Rhapsody (2 page)

Misha took a deep breath. "Serena?" he said
tentatively, in his rich, deep baritone.

She jerked slightly, then stood stone still
for a moment before turning on a heel to face him. She wore huge,
dark sunglasses, but there was no mistaking that it was she.

She stared at him through the dark lenses,
momentarily stunned—he could see that, even through the glasses.
Then a smile—conditional and nervous at first— formed on her
painted lips, and her beautiful features gradually blossomed to
life.

"Misha?" she said in her smoky voice.

"Yes," he almost whispered, "it's Misha."

"Oh, my God! I don't believe it!" Serena
tried to control her fluttering heartbeat, but her voice was
testimony to the genuine delight and excitement she felt at seeing
him.

"I don't, either!" he said. There was a note
of wonder in his voice. "How long has it been?"

"Five years," she answered without
hesitation.
Five long, lonely years
, she thought.

"Five years," he repeated. Then he stepped
closer and held his arms out to embrace her.

Serena hesitated momentarily, thinking that
she should perhaps not be so demonstrative, that she should conceal
the utter joy—and vexation—that seeing him had caused. Usually in
command of almost any given situation, she found that her mind was
a whirlwind of indecision, of contradictory thoughts and
feelings.

Oh, what the hell
, she finally
resolved.

She impetuously moved into his arms, throwing
her long arms around him and hugging tightly. He kissed both her
cheeks in the Continental fashion, and she kissed his. Serena
immediately felt comfortable in his arms, as if she belonged there,
despite her initial shock at seeing him.

We must look like two old friends meeting for
the first time in a long while, she thought as shoppers made a path
around them on the sidewalk. But we were much more than that. So
much more.

Misha hugged her to him, thrilled at the feel
and smell of her, that familiar, exotic scent. It was a mingling of
musk and citrus, of the Orient, of mystery and allure.

They drew apart, but still he held her, a
hand on each arm. He was reluctant to release her. "You look
beautiful," he said, eyeing her up and down. "More beautiful than
ever, if that's possible. Fame suits you, I think."

Serena laughed and smiled. "Thank you,
Misha," she said. "And you look more handsome than ever." She took
off her sunglasses and gestured with them toward the wall behind
her. "Better than your picture even."

Misha looked at the wall, to the spot she'd
indicated, and saw his face, blown up in black and white, staring
back at him. It was one of the posters advertising the United
Nations land mine benefit concert for which he was playing tonight.
He had been so preoccupied with her, he hadn't noticed it
before.

"Do you think so?" he asked. "Those
photographs are always so dramatic, aren't they?" Then he laughed.
"But you know that better than anyone, I guess."

"It's a good photo," Serena said. "He did a
good job, I think."

"That's certainly a compliment, coming from
you," Misha said.

"Yes," Serena said, "it is. It's a good thing
he did, too, because they're plastered all over Vienna."

"So, of course, you knew I was here." It was
a statement, not a question.

She looked at him levelly, her hazel eyes
glittering with the same remarkable energy and passion for life
that had always attracted him. "Yes, Misha," she said. "I knew you
were here."

He wanted to ask her if she had planned on
getting in touch with him, but wasn't sure he was ready to hear her
answer. "What brings you to Vienna?" he asked instead.

"I'm doing a shoot with some of the newly
elected political leaders in Middle and Eastern Europe," she said.
"They're here for a conference, so I'm getting them all together.
Czechs, Serbs, and so on. For Vanity Fair."

"It sounds exciting," he said.

Serena smiled mischievously. "It might be a
lot more exciting if a good old-fashioned fight broke out among
them. Then I might get some really interesting pictures."

"I see you haven't changed too much," Misha
said with a smile. He looked into her eyes. "You've really come a
long way, Serena."

She shrugged. "Yes and no," she said in a
self-deprecating manner.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Oh ... I don't know," she said evasively.
"Never mind."

Misha glanced quickly at the Rolex Oyster on
his wrist, the one he'd been given for doing a print ad for them.
"Have you got time for a quick cup of coffee?" he asked.

