Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  "So you knew," he said simply.

  Vera nodded.

  "For a long time?" he asked.

  Vera nodded again.

  "How did you know it was her?"

  "I caught a glimpse of her in Vienna when we were there together," she said. "At the Hofburg. And that's when everything started to change." She shrugged and looked at him. "It's simple. I put two and two together."

  Misha sighed. "And you never said a word."

  Vera shook her head. "I... I just hoped you'd finally get her out of your system."

  He sat staring at her, her delft blue eyes puffy and red from crying, her nose pink. She truly loves me, he thought. Like no one else. Then: What the hell am I going to do? For the revelations tonight hadn't solved his dilemma. There was no sense in trying to fool himself. He was still drawn to Serena. She was truly a bewitching siren whose call to him could not be denied.

  What the hell am I going to do? he wondered anew.

  "I know you need time," Vera said softly. "And I know this isn't easy for you. I just want you to know that I'll do my best to accommodate this, but I don't want Nicky hurt." She heaved a sigh. "But that's inevitable. What I mean to say is, I want him hurt as little as possible."

  She looked up at him, pinning him with her gaze. "If you want a divorce, I'll give it to you."

  She saw the look of confusion in his eyes. He's still uncertain about what he wants to do, she thought. Perhaps our marriage does stand a chance. Perhaps someday we can once more be a family.

  Misha reached over and took one of her hands again. "I was going to ask you for a divorce tonight," he said honestly. "But I don't know if that's what I really want."

  Vera reached over with her free hand and gently stroked his hair away from his handsome features. "We'll see," she said. "Give it some time."

  Misha impulsively took her into his arms and clasped her to him. His heart swelled with gratitude that she could be so magnanimous. His hands tenderly brushed through her pale blond hair, down her back and her arms. Then he tucked a hand under her chin, lifting her face to his, and began kissing her there, softly touching lips to forehead, eyes, cheeks, nose, and mouth, so tenderly at first but more and more hungrily as the feel of her and the scent of her fueled his desire.

  Vera responded immediately, relishing the intimacy she had so long been denied and at the same time thinking she must be a fool to let him have his way. But she wanted him as much as she ever had, wanted him, if it was possible, more desperately than ever.

  In moments they were naked, flesh against flesh, and that familiar, comfortable lovemaking of the past was now intensified by their long separation and a new intimacy as a result of their revelations tonight. Feverishly and inexorably they moved toward a release at once ecstatic and poignant and ultimately fell into heavy sleep in each other's arms.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  "I think this is the most reckless thing you've ever done," Coral said harshly. "But since there seems to be no changing your mind, I've made all the arrangements that I can at this end."

  "Thanks, Coral," Serena said distractedly. She hadn't really been listening to what her agent had to say, but she'd caught the gist. Enough to know that she would be having it her way, as she'd always known she would. She continued sorting through camera equipment, paring down the possibilities to a bare minimum. She was going to be traveling light on this trip.

  "I've told the magazine editors that you're working on a super secret project," Coral went on, "so hush-hush I can't breathe a word. And that you won't be able to do anything until after New Year's. That'll keep them satisfied for the time being, more or less, and intrigued with what it is you're up to."

  Coral paused, pleased with herself, and waited for a response. Then she realized that Serena hadn't been paying any attention. She was contentedly sitting cross- legged on the floor, examining camera lenses and filters and such. Coral frowned and took a deep breath, silently counting to ten, determined not to start a scene with Serena tonight. This irresponsible, ungrateful, willful, and very talented young lady was, she reminded herself, an artist and her prize moneymaker. And as ill-advised in some ways as Coral thought this trip to Cambodia was, her business instincts told her that she and Serena might very well turn the resulting photographs into a gold mine. It could, in fact, be the beginning of a whole new career direction in which prints of Serena's work would command thousands of dollars more than the considerable prices they already fetched in galleries. Photography collectors would be lining up for prints. Then, of course, there would be the inevitable coffee-table books of her work, another source of income—and prestige.

