Standing there in the center of the old stone barn, wearing only sandals, shorts and a light blouse open at the neck, Maria still managed to convey the feelings of the lonely young Japanese wife who sang so confidently of her husband's return from across the sea. This was Maria, the incomparable artist, using all of her technique to blend the unfamiliar words and music. But for the first few lines it was only a technical tour de force. Then Puccini's music began to take hold of Maria, merging the artist with the woman, and creating yet a third entity out of the two. He saw Willy turn, transfixed toward Maria. His hands and baton continued to move, but not by conscious direction. His pink cheeks were pale, etched with deepening lines. His blue eyes were misted. Even the other members of the company seemed moved by Maria's performance. Yet they could not stay with her emotionally; they were compelled to break the tension by shuffling their feet and self-consciously lighting cigarettes. To a man, the orchestra played as if hypnotized, sweeping through measure after measure with an intensity that seemed impossible to maintain. For an uncertain moment, near the end of the aria, it looked as if Maria could not finish. She swayed, held tightly to the microphone for support. Walther stepped forward to catch her, but she recovered, drawing on some inner source of strength to finish: "... This will all come to pass, as I tell you! Banish your idle fears ... For he will return, I know it!" As Maria finished, she tore herself away from the microphone. Her lips were trembling; her eyes were wide, like those of a woman in shock. She half-ran out of the barn, stopped--confused--in the bright sunlight, and then ran on down the path toward the Inn. * * * * * Until late afternoon, Maria would see no one. Then she agreed to see Willy for a few moments. When the old maestro left her room, he looked deeply troubled. "I don't know ..." he told Walther, shaking his head. "I don't know what this has done to her." "What did she say?" "Right now, she says she will never sing again. She's going to her home in Italy this evening." "Can we do anything?" "Looks like we've already done more than we should. Mixing two cultures in one artist is dangerous chemistry!" Up to this moment, Walther had deliberately avoided any decision about Maria. She had been a continuing and delightful challenge, especially since Tahiti, but beyond that he had not allowed his thoughts to go. Now there was a responsibility he could no longer evade. He had watched the dual personality that was Maria being shattered under the impact of Puccini's music. How would the pieces fit together again? Should he stand by and watch? Or should he try to help? And if he could help her, how would it all end? The gulf between two cultures could be wider than the mathematics of space between two galaxies, or the bridging power of sex.