Misha looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you really love me, Serena?" he asked gently. "Do you really want to marry me and have children? Do you want to have a family with me? Ask yourself. Deep down inside, do you? Are you absolutely certain?"
Serena shrugged. "You know I love you, Misha. As much as I can. As much as I know how. Isn't that enough?"
"I don't know," he replied. "I don't know if love is enough." He shook his head. "You've told me about your relationships in the past and how sometimes you thought you were in love but weren't, as it turned out. Sometimes I wonder if that's what's happening now."
"I don't think so," she said. "I know I have problems with ...with intimacy. My parents ... my family were so ...unloving."
"I know that, Serena," Misha said. "And you know it. Do you think you can ever get beyond what your parents did to you? Do you think you can ever get over your fears and really give yourself to somebody?"
"I don't like this conversation," Serena said angrily. "I don't like it at all. I just know that I do love you, Misha, and that's that." She looked at him with widened eyes.
Misha was silent for a moment, digesting her words. "I love you, too," he said at last.
"But," Serena said. "It sounds like there's a definite but coming."
Misha nodded. "I don't know if I can give up my family for you. I love my family. I want a family. I need a family. And I don't really believe you do. I think the most important thing to you is your career."
Serena ran her fingers through her long raven hair and laughed nervously. "How many times do we have to discuss my career?" she asked. "What about yours? Are you willing to give it up for a family? Huh?"
"No," Misha said, "and I've never meant that you would have to give yours up for a family. But for God's sake, look at what you're doing now. Going off to Cambodia for weeks, leaving me alone for the holidays. Is that love?"
"Holidays!" Serena snapped. Then she laughed. "Who cares? I've got pictures to take." She shook a finger at him. "And I bet if you had a big concert to play during a holiday, you wouldn't hesitate to leave your wife and kid at home."
Misha hung his head. "Maybe you're right," he muttered.
"I know I am," Serena said. "We're like two peas in a pod, Misha. We're artists, and we live for our art. That's what's important. Not family." She paused and took a deep breath, exhaling noisily. "Let's forget it, okay? Let's forget marriage and all that business right now. What's the hurry? I like the way we've been meeting, even if we've had problems. We can both do our own thing and still have a great time together."
She took his long, slender hands in hers and squeezed them. "We don't have much time, Misha, so let's have fun. Forget all this other stuff, okay?"
He didn't respond immediately, and Serena took his hands. "Come on, what do you say? Friends and lovers? Tonight and tomorrow until I leave?"
Misha slowly nodded and looked up into her eyes. She's like a little girl, he thought. A sad little girl who wants to be loved so desperately. And who wants to return it the best—the only—way she knows how. His heart melted for her, but at the same time he realized with a feeling, deep down in his gut, that it was over for him. Serena could never give him what he wanted. She was incapable of giving him what he wanted. It simply wasn't in her. At the same time he realized that the reverse was true. He could never give her the freedom and independence she wanted, that she had to have. Not genuinely, he couldn't. No, he wanted something different.
He had a sudden longing for the comfortable familiarity of Vera, for her perfumed embrace, so sweet and uncomplicated, so tender and unconditional. For the noisy, joyous flinging of his son's arms about his neck. For the warmth of their home. He felt a wistful need to see Sonia and Dimitri and tell them that he loved them, that he appreciated the nurturing, loving home they had always provided for him, no matter the circumstances.
His eyes misted over. He looked over at Serena and nodded. "Friends and lovers," he said. "Tonight and tomorrow. But I don't know beyond that, Serena."
Chapter Thirty-seven
The young man adjusted the knot of his yellow silk tie, making certain in the mirror that it was perfect. Always a fastidious dresser, he felt a special need to appear so now. In the mirror he saw the young woman light a cigarette and blow a plume of smoke toward the ceiling.
