Rhapsody (17 page)

She squeezed Dmitri's hand, and he turned and
looked at her, a smile on his lips. He put an arm around her waist
and hugged her to him, then turned his attention back to the
stage.

Even though they had good reason to be
concerned, Sonia decided that they shouldn't have been worried
about Misha performing tonight. He always pushed himself to the
limit, but young as he was, he always seemed to know what he was
capable of, just how far to go before pulling back.

He's like an athlete in training for the
Olympics, she thought, with hardly a break in the grueling
routine.

She often worried that his genius for music
would leave him impoverished in other areas of his life, and she
remembered Arkady's admonishments about allowing Misha to be a boy.
A normal life was not an easy task for a prodigy who practiced for
hours a day, every single day of the week, but she felt that they'd
encouraged him in other pursuits, although they needn't have
worried. Misha did well in school and had developed other
interests, interests typical of the average young man, she
supposed.

Without fail, he exercised every day, lifting
weights, jogging, or playing racquetball. He sometimes fenced with
friends. He loved loud, brash American and English rock music,
volleyball at the beach, and—to her horror— skateboarding. She and
Dmitri frequently had to remind themselves of Arkady's advice—he
was a young man now—and let Misha pursue these interests.

She smiled to herself, watching him toss that
mane of raven hair as he struck a chord onstage. How handsome he
is! she thought for the millionth time. And how dangerous that
combination of looks, talent, and his willfulness could be! He's
got the potential to be a real heartbreaker ... a lady-killer. She
often hoped that his willful nature and the self-centered attention
to his talent and ambition—attention that was a necessity if he was
to succeed—would not make him a selfish partner.

She had known far too many artists, be they
musicians, painters, writers, or sculptors, who had devoured those
around them to serve their own needs. Whether unknowingly or
deliberately, they left a path of emotional ruin behind them,
destroying their families, their loved ones, in relationships that
were essentially parasitic and utterly self-centered. All for their
art, or so the excuse usually went. Deep down inside, she knew that
Misha was like many of these artists, but she told herself that
this would change with time ...and the right woman.

Her mind drifted back to the letter they'd
received. She remembered that day with extraordinary clarity. She
had waited for Dmitri in her office, where she attended to
administrative duties, while he finished his classes. In the late
afternoon they had gone home from the university together, as they
often did.

On the drive to the apartment, he had been
unusually withdrawn, and Sonia had sensed that he was in a bad
humor.

"What is it, Dmitri?" she'd finally asked.
"You're so ... distant."

He shrugged. "Nothing," he replied, staring
ahead at the bumper-to-bumper traffic as they crept along.

"Dmitri, I know something's bothering you,"
she said. "Maybe you'd feel better if you talked about it."

He glanced at her, then turned back, staring
out the windshield. "Oh, I guess I'm just frustrated, Sonia. With
teaching. With students."

Sonia laughed lightly. "That sounds too
familiar," she said. "Did anything in particular happen today?"

"No," Dmitri said, easing the car into the
traffic circling around Magen David Square. "Nothing out of the
ordinary. It's just the usual, I guess."

"What?" Sonia persisted. "The routine?"

"Maybe that's part of it," he answered. "But
it's mostly the students. One after the other all day long, and
half of them don't really want to be there. They don't have their
hearts in it, you know?"

"Do I ever," Sonia replied dryly, gazing out
the window at the palm trees.

"Another thirty or forty percent of them show
some interest, and do what they have to to get by." He paused as he
stopped for a traffic light, then continued when the traffic began
to move again. "A lot of them don't have much ability. I guess
about ten percent of my students actually want to be there, doing
what they're doing and really working at it."

"But only one or two of those will ever go
anyplace with it," Sonia said. "Right?"

"Exactly," Dmitri said. He glanced at her
again. "I guess it just gets to me sometimes. I feel like I'm not
accomplishing very much. I look at these kids, and I can't help but
think about the way that Misha works, his drive and passion."

"Dmitri," Sonia interjected, "you've got to
remember that Misha is one in a million. He's a prodigy. You can't
expect that from your students."

