Rhapsody (16 page)

They had immersed themselves in the study of
Hebrew, although their English, French, and Russian served their
immediate needs in the small, multicultural state. There had been
times in the beginning—despite the wondrous turn in fortune—when
the three of them felt like aliens on a far-distant planet. Russia
had, after all, been the only home they'd ever known, and harsh as
it could be, Sonia sometimes reflected that it was in their blood,
in their very souls. At times she'd longed for the birches and
lindens, the onion domes, and the snow—a longing made all the more
poignant by the predominantly dry, rocky, lunar landscape that was
Israel.

The ways of its people were also unfamiliar.
Ultra- Orthodox, Orthodox, and Reform Jews with all their various
sects within sects, and Arabs and Christians with theirs, were
perplexing to the Levins. Coming from a tradition of nonpracticing
Jews, they cared little for the religion or culture of their
antecedents, and in Russia the practice of the Jewish faith had
been driven underground. As a consequence, they were faced with a
people to which they were, in theory at least, supposed to belong,
but with which they felt little or no identity.

The one thing that had kept loneliness at
bay—aside from their abiding love for each other—was their
unwavering belief in Misha's talent and their relentless ambition
for his success as a pianist. Thus far he had done nothing to
disappoint them. On the contrary, at eleven years old he had
already played in Mann Auditorium, the preeminent performance hall
in Israel, with the Philharmonic Orchestra. He had performed in the
Jerusalem Convention Center and toured with the orchestra. The
Israeli critics—and they were a severe, discerning lot— had hailed
him as the next Rubinstein, the next Horowitz, the next—well, you
name it, thought Sonia.

Yet there remained a niggling
dissatisfaction, for she knew that Misha could never realize his
full potential here in this Promised Land, wonderful as it had been
to them.

She picked up her glass of tea from the
bedside table and took another sip, holding a piece of ice to melt
on her tongue, reflecting on tonight's concert. He should be
playing in Carnegie Hall tonight, she thought. Or Lincoln Center.
And he should be continuing his studies with the best teachers in
the world, in New York City.

Misha deserved better. She also knew that her
belief in him was not simply a matter of a mother's pride. She was
herself a musician and a teacher and was certain that she was
objective enough to assess Misha's abilities for what they really
were. Dmitri had always supported her in this deeply felt belief
and agreed with her, and now she knew that there were others who
shared her convictions as well.

The letter. The telephone call.

Sonia expelled a loud breath, her wonderment
over the recent turn of events still giving her moments of
breathlessness. The clock caught her eye, and she decided she'd
better take a shower now.

Quickly disrobing, she went to the bathroom
and turned the taps, testing the water until it was barely warm,
perfect for a sweltering day. She stepped in and lathered up
quickly, then let the water run over her for a time, relaxing her
tense muscles. If only it would rinse away my nervous excitement,
she thought, knowing that it would not.

She stepped out of the shower and began to
towel off vigorously. Suddenly the hair on the back of her neck
stood up, and she had the distinct feeling that she was being
watched. Slowly, she turned, and—

"Boo!"

It was Dmitri.

"You ...you devil," she cried. "You scared me
half out of my skin, Dmitri."

He took her into his arms and hugged her
tightly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just couldn't resist." He began
peppering her wet face with kisses. "Will you forgive me?"

"Maybe," she said. "If you're good."

Dmitri leaned back from her. "I think I can
be good," he said. "In fact, I think I can be very, very good." He
grinned mischievously, eyeing her naked body.

Sonia smiled knowingly.

"Are we alone?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Misha's already left for
the amphitheater."

"How about it, then?" he asked.

Sonia arched an eyebrow. "How about what?"
she asked with feigned innocence.

He hugged her, pushing his groin at her
playfully.

Sonia could feel his tumescence against her
stomach. "Oh," she said. "That." She smiled up into his dark eyes.
"I think we could do something about that."

Dmitri kissed her on the lips. "I'll see you
in the bedroom."

He patted her playfully on the behind, then
turned and walked out. Sonia finished drying off and dabbed herself
with cologne. She looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror
and smiled. I think I'll keep the gray, she thought, then walked
into the bedroom.