She was still sprawled out on the bed, though she had dressed again. In head to toe shiny black vinyl, including thigh-high, stiletto-heeled boots. The outfit, heavy makeup, and bleached streaks in her jet black hair—the bleach a certain sign of a renegade soul in Japan—no longer appealed as they had before he had satisfied himself with her.
He patted the hair at the sides of his head with his hands. He wanted to get out of this love-by-the-hour hotel. He hated this sort of place—afterwards—but what choice had he had? He'd left the luxurious hotel where Misha had put them up, off to seek adventure in Shinju- ku's Kabuki-cho, home to Tokyo's wildest nightlife. And he'd found it, but he couldn't possibly take her back to the Four Seasons Hotel Chinzan-so.
He snapped his fingers at the girl. "Let's go," he said, nodding his head toward the door.
The girl took a drag off her cigarette, then eased her booted legs off the bed, taking her time to get up. When she stood, she wavered slightly, still drunk or stoned or both.
Jesus, he thought. You can almost smell the viruses.
He took her arm and unceremoniously pushed her toward the door, which he opened with his other hand.
Misha Levin, he thought. Rich, famous, handsome, successful Misha Levin. It's his fault I have to put up with shit like this.
He deserves whatever he gets. Whatever I have to give him.
Vera closed the novel she'd been trying without much success to read. She'd caught herself reading the same sentences time and again, without their meaning registering in her whirling mind. She stowed the paperback novel in the compartment on the back of the seat in front of her and stretched her legs as far as she could, wiggling her toes. She'd long since kicked off her Chanel heels.
Turning her head to the jet's porthole, she looked out into the pitch black night. I must be crazy, she thought. Or maybe I'm doing the first sane thing I've done ever since I knew Misha was having this affair.
She had finally decided that she was going to fight to keep her husband. She was sick and tired of being the patient, understanding wife, willing to keep the home fires burning while her husband did whatever he pleased. Nobody was going to take him away without a fight.
That was why she was on this flight to Tokyo. She'd left Nicky with Sonia and Dmitri. Sonia had wished her the best of luck. She was going to attend Misha's concerts whether he liked it or not, and she was going to do everything in her power to lure him back. To lure him away from Serena Gibbons. Misha would probably be appalled, but she didn't care anymore.
So here I am, she thought. Alone, on a crazy adventure, facing I don't know what. But I've got to do it. What can I lose? Everything and nothing.
With that thought, she reached up and switched off the reading light above her seat. I've got to get some sleep, she thought, closing her eyes. I have to be sharp for the next couple of days. I've got to save all my energy to save—us.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The young man returned to his room at the Four Seasons Hotel Chinzan-so with his recent purchases, all neatly wrapped and placed in a single shopping bag. He set the bag down and started to hang up his expensive overcoat, then thought better of it.
It'll be useful, he decided. Yes, indeed, it's just what the doctor ordered, in fact. A smile crossed his lips.
He took the coat on into his room and threw it over the back of a chair, then he headed straight to the table where he'd earlier placed a bottle of exorbitantly expensive whiskey. It was perched enticingly on a small lacquered tray with glasses and a bottle of mineral water. He poured a stiff drink, at least three inches, in one glass, then recapped the whiskey and set it back down. Then he picked up the bottle of water and
filled another glass with it. A chaser. Taking a deep breath first, he downed the whiskey in a single long swallow, shivering as it went down his throat and hit his stomach. Quickly picking up the glass of water, he downed it on top of the whiskey.
"Awww," he exclaimed, almost gagging. He shivered once again, then stood still for a moment, letting the whiskey and water settle in his stomach. He didn't normally drink like this, but today he'd decided he could use a good belt of whiskey to screw up his courage.
Gradually feeling much better—in fact, pretty damn good, he thought—lie rose to his feet and retraced his steps to the entry, where he retrieved his shopping bag.
He set the bag down on the chair where he'd put his overcoat, then reached in it and pulled out a small package. He quickly tore open the box and extracted his first purchase. A pair of handcuffs, complete with keys. He'd bought them in a shop full of sex toys. He practiced opening and closing them. Child's play, he thought. He eyed them proudly for a moment, then slipped them into one of the capacious pockets of his overcoat.
