Rhapsody (24 page)

She knew that Misha sometimes went out with
other women, and he knew about her men as well. After all, his
dates were chronicled in the gossip magazines and in society
columns on both sides of the Atlantic, as were hers. They had often
discussed some of the speculation written about them in the press,
laughing, enjoying the often ridiculous assumptions made by the
reporters. She'd found that they both had fallen into the habit of
reassuring the other that the latest "love interest," as reported
in the press, was no more than an acquaintance, someone just met,
someone publicists had attempted to create a stir with; in short,
never anyone to be concerned about.

"Oh, her," Misha had said just the other
night. "Her father is a big patron of the arts in Italy, and Manny
introduced me to her. He thought it would be smart to be seen out
with her. You know. Stir up a lot of interest, since she's a big
fashion model and all."

"She certainly is beautiful," Vera had
said.

"Yes," Misha allowed, "but there's not much
upstairs. You know what I mean?"

"Yes," Vera said, thinking that it often
wasn't what was upstairs that interested men so much as what was
downstairs.

"What about this Hugh ...Whoever?" Misha had
asked. "I saw your picture in Hello! magazine with him. At some
party."

"Oh, you know, Misha," Vera replied. "He owns
an art gallery here in London. My family knows him. I go to parties
with him sometimes when he needs a beard."

"Oh, so he's gay?" Misha asked.

"Yes," she said. "He's had the same boyfriend
for years."

They'd had this conversation and so many like
it over the years, she thought, that they both seemed to run on
automatic pilot when the discussion veered this way.

Most of the time, Vera wasn't particularly
concerned about these people they were both photographed with, but
sometimes she did worry that one of the beautiful young women to
whom he was constantly being introduced would finally steal Misha's
heart away. That one of the inevitable one-night stands he had
while on tour—and she was certain he must have them—would prove to
be her nemesis. She was also certain that there were women he
didn't tell her about in his notes, women who didn't appear in the
pages of the international gossip reporters, somehow having escaped
notice, closely as they followed him.

Secrets.

She smiled now, thinking of her own little
secret, un- meaningful though he may be in the long run, certainly
as far as Misha was concerned.

Simon Hampton.

Her rebel lover had been back in her life
again for some time now, his possessive macho behavior tempered to
some extent—chastened, she thought, by her refusal to see him for
so long—but his demands as a lover were as rigorous, as energetic
and creative, as they had always been.

Very simply put, she thought, Simon is damn
good sex, and he's always ready and willing.

It was principally because of Simon that she
had finally arrived at a sort of truce with Angus, the ever-present
manservant. As they had come to know each other a little better and
develop a degree of trust—and after a very long heart-to-heart
talk—Angus had decided to look the other way when she disappeared
for a few hours or perhaps the night, as long as she let him know
that she would be at Simon's. She had offered Angus money for his
silence, for she knew that he reported to her father, but Angus,
mysterious sphinx that he was, had refused the cash. He would
cooperate with her— and cover for her—as long as he knew where she
was.

She was well aware that Angus did not like
Simon, though they had met only briefly. She thought, in fact, that
Angus disapproved of him. Yet he seemed to understand that Vera,
whatever her reasons might be, must see the somewhat surly young
man from time to time, and Angus saw that she came to no obvious
harm as a result.

Had he asked Vera why she saw Simon, she
could only have responded that he was sexually exciting. Simon was
like the after-dinner mint that her mother often spoke of when she
referred to certain men as sex toys, no more, certainly not
marriageable. Vera's trysts with him were for her simply a release,
a convenient arrangement whereby she could have most of her
physical needs fulfilled without any strings attached, without the
prying press knowing about it—and without Misha knowing. They
always met at his seedy loft, and never went out in public, staying
in, away from the glare of photographers' flashbulbs. She enjoyed
these trysts, if truth be told, for Simon's intensity and his
devotion to his painting—and his sensuality—never failed to remind
her of Misha.

My little secret
, she thought again,
getting to her feet and walking upstairs to her bedroom to get
ready.
I wish I didn't need him, but I do
.

