Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  Misha looked at his father thoughtfully. "I'll talk to them about it," he promised. "But I'm not going to fire them now. They've been with me since the beginning, and I owe them my allegiance."

  Sonia emitted an audible sigh. "So what are you going to do about this Russian tour?" she asked.

  "I'm not going to do it," Misha said.

  "Well, it's up to you, Misha," she said. "You know we'll back you up whatever your decision is."

  "Thanks, Mama," he said.

  "But I do hope you'll give a new agent some thought," she added.

  "You're not going to give up, are you?" Misha said.

  "Not on your life, young man," she said.

  After dinner, Misha hailed a taxi on Central Park South, and he and Vera slid in. He gave the driver Vera's address, and the taxi sped off toward the East Side.

  "You want to come in for a nightcap?" Vera asked.

  Misha was looking out the window distractedly and didn't answer her for a moment. "I don't think so, Vera," he finally replied. "I ...I—"

  She patted his arm. "Misha, you don't have to explain yourself to me. It's Vera, remember?"

  He drew his gaze in and smiled at her. "I know," he said. "And I'm really glad to see you. You know, your letters and telephone calls practically keep me alive while I'm on tour."

  "Yours make a big difference to me, too," she said. But they don't replace you, she thought.

  "We'll have to get together alone," he said, "before I leave again."

  "That would be great, Misha," Vera said. "If you've got the time."

  "I'm just sort of bushed tonight," he said. "I want to hit the sack." I've got to get ready for Serena's arrival tomorrow, he thought.

  "You just need a good night's rest," Vera said. He never has to go to bed early if there's something he really wants to do, she thought. I wonder what's really up?

  "I guess so," he replied.

  The driver pulled up in front of the town house where Vera's apartment was, and Misha started to get out.

  "I can get inside safely, Misha," Vera said.

  "No," he insisted. "I'll walk you to the door." He turned to the driver. "Wait here, please. I'll just be a minute."

  He walked Vera to the door. She took her key out and turned to him. "Good night, Misha," she said. "Call if you get a chance." I can't push him, she thought, or he'll run away.

  "I will," he promised. He leaned over and kissed her chastely on the cheek. "Talk to you later." He turned and rushed back to the waiting taxi.

  If only I could talk to her, he thought. If only I could tell her about Serena. Tell her about the love of my life.

  He suddenly realized that Vera was the best friend he had, but she was the last person in the world he could tell about Serena.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When Misha saw Serena emerge from the Customs area, he could swear that his heart skipped a beat. He had never known what that meant. Nor would he have even believed such a physical manifestation of romantic anticipation was possible. His body's response to the sight of Serena, however—her long black hair, dark glasses, chic trim black pants suit and high-heeled boots—had made him a firm believer.

  She didn't see him, and he called to her. "Serena! Over here!"

  She turned her elegant head toward him and took off her dark glasses. Misha was gratified to see her generous lips immediately spread into a smile as genuine as his own.

  "Misha!" she called back, heading in his direction.

  He held his arms out, and she went into them, returning his hug. He thrilled at the touch of her and her unique scent, an exotic blend of musk and citrus and the mysterious Far East.

  She kissed him on both cheeks, airily, he thought, as if they were friends, not lovers. But he soon knew why.

  "Misha," she said, drawing away from him, "this is Coral Randolph, my agent."

  Misha looked over and saw a painfully thin woman somewhere in her middle years, her age difficult to ascertain. She had shiny jet black hair, like shoe polish, he thought, parted down the middle and severely cut in a short page boy. It contrasted almost grotesquely with her white-powdered skin and plum-hued lipstick. Her eyebrows were plucked to thin arches, if not entirely penciled on.

  "How do you do?" Misha said to her, extending a hand. He had expected Serena to be alone and was disappointed that this strange woman was with her, but he tried not to let his feelings show.

  Coral Randolph took his proffered hand and shook it with surprising strength. He noticed that hers was very long and thin, her nails perfectly manicured and lacquered the same plum shade as her lips. She wore an enormous pearl set in gold on one finger.