He dipped into the shopping bag again and took out a small paper bag. A typical hardware store bag, and indeed that's where he'd found this purchase. He examined it closely. It was a simple sledgehammer, small variety, the kind with a wooden handle about six inches long and a heavy steel head about five inches long.
It could batter someone's brains out, he thought. Or smash a hand to pieces.
He slipped it into the other large pocket of his overcoat, then held the coat up for inspection. There was a slight bulge, but nothing that would draw undue attention. He smiled with satisfaction.
Finally he extracted a small roll of duct tape. Good for shutting someone up, he thought. He tossed it into the pocket with the handcuffs, and held his overcoat up once again. A little bulge as before, but nothing to be worried about.
He laid the coat back down and walked into the bathroom, where he took a small bottle of pills out of his fine black leather shaving kit. He held the bottle up to the light. Ketamine. It hadn't taken any effort to get these heavy-duty animal anesthetics. After all, Ketamine was very popular in the downtown clubs these days and easy to get hold of. Ketamine would do the trick.
Only I won't be taking the pills. Misha Levin will.
Walking out of the bathroom, his cell phone bleeped, distracting him. Jesus! he thought. The fucking thing bleeped half the night and all day long. Well, he wasn't going to answer it. He didn't want to talk to the only people who had the number for this particular phone. This is my business now, he thought. They can go fuck themselves. He grabbed it from the table and unceremoniously threw the phone across the room. It bounced off the wall and fell to the floor.
He headed toward the bathroom again. Time to pour all my pills into one big capsule, he thought. Then it's to the elevator after that's done. It's just upstairs a few floors to Misha Levin, world-famous classical pianist and world- class prick.
There was a detached smile on his face, and his eyes burned bright with anticipation.
Misha, laden with shopping bags, stepped into his suite at the Four Seasons Hotel Chinzan-so and closed the door behind him. Mr. Hara, his publicity agent in Tokyo, had politely offered to help him with his load, but Misha had declined the offer. He wanted to be alone right now. Setting down the cumbersome bags, he shrugged out of his black cashmere overcoat and hung it up. Manny and Sasha had teased him about looking like a ninja here in Tokyo. He was wearing his customary working outfit: black turtleneck sweater, black trousers, and comfortable black Mephisto sneakers.
He'd spent part of the afternoon going through the usual pre-concert procedures: testing the acoustics in the concert hall, positioning and fine-tuning the piano with his assistant, and rehearsal. The afternoon had gone swimmingly, he thought. The acoustics in the Tokyo Opera City Concert Hall, the result of a great deal of research and vast expenditures of money, were as near perfect as could be, so his job had been relatively simple.
He picked up his shopping bags and carried them out to the suite's private garden patio—he had one of the hotel's coveted Conservatory Suites—where he set them down to go through later. First a drink, he thought. Retracing his steps to the sitting room, he made himself a scotch and water. Swirling the ice around, he took it back out to the patio and sat down in a comfortable chair, sipping his drink and idly glancing at the shopping bags.
He smiled with contentment. This morning he'd gotten up early and ventured out alone to buy souvenirs and gifts. Now, he thought, I'll have another look at the booty. He set his drink down and scooted one of the bags over to his side and began rummaging around in it.
First, he pulled out the oiled paper umbrella he'd bought for Vera. Removing the beautiful tissue paper it was wrapped in, he opened it and looked at the exquisite cherry blossoms, which had been hand-painted all around it. He'd been told the umbrellas were actually quite effective in the rain. That doesn't really matter, he thought. It's so beautiful, who cares if it works? Vera certainly won't. She'll love its delicate colors and design. He closed it and placed it on the coffee table.