  Thus, Coral had convinced herself that she should overlook the political unrest and other dangers inherent in Serena's undertaking this project. After all, Pol Pot was dead, and the country was opening up to outsiders— even his wretched prisons were being exposed for what they were. Plus, Jason would be with Serena, she told herself, and if nothing else his appearance would frighten the natives half to death.

  Her concerns for Serena, however, weren't merely monetary. Coral harbored a genuine affection—once infatuation—for the prize of her stable and felt a responsibility to her that was a mixture of the professional and, she supposed, the maternal. She tried to protect Serena from herself—her instincts could go awfully awry—and the world at large, including predators like Misha Levin.

  The thought of the dashing and famous pianist reminded her of an unanswered question or two she had forgotten to ask Serena. She cleared her throat.

  "Serena," she ventured, "why are you planning the stopover in Kyoto?"

  Serena looked up from her sorting, her large dark eyes sparkling. "I'm going to meet Misha there," she said. There was a determination in her voice that barred all discussion.

  "I see," Coral said in as neutral a tone as she could muster. "He's performing there?"

  "Yes," Serena said. She dropped the equipment she held in one hand and sat up, looking into Coral's eyes. "I think he's going to ask me to marry him, Coral. He's asking his wife for a divorce."

  Coral did not like hearing this bit of news, not one single little bit, but she controlled herself. I've done all I can do in that department, she told herself. She won't listen to a word I have to say about it anyway.

  "Well," she said mildly, "I hope you'll keep me posted."

  "I promise to check in regularly," Serena said. She glanced at Coral out of the corner of her eye. What? she thought. No lecture about meeting Misha in Kyoto? Will wonders never cease?

  Coral rose to her feet. "I'd best get back uptown," she said. "Brandi and I have plans so I won't see you again before you leave, but Sally will be taking you to Kennedy as usual. Give me a kiss before I go?"

  Serena, sitting amid piles of equipment, looked up and smiled. "Of course," she said. She got up from the floor and hugged Coral tightly, then kissed her on both cheeks and stood back. "Don't worry, Coral," she said. "It'll be fine. I'm sure of it."

  "I hope so," Coral said, oddly feeling teary-eyed, a rare phenomenon in the pantheon of her emotional responses. She threw her shoulders back and picked up her handbag. "I'll see myself out," she said. "You go on with your sorting."

  "Okay," Serena said. "I've got tons to do to get ready."

  Coral turned and walked toward the giant loft's entry hall. She looks older somehow, Serena thought, and lonely. Suddenly she went after her, coming up behind her and putting an arm around Coral's waist. Coral gazed up at her with a perplexed but grateful expression.

  At the elevator, Serena kissed her again, on the lips this time. Then the doors closed and Coral disappeared from sight.

  Misha closed the last of his suitcases with a loud snap, spun the locks, then placed it on the floor alongside the others. He slumped down onto the bed, staring at the luggage, lined up in a neat row like soldiers. He sighed, thinking about the upcoming tour. He had decidedly mixed feelings about this trip to Japan. On the one hand, he looked forward to it. Although he
had played in both Tokyo and Kyoto before, he'd hardly had time to do more than perform, eat, and sleep, and had seen almost nothing of the country. This trip would be different, however, since he was allowing himself time to explore the local culture, which had always intrigued him.

  On the other hand, his enthusiasm was tempered somewhat by his meeting with Serena in Kyoto. He was leaving ahead of schedule to meet her there. He didn't quite know how he felt about that. He did know that the instant he laid eyes on her, he would want her as desperately as always, but beyond that—beyond the mutual lusty fulfilling of their physical desires—did he really want more?

  God, he thought miserably, how did I get myself into this mess? He knew that Serena expected him to announce that he'd asked Vera for a divorce. Hadn't he told her as much himself? Hadn't he convinced himself that that was what he wanted and that that was what he was going to do? His emotions were more in a state of confusion than ever, feeling a powerful attraction and desire for Serena, yet at the same time feeling a profound need and, yes, he thought, love, for Vera.

