She did smile, and dazzlingly, her eyes brightening with possibilities. His reassurances made her feel with more certainty that she wasn't simply a passing fancy that he would soon forget.
"Just think," he said softly. "You and I, Serena. We can make love all over the world."
The wake-up call was a shrill, unwelcome end to the short sleep they had managed after a night of lusty acrobatics. Their lovemaking had been all the more frenzied, knowing that they would have to part come morning. They knew the early call was coming, of course, but they couldn't control the overwhelming sexual pull they had on each other. It was almost as if they had become enslaved to their desires.
"Do you want to take a quick shower?" Misha asked, half-awake, his arms wrapped around her.
"No," Serena said, shaking her head. Then she whispered into his ear: "I want to smell you on me all the way to Paris."
He grinned conspiratorially. "Then I won't either."
After they had dressed, Misha insisted on taking her to Ruzyne Airport to catch her flight to Paris.
"You don't have to do that, Misha," she protested.
"I won't have it any other way," he asserted. "I want to spend every minute with you possible."
She hugged him fiercely. "You're almost too good to be true," she said.
"So are you, Serena," he replied solemnly.
They made it to the airport, and her flight was announced almost immediately.
"I'd better board," she said, reluctant to let go of his hand.
"Good-bye, Serena," he said. "I'll see you very soon."
Serena laughed mirthlessly. "It'd better be."
He leaned over and kissed her chastely on the lips. "I love you," he whispered.
"I love you, too," she said breathlessly. Then she turned and disappeared into the tunnel of the jetway quickly, so he couldn't see the tears that were beginning to form in her eyes.
Misha stared after her long, lithe body until she was gone from his sight, then turned and left the airport. On the ride back in to Prague, he looked out through the limousine's windows unseeingly, so preoccupied with thoughts of Serena was he. He already felt her loss like a great emptiness inside him, a monstrous hunger that he somehow knew wouldn't go away. But how could that be? he wondered. For it suddenly occurred to him that he'd known her for only two days.
Two days, he marveled. Only two short days, but it seems like I've known her all my life. And it was with a sense of wonderment that he realized: We're already planning a future together. We're lovers.
Misha was packed and ready to leave on the night flight to New York, but he had one more stop he wanted to make before heading out to the airport once again. He gave the chauffeur his instructions, and Jan drove the limousine toward the Prague Ghetto. Misha had thought about taking Serena there yesterday but had decided that this was one visit he wanted to make alone.
In the ghetto, he gazed out the car window at the buildings along Siroka Street, Cervena, Maiselova, Jachymova, and Dusni. He peered with curiosity at the house where Rabbi Low, the famed and much-storied golem maker, had once lived. He saw the Gothic Old-New Synagogue, Maisel Synagogue, and the High Synagogue.
At the Old Jewish Cemetery he had Jan pull over and stop. Misha slid out of the limousine and stood, looking around in amazement at the ancient graveyard, where headstones—over twelve thousand of them—were scattered helter-skelter in the small space, some atop others, many falling down, more than a few in disrepair.
He took a few steps into the cemetery, then stopped, reluctant to go any farther. He had traveled the world and seen many things, but he didn't know if he had ever seen anyplace that was as overwhelming, as haunting, as this.
As his heart swelled with sadness, his mind was suddenly aswirl with memories, and his thoughts turned, inevitably, to Mariya and Arkady, his old friends in Moscow. They were now long gone, and he wondered about their graves, if anyone ever visited them and if they were well kept. He then had the shameful realization that he hadn't thought about them—those precious and revered friends of his youth—for a very long time.
His career, his pursuit of fame and glory in the world of classical music, and his tireless nighttime pursuit of pleasure—his work and play—had obsessed him for so long that he had virtually forgotten his old mentors. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him, remembering that for a long time he had failed to even notice, much less stroke or kiss, the mezuzah he'd bought to replace the old one that Arkady had entrusted to him.
He walked farther into the cemetery, then stopped again. Tears were beginning to form in his large dark eyes. He bowed his head.
