Manny set down his coffee, then straightened his tie and patted down the fringe of hair that circled his nearly bald pate. "Well, old boy," he said, recovering his dignity. "It wasn't easy, let me tell you. It wasn't easy. And I had a little help from old Sasha, you know."
They heard the front door open, and Sonia walked in, carrying a briefcase and a shopping bag. "Manny!" she said. "What a surprise! Or have you moved in?" She winked at him playfully.
"Hi, Sonia," he said, getting to his feet. They exchanged kisses on both cheeks, in the Continental fashion. "Just stopped by with some figures for Misha to look at."
"Oh," she said, "so he's finally hired you to represent him?"
"Well," Manny said with a shrug, "not exactly. I mean, he hasn't signed on the dotted line or anything."
Sonia set down her briefcase and shopping bag, and sat down in an armchair, kicking off her shoes.
"Look, Mama," Misha said, getting up and going to her with Manny's figures in hand.
"What?" she said. "No kiss?"
Misha dutifully bent and gave her a peck on the cheek.
"That's better," she said, smiling. She took the proffered sheet of paper from him, then sat studying it for some time. Finally, she looked up at Manny, not her son, her face blank, impossible to read.
"How did you get these figures out of BBR if you don't even represent Misha?" she asked pointedly.
Manny's eyes fluttered and were downcast for a moment. "Well ... I ... I told them that ...that he'd signed with me," he stuttered.
Sonia nodded. "I thought as much," she said. Then she turned her gaze on Misha. "You've had telephone calls from the most important agents in the world," she said, speaking as if Manny wasn't in the room. "They all want to represent you."
Misha nodded. "Yes," he said. "That's right."
"Have you made up your mind what you want to do?" she asked.
"I think so," he said, nodding again.
"And are you going to do what you discussed with your father and myself last night?" she asked.
"Yes," Misha said, smiling now.
"Good," Sonia said, returning his smile. "I think you've made a very wise decision, Misha."
"I do, too, Mama," he said.
"Do you think perhaps it's time to make it public?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
Misha turned to Manny, who had sat watching the two of them, a puzzled expression on his face.
"Manny," Misha said solemnly, "I want to sign on the dotted line. I want you to be my agent."
Manny made an effort to conceal his undiluted glee, wanting to appear to be accustomed to such victories, but he couldn't pull it off. His face lit up with a grin from ear to ear. He rose to his feet, walking over to Misha. Throwing his arms around him, he hugged him tightly. "You don't have to sign anything," he said. "Why don't we just shake on it?" He drew back and put out his plump hand.
Misha clasped it in his and shook it vigorously.
Sonia watched the two of them, tears of joy threatening to spill from her eyes. It gave her such joy to see the two of them together, so young, so earnest, so ambitious, and working toward a mutual goal. She rose to her feet, and they turned to her.
"Another kiss," she said. "Both of you." She held her arms out, and they went into them, kissing her and laughing.
"Ah!" she said, laughing with them. "You're good boys." Then she looked at Manny. "You were very clever to tell those record company people you already represented Misha, but I just want to know one more thing, Emmanuel Cygelman."
"What's that, Sonia?" he asked.
"What were you doing in that gym that day you met Misha?" She lightly patted Manny's ample belly with a hand.
Manny suddenly turned sheepish, and he swallowed. "I ... I was ... I was trying to meet Misha," he said.
"I knew it," she said. "I just knew it. You're every bit as smart as I thought you were."
Misha paced his bedroom, his face a constantly shifting mask of emotions as his thoughts shifted from argument to argument, weighing pros and cons, alternatives and approaches. He didn't yet know what he was going to do, but one thing he knew for certain: I have to get out of this apartment, he thought.
He tore off his sweatshirt and flung it to the floor, where it joined a pile of soiled athletic clothing. He pulled off his high-top Nikes and sweat socks, tossing them across the room, then got out of his sweatpants and jockstrap. Ditto.