Serena shook her head. "Sorry, no. I have to
get going, Misha. I'm on my way to meet Coral for lunch. We have to
go over some business."

"How is Coral?" he asked, an amused
expression on his face.

"You know Coral. She's the same as always."
Serena laughed. "Mother. Father. Sister. Brother. Jailer. And
agent, of course. Still smothering me with too much attention." She
paused, then asked: "How's your family?"

"Very well," he replied matter-of-factly.

Serena thought she detected a storm cloud
momentarily scud across his handsome countenance. What is it? she
wondered. Regret, sorrow, doubt? Unhappiness?

He looked at her intently. "Are you ... are
you going to be here for a while?" he ventured.

"Yes, but just another couple of days," she
said. "Then it's back to New York."

"Do you mind if I call you?" His dark brown
eyes were pleading with her to say yes. He didn't want to push her,
but he couldn't let her go without at least trying to see her
again. Not if there was any possibility, however remote, that she
might be willing.

Serena gazed at him for a long moment with
those large hazel eyes of hers. They were golden brown, with
scintillating shards of green and blue glittering in the light, and
they mesmerized him now as they always had. "I'd like that, Misha,"
she finally said. "Very much."

He felt a sudden excitement churning in the
pit of his stomach and knew that he would be living in a state of
unbearable anticipation until the next time he got to see her. "I
would, too, Serena," he uttered.

She put her sunglasses back on. "I'm at the
Konig von Ungarn. On Schulerstrasse," she said, more casually than
she felt. "I'll be free late tonight and tomorrow afternoon."
What am I doing?
she asked herself.
I must have lost my
mind. That's the only explanation for agreeing to see this man
again
.

"I'll call you tonight, then. Okay?" he
said.

"Yes," she said, turning on her heel to go.
"I'll be there. Bye, Misha." She tossed her long hair and walked
away, thinking:
I'm crazy. Completely crazy. But I don't care. I
want to see him again. I must see him again.

"Good-bye, Serena," he whispered to her
swiftly departing back.

He stood then, watching her go, and expelled
a sigh. I already miss her, he thought. After all these years,
seeing her for mere minutes had left him with a great empty
feeling, like a profound physical hunger, that was frightening—and
inescapable.

"It's all sugar coating," Emanuel Cygelman
said. "The Ringstrasse was only built in the last century. Neo-
Renaissance, neo-Baroque, neo-Gothic, neo-You-Name- It. It's all
poured concrete. Just all mock-ups of the real thing."

"You're joking, Manny," Vera Levin said,
brushing a strand of pale blond hair away from her face with
perfectly manicured fingernails. Her blue eyes, a cool pale delft,
gazed at him as she forked up a small bite of pike souffle.

"It's true, Vera." Manny leaned across the
table. "The Parliament Building, City Hall, the Imperial Museum,
the Court Opera, the Bourse—you name it. They're all like a
theatrical backdrop for some monstrous operetta," he continued. "I
mean, sure, Vienna is an ancient city. But the Ringstrasse? It's
pure nineteenth century, all done in one fell swoop."

Vera took a sip of her wine and looked at
Misha, but her husband, seated on her left and staring off toward
one of the restaurant's magnificent Gobelin tapestries, was
apparently in another world.

"Well, Manny," Vera said, "I, for one, am
glad they built the Ringstrasse. Concrete or not, it's part of
Vienna's wonderful magic."

Manny took a bite of his rich Kalbsbrilken
Metternich, a justly famous veal dish, and frowned thoughtfully as
he chewed. "Still it's part of the sugar coating," he finally went
on with relentless determination. "Vienna has its dark side, too,
Vera. Don't forget, it was home to the melancholy Dr. Freud. Not to
mention its popularity with that most infamous of all Austrians,
Herr Hitler, who, I might add, had a huge following here."

He took off his tortoiseshell glasses and
made a production of polishing them with a crisp linen
handkerchief. "And what about Herr Kurt Waldheim? Hmm?" He eyed her
quizzically. "He ruled the roost not so long ago. So you see?
Vienna's not only great musicians and marvelous pastry chefs—"

"Oh, Manny!" Vera snapped irritably. "Do give
it a rest. Aren't you supposed to be busy at Knize being fitted for
new suits? Dietrich swore by them, you know. Clotheshorses the
world over think they're better than Savile Row."