Manny sat on the bed, sipping a gin and
tonic, the telephone at his ear as Misha finished getting
dressed.

"Look, Sol," Manny said with exasperation,
putting his drink down on the bedside table, "if I've told you
once, I've told you a thousand times. Misha is booked solid for
that month. We've got commitments over two years down the
road!"

Misha watched Manny's reflection through the
mirror, where he stood putting in his shirt studs. Handsome solid
gold knots that matched his cuff links. A gift from Vera a couple
of years ago, when he'd played a concert in London at the Albert
Hall. Finished, he put the gold cuff links on and tucked in his
shirt, a white voile Gianfranco Ferre with elaborate but subtle
white embroidery on the front. A gift from his parents. Taking one
of his many black silk bow ties, he carefully tied it just so, in a
perfect bow, the result of many years of practice, then stood back
and studied his reflection.

Not bad, he thought. Uh-oh. My
cummerbund.

He retrieved it from the mahogany valet where
he had carefully draped it, and put it on, stepping up to the
mirror again to make certain its black silk was centered
perfectly.

There. Done. Or almost.

He turned around, looking at Manny, who was
practically shouting into the telephone receiver at this point. His
face was flushed beet red, and any pretense at sounding like an
aristocratic Englishman was completely gone from his voice now.
Misha never failed to find amusement in his voice's inevitable
return to the streets of Brooklyn when he became excited.

He looked over at Sasha and grinned. Sasha
returned it and shook his head, as if to indicate that nothing
Manny said or did surprised him.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Sol!
The answer is no. N-o," he spelled out. "I told you a long time ago
that you'd have to commit by last spring. Last spring! Well, my
friend, summer's here. It's too fucking late. Capische!'

He listened for a moment then slammed down
the receiver without another word. He looked up at Misha. "What a
schmuck," he cried. "He just won't listen!" He picked up his drink
and took a long sip.

"Don't worry so much, Manny," Misha said.
"You've got me booked for practically the rest of my life. I don't
know how you do it, but whatever it is, it works."

Manny looked at him with a pleased expression
on his face.

"Mama said she was in Tower Records the other
day," Misha continued, "and they had my new CD displayed—guess
where?"

"Where?" Manny asked, although he already
knew the answer to the question.

"Between Madonna's new CD and the new one by
the three tenors. At the counter and in special bins. Can you
believe it?" Misha laughed. "I may have helped create a kind of
mystique and a lady-killer image in the press. But the distribution
deal you worked out with those people—whoever they are—is really
fantastic. How the hell did you do it?"

Manny dismissed the question with an eloquent
shrug. "Just leave all that to me," Manny said, exchanging a look
with Sasha. "You don't have to worry about it."

"I'm just curious," Misha said. "It's amazing
how little of the business end of things I know about. If something
happened to you, I'd be lost. I wouldn't know anything."

"Well, nothing's going to happen to me,"
Manny said with an easy smile. "So forget about it. Even if it did,
Sasha here could handle anything. Right, Sasha?"

Sasha nodded his head. "I know what's going
on. I can deal with it. Don't forget, Misha, we're both failed
classical pianists. So we do know a little bit about the business,
even if we weren't good enough to play professionally."

"If you say so," Misha said.

"I say so," Manny retorted. "And Sasha's
right. We may not have made it as concert pianists, but we know the
business inside out."

Misha supposed he should listen to Manny.
After all, money had been pouring in for the last four years,
reaching a point now that he had never expected to achieve. Manny
had set up his own record label, Brighton Beach, named for that
section of Brooklyn that had become so heavily populated by Russian
emigres. Misha knew that Manny and Sasha had worked out some sort
of a distribution deal with longtime Brighton Beach acquaintances
who were like them: young men of Russian descent on their way up.
Idly, Misha wondered about them. He knew that there was an active
Russian mob of some sort based in Brighton Beach, but he'd never
really questioned Manny or Sasha about their business methods or
their connections. He just took satisfaction in knowing that his
recordings were in stores everywhere and were getting prime retail
space.

