“Yes,” says Ngemi, with quiet pride, “but now I am negotiating to buy Stephen King’s Wang.”
She stops, staring at the streetscape of this old residential neighborhood, and is acutely aware of her mind doing the but-really-it’s-like thing it does when presented with serious cultural novelty: but really it’s like Vienna, except it isn’t, and really it’s like Stockholm, but it’s not, really . . .