  She looked him directly in the eye. Her gaze was intense and appraising and, he thought, absolutely fearless.

  "It's a pleasure, Misha," Coral said in an eastern boarding school voice. "Serena's told me so much about you, and of course I know your beautiful playing quite well."

  "Thank you," Misha said.

  "Look," Serena said excitedly. "There's Sal!"

  Misha looked over to see a young lady approaching them. Her hair was cut like a man's, and she wore an expensive-looking man-tailored suit, complete with a tie.

  "Sally Parker, Misha Levin," Coral said quickly, by way of introduction. "Sally's my assistant."

  Sally nodded but ignored Misha's extended hand. "Hey, guys," she said. "Let's get a move on. I'm double-parked."

  She had the voice and manner of John Wayne, Misha thought.

  Serena and Coral turned and started to follow her.

  "But . . ." Misha began.

  "What is it?" Serena asked, smiling.

  "I thought you'd ride back in with me," he said. "I have a limo waiting."

  "Oh, God!" Serena said. "I didn't think. Sal always picks us up. Why don't you ride with us? Just get rid of your driver."

  "It won't take a minute," Misha said. "I'll meet you right out front. Okay?" Damn, he thought, no necking on the way back into the city.

  "Shake a leg," Sally/Sal said.

  Misha rushed out of the terminal and down to the curb where his limousine was parked. He quickly paid the driver, tipping him generously, and dismissed him, then rushed back up the sidewalk to where the three women stood waiting for him.

  "What about your luggage?" Misha asked.

  "Oh, we Fed Exed everything from Paris," Serena said. "It's so much easier that way. Ready?"

  "Yes," Misha said.

  "Let's get in," Serena said.

  The car was a vintage Phantom V Rolls-Royce, an immense, shining black presence at the curbside.

  "My God, it's magnificent," Misha enthused.

  "It's Coral's," Serena said, opening the door and sliding onto the backseat's luxurious and aromatic black leather. Coral slid in after her, and Misha got in next to Serena on the other side.

  "So it's yours, Coral," Misha said, his eyes sweeping the interior of the car appreciatively.

  "By default," Coral said. "Actually, it was my step- grandmother's. My grandfather gave it to her, and the old dear left it to me."

  "All set?" Sally/Sal asked from the driver's seat.

  "Yes," Coral said. "And Sal?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Please don't drive too fast on the way into the city. Okay?"

  "You got it," Sally/Sal said.

  As they drove into Manhattan, Misha found it difficult to keep his hands off Serena. He gathered from her somewhat ladylike distance that this was not the time or the place for any touchy-feely games. With Coral, the vampire, on the other side, and John Wayne in the driver's seat, he thought, I guess I'd better restrain my natural impulse to ravage Serena here on the backseat.

  Sally/Sal dropped Coral off at her apartment building in the east Sixties at Fifth Avenue. Just the sort of address she would have, Misha thought, at least from the looks of her. World-class shopper, world-class breeding and taste, and probably a patient of world-class plastic surgeons, psychiatrists, nutritionists, and personal trainers.

&nbs
p; They rolled majestically down Fifth Avenue to Fourteenth Street, then went crosstown and rolled down Seventh Avenue, eventually pulling up in front of Serena's SoHo loft building.

  "See ya, Sal," Serena said as they slid out of the Rolls-Royce.

  "Yeah," Sally/Sal said. "See ya later, Serena."

  As the big car rolled away, Serena and Misha entered the lobby of her building. It had obviously been expensively renovated, but there was no doorman.

  In the elevator, Misha turned to her, and they fell into each other's arms, kissing passionately, hungrily, desperately, making up for the torturous wait while driving into the city. When the elevator car stopped at Serena's floor, they were in a clinch and didn't part for a few moments.

  They finally entered Serena's vast loft, which was both her photography studio and home, and made a beeline for the bedroom. Without preamble they rapidly undressed, tossing their clothes on the floor. They fell onto the bed, devouring each other with an urgency and need born of long absence.