Arkady, he intoned as if in prayer, forgive me for failing to think of you. For neglecting your memory, and Mariya's. I am back now, beside you, and I need your blessings more than ever. And your help, Arkady. For I have found a woman. The woman, Arkady. And I must have her. She must be mine.
Chapter Twenty-three
"How many times have I told you, Manny?" Misha stormed thunderously. His brows were knit in fury, and his lips were curled into an ugly snarl.
He jumped to his feet and flung the musical score he'd been studying behind him. It struck the piano, then fluttered to the jewel-toned Persian rug at his feet.
When Manny didn't respond immediately, Misha lashed out again, his voice even louder and harsher. "I will not perform in Moscow! Not ever! I will not perform anywhere in Russia!" He glared at his agent, his body quivering with rage.
Sasha sat in a corner, observing the scene quietly, seemingly unperturbed by Misha's reaction.
Manny pulled a crisp white linen handkerchief from his rear trouser pocket and began nervously polishing the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses. His pudgy fingers moved jerkily, ineffectively, but he continued nevertheless, displacing his anxiety onto his expensive glasses.
"I ... I just thought ...," he stammered.
"You thought what?" Misha shouted.
Before Manny could reply, Misha lasered him with his dark eyes and lashed out again. "I'll tell you what! Nothing! That's what you thought! Nothing! Zero! Zilch!"
He began pacing, an accusatory finger pointed at Manny punctuating his words. "You know why? Because you weren't thinking! If you had been, you wouldn't even have mentioned the possibility of me playing in Russia!"
Manny stood, hands folded behind his back, observing Misha's theatrical pacing. He had been shamefaced at first, but now he was becoming increasingly angry as the abuse continued to be heaped on him. Nor did he like Sasha seeing him upbraided like this. At the same time, he realized that he had to do everything in his power to placate his star client. Oh, yes. He had to be very careful in the way he handled the primary source of his bread and butter. Failed pianists, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, can make a good living off of successful ones.
"Misha," he finally managed in a calm, even tone. "I did think about it. And I thought that perhaps after all this time you might have changed your mind. It'll soon be twenty years since you left Russia."
Misha flopped down onto a suede-upholstered couch, sinking amid its antique silk-embroidered Turkish pillows. He put his head in his hands, shaking it from side to side.
"Manny," he said, looking up at him. His voice was quieter now, and his eyes looked weary. "I've told you how they took our home away from us. And everything in it. I've told you how they put us in a rundown project full of the worst kinds of people. Bums and whores and drunks. How they took all the privileges away from my parents. How they wouldn't let me study with the best instructors at the Moscow Conservatory. How they wouldn't let us emigrate for two years."
He paused, staring into Manny's eyes.
Manny sat down in a chair opposite him and folded his hands in his lap. "Yes, Misha," he replied. "You've told me all that many times, and I can understand the pain and suffering it caused you and your family. But don't you think it's time to let bygones be bygones? There's a whole new regime over there. The Wall's come down."
"I do
n't care," Misha said. "They treated my family like dirt. And I'm not going to perform in Russia, homeland or not!"
"But ... but think of all the money they're offering," Manny sputtered. "Jesus, Misha! You just don't turn down that kind of money."
Misha shot him a hard, level stare. "Maybe you don't, Manny, but I do."
"But. .. but...you'd get a hero's welcome," Manny continued excitedly. "Can't you see it? Former Russian citizen, mistreated by the Communists, welcomed back with open arms. It'd be great publicity. An international event. You couldn't buy publicity like that."
"I'm not going to be used as a poster boy for the new Russia," Misha replied. "So forget it, Manny. No way. Case closed."
Manny fidgeted in his chair. "Aw, Misha. I ... I just don't ...see—"
"Case closed," Misha roared, and slapped his hand down on the couch. He was glaring at Manny once again, his eyes wide, the veins in his forehead distended.
