Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  "It's so good to see all of you," Vera said, smiling serenely. "There's someone here who can't wait to see you."

  "No," Misha said jokingly, "we refuse to speak to anyone else tonight. It's your night."

  Vera laughed lightly. "Come with me," she said. She took Misha's arm, and Manny and Sasha followed along. She led them over to a French settee where Sonia and Dmitri were sitting, engrossed in conversation with people Misha didn't know.

  Sonia looked up and could hardly control her cry of delight. "Misha! Oh, Misha!" She quickly got to her feet and threw her arms around him, peppering him with kisses.

  "Oh, I'm so glad to see you, you naughty boy!" she said, finally letting go of him. "You haven't even called since you got back to New York."

  Dmitri had gotten up and hugged his son, kissing both his cheeks. "Misha," he said. "It's so good to see you, son."

  "And Manny and Sasha," Sonia cried. "I'm blessed with all my Russian boys tonight!" She grabbed first

  Manny and then Sasha in embraces, peppering them with kisses, too.

  Vera watched, taking delight in their joy at seeing one another, and at the same time she was surprised to learn that Misha hadn't seen or called his parents since getting back to town. I wonder what that's all about, she asked herself. Maybe he's just been too busy. But too busy to see Sonia and Dmitri? No, no way. He's been up to something.

  The dinner was a feast of Olympian proportions that delighted both the eye and the palate. Served at a table set for thirty in the main dining room, it was a setting indeed fit for the Romanovs, the Russian imperial family the Bunims were often compared with. Baroque solid silver chandeliers lit with candles hung over the long table, which was decorated with massive arrangements of fragrant pale pink peonies, Russian silver candelabra with beeswax candles, and antique imperial Russian china, silver, and crystal. The table was surrounded by walls of hand-painted murals that depicted fantastical pastoral views of the grand palaces in and around St. Petersburg. Draperies at the French windows were hung with raspberry silk panels, trimmed with a classical Greek border woven of pure gold.

  Vera was toasted by her father, and then the dinner began. In this grand setting the guests were served Beluga Malossol caviar, smoked salmon, tiny quail, a risotto with truffles, paillards of veal, and a choice of dark chocolate mousse or, for those who had sworn off chocolate, strawberry and rhubarb cobbler with ginger ice cream. No less than six wines were served during the course of the meal, all of them of the finest and most expensive vintages, ending with a Chateau d'Yquem. Footmen in breeches and powdered wigs stood behind every chair to anticipate the needs of each guest.

  Manny was in seventh heaven, being the epicurean that he was, the deliciousness of the food such that it made up for the placement. For he had been seated next to Delia, Countess Dardley, who was well known for her sharp and evil tongue, a reputation that Manny decided during dinner was well deserved. Despite her venerable lineage and obviously brilliant mind, he decided that her outlook was of such a bleak and negative blackness that five minutes of her conversation was surely suicide- inducing, even to the most sophisticated of her dinner partners.

  Vera and Misha watched him with little smiles on their faces, occasionally catching his eye, giving him a quick, mischievous wink, sadistically relishing the torture they knew he must be enduring. They picked at their food, patiently sitting through the dinner, anxious for the ensuing after-dinner socializing with cigars and drinks and coffee to begin, because then they could steal away upstairs to be alone.

  Their patience eventually paid off, and while the other guests mixed and mingled in the apartment's various public rooms, Vera led him upstairs to the private terrace off her bedroom. There they looked out over the city, as they had the first night they met, sipping champagne and talking quietly about their careers.

  "I'll be researching and cataloging important French and Continental furniture," Vera said. "And some Old Masters paintings. But I'll also be trying to acquire furniture and paintings for the auction house to put on the block. With some of my family's friends, plus some of the people I've met in school over the years, I know quite a few people who have important collections or have inherited them."

  "So you'll try to steer them to Christie's to put their collections on the market?" Misha asked.

  "Exactly," she said. "In some cases it's easy. Either because the heirs hate the antiques and paintings and want to get rid of them, or they need the cash. Sometimes both."

