Rhapsody (25 page)

Manny was yelling into the telephone now.
Wonder what's the matter? Misha mused. Rachel and Sasha, he knew,
put up with it all the time. Manny seemed to be yelling more and
more lately.

Trying to tune Manny out, he wished he didn't
have to go out tonight but knew that he must. Tonight's engagement
was far too important to beg off.

Vera had finished her studies in London and
had just arrived back in New York, where she was now beginning a
career as an employee of Christie's, the venerable auction house.
She would be working in the Furniture and Decorative Arts
Department of their New York branch. Tonight, her parents were
giving a party in her honor at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment.
He certainly wouldn't go if not for Vera.

Vera.

He grimaced, then took a sip of his
scotch.

What am I going to do about Vera?

He'd asked himself that question a million
times at least and still had his doubts about the best tactic to
use. But he'd finally made up his mind that they must talk about
their future.

Tonight, he thought. D-Day.

Tonight's party might be in her honor, but he
knew that they could easily disappear at some point and sneak away
to her private terrace for a talk. He had thought about waiting,
but after her last letter—and how wonderful those letters had been
while he was on the road!— he'd decided that he would talk to her
as soon as possible. So tonight it would be.

"Hey," Manny called, hanging up the telephone
and walking over to the couch.

Misha looked over at him. "Hey, yourself," he
said. "What is it? Office emergency?"

"No, just the usual," Manny said. "Diva
breakdowns, conductor power trips, you know the story."

"Who is it now?" Sasha asked.

"Let's talk about it later," Manny said,
giving him a meaningful look.

Manny looked at Misha with a grin on his
face. "Rachel tells me that some girl, a Paola Something or Other,
Italian, has been calling for you, old chap."

Misha grinned back at him but said
nothing.

"As a matter of fact," Manny continued, "the
aforementioned young damsel seems terribly distressed. She's been
calling every hour, on the hour, every single day for the last two
weeks. Says she lost your telephone number, and only has the office
number."

Misha took a sip of his drink, then set it
down on the coffee table. He looked up at Manny. "Rachel didn't
give her this number, of course."

"Of course not, old boy," Manny said, "but
Rachel is getting a mite perturbed, what with the constant
interruptions, and the young lady's ...shall we say ...aggressive
attitude and language?"

Misha shrugged. "Tell Rachel to tell her that
I'm getting married," he said. "That'll get rid of her."

"No doubt," Manny said, "after she's nearly
deafened poor Rachel with a string of highly inventive
obscenities."

"I'll send Rachel some flowers," Misha said.
"She'll forgive me."

Manny sat down and looked over at Misha. "Who
is this Paola, old boy? Don't remember meeting her."

"Just a girl," Misha said. "You know. One of
those girls who comes to a concert, hangs around backstage, follows
you everywhere, won't leave you alone, won't give you a minute's
peace, until you make her happy."

Manny took off his glasses and began
furiously cleaning them with a pristine white linen handkerchief.
"How young?" he asked.

"I don't know," Misha said, "but don't worry,
Manny. She wasn't a kid, if that's what you mean. I don't go in for
that, and you know it. She was at least eighteen. Probably more
like twenty. A model, she said."

Manny momentarily paused with his
handkerchief and looked at Misha. "Good," he said. "We certainly
don't need a scandal, do we? And the way the press follows you
around, well . . ."

"Manny," Misha said, "there is going to be no
scandal. I hardly know the girl."

"That's exactly what I mean," Manny said.
"You don't know her, but you can bet she knows nearly everything
about you there is to know. You can also bet that there are
thousands of them like her out there who would just love to slap a
big paternity suit on you and part you from some of your
hard-earned cash."

"Manny! Jesus!' Misha cried. "Would you quit
worrying so much. I've been very careful. Nobody could win a
paternity suit!"

"All the same," Manny countered, putting his
glasses back on, "you don't need the hassle, the notoriety. The
press is already calling you the rock and roll star of classical
music."

"What do you want me to do, Manny?" Misha
snarled. "Cut my goddamn hair?"