His normally clean and ordered bedroom was clearly an indication of his frazzled frame of mind at the present. Rollerblades, sneakers, boots, shoes, socks, underwear, gym clothes, CDs, cassettes, books, magazines, music scores, helmets, knee pads, shin guards, wrist guards, gloves—all the necessities and amenities of daily fife were strewn about the room in a chaotic mess, un- sorted, dirty, and almost too overwhelming to deal with right now.
Sonia and Dmitri, God love them, he thought, were driving him to distraction. He knew that they loved him. He knew that they wanted what was best for him. But, he thought grimly, but right now, all of that love, all those good intentions, mean nothing in light of the fact that their hovering presence is making me crazy!
It was all too much. He felt that he had no privacy whatsoever, that he was intruded upon by their constant attention to his needs. Sometimes he felt as if he couldn't breathe, that he was being smothered by their unflagging devotion to him and his career.
In all fairness, he knew that their hovering over him had not always been so objectionable, that he had needed it, had appreciated it—still did, for that matter— but now he was a different person. A grown-up. An eighteen-year-old man embarking on a career of his own. An eighteen-year-old man embarking on a whole new life of his own. A life that included ...sex.
And that was the crux of the problem as he saw it. Certainly, it posed the largest part of the problem he had with his parents.
I'm horny! he realized. I'm horny and ...loving it!
And horny, he decided, most definitely did not fit well with Sonia and Dmitri and the large, comfortable two- bedroom apartment the three of them shared. No, indeed. In fact, Misha thought, there wasn't an apartment anywhere in the world that was big enough to contain the three of them.
What was the use of having the seductive and available Katya around if they constantly had to be on their guard because Dmitri or Sonia might return from work at any moment? Like the other day, when they'd both been naked, going at it like proverbial rabbits, lost in their lusty pursuit of pleasure, and what should happen?
Dmitri had waltzed in. Unannounced and unexpected. Miraculously, they'd somehow managed to throw on their clothes before he'd come knocking on Misha's door, but the look on Dmitri's face when the door had been opened and he faced the two of them standing there in embarrassed dishevelment had said everything. Shock, disappointment, disapproval, and—the most painful to see—hurt, all mixed into a single expression that Misha would not soon forget. Although there had been no further discussion of the matter, Misha knew that Dmitri was no fool. He had to be aware of what was going on but had apparently decided, for the time being at least, not to mention the subject.
Now, of course, Katya was being difficult, making herself less available, because she was afraid that Sonia and Dmitri would dismiss her if they thought the sexcapades between her and Misha continued. Her new, cool demeanor toward Misha, whether his parents were there or not, was driving him to distraction. Having once tasted of that particular bit of forbidden fruit, Misha was hard put not to try to partake of its succulent flesh again and again, especially considering that Katya was an almost continuous presence in the apartment.
If his problems with Katya and his parents at home were driving him crazy, his difficulties with Vera were even worse. He was drawn to her as a moth to the flame, desiring her in ways he had never desired anyone else, enjoying her company as he had never enjoyed another's.
Vera, however, was herself a very complicated young lady, with an insightful intelligence that was a constant challeng
e to his own. Getting to know her, blunt as she could be, was like peeling the skin from an onion, layer by layer, constantly searching for the real Vera, trying to make sense of the bundle of contradictions, the multiplicity of thoughts and feelings, that she seemed to be.
Vera Bunim, he thought, was much more than a quick roll in the hay, unlike Katya, and despite that first night together—the night they had met—Misha was certain that it was not in Vera's nature to make casual sex a habit. That night had been a fluke. That night, she'd told him, had been different because they had been attracted to each other, of course, and even though they'd never met, they did have a history of sorts together. She'd known about the Russian prodigy her family was helping since he'd been six years old, and she'd followed the Levin family's progress all the way up to the night of his Carnegie Recital Hall debut, the night they'd first made love.
The night we first made love, he thought. But was it love?