  "Are you ready, old man?" Manny said as he stepped into the bedroom, his custom-made Lobb shoes silent on the antique silk Tabriz rug.

  Misha turned and looked at him in surprise. "Yes, all set. What about you?"

  "Sasha's finishing up for both of us," Manny said. "We've got time, since we're not leaving until day after tomorrow."

  "I didn't expect to see you tonight," Misha said.

  "I called and Vera said you were about finished packing," Manny replied, "so I strolled on over. I wanted to have a word with you before you leave, if you don't mind."

  "No," Misha said, looking at Manny with a curious expression. He wondered what could be so urgent that Manny hadn't simply called him. "Why don't we have a drink in my study?"

  "Great, old man, great," Manny enthused.

  Misha got up and led the way to his small book-lined study, where he went straight to the drinks table. "What'll you have, Manny?"

  "A couple of fingers of scotch," he replied. "A whisper of water. Hold the ice."

  Misha made the drink and handed it to him.

  "Thanks, old man," Manny said.

  Misha poured himself a small scotch and added ice cubes and a splash of water.

  "Here's to Japan," Manny said. He lifted his glass, and Misha followed suit.

  "To Japan," Misha echoed unenthusiastically.

  They sipped at their drinks and took seats in comfortable Edwardian chairs, which were upholstered in worn old leather, on either side of the fireplace. Light danced across their features from the log fire that flickered in the grate.

  "What's on your mind, Manny?" Misha asked.

  Manny shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and looked over at Misha through the thick lenses of his tortoise- shell glasses. "Well," he began slowly, "I wanted to broach the subject of Russia again."

  Misha's face froze, but his eyes glittered in the light of the fire. Manny had no doubt that he'd struck that familiar nerve in Misha which positively vibrated with his intense hatred of his homeland.

  "I know I'm upsetting you by bringing this up," Manny rushed on, before Misha could tell him to drop the subject. "But it's something that I've absolutely got to discuss with you, Misha." His voice was uncharacteristically earnest. "Please listen to me. Please. Just hear me out before you fly off the handle and tell me to get lost." He looked at Misha with a pleading expression, a rarity for Manny Cygelman.

  Misha acquiesced with a barely perceptible nod of his head but remained silent, his body assuming a pose of stiff formality.

  Manny took a sip of his scotch, set the crystal old- fashioned glass down, then launched into his well- rehearsed speech. "Your CD sales are fine," Manny said, "and your concert bookings are great. They both have been phenomenal since the very beginning, all those years ago. But"—he looked Misha in the eye— "how long will sales and bookings continue at this rate?"

  He shrugged. "We don't know, do we? The whole bottom could fall out of everything. CD sales could drop, and concert bookings could shrivel. Nobody can really predict that sort of thing."

  Misha eyed him shrewdly. "Why would my career suddenly take a nose-dive if I continue to play as I do now, Manny?" he asked. "Why would people suddenly stop going to my concerts? Why would they suddenly stop buying my CDs? It makes no sense, Manny. You're grasping at straws. You and Sasha both. Desperately trying to get me to do a Russian tour. Again."

  Misha allowed his body to relax in the chair, sitting back. He took a sip of his drink, idly waiting to hear how his very inventive agent would respond. Manny's machinations! he thought with amusement. The gears in that Byzantine mind of his never stop turning.

  Manny cleared his throat. "You're right," he conceded. "Fans and classical music lovers aren't suddenly going to stop buying your CDs or going to your concerts. Not suddenly. But, and this is a big 'but,' as new talent comes along, some of your fans are inevitably going to drop you for somebody new to the scene. Somebody fresh. Somebody different. Let's face it, Misha, you're not the young prodigy you once were, and that aspect of your drawing power is coming to a close. No matter how beautifully you play."

  Manny paused and took another sip of his scotch, hoping that he hadn't offended Misha and at the same time hoping that Misha was digesting what he'd said.

