“Nice to meet you. Katya Connor.” I’m too tired for pleasantries after a whole day and night of flying, but I give him my trained, friendly-yet-professional smile.

  “You too. Warren Child. Come in.” He’s slightly pudgy, medium height, with thick gray hair. Khakis and a dark blue golf shirt. Unremarkable. He holds open his hotel room door and stands aside to let me enter.

  It’s a normal double room in a typical big-chain hotel, exactly like my own. An open suitcase on the luggage stand. Some personal items on the credenza under the television. No door to an adjoining room, no hard equipment case that I can see, no electronics, nothing interesting. The drapes are closed, as they should be. We’re on the fourth floor. Nobody’s coming in—or going out—through that window.

  “Thank you. This is for you.” I hand him the diplomatic pouch that I was sent here, to beautiful Chengdu, China, to deliver. “I haven’t been briefed on the assignment. They told me you’d do it.”

  “Yes. It’s easy.” He gestures for me to take a seat at the tiny table in the corner, which I do. He takes the other chair. “I’m here on a long-term assignment posing as a textiles dealer. Tonight I’m going to a reception with executives and employees of a local clothing manufacturer. You’re coming with me, playing the role of my daughter. You’ve come for a visit to take advantage of my extended stay in the city.”

  I cock my head at him. “I’m not interpreting for you?”

  “No, I’m fluent in Mandarin. Tonight your job is to stand next to me and pretend that you don’t understand anything but the most basic tourist Chinese. That’s all you have to do. No other task.”

  I’m flummoxed. “Not understanding the language is the opposite of what I do.”

  “I know. But I need a daughter tonight, and you’re her. Just stand there, listen, and don’t let anyone know that you understand what people are saying.”

  I pause for a moment while I try to process what he’s telling me to do. “Am I listening for anything in particular?”

  “No. It’s just a reception. Cocktails and chit-chat.”

  I nod. “Act like a tourist and play dumb. Got it.” I definitely don’t get it, but this isn’t the strangest thing the U.S. Foreign Service has asked me to do, so I’ll roll with it.

  “Exactly. Go rest up. We’ll leave the hotel at eight. Did you bring any party clothes with you?”

  “Yes. I brought everything I own with me.”

  “Right, you’re on your way to your new post. Have you ever been there?”

  “I have not.”

  “Then welcome to Sanzharistan. You’ll love it. The people are incredibly nice.”

    I hope so.

♪♫

  On the way to the reception, Warren tells me that we need to make a stop. I can’t stop fidgeting. The party is already underway and we’re going to be late. Americans in communist China should not arouse curiosity.

  My anxiety takes a big tic upwards when we pull up next to what appears to be a factory in a run-down industrial complex. I don’t see anybody around; I don’t even see any security cameras. This doesn’t seem like that interesting a place. But if we are here, it must be more interesting than it looks, so I keep a wary eye out.

  We step up to a nondescript door. Warren jiggles the handle. “The door is locked.”

  I look at him expectantly, assuming that we’re going to turn around and leave.

  “The door is locked,” he says again.

  Oh. “I didn’t bring my picks.” Am I supposed to do that now?

  He pulls out a slim wallet and hands me a basic set, just like my own. “From now on, keep them with you.”

  Although I’m sure he knows how to do this himself, I pick the lock: an easy, standard doorknob lock. It opens right up even though my hands are shaking from adrenaline.

  “Wait here,” he instructs me.

  My lips are dry, my heart rate elevated. If we get caught, we’re dead, quite possibly literally. This is not what I signed up for. On high alert, I wait on the concrete platform outside the door, scanning the empty gravel driveway and the dark, eyeless windows of the surrounding buildings, looking for signs of trouble. Hurry, dude!

  Warren is in the office for only a minute. As soon as he comes out, I bolt to the car. He takes his time making sure that the door is securely re-locked and that we didn’t drop anything on the platform. Chuckling at my nerves, he walks to the car.

  At the party, I stand beside Warren and act approachable and pretend not to understand any of the conversations around me. Not reacting to anything anyone says is trickier than you’d think, but I manage to keep my face neutral. When it’s over, even though I did nothing, he says I was perfect.

♪♫

Everybody makes assumptions about how a twenty-four-year-old woman who looks like I do gets to where I’ve gotten. They test me, constantly: Do I really have those PhDs, am I really fluent in all those languages? Who exactly have I dated in the Foreign Service? Somebody high up, probably? I have learned that the only way to overcome it is to work twice as hard as everyone else and to be invisible while doing it.

