Rhapsody (29 page)

Prague was a fairy-tale dream come true. It
was like stepping centuries back in time, into a confection of a
city complete with a turreted castle on a hill. Set on both sides
of the Vltava River and linked by fifteen bridges, the city's
beautiful center, with its domes and spires and steeples, gave
Misha a thrill.

On the way in from Ruzyne Airport he had been
sadly disappointed by the ugly gray stucco apartment blocks that
lined the road in the outskirts. They were utilitarian workers'
flats that could have been transplanted from that dreary section of
Moscow where he and his parents had once been forced to live. What
grim reminders, he thought, of the forty years of ruthless
Communist rule here in the Czech Republic. But the city itself, he
was delighted to see, had survived intact and was every bit as
ravishing as he'd been told.

A young man named Karel had met him at the
airport. He was an emissary sent by the Czech Philharmonic
Orchestra to assist Misha. On the way into the city, Karel talked
nonstop about the rebirth of Prague since the fall of the Berlin
Wall and the "Velvet Revolution."

Misha checked into the beautifully
refurbished Palace Hotel on Panska, close to Wenceslas Square. He
was pleasantly surprised to be offered a glass of complementary
champagne.

"You have a message, Mr. Levin," the smiling
receptionist told him.

"Thanks," Misha said, taking it from her. He
glanced down at the piece of paper and saw that the message was
from Manny. He had taken an earlier flight over here and was now
engaged in a business meeting. Misha folded the message and stuck
it in his pocket, then turned to Karel.

"Thanks for your help," he said, "but I think
I can handle everything else on my own."

Karel looked crestfallen. An aspiring
musician, he wanted to get to know the famous Mikhail Levin better.
"But ... an interpreter, a guide—?"

"Not necessary," Misha said firmly. "I've got
a lot of work to do. But thanks." Well-meaning though he may be,
Misha thought, I'll be able to concentrate on the tasks at hand a
lot better without the constant commentary.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levin,
and if I can be any further service to you, have the orchestra
office contact me."

He turned to leave, and Misha called after
him. "Karel?"

The young man turned back around.

"Please have the limousine and chauffeur
remain here," Misha said. "I will definitely be needing them."

Karel smiled and nodded, then strode out the
lobby door.

The chauffeured limousine would speed his
getting around, Misha thought, and he had a lot to do in a very
short period of time. First on his list was going to Dvorak Hall in
the Rudolfinum. He would be performing there with the Czech
Philharmonic Orchestra tomorrow night.

He was familiar with many of the world's
concert halls at this point in his career, but he had never before
played in Prague. Every concert hall has its idiosyncrasies, and he
would have to familiarize himself with them before his performance.
As always, his sound must be as perfect as possible.

He went up to his suite, tipped the friendly
bellhop, and looked around. The suite had large rooms and
comfortable amenities. Big, soft bath towels, hair dryers, and
cable TV. They're making an effort to catch up with the West, he
thought.

He quickly unpacked and showered, then
slipped into his work clothes. A black turtleneck sweater, black
slacks, and comfortable black loafers. He put on his long black
cashmere overcoat and draped a scarf around his neck, then grabbed
his gloves, pocketed his room key, and headed out.

Inside the limousine, Misha gazed out at the
charming cobblestoned streets and squares and the beautiful
architecture: Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, and Rococo, with the
occasional Art Nouveau masterpiece. They reached the Rudolfinum in
Jan Palach Square within minutes. The grand neo-Renaissance
building, named for the ill- fated crown prince of Mayerling fame,
was decorated with a veritable army of elaborately executed statues
of composers, sculptors, painters, and architects. No wonder it's
called the Temple to Beauty, Misha mused. Its beauty was an
inspiration to him.

In one of Dvorak Hall's splendid colonnades,
he was besieged by a crowd. Administrators, musicians, conductors,
and various minions flocked around him in appreciative awe. They
enthusiastically welcomed him to Prague.