Trying to clear his mind of these thoughts, Misha went into the bathroom, where he turned the shower on, adjusting the taps so that the water was refreshingly cool. He stepped in and lathered up, but he still couldn't stop thinking about Vera, try as he might.
God, it was all so complicated, he thought.
Even their lovemaking—the stolen moments they'd had since that first night—was an exercise in subterfuge, a constant test of their resourcefulness, their abilities to find ways, time, and places to meet.
While Dmitri and Sonia encouraged Misha to see Vera—were in fact delighted in what they suspected was a budding romance—they would not have thought a sexual relationship between the two of them was wise at this juncture in their lives. After all, Misha and Vera were only eighteen years old—too young and inexperienced to settle down, and they were both just embarking on careers. Vera, as far as they were concerned, would someday make the perfect daughter-in-law, but they saw that day but dimly, in the distant future, after Misha's name was made and his career flourished.
Ivan and Tatiana Bunim, on the other hand, had no objection to Vera and Misha becoming friends, but the idea of a romance between the two was repugnant. If their beautiful daughter wanted to have a sexual dalliance with the young emigre—if she thought of sex with him as one might think of an after-dinner mint—fine. But the Bunims would be shocked to learn of a budding romance between the two young people. For Misha Levin, with all his fine attributes, was, as far as they were concerned, not marriage material for their daughter.
Though he was a Jew of Russian extraction, he was straight off the boat, so to speak. They felt a powerful need to distance themselves as much as possible from the shtetls of Mother Russia. In the inevitable pecking order that was intrinsic to international society, Ivan and Tatiana had always known—indeed, much to their chagrin—that they didn't rank at the very top echelon and never would, no matter how hard they tried, no matter how much money they made and gave away. They were determined, however, that Vera would be accepted into this tier above them. In order for that to happen, she must marry exceedingly well.
If the groom-to-be was to be Jewish—and this was not a consideration of any importance to the Bunims—then it was imperative that he be a Jew of German extraction, and vastly rich. A Russian Jew would simply not do, looked down upon by Jews in international society as they were.
All of this and more Vera had gradually revealed to Misha during the last few weeks as they had become more and more familiar with each other, slowly becoming friends as well as lovers.
Vastly rich, Misha thought, rinsing his long black hair in the shower. That was, of course, the number one requirement for any prospective mate for Vera Bunim, regardless of religious background or country of origin.
He laughed aloud.
Rules me out, he thought. I'll certainly never be rich enough, not the kind of money they're thinking about. And I'll never be anything but Russian.
Well, he didn't really care right now. He turned the shower off and stepped out, grabbing a towel and starting to dry off.
It's all just as well, he thought, vigorously toweling his muscular legs. They can have all their stupid social prejudices. Because I'm sure not ready to settle down yet. I want to experience everything there is out there before I commit myself to anyone. Even someone like Vera.
His athletic body dry now, he dried his hair with the towel and shaved and brushed his teeth. Looking in the bathroom mirror, he liked what he saw reflected there and understood why women liked it, too. Vera included.
And, he thought, smiling at his image, I'd like to have a whole lot more of that appreciative female attention before I get tied down with anybody.
Walking back into the bedroom, he opened the closet door and began searching for just the right thing to wear for tonight's date. He liked to dress carefully for Vera, even if it was for the most casual occasion, because of his own innate sense of pride and vanity, and because Vera herself always made a special effort for him.
Besides, he thought, there probably won't be too many more nights like this before I leave. Before I'm off touring the world, playing my music, meeting all kinds of women.
He put on a lightweight white linen Armani shirt—it showed off his tanned and glowing skin—and well-worn but pristine Levi's, snug ones that accentuated his body in all the right places. No underwear or socks, he decided, just the brown suede Gucci loafers and brown Barry Kieselstein-Cord belt, all topped off with his navy blue double-breasted blazer made of featherweight pashmina.
He looked in the full-length bedroom mirror and decided he looked cool. Real cool. Cosmopolitan yet casual. Fine for an informal summer dinner at a trendy restaurant and .... ?