I haven’t exactly gotten where I want to be yet, though. I’ve just been stationed at the U.S. embassy in Izmara, the capital of the Central Asian nation of Sanzharistan. I am now heading into an intergovernmental meeting to interpret for an American official who has come to Izmara to meet with Sanzharistan’s Minister of Culture about Sanzhar rock star Adam Zapatenov, who will be Sanzharistan’s contribution to an Asian Culture Festival to be held in Los Angeles next year. Unimportant, low-level, local diplomacy, the sort of thing I’ve been doing constantly since I arrived.

   It’s my first time in the Ambassador’s conference room. The room is decorated in classic U.S. Government style, ostentatiously meant to impress: American flags on eagle-topped poles, portrait of the president, leather chairs, huge mahogany table, and velvet drapes. Chandeliers cast luxurious light and lemon oil wafts a luxurious scent.

It’s such a huge contrast to the worn-out institutional furnishings in the parts of the embassy that visitors don’t get to see that I immediately have the urge to laugh. I’m a pro, though. My face will give nothing away to the Sanzhar officials who are meeting with the American delegation, nor to the four guests who have come to represent the star, who is evidently too busy and important to attend the meeting himself.

   I give them a close inspection, as I’ve been trained to do. While one of the men looks reasonably at home in a crisp blue suit and red tie, the other three could not look more out of place. One of the men is middle-aged and untidy, the other closer to my age and absurdly under-dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. The young woman with them, however, stands out even more: all in studded leather with what can only be a three-foot ponytail extension, red nails with matching lips, and heavy jewelry including a nose ring and eyebrow piercing.

Why governments would take part in a meeting about a rock concert is a mystery to me, but as the discussion begins, it becomes clear. The star is a walking and singing advertisement for progressive, democratic, post-Soviet Sanzharistan.

The Festival provides a perfect opportunity to counter the Western stereotype of his country as a Russian puppet and of his people as ignorant, backwards, and fanatical. The U.S. Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs is hosting the Festival. The Sanzhar Minister of Culture is here to ensure that it treats Sanzharistan’s favorite son well.

As I do my part interpreting between Russian and English, the young woman gives me a warm smile. Since I am usually wallpaper at these meetings, I appreciate her seeing past my invisibility cloak and noticing that I’m an actual human being.

She introduces herself on a bathroom break.

“Amelia Alieva. I’m Adam’s keyboard player. And who might you be?” Her friendly demeanor is such a contrast to her hardcore appearance.

“Katya Connor, U.S. Foreign Service interpreter. Nice to meet you.”

I sigh at my image in the mirror. My invisibility cloak isn’t any of the cutting-edge Secret Service tech that I sometimes hear about from colleagues. It’s a long black cardigan that a condescending executive’s wife once referred to as a shroud, big rose-tinted glasses, a military-style black cap, and no makeup or jewelry. Plain as can be, but acceptable attire for a woman everywhere from Madison Avenue to Mecca, conveniently concealing my all-too-American blonde hair, blue eyes, and busty curves.

   Amelia notices my dissatisfaction. “You’re gorgeous. Why are you hiding under that awful sweater?”

Blunt, but true. “Interpreters are supposed to be heard and not seen.”

“That’s got to be hard for you, being so young and pretty.” She scrutinizes the shroud, evidently trying to figure out what’s going on beneath it. I get the sense that she’d take my measurements if she had a tape measure handy.

This, however, is an uncomfortable topic. Being pretty is one of my defining characteristics, despite it being significantly more trouble than it’s worth, both personally and professionally. The downsides are real but generally met with zero sympathy, so I have learned to downplay my looks and not complain.

“I’m used to it. Diplomacy is a tough business. It’s already hard for somebody my age to get taken seriously and my looks don’t help. So even when I’m not interpreting, I keep it plain and boring.”

“Well, here in Sanzharistan, we girls don’t hide our assets. If you want to fit in, you shouldn’t either. Flaunt it, girlfriend!”

I don’t expect more than an exchange of names. Amelia, however, starts asking questions right away, beginning with my skills as an interpreter. As I wash my hands, I give her the condensed version and brace for the usual reaction.

“My parents were diplomats in the Foreign Service, so I picked up Spanish, French, and Italian living all over Western Europe as a child. I learned Russian in high school to entertain myself. I got Chinese, Korean, and Japanese on my way to my PhDs in Asian Studies and International Relations.”

She looks at me, open-mouthed, taking the opportunity to apply more lipstick. “You must be a genius!”