  "You'll be great at it," Misha said.

  "I think so," Vera said. "I've learned a lot, and I love the work."

  "And you're starting right away?" Misha asked.

  She nodded. "Next week." She turned and looked at him. "But there aren't any auctions this summer, and things are a little slow. So I'll have plenty of free time. To do other things."

  Misha returned her look. "That's good," he said.

  Vera knew at once that he was holding out on her, that he wanted to tell her something but hadn't yet found the words—or the courage.

  "Let's go sit for a while," she said, turning and walking to the couches under the awning. Misha followed her.

  The scene of our first lovemaking, he remembered. Six long years ago.

  They sat down, sipping their champagne in silence for a while. Finally, Misha set his flute down. "Vera," he said, "I wanted to talk about ...well, our future."

  She looked at him with a cool expression, which belied the turmoil she felt inside. "Go on, Misha," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "What do you have to say?"

  "Well, I don't know exactly how to put it," he said. "I want you to know that I love you." He looked into her icy blue eyes, such hard eyes to read, certainly in this light. "You're the best friend I've ever had, you know that?"

  "I guess so, Misha," she said softly. "I know you're the best friend I've ever had."

  "It's just that ...well, remember when we talked before you went to London and I left to start touring? And I told you I was confused. That I didn't really know how I felt about you?"

  "Yes," Vera said, nodding. "I remember every detail, Misha."

  "Well," he said gently, taking a hand of hers in his. "I still feel pretty much the same way. I love you, Vera. As a friend. But I don't know if I'm in love with you. Do you understand that?"

  "Yes," Vera said, hoping that he didn't hear the fear and the sorrow in her voice.

  "I don't know what I want to do yet," he said. "I just don't feel like I'm ready to settle down. For the last six years I've worked like a maniac, playing concert after concert, hardly taking a break. I think what I want now is time alone, to think things through, to try to sort out the confusion in my head. Do you understand?"

  Vera nodded, and looked up at him. "I do, Misha," she said. "Perfectly." She shrugged. "I guess it would be good for both of us to spend time alone, thinking about what we really want, where we really want our lives to go."

  "Yes," Misha said. "I just don't want you to misunderstand me. I'll always love you. I love you like a ...like a sister."

  Vera's eyes bored into his for long moments, their iciness penetrating him with a chill. "Well," she finally said, "I hope you wouldn't fuck your sister, if you had one, like you did me."

  Misha almost gasped, then he blurted a bark of a laugh.

  Vera's icy demeanor didn't change. She sat staring at him with that unrelenting gaze. Then, gradually her face melted, and she began to laugh, too, her laughter building into an uproarious, joyful sound, joined by Misha's now carefree full-throated roar. They collapsed upon each other, hugging and kissing in their laughter, until finally Vera drew back, wiping the mirthful tears from her eyes.

  "You're unbelievable!" Misha said, taking a hand of hers in his. "The greatest!"

  "Well, do you want to have an old-fashioned roll in the hay before you say good-bye?" she asked in a playful voice. Oh, God, I hope he doesn't hear the desperation in my voice, she thought.

  Misha froze. That would only lead
her on, he thought, giving her false hope. I can't do it. I've got to make the break now! After a moment he shook his head. "I don't think it would be a good idea, Vera."

  "Okay," she said. "Don't look so forlorn. I was only kidding." If only, she wanted to cry.

  "I hope nothing else changes between us, Vera," Misha said. "I hope everything can be the same. I mean, that we can still be best friends and all."

  Does that mean with or without the screwing? she wanted to scream.

  "I hope so, too, Misha," she said. "I would like that very much. Anyway, you know where I am if you need me."

  "Yes," he said. "And you know where I am." He squeezed her hand.

  She looked into his eyes. "Why don't you go back down to the party now, Misha?" she said. "You've hardly seen your parents."

  "What about you?" he asked.

  "I think I'll stay up here a few more minutes," she said. "Have a little more of the bubbly. Alone." She patted his cheek with a hand. "You don't mind? I just need a few minutes of privacy."

