands. She heard Wade outside keeping journalists and assistants at bay until she “freshened up.” She would rather he let them all in—the reporters, musicians, staffers and stylists. Anything to put the stagnant air in motion. Even have Wade come in and, for once, love her for who she was—not the performer, but the person. In her head, a bass chord gathered force. Surrounded by people, she had no one. How different would she have felt had her parents and sister been here, or anywhere. She started to cry.

The words of Janis Joplin, who had been a friend of her parents, echoed through her mind. “Tonight I made love to thousands of people, but I went home alone.”

A flock of stylists and assistants were tending to her hair and face, massaging her feet, and fluffing her ice-blue dress. Wade strode in, muttering into his cell phone. His solid figure looked tapered in his Italian-cut tux. He covered the mouthpiece, examined Nola's gown, and one of his pale blue eyes winked. “You’re beautiful, Honey. Ready for the big exit scene?” He gave her bottom a pat, and she felt her nostrils flare in annoyance. She would speak to him about this gesture, even if it meant opening the gate to an argument.

Jean-Claude, a small-framed man with big nose and ears and motorized by nervous energy, drained a glass of champagne. “One concert down, five more to go, and you’ll be the star on top of every Christmas tree. Ten million more records sold! Didn’t I promise?” Jean-Claude asked in his French accent, an affectation, no doubt. He had too good an ear not to have perfected his pronunciation after nine years in New York. He blew Nola a kiss and dipped into a floor-sweeping bow that reset her mood. “And now I must breast-feed my musicians. A bientôt. See you soon at the hotel party, my Ginger Goddess.”

She laughed at the name he had coined for her reddish hair. “A bientôt,” she mimicked him. “I love you, but you’re crazy.”

He jumped and kicked his heels. “Cute-crazy. Good-crazy, yes?”

“The best there is.” Wade made a play of punching Jean-Claude’s shoulder and let out a rolling laugh. Nola smiled. A long time ago, when Wade had discovered her singing the national anthem at her high school football game, she had adored his carefree laughter.

“Nola!” called out thousands of fans. “Nola!”

She stepped out the Gate of Heavenly Purity and onto a marble bridge. Wade kept half a step behind, but his gentle touch on her left elbow instructed her to pause for the cameras. Nola squeezed her arm against the feel of his hand to draw from his strength. Her other hand skimmed along the marble dragon head carved into the banister, rich and sensuous to her touch. For a wild instant she thought of jumping onto the sleek banister and sliding down, her arms and legs stretched out in abandon. “Whoopee!” she’d call out and slide right into the loving arms of these people—

“Nola! Nola!”

Around her, marble balustrades glistened in the moonlike glow that poured from concealed light panels, also a part of the set. Smiling at the popping flashbulbs and the miniature green tally lights of the live TV cameras, she adjusted the chiffon shawl of her dress so its blue-beaded edges would sparkle. She savored the excited faces and clapping hands. This was where she belonged, what she had worked for, for so long.

The bridge curved onto a red-carpeted path through the crowd. Policemen formed human chains to keep people back. There had never been this many. Nola flinched at the sight of her own security men shoving admirers and reporters away, but like gushing water, people rushed back to close in behind her as soon as her staff moved on. This, too, was orchestrated. The limousine could have whisked her away through the back gate instead of parking seventy feet away, but Wade knew to exploit every photo op, and she was grateful for it.

The small young woman moved so fast that Nola had no chance to comprehend what was going on. The woman with cropped black hair burst from the crowd, ferreted under the arms of the policemen, and thrust a bundle against Nola's chest. Someone yelled, “A bomb!” but instinctively, even before Nola's mind could register what her arms did, she grabbed it.

She was still absorbing the impact when the wriggling confirmed what some part of her already knew: It was a baby.

By then, the woman had sprinted away and disappeared into the crowd. The two security men chasing her halted in their tracks to scrutinize the sea of people. Network producers frantically gestured “Keep rolling!” Nola heard Wade’s “God Almighty!” mingled with the shouts of the paparazzi as their flashbulbs exploded in her face.

A tiny foot in a red sock kicked and freed itself from the package in her arms until an ankle rested on her forearm. Was this some publicity stunt she hadn’t been told about? Dazed, Nola lifted the blanket off the tiny head. A smile bloomed on the round face with its dark, almond-shaped eyes, and an arm rose up to touch Nola's nose.

She smiled down. “Hello to you, too.” The little body was light, but solid. How old was this baby? Was this some bizarre prop?

Reporters thrust their microphones toward her. “Who was that woman?” “Did you stage this?” “How much did you pay for the baby?” “Is that a girl?”

In an instant, all sights and sounds around Nola receded, leaving behind this incredible surprise. The moment was incomprehensible, yet there was an order to the chaos, as though this event were written in a script she hadn’t yet read. She gazed down at the little face, at the eyes so wide and trusting, and the word that ran through her head—illogical, implausible, capricious—was “mine.”

Photographers pushed closer to Nola, their cameras closing in on her. Excited clucking rose from the crowd. Shouts from network reporters drowned out one another. Nola scanned the crowd as the security staff shoved them away. In the chaos, no one seemed eager to reclaim the infant. Policemen yelled. Some ran after the woman.

It all seemed so far away. The bubble of calm that enveloped her and the baby shimmered with bliss, pushing away her ache over Wade, her parents and her sister.

She bent her head and brushed her lips against the baby’s crown. “Mine,” she whispered, telling herself that she must be nuts to be so happy.

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

“We’ve had our share of crazies, but never anything like this,” Wade said. Still leading Nola on the red carpet toward to the limousine, he reached out to take the baby from her arms, but she pressed it closer to her chest. The baby’s soft fist clutched her finger.

“Not yet,” Nola mumbled, a part of her mind still hanging back in disbelief.

“Smile for the cameras,” Wade whispered, his lips unmoving.

Leslie, her choreographer and stylist, walked backward like a crab and bobbed his shaved head in astonishment. He snapped his fingers. “Hocus pocus. It saves me calling the bellboy to order one.”

Five police officers broke through the circle of Nola's security men and motioned that they would take the baby. She straightened and shook her head. Her feet carried her toward her double-stretch limousine. Wade flanked her on one side while her bodyguard helped her into the car.

“Send people to comb the place for the woman,” Wade ordered him. “Go.”

“All eight hundred temples and palaces?” replied the bodyguard.

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