My accomplishments sound impressive, but for a girl to end up with all that at my age, something had to keep her from having a normal life. Something big. Not something to share with a stranger, though.

“Thank you, but I just have a knack for languages. Once you have a couple, each new one is easier.”

Stopping her lipstick application, she raises an eyebrow at me. “Chinese is easy? Tell me more.”

“OK, no, Chinese is brutal. It took me four years to master it.”

Amelia drops her lipstick in her bag, opens the door for me, and we head back to the conference room. The clunk of her boots echoes against the marble floor of the corridors as she continues with her questioning. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

She stops and stares at me, open-mouthed once again. “What? How can you have all those PhDs and everything already?” This woman is charmingly filter-free.

“My parents home-schooled me when I was little, so I graduated high school when I was fifteen, then college at nineteen, then I got my PhDs when I was twenty-two.”

“That’s amazing! Have you had this job ever since?”

“No, I only got here a couple of weeks ago. Until then my job was traveling for the Foreign Service, interpreting at diplomatic events all over the world. The experience was great, but living in hotels for two years wasn’t fun.”

“Yuck, I know. Even fancy hotels suck. After a week or two I can’t wait to get back home.”

Her words sting a bit. I haven’t had a real home in a long time.

Back at the conference room, she takes the seat next to me. “So you’re in the Foreign Service because your parents are?”

I glance around the room. Everyone is still engrossed in their own activities, waiting to reconvene. “Not exactly. I had to move to the U.S. when I was ten. I’m in the Foreign Service because I wanted to get back to the kind of life I had as a child.”

“This isn’t exactly Western Europe. What do you think of Sanzharistan? Is it what you expected?”

The question makes me cringe. “Honestly, I didn’t expect anything. I knew almost nothing about the country before they stationed me here.”

She gives me a bit of a side-eye. “That explains why the interpreter at the U.S. embassy in Izmara doesn’t speak Sanzhar.”

Assigning a non-Sanzhar speaker with no Sanzharistan expertise to the embassy here is the height of American arrogance. Almost all Sanzhars are as fluent in Russian as they are Sanzhar, and the sophisticates of the younger generation increasingly speak English, so I can communicate with almost everyone. But it’s still rude not to speak their native tongue.

I pick up the coffee carafe and fill both our cups. “Yes. Sorry. Honestly, I’m not sure why they stationed me here, but it’s only until they move me to the Moscow embassy. I’m going to learn everything I can about the culture while I’m here, though.”

“Good, you should.” She blows on her coffee. “Most Westerners wouldn’t know Sanzharistan from Afghanistan. They have no idea that we’re a democracy or that we don’t allow religious political parties. They’ve never even heard of any of our cities, even though they’re huge and way more modern than most European cities. I bet you were surprised when you saw Izmara.”

“I was. That theater complex downtown is one of the biggest ones I’ve ever seen.”

“Arts and culture, baby! That’s what we do. That’s why Adam is so important. He’s the only Sanzhar most people outside our country have ever heard of.” She sits back in her chair, her leather-clad chest puffing up a bit. “He’s showing the world who we are.”

I lower my voice and lean in. “I have to say, I never would have expected to meet a woman in a rock band here. Sanzharistan must be pretty progressive when it comes to women.”

She cocks her head with a noncommittal shrug. “It varies. My family and all our friends are, but there are still plenty of people who think a girl should only take care of her man and his family and pop out his babies. And there are plenty of girls who are happy to live that way. So boring. I don’t see how any man worth having could want that.”

Although I’m far from traditional, having a family of my own is one of my most cherished dreams. “You don’t want to pop out babies?”

She laughs. “I already have two. But my husband and I are equals. I’m not giving up my career, any more than he is.”

“I wouldn’t either.”

While we wait for the meeting to get back underway, I take pains to ask Amelia about herself, her family, her work, and her interests, and listen to her attentively. Getting her to open up is easy; she’s already outgoing.

The rest of the meeting is much more interesting and much less trivial than I expected. Actually, learning what goes on behind the scenes at a big rock concert is fascinating. It’s the most fun I’ve had interpreting in ages. I wish I had known ahead of time so I could have done some research.

The untidy man, the star’s manager, aggressively oversells his client. “We’ll need help scaling up the show, but our biggest concern is where Adam will perform. He is already recognized as one of the greatest vocalists in the world. He needs a venue with acoustics worthy of him. In Los Angeles, the Hollywood Bowl is the only choice.”

It’s the fawning that invariably follows the famous. I’m too professional to roll my eyes.

