Rhapsody (10 page)

He pulled her to him, covering her mouth with
his, kissing her passionately again. When he pulled back, he said:
"We will work it out, Serena. Somehow. I know we will. I just know
it." His hands were all over her again, his mouth devouring hers,
and once again they feasted on each other, as if starved for the
drug that they were to each other, until they finally lay spent
once again, reveling in the rediscovery of their great passion,
delighting in its pleasures.

Misha finally began disentangling himself
from Serena. "Oh, God," he said with a sigh. "I wish I could stay
here like this forever."

"But you can't," Serena said.

He rose from the bed to dress with the
greatest reluctance.

"Do you want to shower?" Serena asked from
the bed, where she watched him pick up his clothes.

He sat back down on the bed next to her.
"No," he said in a whisper, looking into her eyes, then kissing
her. "I want to smell you on me tonight."

Then he got to his feet again and began to
dress. He would have to hurry now because he was expected back at
the Palais Schwarzenberg in time to change into black tie for a
formal dinner at eight. He quickly donned his clothes, and Serena
stood up to walk him to the suite's door.

He turned to her at the door and took her
into his arms again. "Oh, God," he said, "I've never hated to leave
a place so much in my life. I really don't want to go."

"You've got to," she said, slipping him a
note. "You've got all my telephone numbers now, and my schedule, so
call as soon as you can."

"It won't be long," Misha said. "We'll see
each other again soon."

"I hope so," Serena said. "Now go, before
you're late."

Misha kissed her once more, then turned and
left.

Serena returned to the bedroom and spread
out, happier than she had been in years. Her happiness was
tempered, however, with the trepidation she felt over this
clandestine affair. She hoped against hope that it would evolve
into something that was positive and life-enhancing for them both.
Then it suddenly occurred to her that she might be counting her
chickens before they hatched.

What if Misha didn't call her? What if he
didn't really want to see her again? What if this was just a
one-night stand for him, despite what he said?

She shivered and began rubbing herself with
her arms. Then she remembered the things he'd said and the way he'd
said them. She remembered his extraordinary passion in bed.

I don't think he was faking it, she told
herself. No. I think Misha truly loves me, as I truly love him.

Misha hailed a taxi and gave the driver
instructions. "Palais Schwarzenberg," he said. He leaned back into
the seat, his mind spinning with their encounter. He no longer felt
the self-conscious embarrassment he had experienced when he
realized that he still loved Serena. He didn't think, in fact, that
he'd ever felt this satisfied, this contented in his life. Their
meeting had been destined, he believed, a gift that the Fates had
for some reason given both of them.

Yes, he decided, that was it. And it was a
gift of such powerful love that it could not be denied. God, he
thought, I wish I could shout it from the rooftops!

But of course that was out of the question,
the very last thing he could do. No. He would have to keep this
love bottled up inside him, sharing it only with Serena.

He turned and gazed out the taxi's window at
the splendid procession of Vienna's pastiche of architectural
wonders. It's the perfect setting for the rekindling of our love,
he thought. And love it is. True love.

Oh, yes. An undeniably great love.

Unfortunately, he reminded himself, there
were many other considerations to ponder. Vera, of course.
Nicholai. His family. Protecting all of them from the painful truth
of reality. A reality of deceit, subterfuge, unfaithfulness.

I still love Vera, he thought. Undeniably,
odd as that might seem to her. He sighed. It would be so much
easier if I didn't

It was a different kind of love from what he
felt for Serena. Was it perhaps a more mature form of love? He
wasn't really certain. What he did know without any doubts was that
he also loved Serena, a love that was almost overwhelming in its
intensity of feeling.

I may be asking for trouble, he thought. His
relationship with Serena all those years ago had been an explosive
one and had failed miserably. But that, he felt, was partly because
they had been too young and had come from such totally different
worlds. That was not as true now as it had once been, and they were
both a little older.

