With a loud crack the tent pole hit the table. The platter of fruit shattered. An apple bounced to the ground and rolled into Nancy’s knee.
The edge of the table bent, but the table was strong enough to support the fallen tent pole.
Nancy sneezed once from the dust, then called out, “Are you all right? Is anybody hurt?”
A voice replied, “Okay here.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Bess pleaded.
“Good idea,” Nancy said. “Which way is out?”
As if by magic, the tent pole started to rise again. Nancy realized that people on the outside must be pulling at the guy ropes. Daylight streamed in as somebody tugged open the flaps at the entrance. “Over here,” an anxious voice called.
“We’re coming,” Nancy called back. By now there was enough room to stand up, so long as she stooped. She helped Bess to her feet, then said to Rachid, “This way.”
The members of the Rai Rebels followed Nancy and Bess outside to freedom. She noticed that each of the musicians was carrying his instrument. Good thinking. If the tent could fall down once, it might fall down again. But exactly why had it collapsed like that? An accident? Or something more sinister?
The fall of the tent had attracted a crowd. Dina and Cyril were trying to move people back. Ned and George pushed through to Nancy’s side.
“Are you okay?” Ned demanded. “What happened?”
“I’m fine, and I don’t know what happened,” Nancy replied. “Not yet.”
She looked around. At the back, two men in Emerson College coveralls were holding the corners of the tent while a third man fastened the guy ropes to metal stakes. Nancy went over to him. She noticed Mike stitched in red over the pocket of his coverall. He glanced up as Nancy approached.
“Can I help you?” he asked. His tone said, Go away and don’t bother me.
“I was inside the tent just now,” Nancy said. “Why did it fall down? Were the ropes loose?”
“No way,” Mike said emphatically. “Some joker untied them, that’s what. And if I find out who . . . ”
“You’re sure?” Nancy asked. Mike scowled and nodded sharply. “How hard would it be to do that? Would it take long?”
“Easy as kiss my hand,” Mike replied. “Look—this here’s called a clove hitch. Great knot, holds like iron. But say you want to undo it. All you do is give yourself a little slack and—”
With a deft gesture, he unfastened the rope. Then, just as quickly, he retied it to the stake. “Anything else?” he asked.
“No,” Nancy said. “Thanks for your help.”
Mike unbent enough to mumble, “You’re welcome.”
Nancy told Ned, George, and Bess what she’d learned. “Let’s see if anybody noticed someone at the back of the tent,” she suggested.
They moved through the crowd asking questions. The answers were discouraging. No one had seen anyone behind the tent, or if he had, had not paid attention and couldn’t describe the person.
The sound system suddenly crackled to life. Cyril’s voice said, “Here’s something to whet your appetite for tonight’s dance and tomorrow’s giant concert. It’s a great honor for me to introduce a super group that comes to us all the way from Oran, Algeria. Let’s give a real Emerson College welcome to . . . the Rai Rebels!”
The crowd cheered as the members of the group dashed onstage and took their places. Rachid was the last. He grabbed the mike and shouted, “Thank you! Merci beaucoup!” Over a sequence of minor chords from the keyboard, the lead guitarist laid down a hypnotic riff that was echoed by the syncopated beat of the drums.
Even before Rachid started singing, the audience was on its feet, swaying from side to side, hands waving in the air. From where Nancy was standing at the back, the audience looked like a wheat field swept by a breeze.
Bess grabbed Nancy’s left hand and raised it. Nancy smiled and reached out with her right hand to Ned. He in turn linked hands with George. Together they swayed to the insistent beat of the music.
For those few moments Nancy let herself be carried away. But the moment the song ended, she went back to the question that kept circling in her head. Who was trying to trash the Worldbeat Festival, and just as puzzling, why?
Vlad and Dina were each convinced the other was doing it because of the election campaign. But what sense did that make? Suppose the motive was to make the other guy look bad and lose the election. What if it worked? If the sabotage campaign made the festival fail, it would have a terrible effect on the IFC. What was the point of plotting to wreck the organization you wanted to head up?
There was another possiblity that gave Nancy a chill. The bad feelings between Vlad and Dina, and between their countries, ran deep. What if one of them simply didn’t care who got hurt, as long as the other suffered?
After two more numbers, the Rai Rebels left the stage to a storm of applause. Cyril bounded up to the mike and reminded everyone that the group would play at the dance that evening and the concert the next afternoon. Then he introduced the Flynn Family, an Irish group of four musicians and three stepdancers.
“How can the IFC afford to have these groups come from all over the world?” Nancy asked Ned.
Ned smiled. “Most of them don’t,” he said. “Take the Flynns, for example. They’re from somewhere near Chicago.”
George overheard. “You mean they’re not Irish after all?”
“Oh, sure they are,” Ned replied. “Their parents are, anyway. And the girl playing pennywhistle won an All-Ireland championship a couple of years ago. But they grew up here in the States. Same with the ska group in tomorrow’s concert. They’re all Jamaicans, but they live in Brooklyn. One of our members who’s from the islands put us in touch with them.”
“What about the Rai Rebels, though?” Bess asked anxiously. “They really are from North Africa, aren’t they?”
Ned nodded. “You bet. But we didn’t have to pay their way here. We couldn’t have afforded that. What happened was, another of our members is a big rai fan. He heard they were planning a trip to the States. So we found out who their agent was and managed to book them for this weekend.”
“I’m so glad,” Bess said. “That was just a little taste. I can’t wait to see them again. Nancy, can you take a minute to come look at Joann’s booth? It’s really worth it.”
“I’d love to,” Nancy replied. She followed Bess through the crowd to the bazaar area. It was clearly a hit with Emerson students. Every booth had people browsing through whatever it offered: CDs, clothing, and posters seemed especially popular. The most crowded was a booth selling African drums and percussion instruments. Nancy was tempted to pause to try a talking drum, but Bess kept walking.
“That’s Joann’s booth,” Bess said, pointing. “But I don’t see her. I wonder where she is?”