But the American official, elegant and fashionable in her lilac suit, agrees. “Adam is incredible. That’s why I’m here. But the Hollywood Bowl has seventeen thousand five hundred seats and the U.S. market barely knows him. How many seats do you think you can sell?”

The star’s manager hands her some printed spreadsheets, which she leafs through while he answers. “With his current penetration in the United States, we could fill nine thousand seats right now. He’s releasing his second album right before his tour starts. It will be tailored to the Western market, and we’ll promote him heavily in North America while he’s touring South and Central America. His U.S. growth rate should increase exponentially then. Realistically, we should be right on target for seventeen thousand five hundred in a year. God willing, even more.”

I have never heard, much less interpreted, anyone discuss a human being like a product the way the star’s manager does.

The crisp man, the star’s father, pitches in. “Adam has never needed traditional marketing or advertising. People just need to hear his voice and they want to hear him live.”

No surprise to hear proud papa talk like that, but come on, this is a business meeting.

The official nods. “Seeing his face doesn’t hurt, either.” Is her expression … swoony? You’re an American official, woman! Get it together!

Amelia and the under-dressed man see it too, and exchange a glance, snickering under their breath.

The Minister of Culture closes the deal. “Adam is a world-class artist. He puts on world-class concerts all over Asia and Eastern Europe. Sanzharistan is subsidizing his Los Angeles show so that he can do the same thing in the United States. Are you willing to match our funds?”

The American official’s body language tells me that she made this decision before she even landed in Izmara. “I am. I want to help you show Adam to the world. He can have the Hollywood Bowl. That will make his show one of the biggest ones of the whole Festival.” She takes a breath, leans forward, and fixes the star’s father and manager with a stern look. “Don’t let me down. I want his concert to be at the level of the ones he gives over here. I want that venue sold out!”

The star’s father rises and inclines his head to her respectfully. “Thank you. You can count on us.”

After the meeting, Amelia lingers behind and introduces me to the under-dressed man, who turns out to be her husband.

“Rashid, this is Katya. Say hello to Katya.” I’m perplexed at how forcefully she says it.

Rashid extends his hand. “Hello, Katya.”

I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Amelia drapes her arm around my shoulder, startling me with the casual touch. “Katya is a beautiful American genius who has spent her life traveling the world. She’s twenty-four, she has two PhDs and she speaks...” She looks at me. “How many languages?”

“Eight.” I chuckle self-consciously as I put my hat and glasses into my bag.

“Eight languages. She just moved here. She’s also very nice.” Amelia gives Rashid a pointed look. “I think our friends should meet her.”

“Yes, of course. Welcome to Sanzharistan.”

“Thank you. I’m honored to be here.” It’s an automatic response.

Amelia lets me go and pulls out her phone. “What’s your Instagram handle?”

“I don’t have any social media.”

She gapes again. “What are you, a dinosaur? Give me your phone number. We’re having you over for dinner.”

Given my complete lack of a social life for the past two years and my constant lack of friends or family, I do want to meet people. Moreover, as a member of the diplomatic corps, I can’t decline her offer of hospitality.

Plus, Amelia is as cool a woman as I could hope to meet. This could be fun.

                                       Chapter 2 The Zapatenov System

It has been fun. More fun than I’ve had in years. For the last three months I have had bustling social life full of interesting and creative people. Amelia and her friends include me for many meals, days in the park, movies, visits to art galleries, and so on. I babysit for them. I volunteer with them at a construction site for a home for disabled kids. All kinds of activities, leading to tonight’s event.

As I enter the venue, I scan the room. Four exits. Large windows that look like they can open if they need to. A half dozen security cameras on the ceiling under grey plastic bubbles. No obvious security personnel, though. None of the waitstaff are excessively bulky or wearing an earpiece that I can see. No bulges that might indicate a weapon. The guests—

Good Lord, what am I doing? This is a wedding reception! And I’m not working. Honestly, though, that’s the problem. No matter how many times I’ve done it, walking into a big social event alone hasn’t gotten any easier. What has gotten easier, though, is looking confident when I’m not. I stand up straight, relax my shoulders, put on what I hope is an approachable smile, and search for the kind people who invited me to tonight’s festivities.

There they are, standing around a table on the edge of the dance floor, having cocktails. Amelia and her friend Saraiya spot me and wave me over. I raise my hand in acknowledgement and weave my way through the tables to join them.

Everyone gathers around to welcome me. “Thank you all so much for including me tonight,” I say. “I’m honored.”