Next, he took out the first gift he'd bought this morning. The box was long and heavy. He opened it to reveal an ornately engraved replica of a Samurai sword. For Nicky. It was, he realized, a touristy sort of gift to purchase, as was the umbrella, but he also knew that Nicky would be thrilled to death with it. Nicky, like most little boys, loved weapons.
Misha took the sword from its niche in the box and examined the length of steel closely, surprised at its weight. Running his thumb along the edge, he quickly jerked it away. It was very sharp. Jesus, he thought. I could have sliced my thumb. Not good for a performance. He carefully placed the sword back in its fitted niche and looked at it.
Well, he decided, not good for a kid, either. Nicky will just have to admire it on the wall until he's older and can appreciate the fact that it's more than a mere toy.
He placed it next to the umbrella on the table and slid another shopping bag over to him, taking out a large box, this one also very heavy. He opened it and removed the paper from around an antique porcelain charger, about two feet in diameter. It had been made in Arita, on Kyushu, and was elaborately decorated with birds and flowers. He knew that Vera would love it as much as he did. After admiring it, he carefully placed it on the table with his other purchases, then sat looking at them, taking immense satisfaction in the fact that they were going to give so much pleasure to those he loved most. There were more gifts, quite a few more—handmade writing papers, lengths of exquisite silk, several small pieces of porcelain—but he would look at the rest of them later.
He stood and sipped his drink, gazing out the patio windows. The hotel was beautifully situated in what had once been an imperial garden, and as he surveyed the scene before him, the events of the last few days began to unfold in his mind like a movie reel, superimposing themselves on the city's landscape.
He had seen Serena and Jason off in Kyoto. There had been no tears, only smiles, and for that he was grateful. Despite his discussion with Serena—telling her that he didn't think he should leave his wife and son for her—they had parted, if not friends exactly, then in a friendly, civilized manner. He thought that Serena had seemed almost relieved. It was hard for him to tell. She was so excited by her trip that nothing else seemed to matter.
"I'll let you know when I get back," she'd said, "but don't worry, I won't bug you." She'd smiled hugely, thinking: You're sweet, Misha, but you're right. It would never work. Only she didn't want to tell him that.
"I'll be too damned busy with the thousands of pictures I'm going to take to think about anything else," she'd said, laughing. "Including you." She'd given him a kiss on the cheek and looked into his eyes. For a moment there was a wistful expression on her face, but it was replaced quickly by a look of determination. "Bye," she'd said. Then she turned and was gone.
She'd been like a joyful little girl, he thought, setting out on a new adventure. He knew now that they would probably
never see each other again. It was far too dangerous. The fires within them might not have been fully extinguished, and any encouragement to reignite them would inevitably lead only to heartbreak for one or both of them. And others, he thought.
Now he felt a powerful need to be with his wife and son, to restore—perhaps reinvent—the loving relationship they'd once had. He knew that there was work to do, and healing, but deep down inside he knew that they could make a go of it.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Misha jerked. Who on earth? he wondered. Everybody knows I'm not to be disturbed before a concert.
He set his drink down and went to the door, disgruntlement on his face. He didn't like this, not one little bit.
I'll get rid of whoever it is, he thought. In double-time.
"You ready, Jason?" Serena asked.
"Yep," he replied. "Whenever you are."
"Let's go," she said, turning and smiling at him
"Don't you think we really ought to, like, you know, take that guide with us, Serena?" Jason asked.
She shook her head. "No," she said. "He'll just get in the way. We can get back without him. Besides, he's stretched out asleep on the ground. Let's leave him be."
"If you say so," Jason said doubtfully.
Serena took another look around and shivered. This place gave her the heebie-jeebies. Bad vibes seemed to emanate from the walls, even the ground on which the place was built. It was almost as if the walls could speak, and what they had to say was so obscene she didn't think she could stand hearing much more of it.
They'd been shooting pictures for hours in one of Pol Pot's former detention camps. It was a prison such as Serena and Jason had never seen. The walls were now covered with photographs of Cambodians who'd been horribly tortured and killed here. There'd been thousands.
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