Rhapsody (31 page)

Misha stared after her long, lithe body until
she was gone from his sight, then turned and left the airport. On
the ride back in to Prague, he looked out through the limousine's
windows unseeingly, so preoccupied with thoughts of Serena was he.
He already felt her loss like a great emptiness inside him, a
monstrous hunger that he somehow knew wouldn't go away. But how
could that be? he wondered. For it suddenly occurred to him that
he'd known her for only two days.

Two days
, he marveled.
Only two
short days, but it seems like I've known her all my life
. And
it was with a sense of wonderment that he realized:
We're
already planning a future together. We're lovers.

Misha was packed and ready to leave on the
night flight to New York, but he had one more stop he wanted to
make before heading out to the airport once again. He gave the
chauffeur his instructions, and Jan drove the limousine toward the
Prague Ghetto. Misha had thought about taking Serena there
yesterday but had decided that this was one visit he wanted to make
alone.

In the ghetto, he gazed out the car window at
the buildings along Siroka Street, Cervena, Maiselova, Jachymova,
and Dusni. He peered with curiosity at the house where Rabbi Low,
the famed and much-storied golem maker, had once lived. He saw the
Gothic Old-New Synagogue, Maisel Synagogue, and the High
Synagogue.

At the Old Jewish Cemetery he had Jan pull
over and stop. Misha slid out of the limousine and stood, looking
around in amazement at the ancient graveyard, where headstones—over
twelve thousand of them—were scattered helter-skelter in the small
space, some atop others, many falling down, more than a few in
disrepair.

He took a few steps into the cemetery, then
stopped, reluctant to go any farther. He had traveled the world and
seen many things, but he didn't know if he had ever seen anyplace
that was as overwhelming, as haunting, as this.

As his heart swelled with sadness, his mind
was suddenly aswirl with memories, and his thoughts turned,
inevitably, to Mariya and Arkady, his old friends in Moscow. They
were now long gone, and he wondered about their graves, if anyone
ever visited them and if they were well kept. He then had the
shameful realization that he hadn't thought about them—those
precious and revered friends of his youth—for a very long time.

His career, his pursuit of fame and glory in
the world of classical music, and his tireless nighttime pursuit of
pleasure—his work and play—had obsessed him for so long that he had
virtually forgotten his old mentors. He felt a wave of guilt wash
over him, remembering that for a long time he had failed to even
notice, much less stroke or kiss, the mezuzah he'd bought to
replace the old one that Arkady had entrusted to him.

He walked farther into the cemetery, then
stopped again. Tears were beginning to form in his large dark eyes.
He bowed his head.

Arkady, he intoned as if in prayer, forgive
me for failing to think of you. For neglecting your memory, and
Mariya's. I am back now, beside you, and I need your blessings more
than ever. And your help, Arkady. For I have found a woman.
The
woman, Arkady. And I must have her. She must be
mine.

"How many times have I told you, Manny?"
Misha stormed thunderously. His brows were knit in fury, and his
lips were curled into an ugly snarl.

He jumped to his feet and flung the musical
score he'd been studying behind him. It struck the piano, then
fluttered to the jewel-toned Persian rug at his feet.

When Manny didn't respond immediately, Misha
lashed out again, his voice even louder and harsher. "I will not
perform in Moscow! Not ever! I will not perform anywhere in
Russia!" He glared at his agent, his body quivering with rage.

Sasha sat in a corner, observing the scene
quietly, seemingly unperturbed by Misha's reaction.

Manny pulled a crisp white linen handkerchief
from his rear trouser pocket and began nervously polishing the
lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses. His pudgy fingers moved
jerkily, ineffectively, but he continued nevertheless, displacing
his anxiety onto his expensive glasses.

"I ... I just thought ...," he stammered.

"You thought what?" Misha shouted.

Before Manny could reply, Misha lasered him
with his dark eyes and lashed out again. "I'll tell you what!
Nothing! That's what you thought! Nothing! Zero! Zilch!"

He began pacing, an accusatory finger pointed
at Manny punctuating his words. "You know why? Because you weren't
thinking! If you had been, you wouldn't even have mentioned the
possibility of me playing in Russia!"

Manny stood, hands folded behind his back,
observing Misha's theatrical pacing. He had been shamefaced at
first, but now he was becoming increasingly angry as the abuse
continued to be heaped on him. Nor did he like Sasha seeing him
upbraided like this. At the same time, he realized that he had to
do everything in his power to placate his star client. Oh, yes. He
had to be very careful in the way he handled the primary source of
his bread and butter. Failed pianists, he reminded himself for the
umpteenth time, can make a good living off of successful ones.

"Misha," he finally managed in a calm, even
tone. "I did think about it. And I thought that perhaps after all
this time you might have changed your mind. It'll soon be twenty
years since you left Russia."