Amelia, edgy as always in a hot pink vintage cocktail dress and leather boots with buckles running all the way up past her knees, embraces me first. “When will you stop saying things like that? Girl, you’re one of us.”

“You’re so sweet to say that.” She is sweet, but wrong. Amelia and her friends have been incredibly generous with their hospitality, but I’ll never truly be one of them.

Saraiya, elegant in a powder blue floor-length sheath dress, hugs me next, then the women’s husbands step up to kiss my cheek. I do as everyone does and hug and kiss them all back. It feels awfully nice, if a bit uncomfortable, since I’m not used to such open affection, or any affection, really.

Saraiya tends to fade into the background around her more vivacious friends, so I take her hands and pay her a little extra attention. “That color is gorgeous on you! You’re positively glowing.” The compliment makes her glow just a bit more.

“You look stunning,” she replies, looking me up and down. “You know you aren’t supposed to outshine the bride at a wedding.”

Until now, my new acquaintances have only seen me in my deliberately attention-deflecting wardrobe, so her reaction isn’t surprising. However, after a few moments, the bride and groom appear, making their rounds of the tables. Elena, unquestionably the most beautiful woman in the room tonight, appropriately diverts all attention onto herself.

More hugs and kisses among these friends. As heartwarming as it is, it gives me a pang. Relationships like this have never been part of my life. I hope that one day soon I’ll be able to put down roots somewhere—Moscow, if all goes as planned—and finally have friends and family of my own.

“Still no Adam?” Elena asks.

Saraiya tucks a lock of her short brown hair behind her ear. “He had a photo shoot this afternoon. But don’t worry, he’ll be here. There’s no way he’d miss this.”

I haven’t met the star, even though almost all of my new acquaintances work for him in some capacity and they are all close friends. Surprisingly, they haven’t told me much about him. They are fiercely protective of him and never talk about him outside his presence. Fine by me. I’ve spent so much time around so-called VIPs and their less-than-stellar personalities that their friend’s fame actively dampens my interest.

Another woman at our table nods toward the entrance, where some kind of excitement is bubbling up. “There he is.”

Well. Interest or not, of course I’m going to take a look. The whole room is looking.

OK, wow.

I would have known it was him without anyone saying so. He definitely looks like a star. This is a regular black-tie wedding, but he’s wearing a red-carpet-ready, obviously custom three-piece black tuxedo with bold white accents. No tie, collar open, dashing. He is unrealistically handsome, a composite example of a perfect human, looking more Asian from some angles and more European from others. His features are beautifully refined: those full cupid’s-bow lips that so many Asians are blessed with; the jawline of a Greek statue; perfectly tousled black hair falling just so into large, wide, dark eyes.

Damn. Sexy, for sure.

I, however, am not the kind of woman to be unduly impressed by a pretty face.

Seemingly everyone he passes wants to shake hands with him or grab a selfie. Even though it’s clearly an imposition, and frankly kind of rude for people to do to a wedding guest, he obliges them all. I’ll give him credit for being polite. He’s efficient, too. It takes him only a minute or two to get to his table, where he lounges back in a chair, emanating elegance, status, and fame.

So this is Sanzharistan’s most valuable export. All that and talent too?

Later, over dinner, I ask my companions what it’s like to work for such an obvious ... the only word is star.

Amelia pauses, fork lifted partway to her mouth. “He hates being called a star, so of course we tease him about it. We’ve made up a whole solar system around it.”

Saraiya nods along as she cuts some mysterious meat on her plate. “He is a star in the sense that he’s a celebrity, but on the team, he’s the star because everything orbits him. See the people at his table? Those are his planets.” I recognize his manager and father from the meeting at the embassy. Amelia tells me that the bejeweled queen of a woman next to him is his mother. With them are some family friends and musical mentors.

At our table, Rashid, who has been the star’s best friend since childhood and is now his producer and sound engineer, is also a planet.

“I’m a little moon,” Amelia tells me. “I’ve worked with Adam for years, but I still orbit Rashid because he’s in charge of the musicians. He hired us all, even me.”

Nepotism is a way of life here.

“I’m a moon too,” Saraiya says. She handles the star’s online presence for his manager.

As they explain the celestial assignments of everyone on the team, describing which moons orbit which planets, their laughter mingles with the sounds of cutlery clinking on dishes and conversations at other tables.

I cover my wine glass with my hand as a server circles our table, filling my companions’ glasses. “Isn’t it weird to be so subordinate to your friend?”

“That’s why he hates this, but no,” Amelia answers. “He really is a star. There is no one else like him in the world. Being part of his solar system is an honor.”