"I know," Dmitri said. "I don't know why it
bothers me today. Most of the time I don't think too much about
it."

They reached their apartment building, and
Dmitri pulled over and parked. Gathering up their briefcases, they
walked together to the lobby, where Dmitri retrieved the mail. Then
they waited a moment for the pristine and reliable elevator. Sonia
never failed to be reminded of the squalid, graffiti-scrawled
elevator in Moscow, and today, as on so many others, she said a
silent prayer of thanks.

When they reached the cool of the apartment,
Sonia went to the kitchen, and Dmitri put down his briefcase and
started going through the mail. Bills and fliers, mostly. So much
junk, he thought, separating the mail into two piles. He picked up
the stack of fliers and promotional letters and started to throw it
in the wastebasket. Then suddenly he noticed what appeared to be a
letter. He pulled it out of the stack and looked at it. From New
York City. What could it be? he wondered, turning the
expensive-looking envelope over in his hand. It was ecru paper of a
very heavy stock. He took it to the living room couch, sat down,
and tore the letter open.

Sonia came out of the kitchen with two tall
glasses of iced tea, and put them down on cork coasters atop the
coffee table. She sat down on a chair across from Dmitri and kicked
off her sandals, wiggling her toes.

"Oh, it's so good to be home and out of the
heat," she said, putting her bare feet up on an ottoman. She took a
long sip of her tea.

Dmitri didn't respond, and she looked over at
him. He was so absorbed in whatever he was reading—was it a
letter?—that he apparently hadn't even heard her. As she watched
him, she saw the expression on his face change, gradually altering
from one of studious attention to one of complete—what?

"Dmitri?" she ventured in a quiet voice.

He read on, still ignoring her.

"Dmitri?" she repeated with growing
apprehension and puzzlement. "What is it, Dmitri?"

He held up a hand to silence her and
continued to read.

Sonia reluctantly held her tongue. Not only
was she becoming increasingly anxious but she was also a little
angry now. Why is he ignoring me? she asked herself. What the hell
could be so important he would react like this?

A minute later, Dmitri looked over at her,
then held the letter out. "I'll let you read this for yourself,
Sonia."

"What is it?" she asked again.

"Just read it, Sonia," he replied.

She took the letter from his outstretched
hand and began to read. Her irritation and alarm quickly turned to
astonishment and wonderment. A strange sensation ran through her,
as if the moment wasn't quite real, as if she were in a movie and
this weren't actually happening to her. When she was finished, she
quickly read through the letter again. Satisfied that her eyes were
indeed not deceiving her, she put the letter down. She went to the
couch and sat next to Dmitri.

He saw the tears that had already formed in
her eyes, threatening to spill at any moment, and tears came into
his eyes. He took her in his arms tenderly, and they wept, holding
each other on the couch, trembling, crying for joy, for their lives
would surely never be the same again.

After a time Sonia pulled back from her
husband, though they still clung to each other. "What do you think,
Dmitri?" she asked.

"What do I think?" he echoed. "What do I
think?" He looked at her intensely, then almost shouted with sheer,
unadulterated joy, "I think I believe in miracles, Sonia! That's
what I think!"

He hugged her to him again, and they both
laughed without restraint, with the glee of children. Dmitri drew
back, and they smiled at each other.

"We've got to tell Misha," Sonia said
excitedly, her laugher quieting.

"I'll call him now," Dmitri said. Then he
turned to her. "Or do you think I should wait until his class is
over?"

Sonia looked at her watch. "His class is
almost over," she said thoughtfully. "Why don't we wait for him to
get home? What do you say?"

"Yes," Dmitri said, "then he can read the
letter himself."

Misha closed the door behind him. "Mama!" he
called out. "Dad!"

"We're in here," Dmitri answered from the
living room.

Misha walked in, his scuffed sneakers
squeaking on the floor, his backpack, full to bursting, swinging
from one hand. He stopped when he saw them, and looked at them
curiously.