  "No," he said. "Not at all. You'll be down soon?"

  "Yes," she said. "Now, off you go! Scat!"

  Misha got to his feet and leaned over to kiss her. She turned a cheek to him, and he kissed it chastely. "Now, scat!" she said again, and he turned and went back inside.

  The moment he passed through the French doors into her bedroom, her tears began to flow. They were profuse, unstopping, for she thought her heart had been wrenched in two and would never be whole again. She had never loved anyone like she had loved Misha, not from the moment that she first laid eyes on him. She couldn't explain it. It wasn't rational. But it had happened, nevertheless. And now she didn't see how she could ever be happy with anybody else.

  But a voice somewhere in her mind told her not to give up, not to do anything rash. If she continued to wait, if she kept alive her undying love for Misha, then he would come back. He would sort out his confused feelings. He would decide he had to have her.

  She got up and went into her bedroom and dried her tears, then went into the bathroom to check her makeup. Her eyes were a dead giveaway, but she could hide some of the damage with makeup. Ten minutes later, she had worked a magician's feat, repairing her face to its earlier serene and glowing perfection.

  She looked at herself closely. I've always had everything in the world that most people could want, she thought. And I've never had to work for it. I have worked at pleasing my parents, at keeping myself fit, at doing well in school, and I will work hard in my career. Now I must work hard, harder than I've ever worked in my life, to keep Misha. Or to get him back, if I ever had him.

  I am not going to play the grieving girlfriend. No. I am not going to make scenes or throw tantrums. No. Hurl accusations, place blame. No. Nor am I ever going to throw myself at him again.

  What I am going to do, is be my cool, intelligent self, keeping busy, quietly waiting. Let him continue to sow his oats. Be there when he comes running back. Offer succor, not punishment.

  Because I want him, Vera thought. And I'm going to have him.

  She turned from the mirror and went back downstairs to the party in her honor, greeting her guests with poise, charming them all, her serene demeanor giving away nothing of what had just transpired.

  No one noticed the broken heart that bled so copiously in her chest.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Misha closed the score of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 1, op. 11, the famous "Moonlight" portion, adagio sostenuto, which he had been practicing. He felt energized with adrenaline despite the long, grueling hours of work he had put in. Two three-hour shifts after a morning workout, with a brief break for lunch. Pushing back from the piano, he got up and stretched. That's when he remembered the telephone call he'd had earlier in the day.

  Perfect timing, he thought with a smile.

  He went to his desk, where he flipped through his black alligator date book, looking to see what, if anything, he had scheduled for tonight. He'd been so busy practicing during the day, learning new pieces and expanding his repertoire, then going out every night that he had to rely on his date book to keep his schedule straight.

  Yelena had telephoned to say that she was coming into town, then right out again. So if he saw her, it would have to be tonight. She was going to be modeling during the day, doing a photo shoot for Vogue.

  Looking at tonight's slot in his book, he saw that he'd penned in: Christina. Late dinner. Life. Christina was a beauty he'd met during intermission at the ballet. Life was the hottest dance club du jour.

  Jesus, he thought. What am I going to do?

  Christina was a bubbly dark-haired beauty, lots of fun, with a slightly roly-poly but voluptuous body that ought to be in pictures. Porno pictures maybe, not Vogue.

  Yelena, on the other hand, was a very tall, skinny Russian model, with drop-dead bone structure, legs that didn't stop, and looks that literally stopped traffic. She also had the soul of a hit man.

  Neither one of them was a brain surgeon exactly, Elton John being the only piano player they'd ever heard of. But that doesn't always matter, does it? Misha told himself.

  So who is it to be?

  Dance-with-her-till-she-drops, then fuck-her-till-she- screams Christina? Or the steel-thighed, kinky-minded Yelena?

  Well, he reasoned, he could see Christina almost anytime. She lived down in Tribeca, was unattached, and was very much a free spirit. She went out nearly every night of the week, so she probably wouldn't be too upset if he canceled out on her. She would just pick up the telephone and call any number of readily available escorts.