Rashid is rumpled in his tux, slouched in his seat, knees apart, one arm on the back of Amelia’s chair and the other on the table. “I don’t like it either. Amelia is not my moon.” He looks at her affectionately. “You’re my star, baby.” He leans in and kisses her on the cheek.

“Shut up,” Amelia says, backhanding him in his chest.

Their happiness delights me, even as I get another familiar pang watching it.

“Now I feel left out,” I joke. “I must be from another solar system.” I’m not, though. I am a lone celestial object, a comet, merely passing through the places I go and the lives of the people I meet.

“Don’t worry,” Amelia says. “Once you meet Adam, I bet you’ll become a little moon somehow.”

Saraiya gives me an enigmatic smile. “Oh, I think you have planet potential.” 

                                          Chapter 3 Perfect for Romance

After dinner it’s cocktails and dancing. Outside of royal weddings, this is the most elaborate wedding reception I’ve ever been to. The ballroom overflows with towering pink and white flower arrangements. Swags of rose-colored silk drape the walls and ceiling. Tiny lights twinkle in every corner.

The atmosphere is perfect for romance. Since almost everyone I have met here is already married, I hope the guests tonight will include a few single men who would be willing to exchange a little body heat with me on the dance floor, maybe even ask me out. It’s been a couple of years since I had any positive male attention.

With their Eurasian features, Sanzhars are exactly my type, and indeed, a nice selection of the abundant handsome young men that this country produces is scattered throughout the room, looking back at me.

My eyes travel to the star again. He is definitely my type. He’d be anyone’s type. But as far as I can tell, he hasn’t even glanced my way. I try not to take it personally; he must drown in young Sanzhar beauties day in and day out. This wedding alone boasts an impressive supply of them. A generically pretty American girl like me isn’t likely to impress a man like him.

I have been well trained in the art of surreptitious observation, so I avert my eyes before anyone catches me staring. It’s a good thing, too, because a minute later the star appears at our table.

His charisma and attractiveness fill up a lot of space. The moment he enters our sphere, everyone rises and orbits him like the star he is, sucked in by his gravity, which even I can feel. Having spent the last couple of years in the company of celebrities, power brokers, and world leaders, I’m not inclined to bow to fame, but I rise as well.

His friends greet him gregariously in Sanzhar. The star is obviously in a completely different league from us mere mortals, but he puts down what I note is a soda, not a cocktail, throws open his arms, and exchanges giant, grinning bear hugs with the men, lifting them off their feet. He treats everyone at our table like he’s just one of the guys. It feels sweet and sincere, unpretentious, a total contrast to the impression I got watching him at his table. These friends all truly love each other and aren’t shy about showing it.

In addition to being unrealistically handsome and evidently inhumanly talented, the star is also very tall. Of course he is. Bending down, he kisses Amelia’s cheek. Saraiya gets a warm handshake with both his hands.

He turns, focusing his star power on me, and greets me formally in Russian. He must assume that I don’t speak Sanzhar. I feel a guilty twinge that he is right.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” He shakes my hand with a gentle squeeze and slight bow, almost as if he were a regular person, which he kind of seems to be. But then he flashes a truly dazzling smile that says otherwise. “Adam Zapatenov.”

“Katya Connor.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” He releases my hand and looks away immediately, without checking me out in the slightest. Well. That’s a bit deflating, although I suppose it’s respectful.

Amelia puts her hand on my shoulder. “Katya is the friend I told you about. The interpreter at the American embassy.”

That piques his interest. He turns back to me.

“Ah, yes.” He has switched to English, his words low and silky, his accent charming. “Amelia told me about you.” His English is good but not fluent enough to be automatic. He speaks slowly, with breaks between clauses. “Welcome to Sanzharistan. Are my friends taking good care of you?”

“Yes. They have been very welcoming. Amelia has been very kind, taking me in.”

The star regards her affectionately. “Amelia is very good friend. What do you think of Sanzharistan?”

This time I have an answer. “Sanzharistan is a beautiful country and culture. Serving here is an honor.” In the time that I have been here, I have learned a lot, and I mean what I say.

“Thank you.” He seems to stand up taller. “I agree, of course. Bringing my culture to the world is my...” His eyes slide to the side as he searches for the word.

“Mission?”

He looks startled at my finishing his thought. “Yes, my mission, exactly.”