  And he was. Misha knew that there was a degree of truth in what Manny said, especially if a performer overexposed himself, no matter how rare and wondrous his talent. Discovering where that fine line lay—between too much exposure and not enough—was a very difficult task, if not impossible. He also knew that a lot of his fans were as mercurial as butterflies, fed by the buzz and hype of music critics, the press, and the recording industry. Many of them would drop him in an instant, any allegiance to him forgotten as they took up with the next boy wonder to come down the road.

  Yet Misha didn't worry about such matters. He was still extremely popular and in constant demand. He had no doubts about his own abilities—his playing had never been better, he believed—and there was a contingent of faithful music lovers who would never desert him, as long as he could play as well as he played now. These music lovers looked for quality, and weren't slaves to all the hype and buzz. As for the long range ...Well, he thought, I'll deal with that when the time comes.

  "There's a brilliant way to deal with this situation," Manny rushed on. "Before it becomes a real problem. I think one way to generate new excitement—a way to punch up your career—is to do this Russian thing. Now, listen carefully."

  Manny looked over at Misha to see if he was paying attention. Satisfied that he was, he quickly continued, his words tripping over one another in his mounting excitement.

  "I've told you before how it could be built up as a grand gesture on your part," he said. "Picture it, Misha! A return to your homeland for the first time since you were a child. Back to your roots, since that evil Wall has finally come down. I can see the newspapers now: 'Misha Levin forgives Russia at last for the cruelties that were perpetrated against him and his family.'"

  Manny paused briefly, looking at Misha intensely, waiting for a response. When it didn't come, he hurried on again. "A move like that would receive international attention," he said with emphasis. "Just think of the press. And even if you don't care about the press, think of the money."

  Misha waved a hand at him, as if it were not worth mentioning.

  "They're offering a fortune, Misha! A fortune!" Manny cried. "They want to do a five-year deal. Two concerts a year. That's all. You'd play Moscow and St. Petersburg. That's it! Half the money up front!"

  Misha held a hand up in an effort to halt Manny's swift and ebullient flow of words, but Manny was so caught up in the excitement of the moment, he paid no attention.

  "Wait, wait, wait, Misha!" Manny exclaimed. "Think of the proceeds from the Russian CD recordings. It would give us a whole new marketing approach. For five years running. People will be waiting with bated breath for the latest Misha
Levin in Moscow. Misha Levin in St. Petersburg! Then we'll box an entire set at the end of the five years. It's a gold mine. More money than you've ever made!"

  Manny dramatically slapped his right fist into his left hand, then threw both hands wide. His eyes were huge with his excitement about the possibilities, and his breath was coming in audible gasps.

  Misha looked at him and smiled. "Manny," he said calmly, "have you and the producers you've talked to about this—whoever they are—considered the dire state of the economy in Russia? Have you asked yourselves where all this money in Russia is coming from? For that matter, who are these Russians that can afford to pay the ticket prices that they'll have to ask to fill up the concert halls?"

  Manny waved off the questions. "The country may be broke, Misha," he said, "but believe me, there's still plenty of money floating around Russia. Tons of money, Sasha, and I'll fill those concert halls to bursting with people with their money, their custom-made suits and couture gowns and expensive jewelry. Make no mistake about that, old man."

  Misha looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, his hands at his chin, two fingers steepled. Then, he reached over and picked up his scotch, took the last sip, and set the glass back down.

  "Manny," he said, "you know who these people are, don't you?" It wasn't a question but a declaration of certainty. "You know that they're mobsters and hooligans who've stolen everything they can get their greedy hands on. They're men who are bleeding the country dry, letting the poor starve, taking everything they can get. The Palace Hotel in St. Moritz is full of them. Monte Carlo is full of them. The best restaurants all over the world are full of them. Spending all that stolen money."

  Manny's excitement had slowly ebbed as Misha spoke, and he now wore an unhappy expression on his plump face. "What you say may be true to some extent, Misha, but they've got the money to fill those halls and make those recordings possible, nevertheless. Besides, some of them aren't hooligans. Some of them have simply taken advantage of the opportunities that arose with the fall of communism."