“We’re doing a tour of the States. I’m going to Daisy Farm for three weeks of rehearsal. We open in Philadelphia in a month.”

“Give the boys my love.”

“Sure will.”

“It’s a while since you toured.”

“Three years. Hence the long rehearsal. But stadium gigs are where it’s at now. It’s not like the All-Star Touring Beat Revue, with twelve bands playing two or three songs each to a couple of thousand people in a theater or gymnasium. It’s just fifty thousand people and us.”

“Will you do some European dates?”

“Yes, but they haven’t been fixed yet.”

“Any in Germany?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Let me know.”

“Of course. I may be able to get you a free ticket.”

Rebecca laughed. As Walli’s sister she was treated like royalty whenever she went backstage at a Plum Nellie gig. The band had often talked in interviews about the old days in Hamburg, and how Walli’s big sister used to give them their only good meal of the week. For that she was famous in the world of rock and roll.

“Have a great tour,” she said.

“You’re about to fly to Budapest, aren’t you?”

“For a trade conference, yes.”

“Will there be some East Germans there?”

“Yes, why?”

“Do you think one of them might be able to get an album to Alice?”

Rebecca grimaced. “I don’t know. My relations with East German politicians are not warm. They think I’m a lackey of the capitalist-imperialists, and I think they are unelected thugs who rule by terror and keep their people imprisoned.”

Walli smiled. “So, not much common ground, then.”

“No. But I’ll try.”

“Thanks.” He handed her the disc.

Rebecca looked at the photograph on the sleeve, of four middle-aged men with long hair and blue jeans. Buzz, the randy bass player, was overweight. The gay drummer, Lew, was losing his hair. Dave, the leader of the band, had a touch of gray in his hair. They were established, successful, and rich. She remembered the hungry kids who had come here to this apartment: thin, scruffy, witty, charming, and full of hopes and dreams. “You’ve done well,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Walli. “We have.”

• • •

On the last evening of the Budapest conference, Rebecca and the other delegates were given a tasting of Tokaj wines. They were taken to a cellar owned by the Hungarian government bottling organization. It was in the Pest district, east of the Danube River. They were offered several different kinds of white wine: dry; strong; the lightly alcoholic nectar called eszencia; and the famous slow-fermented aszú.

All over the world, government officials were bad at throwing parties, and Rebecca feared this would be a dull occasion. However, the old cellar with its arched ceilings and stacked cases of booze had a cozy feel, and there were spicy Hungarian snacks of dumplings, stuffed mushrooms, and sausages.

Rebecca picked out one of the East German delegates and gave him her most engaging smile. “Our German wines are superior, don’t you think?” she said.