"What's going on?" he asked, smiling. "Why
the wine? You celebrating something?" He dropped his backpack to
the floor and went over to the couch, where he kissed his mother on
the cheek, then his father.

"Sit down," Sonia said.

"What is it?" Misha asked again, sitting down
sideways in a chair, his legs dangling over the arms.

Sonia handed him the letter. "Here, read
this," she said.

Misha took the letter from her and quickly
scanned it. When he was finished, he jumped to his feet, almost
dancing around the living room. "All right!" he yelled jubilantly.
"All right!" He kissed and hugged Sonia again, then his father.
"We're going to New York! Finally!"

Sonia and Dmitri watched him, taking pleasure
in his reaction. They had always dreamed of this moment for him.
When he eventually sat down again, he looked over at his
parents.

"When do we leave?" he asked.

"We have a lot of loose ends to tie up here,"
Dmitri said, "but I don't think it will take us too long."

"But Mr. Bunim says in the letter that we can
come anytime," Misha said.

"I know," Sonia said, "but your father and I
have discussed it and think that we should make sure the university
has replacements for us before we go. Then, we have to look for an
apartment in New York, and . . ."

Misha laughed. "There must be dozens of
people lined up for your jobs," he said. "That'll take about a
day."

"You're right," Dmitri said, "but the
university will want to do a search for the best people for the
jobs."

"And there're other things to do, too," Sonia
said. "We'll have to sell the car and the furniture and pack, but
it won't take too long."

"But the Bunims said they'd finance
everything," Misha said. "We could just let somebody else—"

"It's a loan," Dmitri said. "A loan, Misha.
You read the letter. He's loaning us the money to come to New York
and get established. It's not a gift. So we don't want to just up
and leave. We'll still have to be careful, son."

Misha was suddenly quiet, then looked at them
thoughtfully. "I wonder why he didn't do this before?" he asked.
"Why did he wait all this time. Why now?"

"Misha," Sonia said, "you're excited. You
didn't read the letter very closely. He says in plain English that
he wanted to be certain that you would benefit by the training in
New York. You know, that you're qualified, that you're mature
enough."

"Seems to me," Misha said, "he should've
known that for a long time."

"Listen, son," Dmitri said. "The Bunims have
been very generous, helping us through Haim to get established here
in Tel Aviv. You know that."

"Yes," Misha said, "I know."

"And through Haim," Dmitri went on, "we've
managed to pay them back for helping us get this apartment and
everything else. But I guess they're like most rich people, they
want value for their money. So Mr. Bunim's been waiting to make
sure that we're worth it."

"In other words," Misha said, "he wanted to
make sure that I have the talent to make it in New York? That I'm
worth it?"

"That's it, exactly," Sonia said,
nodding.

Misha looked at his father, then his mother,
an intense look in his dark, fiery eyes. Sonia looked away. She
didn't think she'd ever seen such naked determination in anyone's
eyes before. It was a little frightening, this look, and made her
uncomfortable. She told herself that it was only the harsh Israeli
sunlight pouring in through the windows, striking his eyes at a
certain angle. Yes, she decided, it must be a trick of the light.
She looked back over at Misha.

"I'll show him," Misha said in a low voice
that was almost a growl. "You just wait and see. I'll show
him."

"Afternoon, Misha," the doorman said, nodding
his head as he held open the door. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Hey, Sam," Misha said. "It sure is." He
strolled on into the apartment building's darkly lit lobby, a big
black leather gym bag in hand, his Walkman dangling loose around
his neck, emitting a loud, tinny buzz.

"And Misha?" Sam called after him.

He turned around and looked questioningly at
the doorman. "Yeah, Sam?"

"Good luck tonight," he said with a
salute.

"Thanks, Sam," Misha replied, smiling at the
doorman's gesture.

He walked on toward the elevator bank, his
sneakers squishing on the floor, looking around the lobby's vast,
tastefully restrained expanse of marble. As always, there were
three massive bouquets of fresh flowers, one on an elegant
French-looking commode against a wall, one on a low coffee table
surrounded by couches, and another on a table between the
elevators. The smell of huge pink and white lilies engulfed
him.