"Okay, okay," Manny said, backing down. He knew that he'd pushed too hard, and if he hoped to ever succeed, he'd better drop the subject quickly.
He pushed himself to his feet. "Sorry, Misha. I'm really sorry for upsetting you," he said. "I won't bring it up again."
"Don't!" Misha said.
"Well, we'd better be off," Manny said, injecting a jovial tone in his voice and glancing toward Sasha, who immediately got to his feet and stood ready to leave. Manny rubbed his hands together with anticipation. "Have some pressing business we need to take care of."
Misha made no movement to get up. "You can see yourself out," he said.
"Right," Manny said. "Well, cheerio, then, old chap. Later." He and Sasha turned and left the room.
Misha heard the apartment door close behind them. He sighed and stretched, then kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the couch, spreading out lengthwise. He stared up at the high ceiling, lost in thought.
Why is he pushing a Russian tour so hard? he wondered. Why won't he just give it up? He's been at me about it for the last four years, ever since the Berlin Wall came down.
He expelled a sigh as his gaze swept over the heights of the room. He could see from the changing light on the ceiling that the sun was beginning its descent in the west. I've soon got to get up and get ready to go see the folks, he realized.
As he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, though, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something strangely off-kilter about the pressure Manny was putting on him to perform in Moscow. There's something very fishy about it, he decided. Yes. Something definitely stinks. But what the hell is it?
Then, as if a magic wand had been waved across his path, he reached his bedroom, and his thoughts immediately turned to Serena. Manny, Sasha, and the Russian tour were completely forgotten as he remembered that she would be in New York tomorrow.
He nearly ached with anticipation when he looked at his bed, thinking that in twenty-four hours or less he and Serena would be curled up together there. His mind flashed on the enthralling beauty of her body, its elegant perfection and erotic possibilities. He felt the hunger for her again, that long raven hair, her generous lips and creamy breasts, her strong thighs and tight buttocks, and that glorious mound. He was shocked that his body became aroused at the mere thought of her.
He wondered if she ached with the same desire he did, if she still wanted him as much as she thought she had amid Prague's fairy-tale beauty. Then he remembered how they had whispered that they loved each other.
He slowly undressed, enjoying his body's arousal, wondering if what they felt for each other was really love or just a powerful chemical pull that was some sort of animal lust. As he stepped into the shower, he decided he didn't care what it was called. He would give himself up to it willingly, joyously, knowing that he had never felt anything like it before.
Sonia couldn't help smiling as she witnessed the scene across the dinner table. Misha and Vera sat side by side, engrossed in conversation, the rest of the world excluded from their intimate familiarity. They laughed with each other like children. Like the oldest and dearest of friends, Sonia thought. And maybe—dare she think?— maybe like lovers? Ah, if only, she told herself. For they were the most perfect young couple she had ever seen. Ideal for each other in every way.
She saw that Dmitri, too, had been observing them, if a bit less obviously, stealing a glance from time to time over his glass of wine. She knew that he shared her sentiments, for hadn't they discussed Misha and Vera often enough? But Dmitri would invariably point out that Misha and Vera had known each other for seven long years. Seven years during which their relationship had seemed to run hot and cold, and sometimes, perhaps more dangerously, lukewarm.
Lately, he'd pointed out that now they both had successful careers, plenty of money, and nothing that he could see to stand in the way of their marriage. He reasoned, therefore, that something was simply not clicking between them.
Sonia was nothing if not practical, and she knew that Dmitri was right on the mark. For her part, she felt certain that the only obstacle in the way of their perfect union was Misha's wandering eye. Her son wanted to sow his wild oats before settling down. But, she asked herself, how many wild oats could a young man have?
"Mama?" Misha was looking across the table at her with a grin.
Sonia suddenly became aware of his attention focused on her. "Yes, Misha," she said. "What is it?"
"Have we lost you?" he asked with amusement. He hadn't failed to notice his mother's smiling approval as she watched Vera and himself. And he knew exactly what was on her mind. Hadn't she made enough little hints over the years? She'd tried to be subtle, but subtlety was not Soma's strong suit.