Misha was appreciative and gracious, but
after the initial flurry of greetings, he set to work. First he
checked out his favorite Steinway concert grand and talked to David
Gregory, the tuner who had traveled with it. No problems there,
thank God. One of his greatest fears was always that something
would happen to his favorite piano and he would be forced to
perform on an unfamiliar, or worse, inferior one. When David was
finished with his fine-tuning, Misha did several sound tests, both
alone and with the orchestra. Finally, there was a long
rehearsal.

Several hours and countless cups of strong
but delicious Czech coffee later, he was satisfied. Another
rehearsal tomorrow, he felt, and he would be ready. He headed
outside to the waiting limousine. It was dark and cold.

"The Palace Hotel," he told Jan, the
chauffeur, as he settled into his seat. He was exhausted and
couldn't wait to have a quick bite to eat. I'll risk the mercies of
room service tonight, he thought. Then I'll crawl straight into
bed.

But it was not to be.

In the hotel lobby, Manny hurried over to
him. "Well, well, old man," he said enthusiastically, clapping him
on the shoulder. "How did it go at the Rudolfinum?"

"Okay," Misha said in a tired voice. "I think
everything will be ready for the concert. Where's Sasha? Didn't he
come?"

"No," Manny said, "he had too much work to do
in New York. I don't know. Contracts and stuff. Whatever. Anyway,"
Manny added, "you're free tonight?"

"I'm exhausted, Manny," he said. "I'm going
to call room service for a snack and go straight to bed."

Manny's face dropped, but only momentarily.
"Look, Misha, there's someone here you absolutely must meet," he
said.

"Who might that be?" Misha asked, not really
curious but deciding to hear Manny out.

"Remember when we were talking about getting
a really top-notch photographer to do pictures for the new CD
covers and publicity shots?"

"Yes," Misha said matter-of-factly, wondering
what was up.

"Well, guess what, old man?" Manny enthused,
rubbing his hands together vigorously. "The most extraordinary
coincidence!" His bright eyes locked on Misha's.

"What is it, Manny?" Misha asked with tired
exasperation. "Get to the point. I'm bushed and want to go to bed.
Remember?"

"Staying right here in this very hotel,"
Manny said, "is none other than Serena Gibbons. The Serena Gibbons.
You know, the photographer. She's here doing a fashion shoot."

Misha nodded. He'd heard of her, of
course—who hadn't?—and he recalled having seen some of her
celebrity photos in magazines. As he remembered, they were good,
but he knew nothing about her.

"And naturally," Manny continued excitedly,
"yours truly has gotten to know her. I think she's just the person
to do the pictures of you. In fact, I know she is. She's brilliant,
Misha, and ...beau-ti-ful. You're going to ...love her!"

"Not tonight, Manny," Misha begged off. "Not
tonight."

"But she's right upstairs waiting for us!"
Manny cried.

Misha stared at Manny. He'd really like to
choke him at times like this. But he had to admit his enthusiasm
was infectious.

"Only for a quick drink," Manny cajoled.
"Just one quick quaff. Then off to bed with you. She knows you have
a concert tomorrow and doesn't expect a long visit. Come on, sport!
Ten minutes max. For me?"

Misha expelled a sigh. "You won't give me any
peace, will you, Manny?"

"Ten measly minutes? That's all I ask."

Misha sighed again, then reluctantly nodded.
"Okay, Manny, but ten minutes," he said, wagging an admonishing
finger in the air. "And not one single minute more."

"Great, old sport," Manny cried. "I promise,
you won't be sorry."

Misha was anything but sorry.

Serena Gibbons was the most striking and
enchanting woman he'd ever had the privilege of laying eyes on. And
a privilege it was, he thought. If he'd seen her on the street,
he'd have taken bets that she was a high- fashion model, not an
accomplished photographer who worked on the other side of the
camera.

Nearly six feet tall in heels, she had a long
torso and long but shapely legs. Her lustrous, raven black hair
fell below her shoulders and contrasted dramatically with her
flawless, lightly tanned skin. Huge hazel eyes that seemed to
change color continuously, shifting from brown to gray shot through
with blues and greens, were alert, mischievous, and imbued with a
lively curiosity. Her full, sensual lips, high forehead, and swan's
neck were complemented by exquisite bone structure: high, prominent
cheekbones, a long, straight nose, and perfect chin. Surprisingly,
she wore very little makeup, at least not that he could detect.