The Sanzhar people developed profound national pride after their country gained its independence from the Soviet Union a generation ago. But really? He’s a twenty-six-year-old rock star, the most famous person in his entire country, and that’s what he cares about? Sounds like a line from the Asian Culture Festival brochure.

I switch to Russian. “Actually, I should thank you. I’m here because of you.”

The star touches his chest. “You are in Sanzharistan because of me?”

That makes me laugh. The most famous person in the country would make that assumption.

“No, I’m at this wedding because of you. I met Amelia and Rashid when they came to the embassy for that meeting about your U.S. concert.”

He has the good grace to laugh at his mistake. “Yes, that’s right. I knew that.” He fixes me with his warm, expressive eyes. “Well, then. It seems that we were destined to meet.”

He has that way that charismatic people have of making even chit-chat feel significant, like something important is happening. As he holds my gaze, everything is magnified. The flowers on the table fill the air with fragrance. The band plays a romantic 1940s big-band ballad. Someone opens a door to the crisp October night and a cool breeze wafts through, raising goosebumps on my skin. I swallow, uncharacteristically unable to find an appropriate response.

“Will you sing tonight?” Saraiya asks, redirecting my attention away from the star’s too-handsome face.

He stands up straight and momentarily seems very dignified for somebody who was literally picking his friends up off the ground minutes before. “We’ll see.” He pauses. “Maybe after the band finishes.” He gives in and shrugs, unleashing a twinkly, disarming smile. “Probably.” Everyone claps, delighted.

The bride appears at the star’s side, holding her hand out to him, smiling radiantly. “Adam?”

He hesitates for the tiniest fraction of a second, then accepts. “Of course.” He nods me a goodbye, then takes her hand and leads her onto the dance floor. Every camera in the room comes out.

Huh. He looks like a star, but he doesn’t act like one.

As I look around for potential dance partners, I can’t turn off my habit of inventorying everyone in the room. An older gentleman who previously seemed a bit out of place at his table is now sitting completely alone. His tablemates, rudely, have all left to dance or chat with other people. As I know very well, being alone feels a thousand times worse when you’re surrounded by so much love and affection.

I have to do something. If I just charge over there and sit down, he’ll feel like I’m taking pity on him. I’d hate that, and men hate that even more. Plus, a woman can’t approach a man in Sanzharistan. Fortunately, among my specialized skills are various methods of getting a target to talk to me first. Age, gender, culture, setting…. I run through a half dozen options and make my selection.

This will be easy.

My dress consists of a tight black bodice and a black skirt pleated with fluffy white chiffon underlayers that are revealed when I move. It’s a Fred Astaire and Grace Kelly kind of dress, made for dancing. Made for catching eyes. It contrasts with my fair skin and light hair, which I am wearing loose and long for a change. A pair of strappy black heels completes the look.

Rashid is seated next to me. Using his body as cover, I bend down to unbuckle the strap on one of my shoes.

He looks at me curiously. “What are you doing?”

“Shhh. Don’t expose me.”

I wait for my moment. Sure enough, the band’s next song fills the dance floor. Once it’s nice and crowded, I stand and assess the movement patterns of the couples swirling around.

Now.

I walk toward the catering tables, timing it so that I’ll be right next to the gentleman when a particularly energetic couple goes past him. Caught between him and the fast-moving pair, I lose my balance. My strappy heel comes right off, leaving me stumbling.

The man pops out of his chair and steadies me.

“Young lady! Are you alright?”

“Oh my goodness, thank you! That scared me to death! How did that happen?”

“You lost your shoe.” He bends down and retrieves it.

I shake my head ruefully. “I did. Thank you again.” I sit down next to him to put it back on, taking plenty of time to fumble with the tangle of straps while I introduce myself. “I’m Katya. What’s your name?”

It takes five seconds to get him talking and five minutes to get him dancing.

So easy.

He’s quite a good dancer, it turns out. I feel elegant and enjoy the effect of my dress twirling out, soft and silky, against my bare legs. As my dress does its job, I ignore the eyes that I feel on me, keeping my focus on my partner. Oh well. I’ll have to exchange a little body heat with a single young man another time.

After a couple more songs, Amelia and Rashid waltz up to us.

Rashid taps the gentleman on the shoulder. “May I cut in?”

Amelia steps up with a big smile and open arms, offering herself as a replacement dance partner. Smiling back, the gentleman exchanges me for Amelia, and Rashid spins me away. On the other side of the dance floor, he looks down at me, almost proudly. “You’re too nice for your own good.”

A little flush of warmth passes through me. “Pfft. That was nothing.”

“And smooth. You’re really a spy, aren’t you?”