  Later, much later, they lay entwined in each other's arms, whispering in the near-darkness, sipping glasses of wine that Serena had gotten in the kitchen.

  "How long are you here for?" Misha asked her.

  "Two days," Serena said. "Two days of back-to-back meetings. Then I'm off to Helsinki for a shoot. Three or four days shooting models in furs."

  "Damn," Misha said.

  "What?" she asked.

  "I'm going to be here the rest of the week, then I'm off to Berlin for a performance," he said.

  "Well, maybe . . ." she said teasingly, "maybe I can fit you in between meetings tomorrow and the next day. Huh? What do you say?"

  Misha laughed. "You need to ask?" He pulled her closer, hugging her tightly. "You couldn't cancel some meetings while I'm here? So we could spend more time together?"

  Serena pulled away from him. "No way," she said in a firm voice.

  Misha saw the cross look on her face. "Okay, Serena," he said. "I just wondered."

  "Remember one thing, Misha," she said. "My career takes precedence over everything else. I don't miss meetings or assignments. There are lots and lots of photographers out there waiting in line to take my place."

  "I understand," he said.

  "Good," she said, "because that's the way it is."

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Don't worry," he said. "My career's the same way. I really do understand."

  "I hope you do," she said mildly. Then more playfully: "We'll have the next two nights, Misha. Just think! Just you and me."

  The next two nights were perhaps, Misha thought, the loneliest and most miserable he'd ever spent. On Thursday, they were to have met at her loft at nine, after her day was finished. Serena telephoned him around eight to tell him she probably wouldn't be through work before midnight. It was a model emergency, she said. About eleven, she had called to say it would be more like two or three in the morning before she could get home. He hadn't questioned her or argued with her, but she heard the disappointment in his voice.

  "I hate this, too," she said. "But there's nothing I can do about it. Tamara and Justine, two of the models for the fur shoot, have vanished into thin air. We're finding replacements."

  "Vanished?" he replied.

  "Well," Serena said flippantly, "they've probably run off to St. Bart's with some coked-up rich guys."

  Friday was a replay of Thursday. He waited on pins and needles to see her, then ultimately gave up in the middle of the night. Their last conversation was at 2:30 A.M. Friday morning.

  "Sal's taking me to Kennedy at seven, so you go to bed," Serena had said.

  "I can take you," he insisted.

  "That's ridiculous," Serena said. "You need your rest."

  "You haven't gotten any yourself," he said testily.

  "I can sleep in the car on the way out to the airport and on the plane," she said.

  "I hate this," Misha said.

  "I told you there would be times like this," Serena said evenly. "I can't help it, Misha. It's part of the job."

  "I know," he said with weary resignation.

  "Listen," she said, "we'll be together again soon. And I can hardly wait."

  "Me, either, Serena," he said.

  When they finally hung up, he was sorely dissatisfied. At the same time, he began to fantasize about the next time he would see her, would hold her in his arms, would inhale her intoxicating perfume. It wouldn't be too long.

  "Manny," Misha said, "I wanted to have a little talk before I leave for Berlin." They were seated in Misha's sumptuous living room, drinking freshly brewed coffee that Misha had brought in from the kitchen.

  "What's going on, old chap?" Manny asked. He was in a particularly expansive mood today. Several new suits had arrived from his tailors in London this morning, and to top it off, the Jaguar XJ6 convertible he'd had on order had been delivered just before he came over to Misha's. British racing green with a tan rag top. Just the ticket. It would look appropriately sporty, sitting alongside the more sedate black Mercedes in the garage beneath the apartment building where he'd bought the penthouse, complete with wraparound terraces and views of the entire city and New Jersey and Long Island beyond.

  "Well, you know I don't know very much about Brighton Beach Recordings, Inc.," Misha said. "And I think it's time for you to give me a brief on it."

  "A brief?" Manny said, somewhat startled. "But you have copies of all your contracts, and I drew them up myself, so you know they're kosher, Misha. And you're getting very handsome advances and royalty rates—as stipulated in the contracts."