Unlike so many beautiful women, Misha
perceived that hers was a careless beauty, one she wore easily and
comfortably. She seemed not to work at it, and perhaps was not even
completely aware of how truly dazzling she was. As he watched her
move about the suite making their drinks, Misha wondered if she'd
been a tomboy growing up. Her stride was long and purposeful, her
movements quick and efficient. She wasn't dainty, or girlish.

The most striking—and decidedly
disturbing—quality about Serena Gibbons, however, was something he
couldn't quite put his finger on. He knew that it had to do with an
aura that surrounded her, an almost palpable sensuality that was
combined, very unusually, with an innate elegance. During the
course of the evening—an evening that stretched from ten minutes to
more than two hours—he quickly discovered other, more surprising,
qualities about Serena Gibbons. They were characteristics he would
never have suspected in a woman so utterly beautiful—and
accomplished, he reminded himself.

She was completely down to earth, humble
even. The pretentiousness he'd seen in so many beautiful women
seemed alien to her. But most surprising of all, Serena seemed to
be totally honest, both with herself and others, a characteristic
that Misha found rare in anyone. He found it both refreshing and
alluring. Like everything else about her, he thought.

He wasn't surprised that she was a much
sought-after photographer. She seemed to have an extraordinary
inner eye—part of that innate elegance, he supposed— through which
she viewed the world around her. She'd made it clear that she was
poorly educated, but Misha could see that she was possessed of a
native intelligence that was daunting. Classical music, she'd told
him, was something she knew next to nothing about, but she was
anxious to learn what she could.

"If I get the commission to photograph you,"
she said in her smoky, alluring voice, "then you'll have to educate
me a bit." She took a sip of her drink, a green tea with ginseng
and honey.

"How?" Misha asked, his eyes glued to
hers.

"Well, for starters, I'll want to hear you
play," Serena said. Then she added in a soft voice: "I'm ashamed to
say that I haven't."

"That's okay, Serena," Misha said with a
smile. "Not everybody's a classical music fan."

"I'm glad you feel that way," she said.
"Anyway, I'll want to know which composers you prefer. The type of
music you favor. You know, like Bach or Bernstein? Your favorite
musical places. I mean, like your favorite concert halls, or places
that are important to the history of music."

"But why would you want to know all those
things?" Misha asked, still entranced by her hypnotic eyes. "All
you'd be doing is taking a few pictures." He picked up his scotch
and water and took a sip.

Serena smiled, exposing her perfect white
teeth. "It's obvious," she replied. "To get to know more about you.
It's the only way I can take a really great photograph. The better
I know you, the better the picture's going to be. At least that's
been my experience."

Misha nodded. "I guess it makes sense," he
allowed. "But it sure is a lot more complicated than showing up at
a studio and sitting down in front of a camera and smiling." He
grinned, then mugged a frown. "Or brooding or trying to look
mysterious," he added.

Serena laughed. It was the most beautiful
laugh he'd ever heard, deep, throaty, sexy, and stirring.

"Yes," she said, "it's a lot more complicated
than that. If you want really great photographs, not the merely
good."

She paused, looking at his nearly empty
glass. "Oh, here," she said, "let me make you another drink. I'm
ready, too." She turned to Manny. "You ready, Manny?"

"No, thanks, Serena," he said.

Misha watched her get to her feet, pick up
his glass, then take long strides to the minibar. She was wearing
tight black kidskin trousers that clung provocatively to her firm
buttocks and a black sweater that hinted at breasts which, if not
exactly voluptuous, would certainly be more than ample. Despite her
tall, fit thinness, Misha observed, she had curves in all the right
places. Oh, yes, indeed.

Manny caught Misha's eye and winked lewdly.
The sexual vibrations between Serena and Misha had certainly not
been lost on him.

Misha ignored him, his gaze returning to
Serena. "Can I help you with anything?" he asked her.

"I've got it under control—" she began. Then:
"Shit!" She laughed again, that same smoky, sexy laugh. "I've spilt
the scotch."