I can’t resist raising a conspiratorial eyebrow at him. “If I was, I couldn’t tell you.”

I wanted male attention tonight, and I get it. Unfortunately, it is entirely from older men, many of whom have imbibed a bit too freely this evening. The young men in the room are inexplicably keeping their distance.

In this culture, the ingrained sexism results in the men in a woman’s social circle taking pains to ensure that she is safe from unwanted attention. The guys do their duty, expertly keeping my tipsy would-be suitors at bay. While I appreciate their protection tonight, it’s a mixed bag, since the men tend to decide among themselves whose attention is wanted and whose is not.

Weddings are great places to learn even more about a culture’s ingrained sexism, which I do while cruising the most lavish dessert buffet I have ever seen. One of the guys nudges Rashid as they fill their plates.

“How did the kidnapping go?”

“It was a blast. We got drunk, snuck over there, and took her out her bedroom window at three in the morning.”

The guy chuckles knowingly. “What did he give her?”

“The necklace she’s wearing now.”

I turn to the girls, mystified. “What are they talking about?”

Saraiya, recently married and expert on all things matrimonial, wrinkles her nose. “It’s a sexist bachelor party thing. The groom and his friends ‘kidnap’ the bride.”

I cock my head. “Why?”

“Marriage by kidnapping. In the old days, if a man couldn’t get a girl’s family’s consent, he’d kidnap her and take her to his family’s home. If they slept in the same bed overnight, she became his wife whether she wanted to or not. The only way out was divorce. But at least then she’d get a settlement.”

“That’s awful! And they do this at bachelor parties?”

“Well, to be fair, now it’s the reverse. A man can’t force a woman into marriage that way, but if she wants to be married, then they are, automatically. A lot of couples elope that way now.” She bites into a truffle.

The romantic modern version is a lot more pleasant. And intriguing.

“Really?” My eyes scan the wedding guests. The star is the most desirable man in the room, but there are plenty of more-realistic-yet-still-handsome options. “So I can force one of these guys to marry me just by sleeping in his bed? How efficient!”

Saraiya’s mouth is full of chocolate, so Amelia laughingly answers. “Sorry, but you can’t get a husband that easily. He would have to kidnap you somehow first.”

As we walk back to our table, Saraiya explains some of the other rituals that the happy couple have been doing over the last several days. Some are ancient Sanzhar traditions, like a special ceremony that relates to the old, more mystical traditions of this land, wherein marriage results from God merging the souls of two people whom he has specifically made for each other. No officiant at that one; it’s just between the couple and God. To the most traditional Sanzhars, that’s true marriage.

“Is the necklace a Sanzhar thing too?”

“No, that’s Islamic. The groom has to give the bride a gift valuable enough for her to sell and survive on for a while in an emergency.”

How practical. Still, I wouldn’t mind a nice piece of jewelry as a token of a man’s love. Forget the jewelry. I’d settle for a man’s love. One day.

The band has picked up the pace now and is playing sweeping, boisterous Russian standards. The songs are cheesy but fun, the Russian version of “What’s New Pussycat.” Everyone in the room is feeling festive, even the star, who is jubilantly mouthing along to the songs and laughing with his planets. Now he’s boyish, carefree, and unreserved. Chameleon.

The older gentleman has taken over the dance floor, showing off his skills while all the girls in the room line up to take a turn with him. The guys in our group (all, sadly, married) do the same for me. The star, however, seems to have forgotten that I exist. Oh well. Apart from the dance with the bride and one with his mother, he isn’t dancing with anyone else either. We may have been destined to meet, but apparently we weren’t destined to dance, or talk, or make eye contact.

Nevertheless, I have a great time. The lights in the room swirl before my eyes as my partners spin me around the crowded dance floor and music and laughter fill my ears. I am more relaxed and happier than I have been in ages.

Sure, I didn’t get to meet any potentially dateable men. I didn’t even inspire a glance down my cleavage from a tall, handsome, and presumably heterosexual man while he stood right in front of me. That’s practically physically impossible. But as the beaming older gentleman dances past me, I’m satisfied. He was worth it.

As the night goes on, everyone is pairing off and snuggling up, while I conspicuously have no partner. My companions are still being nice and trying to keep me entertained. But the glances that they exchange tell me that I’m starting to make them uncomfortable.

I tap Amelia’s arm. “I’m going to head out.”

“Why? The band’s not even done yet.”

“It’s time. Thanks again for including me. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

I feel eyes on me again as I walk out, as alone as when I arrived.