Sasha laughed. "I don't think that would be
wise," he said.

"No, I don't either," Manny said equably.
"Nothing so drastic as that, old chap. Just try to keep that thing
in your pants." A huge smile spread his lips wide.

Misha laughed despite his anger. "Ah, Manny,"
he said "you're too much, you know that. Too much."

"Seriously, though," Manny said, "you can't
be too careful in your position."

"I know," Misha said. "I live in a glass
house now. I can't do anything without the whole world knowing
about it." He sighed.

"Oh, well," Manny said, "things will change
once Paola spreads the word that you're getting married."

Misha laughed again. "Are you about ready to
head across town?"

"Anytime, old boy," Manny said. "I can't wait
to see what the czarina, Tatiana Bunim, has had the serfs prepare
for dinner."

Misha drank down the rest of his Scotch and
set the empty glass on the table. "Then let's get a move on."

"My sentiments exactly, old boy," Manny said,
getting to his feet. "My sentiments exactly."

Vaslav greeted Misha, Manny, and Sasha with
the same cool demeanor with which he greeted everyone, regardless
of their familiarity with the Bunims. Ushered into the drawing
room, Misha's arrival caused an immediate stir in the room. After
greeting Ivan and Tatiana Bunim, Misha, Manny, Sasha, and Vera all
exchanged air kisses and pleasantries in front of her parents.

"It's so good to see all of you," Vera said,
smiling serenely. "There's someone here who can't wait to see
you."

"No," Misha said jokingly, "we refuse to
speak to anyone else tonight. It's your night."

Vera laughed lightly. "Come with me," she
said. She took Misha's arm, and Manny and Sasha followed along. She
led them over to a French settee where Sonia and Dmitri were
sitting, engrossed in conversation with people Misha didn't
know.

Sonia looked up and could hardly control her
cry of delight. "Misha! Oh, Misha!" She quickly got to her feet and
threw her arms around him, peppering him with kisses.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, you naughty
boy!" she said, finally letting go of him. "You haven't even called
since you got back to New York."

Dmitri had gotten up and hugged his son,
kissing both his cheeks. "Misha," he said. "It's so good to see
you, son."

"And Manny and Sasha," Sonia cried. "I'm
blessed with all my Russian boys tonight!" She grabbed first

Manny and then Sasha in embraces, peppering
them with kisses, too.

Vera watched, taking delight in their joy at
seeing one another, and at the same time she was surprised to learn
that Misha hadn't seen or called his parents since getting back to
town. I wonder what that's all about, she asked herself. Maybe he's
just been too busy. But too busy to see Sonia and Dmitri? No, no
way. He's been up to something.

The dinner was a feast of Olympian
proportions that delighted both the eye and the palate. Served at a
table set for thirty in the main dining room, it was a setting
indeed fit for the Romanovs, the Russian imperial family the Bunims
were often compared with. Baroque solid silver chandeliers lit with
candles hung over the long table, which was decorated with massive
arrangements of fragrant pale pink peonies, Russian silver
candelabra with beeswax candles, and antique imperial Russian
china, silver, and crystal. The table was surrounded by walls of
hand-painted murals that depicted fantastical pastoral views of the
grand palaces in and around St. Petersburg. Draperies at the French
windows were hung with raspberry silk panels, trimmed with a
classical Greek border woven of pure gold.

Vera was toasted by her father, and then the
dinner began. In this grand setting the guests were served Beluga
Malossol caviar, smoked salmon, tiny quail, a risotto with
truffles, paillards of veal, and a choice of dark chocolate mousse
or, for those who had sworn off chocolate, strawberry and rhubarb
cobbler with ginger ice cream. No less than six wines were served
during the course of the meal, all of them of the finest and most
expensive vintages, ending with a Chateau d'Yquem. Footmen in
breeches and powdered wigs stood behind every chair to anticipate
the needs of each guest.