He didn't yet know. It depended on whether or not they had a place to go.
With that thought he made a grimace of distaste. His mind had come full circle, right back to the issue that preoccupied his mind so much lately. He needed his own space, away from his parents, where he could do anything he pleased, when he pleased.
"Ah, shit," he said aloud, frowning now. Maybe ...maybe I should just bite the bullet and go ahead and broach the subject with Dad. And Mama, too. See what they have to say.
He glanced at his watch. Almost seven o'clock. He had plenty of time to talk to them before meeting Vera at eight-thirty. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Arkady, he prayed, putting his hands together in a prayerful gesture, please be there for me tonight. Please, please, please! Be there for me now.
He went downstairs to the living room, where he saw Dmitri, sitting, his feet up on an ottoman, reading the New York Times. Summer light, coming through the enormous windows, suffused the double-height room with a soft glow. Sonia was not there. She was most likely in the kitchen, he supposed.
"Misha," Dmitri said, looking up from his newspaper. "Are you going out, son? You look nice. Where're you off to tonight?"
"Vera and I are going out to dinner," Misha replied, "and maybe take in a movie or something."
"Good," Dmitri said. "You two must be having fun together, huh?"
"Yes," Misha said, somewhat resentful of the question. He'd really rather not discuss his friendship with Vera—or anyone else—with his father.
Sonia walked into the room, a dishtowel in hand. "I thought I heard you," she said. She looked at him. "All dressed up, I see," she said. "Or sort of," she amended. "No tie, old jeans. Oh, and no socks! Is this a trend?"
"I don't know," Misha replied somewhat sullenly. "But it's me."
"Okay, okay," Sonia demurred. "It's you. I meant no offense, Misha." She paused, studying her son's face. "Off to see Vera?" she asked finally.
"Yes," he said.
"How nice," Sonia said with a smile, "that the two of you have become friends."
"Yeah," Misha said, "it is." He stood there a moment longer, trying to decide what to do. Broach the subject now or not? Then he took a seat in a chair near his father. Might as well get it over with, he thought. What's to lose?
"I wanted to discuss something
with the two of you," he said.
Sonia heard the earnest tone of his voice and immediately sat down on a couch, wondering what he needed to talk about. Was he in trouble of some sort? Could he be getting cold feet about performing? Whatever it was, it must be serious, she thought, because Misha hadn't been discussing much of anything with the two of them lately.
"We're listening, Misha," Dmitri said. "You know you can tell us anything, son."
Misha looked at his father, then his mother, and took a deep breath. "I don't know how to say this," he said, "but lately I've been feeling like ... well, like ... I don't have enough privacy. I'm eighteen now, and beginning a new life. You know I love you both very much and appreciate how wonderful you've been to me."
He paused a moment, hanging his head, as if embarrassed by his honest expression of his love for them, his hands folded together between his knees.
"I just ... I just ...feel . . ." he began.
"You want a place of your own, don't you?" Sonia said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Misha's head jerked up, and he looked at her wide- eyed. "I... I guess ... that's ... what... I..." he said.
Sonia rose to her feet and went to the chair in which he sat. She perched on its overstuffed arm, sliding an arm of hers around her son's shoulder and hugging him. She patted his back and mussed his hair, then leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead.
"Misha, Misha," she said. "You mustn't underestimate your mama. Nor your dad. And you mustn't be afraid or nervous, ever, to talk to us."
He looked up at her with his dark eyes.
"Of course it's time you got your own place," Sonia continued. "As much as we hate to see you go, as much as we'll miss you sometimes."
Would this woman never fail to surprise him? "Do you really mean it, Mama?" he asked quietly, a look of wonder on his face.
"Yes," Sonia said. "Why else would I have talked to real estate agents already? Why else would I have already seen the perfect place for you in the Hotel des Artistes?"
"You've got to be kidding," he said in amazement.
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