"No, no," Sonia replied. "I was just thinking, Misha."
"What about?" he asked mischievously.
"Just ...things," she said evasively. Then she abruptly changed the subject. "Where're Manny and Sasha, by the way?" she asked. "I thought they were coming tonight. Then the secretary called and canceled for them."
"I don't know," Misha said, her question deflating his good humor. "I don't know what they're up to." There was a note of irritation in his voice.
"You sound a little unhappy with the dapper Mr. Cygelman," Vera said. "And his Arctic sidekick. What've they done now?"
"Yes," Sonia interjected. "What have they done?"
"It's not that they've done anything," Misha replied. "It's just that they keep harping on me about doing a tour in Russia. Working with some promoters they know over there. At least I think they're over there."
Sonia set her fork down on her plate with a clatter. "With Manny and that Sasha, who can tell?" she said derisively. "For all you know, it might be some of those awful gangsters we saw out in Brighton Beach. Have you thought about that?"
"Not really," Misha said. "How am I supposed to concentrate on my music and worry about the business end of things, too? Anyway, whoever these guys are, they're willing to pay an enormous amount of money to get me to do a Russian tour."
Sonia stared at her son, her brows knit together in concentration. "Misha, I haven't wanted to discuss this with you, but I think it's time you considered searching for a new agent. I think that Manny might be mixed up with—"
"Mama!" Misha broke in. "I think you have a vivid imagination. Manny and Sasha have done a fantastic job for me so far. I get booked into the best concert halls. I get dates playing with the greatest orchestras. I play the best festivals. And besides, the music company is flourishing. It's phenomenal. My CDs are selling like hotcakes, the distribution is fantastic, the publicity is first-rate. What more could I ask for?"
"I've wondered about all that," Vera said matter-of-factly.
"What do you mean?" Misha asked, turning to her.
"Well, it seems almost too perfect, Misha," Vera said, choosing her words carefully. "How do Manny and Sasha always, and I mean always, manage to book you into the best concert halls? Everybody in the music world knows that some of the places you play are hell to book. Top stars are kept waiting o
r even have to settle for less. And why are your CDs distributed better than nearly anyone else's? Why do they get the most prominent retail space in the stores? I'm not saying they don't deserve it. I'm just saying that it's very curious that from the very beginning this upstart company of Manny's and Sasha's has done what even major, well-established companies sometimes can't do for their artists."
"You should listen to Vera," Sonia said, nodding her head. "I can tell that she's been thinking along the same lines that I have."
Misha laughed. "Maybe the two of you have some special female intuition that men don't have." He was trying to make light of what they'd said, but in actuality he was afraid that they were zeroing in on potentially bothersome problems that had been worrying him as well. He simply hadn't wanted to think about them.
"I don't think female intuition has anything to do with it," Dmitri said, speaking up for the first time.
Everybody at the table turned to look at him.
"What are you saying, Dad?" Misha asked.
Dmitri cleared his throat, then spoke. "I agree with your mother, Misha. I think it's time that you looked for a new agent. Something is beginning to tell me that Manny and Sasha may not be altogether trustworthy."
"Are you saying this because of that one stupid dinner in Brighton Beach?" Misha asked. "Or is it because you think Manny and Sasha are lovers or something."
"No," Dmitri said, shaking his head. "Definitely not. I don't care if they're lovers, but I certainly don't like to think that Manny and Sasha are involved in any way with those people. Because"—he paused and looked into his son's eyes—"that involves you by association."
"I don't even know any of those people!" Misha countered defensively.
"You don't have to, son," Dmitri said. "At least for people to associate you with them in their minds." He cleared his throat again. "In any case, I'm not denying that Manny and Sasha have done a good job for you so far. But I think they've been awfully secretive, particularly regarding the recording business. Every time I broach the subject or try to ask questions, they brush me off. The long and short of it is, I smell a rat."
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