Manny, who never donned anything but the
finest custom-made clothing and shoes, adjusted his silk tie a
fraction. "I," he pronounced, "shall never set foot anywhere but
Huntsmann, no matter what they say."

"You," Vera sighed, "are a hopeless
Anglophile—and snob." She smiled then. He really was a terrible
snob, she thought, but there was so much more about Manny that
remained a mystery to her. Even after knowing him for years, he and
Sasha, his associate who had remained behind in New York, both were
an enigma.

Once again she glanced at Misha, but he was
still staring off into space. He hadn't heard a word of their
discussion.

"Misha?" prodded Vera gently. "Are you
nervous about tonight, darling?"

He drew in his gaze and turned to her. "No,
no," he said with a smile. "I was just thinking about ...oh,
nothing really." He shrugged.

Nothing, indeed!
he thought. Talk
about a U.S.D.A. prime lie. In truth—and he didn't dare divulge
it—he hadn't been able to think of anything except Serena Gibbons
since the moment he'd laid eyes on her. It was as if they had never
parted, as if they were still the impassioned lovers they had been
five long years ago.

"You've hardly touched your food," Vera
admonished. "You ignored the hors d'oeuvre trolley, and I think you
had two spoons of that delicious lobster soup. Your guinea fowl
looks delicious. I hope—"

"You know very well I seldom eat anything
much before a performance, Vera," he said mildly. "I'll have
something after the concert tonight."

"Okay," Vera said resignedly. She smiled at
her husband and dropped the subject.

Vera Levin was possessed of an elegant,
rare—some said decidedly icy—beauty, and one might easily be
forgiven for forgetting that she was also possessed of a daunting
intelligence, which had served her well in her marriage to
Misha.

Vera glanced surreptitiously at him. His gaze
was already once again diverted from the luncheon table, his eyes
apparently sweeping around the restaurant. Was it the extravagant
flower arrangements that had attracted his attention? The fine
antique furnishings and carpets? Or those delightful plaster
mannequins of the Hungarian officers who'd founded the restaurant
at the end of World War I?

No, she didn't think so. He was lost in
thought again.
Very curious
, she thought.

She could sense that he was much more
preoccupied than usual before a concert, and she wasn't satisfied
with his response to her about not eating.
Misha is
dissimulating
, she surmised. But she knew when to leave well
enough alone, and was wise enough not to question him any further.
She knew when she married him that music was Misha's mistress, and
a more demanding, time-consuming mistress she couldn't imagine. She
had reconciled herself to this fact, and thought that if he took up
a mistress of flesh and bone ...well, she would cross that bridge
when she came to it.

Besides, she told herself, the benefits of
marriage to a world-renowned pianist were incalculable, both
socially and financially, and Vera thrived in the monied,
cosmopolitan artistic circles in which they moved.

Manny, who had been studying his most
important client with interest, took a sip of his wine, then set
the glass down and touched Misha's hand with one of his own.
"Misha," he asked, "what did you think of the posters?"

"What?" Misha said. Then Manny's question
registered in his preoccupied mind. "Oh, they're all right," he
said, turning his attention back to the table. "Although, quite
frankly, I don't see the point of them. They're unnecessary. The
concert was sold out the day the tickets went on sale. And that was
two days before the posters went up."

"They did the posters as a courtesy to you,"
Manny said. "And a well-deserved one, too, if you ask me. You're
performing this concert at your own expense."

"Well, it's for a worthy cause," Misha
replied matter-of-factly.

"And it's making tons of money for them,"
Manny said.

"The tickets were thousands of dollars
apiece," Vera added.

"You couldn't ask for better advertising,"
Manny continued. "You couldn't buy this kind of advertising!"

"No," Misha said, "I don't suppose you could.
Anyway, I just hope they get their money's worth."

"I don't think there's any doubt about that,"
Vera said, with both certainty and loyalty in her voice. "I've
never known you to disappoint your audience."