  Manny paused and took a sip of his coffee, looking at Misha over his tortoiseshell glasses. Misha was studying him intently, but Manny couldn't read his expression.

  "You've also got copies of your royalty statements for the last few years," Manny continued, "and if I say so myself, I don't think anybody could have made more money for you than Brighton Beach."

  He sat with a pleased expression that Misha recognized as a cover-up for the discomfort that he was actually feeling.

  "It's not the money so much," Misha said, "or the contracts and royalty statements. My father has had all of those examined by an independent entertainment attorney." Misha noticed that a flicker of alarm crossed Manny's features, but it was quickly replaced by a mask, this one of the indulgent listener. "Anyway, Elliot Lufkin went through everything, and he assures Dad that everything is in order there."

  Manny nodded. "I'm gratified that so famous an attorney would think so," he said, "but I still don't understand why you ... or your father went to the trouble. Don't you trust me, Misha? Or Sasha?"

  Misha was silent for a moment, then answered Manny with a question. "What about distribution, Manny?" he asked. "I'm in the dark there. And what about your phenomenal booking abilities? Brighton Beach seems to be able to book me anywhere, anytime. I'm in the dark there, too. I'd like a rundown—"

  Misha's private telephone line bleeped, and he reached over and picked it up.

  "Hello?" he said, not really listening.

  "It's me," Serena said at the other end.

  Misha's face broke out into a wide smile. "Hi, you," he said. "Where are you?" As usual his heart gave a leap at the sound of her voice, and his body was aroused, anxious to touch her, hold her, fulfill her every need.

  "Helsinki," she said. "I only have a second, but I wanted to call and tell you that I miss you."

  "I miss you, too," he said.

  "I thought that since you're coming to Berlin that maybe we could meet for a night in Copenhagen or Stockholm."

  "Oh, my God, that would be great, Serena!" he said excitedly. "When could you manage it?"

  "This coming weekend," she said.

  "Sunday?" Misha asked. "I could be in Copenhagen for a few hours on Sunday."

  "Yes ...Sunday's fine," she replied.

  "I'll call you back when I know what time I can be there," he said, "and I'll make hotel reservations. Okay?"

  "Fabulous!" Ser
ena said.

  "Where can I reach you?" he asked.

  Serena read off a telephone number.

  "I'll call you back pronto," Misha said.

  "Gotta run," Serena said. "See you in Copenhagen." She hung up.

  Misha replaced the telephone in its cradle and sat smiling into space, Manny observing him.

  "Serena?" he finally ventured.

  "Yes," Misha replied, looking over at him.

  "Mind if I'm a tad personal?" Manny asked.

  "What is it?" Misha said.

  "Are you in love?" Manny asked in a serious voice.

  "Yes ... no ... I don't really know," Misha answered honestly. "I know that I've never been as attracted to anyone, ever, as I am to Serena. I've never had such sex in my life. It's wild! It's like there's some chemical pull between us. You know what I mean?"

  "I think so, old boy," Manny said. "Although I must admit, I myself have never experienced anything quite like that."

  Misha looked at him curiously for a moment. Weren't he and Sasha an item? It was odd, he thought, that they'd never broached the subject. "Anyway, it's as if fate or destiny had thrown us together," Misha went on, "and we must have each other. It's like it's meant to be."

  Misha paused, looking into the distance, lost in thought. "We come from different worlds and have such different interests," he said. "But at the same time, we're both involved in the arts. Our lifestyles are totally different, but very much alike. We're both career-driven and travel almost constantly."

  "Maybe somebody like her's just what you need, old boy," Manny said. "Someone more like you, creative and all."

  "You mean as opposed to Vera, who isn't?" Misha said.

  "Well ... I mean, Vera's fabulous in her own way, but ...you know ...she's very much the marrying and settling-down type. She'll probably give up her job at Christie's, raise a family. Not terribly creative."

  "She certainly is around the house," Misha said in her defense. "She creates fantastic environments with furniture and pictures. She makes a place elegant and comfortable and her food is always the best."