Dmitri lay on the bed, naked, his long, lean
body still handsome, more rugged-looking now with its deep tan than
it had ever been in Russia. He beckoned to her with a hand. She
walked to the bedside, and Dmitri reached out and ran his hands
gently over her taut flesh, up to her breasts, down to her
thighs.

Sonia shivered at his touch, delight and
desire beginning to create a fiery heat in her loins. She sat down
beside him, and Dmitri pulled her down to him with his long, strong
arms, kissing her deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth,
exploring. She spread her length out on the bed, face to face with
him, and their kisses became more passionate, more urgent.

Dmitri stroked her back, her buttocks, and
her thighs, then took a breast in his hand. He lowered his mouth to
it and began to kiss and lick it gently.

Sonia moaned with pleasure and need, one of
her hands moving down to his tumescence, stroking it tenderly.

Dmitri gasped aloud, and he moved a hand to
the mound between her legs, a finger entering her, feeling the
wetness that was already there.

Sonia moaned again, anxious now for him to
enter her. "Oh, Dmitri ...Dmitri ...please—"

The telephone at the bedside rang shrilly in
their ears.

"Jesus!" Dmitri groaned. He looked at the
offending instrument, then at his wife. "Let's turn it off," he
said.

Sonia nodded with a smile, reaching over with
a hand to it, but suddenly stopped. "The concert!" she said,
looking at Dmitri. "Misha may have forgotten something. I'd better
get it, Dmitri."

He emitted a low growl. "Shit."

Sonia picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

Dmitri, stroking one of her breasts, watched
her as she listened to the voice at the other end. Slowly he sat
up, his hand leaving her breast, as he saw the look of curiosity,
then the growing horror that crept over her features.

"Where?" Sonia asked, her voice quavering,
the telephone receiver trembling in her hand.

"Yes, yes," she said. "We're on our way." She
abruptly slammed the receiver down in its cradle, and a pitiful
mewling sound escaped her lips.

"What is it, Sonia?" Dmitri asked. "What is
it?"

She shook her head back and forth, moaning,
tears coming into her eyes.

Dmitri shook her arm. "Sonia!" he cried. "For
God's sake, what is it?"

"Misha," she gasped. "Misha ...he ...he's
been in a car accident." She burst into tears, but even as the
tears flowed she leapt out of bed. "We must hurry, Dmitri." She
dashed to the closet. "Hurry. To the hospital."

Oh, my God! Dmitri thought, quickly jumping
to his feet. Misha ... the concert... his hands!

Dmitri slammed on the brakes, and the car
jerked to a stop. They could see the signs indicating the emergency
room entrance. Even before he could kill the engine, Sonia had her
door open and was getting out of the car, prepared to run ahead of
him.

"Wait, Sonia!" he called to her. "Wait for
me."

"Hurry, Dmitri. Hurry!" Her face was a mask
of anguish, flushed from the heat and her fears.

Dmitri got out of the car, quickly locked it,
and looked around. No parking. What the hell. He didn't care right
now. He hurried over to where Sonia anxiously waited for him and
put an arm around her shoulders. They rushed to the emergency room
door together.

Once inside the cool of the hospital, they
hurried to the information desk and asked for Misha. They were
quickly led through swinging double doors toward a curtained-off
cubicle in the emergency room. They heard groans and cries of pain
from every direction, and Sonia grabbed Dmitri's arm tightly.

As they drew near the cubicle in a far corner
where the nurse was leading them, Sonia was certain that she heard
laughter. It sounds like Misha! she thought. She tightened her grip
on Dmitri's arm and glanced at him, but he was staring grimly
ahead.

The nurse pushed aside a curtain, and they
saw their son, prone on a gurney, a doctor bent over him.

"Misha!" Sonia and Dmitri cried in
unison.

He looked up at them with a wide smile. He
had never looked so handsome, so well, so alive to his parents.
Then they saw the bandage on his chin.

Sonia felt tears begin to form in her eyes
yet again, but this time they were tears of relief. Her heart
swelled with gratitude. She wanted to cradle Misha in her arms, but
she didn't want to get in the doctor's way.