  Yelena, then. She would only be here tonight, and it had been months since their last date, a date that he didn't think he'd ever forget. The acrobatics had been exhausting but memorable.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed the number she had left, some photographer's studio downtown where the shoot was taking place. When he finally got through to her, she told him to meet her at the Morgan Hotel on Madison Avenue, where she was staying. She'd probably be there by nine o'clock.

  "I've got a surprise for you," he told her.

  "Oh, and what's that?" she asked in her heavily accented English.

  "You'll see," Misha said mysteriously. "But I think you're going to like it."

  "Come on, Misha," she said, "tell me!"

  "A new toy, that's all I'll say," he said. "See you at nine."

  He hung up the receiver and looked at his watch. Six o'clock. Plenty of time to get cleaned up, dressed, and wow her with his surprise.

  Misha strutted down the street to the garage, feeling like he had the world on a string. He was wearing tight Levi's, his new motorcycle jacket, and biker boots. Had his shiny new helmet in hand. A new breed of urban cowboy.

  In the garage, he fired up his new Harley-Davidson soft-tail, all gleaming chrome and black paint. A recent purchase he'd kept secret from everyone. His parents and Manny and Vera would have been apoplectic had they known, envisioning his lifeless body on the roadside and a brilliant career gone down the drain.

  Well, what they don't know won't hurt them, he told himself. I'm twenty-four years old, and it's high time I had some real fun.

  Since he had time, he decided to head downtown on the West Side Highway, then cruise back uptown on the East Side to the Morgan. He headed west, across town, and hit the highway, going south, doing seventy miles an hour, exhilarated by the speed and the wind on his body. The mayor and his crackdown on speed could shove it! At West Twenty-third Street, he stopped at the light and decided to take a left and head straight across town to Madison Avenue. When he got the green arrow, he turned, and—

  Jesus!

  A car in the turn lane next to him—the same car that had been speeding down the West Side Highway alongside him—was veering into him. Headed straight for him.

  What the—?

  Misha opened the throttle and gave the bike gas, swerving to avoid the car, but he was too late. He saw the car veer closer, its side looming impossi
bly large in his visor, and he knew at that moment that he was going to be hit.

  It was all over.

  He gradually drifted up, up, up from under the thick, gauzy cloud that seemed to have a grip on his consciousness. First he heard sounds in the distance, not certain what they were, then slowly became aware of a faint, diffuse sort of light. In the beginning even its dimness was too bright for his unadjusted eyes, becoming bearable only after long minutes of trying to focus.

  The world was a blur of cottony white, pale greens, and a yellowy beige, with indistinct definition. Then the sounds began to make sense: the glint of metal against metal, the squishing of rubber soles on tile, doors opening and closing, a PA system paging names he couldn't make out.

  Struggling to think, to force himself up out of the lethargy that had him in its hold, he gradually became aware of his limbs and tried to move his arms.

  A bolt of excruciating pain, like a charge of lightning, shot up his arm, and a subsequent throb in his head engulfed his entire skull in the white-hot heat of agony. His body broke out into a sweat so profuse that it soaked the bedsheets, and he gasped for air.

  What's wrong? he wondered.

  Where the hell am I?

  The jolt of pain had brought him fully awake, if still a bit disoriented, and he moved only his eyes, searching his surroundings.

  A hospital room. But where? What hospital? And why?

  The door swished open, and he heard rubber soles squeaking on the tile. Suddenly a nurse loomed over him.

  "We're awake, I see," she said, fiddling with IV lines at the side of his bed.

  Misha could see that she had gray hair, cut very short, almost like a man's, with more than a hint of mustache to match. She looked like a woman who would not suffer fools gladly.

  "Where ...?" he rasped, then tried to clear his throat. "Where am ...I?" he finally managed.

  "St. Vincent's," the nurse replied, removing the wrapper from a disposable thermometer.

  "Where?" he asked again.

  "St. Vincent's Hospital," she replied in a matter-of-fact voice. "In the Village. Greenwich Village. Here," she said, "open up for me." She held the thermometer positioned at his mouth.