Manny was in seventh heaven, being the
epicurean that he was, the deliciousness of the food such that it
made up for the placement. For he had been seated next to Delia,
Countess Dardley, who was well known for her sharp and evil tongue,
a reputation that Manny decided during dinner was well deserved.
Despite her venerable lineage and obviously brilliant mind, he
decided that her outlook was of such a bleak and negative blackness
that five minutes of her conversation was surely suicide- inducing,
even to the most sophisticated of her dinner partners.

Vera and Misha watched him with little smiles
on their faces, occasionally catching his eye, giving him a quick,
mischievous wink, sadistically relishing the torture they knew he
must be enduring. They picked at their food, patiently sitting
through the dinner, anxious for the ensuing after-dinner
socializing with cigars and drinks and coffee to begin, because
then they could steal away upstairs to be alone.

Their patience eventually paid off, and while
the other guests mixed and mingled in the apartment's various
public rooms, Vera led him upstairs to the private terrace off her
bedroom. There they looked out over the city, as they had the first
night they met, sipping champagne and talking quietly about their
careers.

"I'll be researching and cataloging important
French and Continental furniture," Vera said. "And some Old Masters
paintings. But I'll also be trying to acquire furniture and
paintings for the auction house to put on the block. With some of
my family's friends, plus some of the people I've met in school
over the years, I know quite a few people who have important
collections or have inherited them."

"So you'll try to steer them to Christie's to
put their collections on the market?" Misha asked.

"Exactly," she said. "In some cases it's
easy. Either because the heirs hate the antiques and paintings and
want to get rid of them, or they need the cash. Sometimes
both."

"You'll be great at it," Misha said.

"I think so," Vera said. "I've learned a lot,
and I love the work."

"And you're starting right away?" Misha
asked.

She nodded. "Next week." She turned and
looked at him. "But there aren't any auctions this summer, and
things are a little slow. So I'll have plenty of free time. To do
other things."

Misha returned her look. "That's good," he
said.

Vera knew at once that he was holding out on
her, that he wanted to tell her something but hadn't yet found the
words—or the courage.

"Let's go sit for a while," she said, turning
and walking to the couches under the awning. Misha followed
her.

The scene of our first lovemaking, he
remembered. Six long years ago.

They sat down, sipping their champagne in
silence for a while. Finally, Misha set his flute down. "Vera," he
said, "I wanted to talk about ...well, our future."

She looked at him with a cool expression,
which belied the turmoil she felt inside. "Go on, Misha," she said
in a matter-of-fact voice. "What do you have to say?"

"Well, I don't know exactly how to put it,"
he said. "I want you to know that I love you." He looked into her
icy blue eyes, such hard eyes to read, certainly in this light.
"You're the best friend I've ever had, you know that?"

"I guess so, Misha," she said softly. "I know
you're the best friend I've ever had."

"It's just that ...well, remember when we
talked before you went to London and I left to start touring? And I
told you I was confused. That I didn't really know how I felt about
you?"

"Yes," Vera said, nodding. "I remember every
detail, Misha."

"Well," he said gently, taking a hand of hers
in his. "I still feel pretty much the same way. I love you, Vera.
As a friend. But I don't know if I'm in love with you. Do you
understand that?"

"Yes," Vera said, hoping that he didn't hear
the fear and the sorrow in her voice.

"I don't know what I want to do yet," he
said. "I just don't feel like I'm ready to settle down. For the
last six years I've worked like a maniac, playing concert after
concert, hardly taking a break. I think what I want now is time
alone, to think things through, to try to sort out the confusion in
my head. Do you understand?"

Vera nodded, and looked up at him. "I do,
Misha," she said. "Perfectly." She shrugged. "I guess it would be
good for both of us to spend time alone, thinking about what we
really want, where we really want our lives to go."

"Yes," Misha said. "I just don't want you to
misunderstand me. I'll always love you. I love you like a ...like a
sister."

Vera's eyes bored into his for long moments,
their iciness penetrating him with a chill. "Well," she finally
said, "I hope you wouldn't fuck your sister, if you had one, like
you did me."

Misha almost gasped, then he blurted a bark
of a laugh.