"What—?" Dmitri began.

"It's nothing," Misha said. "I'm all right,
Dad."

The doctor looked up at them, shaking her
head. "Your son is a very lucky young man," she said. Her hair was
a mass of frizzy black ringlets, and she wore glasses with
Coca-Cola bottle lenses. "A few stitches in his chin, a few in his
knee, and he'll be as good as new."

"Oh, thank God," Sonia said. "You're sure?
Everything else is okay?"

Misha grinned. "If you're worried about my
hands, they're fine."

The doctor nodded and smiled, revealing
widely spaced yellow teeth. Sonia noticed that her name tag read
WEITZMANN. "He'll be able to play tonight if he wants to." She
looked back down at Misha's knee, where she was dressing his
wound.

"No," Dmitri said. "I think we'd better take
you home to rest."

"No, Dad," Misha cried in a determined voice.
"I'm perfectly all right. There's no reason for me not to
play."

"How are Ben and Avi?" Sonia asked, suddenly
remembering his friends.

"They're okay," Misha said. "Avi didn't have
a scratch on him. He was sitting in the backseat. But Ben probably
has a broken nose."

"Where is he?" she asked.

"In one of the other cubicles," Misha
said.

"Can we see him?" Sonia asked Dr.
Weitzmann.

The doctor looked back up. "If you'll wait a
few minutes, I'll go see," she said.

"Thank you," Sonia said. She stepped closer
to the gurney and leaned over, tenderly kissing Misha on the
forehead. "We're so relieved," she said. "When they called, they
couldn't tell us anything except that you'd been in an
accident."

Misha grimaced. "You know how people drive in
Tel Aviv," he said. "Some jerk—a real old man—ran a light and
front-ended Ben. It was the other guy's fault."

"Well, never mind," Sonia said. "What's
important is that you're all okay. Was the man who hit you
injured?"

"No," Misha said. "He was just a little shook
up. He wouldn't even go to the hospital." He looked over at his
father. "You didn't mean what you said, did you, Dad? About going
home?"

Dmitri nodded. "You've had a shock, Misha,"
his father said. "I really think it would be best if you came back
home with us and had a good, long rest."

"Aw," Misha groaned in exasperation. "That is
so stupid! I'm fine. You can see for yourself."

"You could have been killed!" Sonia
interjected.

"Mama," Misha said, "do I look dead?"

Sonia couldn't help but laugh. "No," she
said, "that you don't. But it's like your father said. You've had a
shock to your system. Perhaps tonight you should—"

"No!" Misha said. "This may be the last time
I get to perform in Israel for a long time, Mama. You know that.
You, too, Dad." He looked at his father, an earnest expression on
his face.

His parents knew the truth of his words, and
remained silent.

"You know how much this means to me," Misha
continued. "Besides, I owe it to my audience to show up, don't you
agree?"

"Misha, people will understand if you have to
cancel," Dmitri said.

"Maybe," Misha said, "but they'll be
disappointed." He turned the full wattage of those large, bright
eyes on his parents. "This country has been very good to us, and I
don't want to let these people down. Surely you can understand
that."

Dmitri looked at his son's imploring face.
He's so willful, he thought. But he knows what he wants, and he
knows what he can do ... at least I hope he does.

Dmitri turned to Sonia. "What do you think?"
he asked.

Sonia looked at Misha worriedly, then turned
her gaze on Dmitri, her mind made up. "If he thinks he can do it,
then I think ... I think he should, Dmitri."

"Right on!" Misha almost shouted, shoving a
fist in the air. "That's the spirit."

The humid air was still heat charged, the
atmosphere stifling in the park, with no breeze tonight to
alleviate the discomfort. Nevertheless, the audience seemed to find
relief in Chopin's beautiful music as Misha's playing transported
them—and that's what it does, Sonia thought, transports—to another,
more gracious time.

She didn't believe it was her imagination,
but she would swear that Misha had never played this professionally
before, with such virtuosity.

He's putting his all into it tonight, she
told herself. He's glad to be alive, and he's grateful to these
people who have given him this opportunity to play, who have come
out to hear him.