Her image, in all its exquisite beauty,
flashed before his mind's eye, and he smiled. She had matured so
much in the last five years, and he had meant what he'd said: her
fame and fortune suited her. She had become more self-assured, more
sophisticated and worldly wise, more tolerant and less
explosive.

Still, that inevitable poisonous snake,
guilt, had wormed its way into his consciousness. He had everything
in the world. A beautiful and devoted wife. A healthy, brilliant,
and adoring son. A career that few pianists in history could lay
claim to. Fame. Money.

Last night I played before royalty in
Schonbrunn Palace, he thought. No mean feat And now I'm on my way
to the Palais Schwarzenberg to dress for a dinner with Prince and
Princess von Wallenburg.

Why endanger all of it? he asked himself.
I've been so damned lucky, he thought. So fortunate.

Life had not always offered so much, had not
always been so abundant with its gifts. Life, in fact, could be a
lot worse ...had been a lot worse....

The club was one of the tackiest and most
depressing places the young man had ever seen. But then, what else
should I have expected? he asked himself with smug superiority. At
night it looked glitzy, all silver and gold, gleaming black and
red, polished steel and brass. At night, too, it was always packed,
banquette to banquette, dance floor to orchestra stage, with
well-dressed men in custom-made suits or tuxedos, their hair
slicked back, and their elaborately coiffed and heavily made-up
wives or girlfriends, in jewels, gowns, and, in any but the warmest
weather, fur coats.

Now in daylight, with the lights turned up to
their full wattage, he discovered it was but a tawdry, dirty, and
gimcrack stage set that could ill afford close inspection. Soiled,
sticky carpeting—he almost recoiled at even having to walk on it in
his expensive shoes—went with the frayed and befouled upholstering.
At night, matte black paint effectively concealed an ugly maze of
overhead electrical conduits, water pipes, ductwork, and the cheap
light fixtures mounted helter-skelter that were aimed at various
areas of the club. In the light, it all looked makeshift and filthy
with accumulated grime.

Two goons, stony-faced behemoths in black
mock turtleneck sweaters that matched their black suits, led him
down a long hallway to what he knew must be the club's offices. The
goons, muscles seemingly about to split the seams of their suits,
lumbered along in black lizard-skin cowboy boots.

Leningrad cowboys! the young man thought.
Ridiculous! His eagle eye didn't fail to see that the black paint
on the walls was lumpy and peeling, and the carpeting beneath his
feet—the color the British referred to, appropriately enough, as
mouseback—way like the rest, soiled and worn.

They came to a stop at a door all the way at
the end of the hallway. A videocamera mounted above the door
focused its lens on them. One of the goons rapped on the steel door
with a huge, muscular fist. The young man couldn't help but observe
that there were at least three cheap-looking gold rings set with
gaudy stones on his massive fingers.

There's no accounting for bad taste, the
young man thought snidely. But they go awfully well with the big
gold watch and chain-link bracelets on his thick wrist.

He heard the sound of a buzzer, and then the
door clicked open. Straight ahead was a large, messy office, with
cheap utilitarian furniture, all of it worn and derelict. The air
was tainted with a miasma of blue-gray smoke that stank of cigars
and cigarettes.

Jesus! he thought. Don't they ever air the
cesspool out?

The goons propelled him into the office, one
on each of his arms, then stood at either side of him. The mammoth
behind the desk, which was a scarred, paper-strewn clutter, looked
up, his ugly face expressionless. There was a tiny cell phone at
his ear.

The young man waited, despising every minute
of it, bored with the theatrics employed by these barbarians. He
guessed that he was supposed to be intimidated by their strong-arm,
gangland tactics, but he found them merely repellent. Their
ridiculous sense of drama was off- putting in the extreme. He'd
thought these kinds of Russians had surely gone the way of Stalin
and Khrushchev and the rest of the old-time hardliners. These
hooligans may not be Communists, he thought—they were hardcore
capitalists of the first order, as a matter of fact—but they
certainly were enamored of the worst of the old- fashioned
Communist tactics.

