“It starts at ten,” Fire said. “So we’ll meet you there at around nine-thirty, and”—he looked away, caught a smile, and brought it back for her—“I’d like to taste something from your oven … bring me a cookie later, nuh?”

His words skipped across her mouth. Her face became a rippling pond.

“Just one?”

“Yeah. Everything has to start somewhere.”

He arrived at ten-thirty and immersed himself in the crowd, a flash flood of humanity that had swept through West Forty-ninth Street, voraciously swallowing hydrants, Dumpsters, and mailboxes before stagnating in a pool, fatigued perhaps by the heat. The aroma of marijuana sweetened the air against the pungency of tobacco, boiled corn, jerk chicken, and floral perfumes. Gold was everywhere. Teeth. Bracelets. Hairpins. Necklaces. And rings. If some fabrics were not intended for some outfits, and some outfits not intended for some bodies, one would not have guessed. Gold lamé, crushed velvet, crinoline, satin, and raw silk proudly girdled bellies that had borne too many children too early. And hair? As much as money could buy.

There were a few rastas sprinkled in, steadfast in righteous drabness in the fashion Babylon, their only embellishment being the white girls strung around their necks. The white boys in grunge gear shared joints with their buddies and tripped out on the bass belching from the belly of a black BMW marooned at the entrance of a parking garage. Patois swirled and collided in midair, and burst into sparkles. “Why dem don’t let in de people dem? De metal detector business holdin up too much time. Dem have metal detector? Me better go puddown me gun and come back den.”

Gripping the straps of his knapsack to settle it, Fire edged through the mob, swiveling left and right, his eyes skimming the horizon like a periscope, his body pressed on all sides. Where were they? Was that Claire there? Before he could look more closely, his view was blocked by an exuberant weave, a fan-shaped piece of gelled hair-sculpture that eclipsed in size and range of color the open tail of a peacock. As the crowd began to evaporate from the narrow, cracked sidewalk, he drifted down the street to the stage door, which was guarded by a surly giant dressed in black, a chain-smoking southerner who seemed to know only four words, no and can’t help you, which he dispensed in a monotone to all who asked for help. Maybe both of them changed their minds, Fire thought as he returned to the entrance, sorry now that he was flying to England in the morning. He stood there waiting. Then left a message with the corn man and went inside to see the show.

Standing under the balcony of the musty old theater, Sylvia, in a lavender sundress, was lonely in the company of four thousand people. Taking a sip of her Campari and orange juice, she tried to flee the melancholy, tried to take her thoughts in a different direction, but they shadowed her, like the sharks that trailed the schooners west from the coast of Africa.