Misha went to the closet and retrieved the
black tuxedo jacket that matched his trousers. It was one of the
double-breasted summer-weight ones made especially for him by
Versace in Milan. He slipped it on and looked in the mirror.

"That looks capital," Manny enthused,
recovered from his telephone battle, his British aplomb fully
restored. "Even if it didn't come from Savile Row. I must say,
Versace did a bang-up job, old chap."

"It does look good, doesn't it," Misha
replied. He turned around. "What do you think, Sasha?"

"You look perfect," Sasha said.

"Well, you two about ready to go?" he
asked.

"Yes," Manny said. "Whenever you are."

"Let's go downstairs," Misha said. "I think
I'll have a drink, too, before we go."

"You?" Manny said, arching a brow. "Have a
drink before the party?"

"Yes," Misha replied. "I think I'll need it
tonight."

They left Misha's spacious balcony bedroom
and walked downstairs to the living room, where Misha spread out on
a sumptuous couch and Manny and Sasha sat opposite him in antique
chairs. Over the years his apartment in the Hotel des Artistes had
become a repository of the many purchases he'd made during his
travels around the world. The double-height living room, much like
the one in his parents' apartment a few blocks away, was dominated
by the back-to-back ebony Steinway concert grand pianos, placed to
take advantage of the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Suspended from the heights of the ceiling was a magnificent crystal
chandelier he had bought in Venice, and on the floor was an antique
Heriz rug, its once intense colors muted by years of wear and
exposure to the light. Just the way he liked it. At one end of the
room was a huge fireplace of carved stone, over which hung a
heavily carved antique gilt mirror, also found in Venice. The
chairs and couches were nearly all big and comfortable, covered in
suedes, leathers, and tapestries, and antique occasional tables
laden with bibelots and pictures were scattered about the room.

He had decorated the room himself, with
Vera's advice from time to time about placement and her fine
editorial eye, and he was immensely proud of it. It was chock full
of antique furniture, objets d'art, and luxurious textiles, yet it
was still a room that you could relax in, that you weren't afraid
to put your feet up in. It also had an unmistakably masculine air
about it, despite its treasures. Exquisite two-hundred-year-old
neoclassical Italian chairs were covered in the softest leather as
opposed to a silk brocade or damask, and the colors were dark and
rich rather than soft pastels.

He got up and went to an Italian Empire
console of fruitwood and gilt, and poured himself a scotch. He put
in a few ice cubes from the silver bucket and poured in a dash of
water, stirring it with a finger.

He turned to Manny and Sasha. "Do you two
want more gin and tonic?" he asked.

"I'll get it," Manny said, heading for the
table.

Misha sank onto a down-filled couch covered
with soft chocolate-colored suede, kicked off his black-bowed,
patent-leather slip-on shoes, and put his feet up on the heavy
Giacometti glass-and-bronze coffee table.

The telephone bleated, and Misha sighed.
"Jesus, not again," he complained.

"I'll get it," Manny said. He picked up the
nearest receiver. "Hello?"

Misha looked over at Manny, who put his hand
over the receiver. "It's Rachel," he said. "I'll just be a minute."
Rachel was Manny and Sasha's very aggressive and very efficient
secretary, one of the few people who had this number.

"Take your time," Misha said, waving a
hand.

Sasha got up and went over to the drinks
table, where he made gin and tonics for both himself and Manny. He
set Manny's down beside him, then returned to his chair and sat
sipping his drink silently.

Misha's eyes swept the room, relishing its
opulent comfort and its quiet, only Manny's soft chatter in the
background. It was good to be back in New York for the summer,
after touring for months at a time. He'd hardly taken a break in
the last four years, and he'd had Manny make certain that he would
have the next three months almost completely free. He looked
forward to a summer of solitary practice and simple relaxation,
away from the hot stage lights, the grueling hours in recording
studios, the adoring fans, the critics, and the incessant
travel.