The Neanderthal behind the desk finally
finished his call and put the phone down on the desk. When he
looked up, his wolfs eyes locked on the young man's.

"You've missed calling in a couple of
Saturday nights." His voice was a deep baritone growl with a
Russian accent.

"We were out of the country," the young man
answered

"I don't give a shit where you were," the
Neanderthal spat. "You call me every Saturday night no matter where
die fuck you are. You understand me?"

"Yes, I understand you," the young man
answered calmly. "But you've got to understand that sometimes we're
at functions, parties and stuff, and it's practically impossible
for me to get away without arousing suspicions. "

The wolfs eyes remained locked to his, never
once wavering. "You've got a cell phone. You can use it in the
fucking john or someplace. If that doesn't work, you'll think of
something. You're getting paid to think, right?"

"Right," the young man answered a hint of
anger in his voice.

The older man leaned back in the black
leather desk chair and put his thick legs up on the desk, his arms
akimbo back behind his head, which rested in his hands. "We've got
some more instructions for you," he said casually. He eyed the
younger man through deceptively sleepy-looking eyes now.

The young man didn't respond but stood
waiting silently. He knew the old Neanderthal liked to take his
time, tease him with his assignments, keep him guessing. He also
knew that he irritated the shit out of the older man when he didn't
act like an anxious puppy, dying to know what was next.

Suddenly, the older man swung his feet off
the desk and sprang forward in his chair, slamming his fists on the
desk All in one swift movement. "You're going to get Misha Levin to
do a tour of Russia," he snarled "No matter what it takes. You're
going to talk him into it. Right?"

"I'll try," the younger man said, "but I've
already told you how he feels about that"

"I don't give a shit how he feels about it,"
the man growled "You're going to present him with an offer he can't
refuse." He pointed a meaty finger at the young man. "You're going
to change his mind."

"I said I'd try," the younger man
repeated.

"You don't have any choice," the older man
said. "There's a ton of money in this for us. Concert hall deals,
CD deals. Distribution deals. All over Russia. All over the former
Soviet Union."

The mammoth put a paw on a toothpick, which
lay among several scattered about the paperwork on the desk. He
began cleaning his teeth.

The younger man cringed inside. He loathed
being witness to such uncouth behavior, but he didn't show it

"This is going to take a lot of time," he
said in a firm voice to the older man. "You've got to understand
that."

The Neanderthal jerked the toothpick out of
his mouth. "Just do it," he spat. "You don't want to end up on a
garbage barge, somebody else doing your work, do you? Am I right?
You got that through your smart-assed head?"

"I got it," the younger man said, apparently
unruffled by the threat. "If anybody can do this, I can," he added
with confidence.

"Good," the man growled "Now get out of here.
And don't miss any more calls. There'll be more specific
instructions."

"Right" The younger man turned and started
out of the office but halted when he heard the older man's voice
behind him.

"And you can lose the smart-assed superior
attitude," the man said

The younger man stood still for a moment,
silent, then continued on out of the office. One of the goons
sidled up to him, taking one of his arms.

"I'll show you out," the goon said with a
thick Russian accent.

"I don't need your help," the young man said
with irritation.

"You're going to get it, though," the goon
said, propelling him down the dingy hallway, into the club's
entrance hall, and out the door.

Filthy barbarians, the young man thought for
the millionth time. Why did I ever get mixed up with them? But he
knew the answer to that question was very simple. He was after the
same thing they were: dollars. And lots of them.

Besides, he thought, nothing would give me
greater pleasure than screwing over the imperious and talented
Misha Levin, his perfect and beautiful wife, and his entire
family.

A bitter Arctic wind swept through the
deserted snow- and ice-laden streets of Moscow on that January
night in 1968, when Sonia Levin gave birth to her first and only
child, Mikhail, called Misha.