Misha flopped down onto a suede-upholstered
couch, sinking amid its antique silk-embroidered Turkish pillows.
He put his head in his hands, shaking it from side to side.

"Manny," he said, looking up at him. His
voice was quieter now, and his eyes looked weary. "I've told you
how they took our home away from us. And everything in it. I've
told you how they put us in a rundown project full of the worst
kinds of people. Bums and whores and drunks. How they took all the
privileges away from my parents. How they wouldn't let me study
with the best instructors at the Moscow Conservatory. How they
wouldn't let us emigrate for two years."

He paused, staring into Manny's eyes.

Manny sat down in a chair opposite him and
folded his hands in his lap. "Yes, Misha," he replied. "You've told
me all that many times, and I can understand the pain and suffering
it caused you and your family. But don't you think it's time to let
bygones be bygones? There's a whole new regime over there. The
Wall's come down."

"I don't care," Misha said. "They treated my
family like dirt. And I'm not going to perform in Russia, homeland
or not!"

"But ... but think of all the money they're
offering," Manny sputtered. "Jesus, Misha! You just don't turn down
that kind of money."

Misha shot him a hard, level stare. "Maybe
you don't, Manny, but I do."

"But. .. but...you'd get a hero's welcome,"
Manny continued excitedly. "Can't you see it? Former Russian
citizen, mistreated by the Communists, welcomed back with open
arms. It'd be great publicity. An international event. You couldn't
buy publicity like that."

"I'm not going to be used as a poster boy for
the new Russia," Misha replied. "So forget it, Manny. No way. Case
closed."

Manny fidgeted in his chair. "Aw, Misha. I
... I just don't ...see—"

"Case closed," Misha roared, and slapped his
hand down on the couch. He was glaring at Manny once again, his
eyes wide, the veins in his forehead distended.

"Okay, okay," Manny said, backing down. He
knew that he'd pushed too hard, and if he hoped to ever succeed,
he'd better drop the subject quickly.

He pushed himself to his feet. "Sorry, Misha.
I'm really sorry for upsetting you," he said. "I won't bring it up
again."

"Don't!" Misha said.

"Well, we'd better be off," Manny said,
injecting a jovial tone in his voice and glancing toward Sasha, who
immediately got to his feet and stood ready to leave. Manny rubbed
his hands together with anticipation. "Have some pressing business
we need to take care of."

Misha made no movement to get up. "You can
see yourself out," he said.

"Right," Manny said. "Well, cheerio, then,
old chap. Later." He and Sasha turned and left the room.

Misha heard the apartment door close behind
them. He sighed and stretched, then kicked off his shoes and put
his feet up on the couch, spreading out lengthwise. He stared up at
the high ceiling, lost in thought.

Why is he pushing a Russian tour so hard? he
wondered. Why won't he just give it up? He's been at me about it
for the last four years, ever since the Berlin Wall came down.

He expelled a sigh as his gaze swept over the
heights of the room. He could see from the changing light on the
ceiling that the sun was beginning its descent in the west. I've
soon got to get up and get ready to go see the folks, he
realized.

As he climbed the stairs to his bedroom,
though, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something
strangely off-kilter about the pressure Manny was putting on him to
perform in Moscow. There's something very fishy about it, he
decided. Yes. Something definitely stinks. But what the hell is
it?

Then, as if a magic wand had been waved
across his path, he reached his bedroom, and his thoughts
immediately turned to Serena. Manny, Sasha, and the Russian tour
were completely forgotten as he remembered that she would be in New
York tomorrow.

He nearly ached with anticipation when he
looked at his bed, thinking that in twenty-four hours or less he
and Serena would be curled up together there. His mind flashed on
the enthralling beauty of her body, its elegant perfection and
erotic possibilities. He felt the hunger for her again, that long
raven hair, her generous lips and creamy breasts, her strong thighs
and tight buttocks, and that glorious mound. He was shocked that
his body became aroused at the mere thought of her.

He wondered if she ached with the same desire
he did, if she still wanted him as much as she thought she had amid
Prague's fairy-tale beauty. Then he remembered how they had
whispered that they loved each other.

He slowly undressed, enjoying his body's
arousal, wondering if what they felt for each other was really love
or just a powerful chemical pull that was some sort of animal lust.
As he stepped into the shower, he decided he didn't care what it
was called. He would give himself up to it willingly, joyously,
knowing that he had never felt anything like it before.

Sonia couldn't help smiling as she witnessed
the scene across the dinner table. Misha and Vera sat side by side,
engrossed in conversation, the rest of the world excluded from
their intimate familiarity. They laughed with each other like
children. Like the oldest and dearest of friends, Sonia thought.
And maybe—dare she think?— maybe like lovers? Ah, if only, she told
herself. For they were the most perfect young couple she had ever
seen. Ideal for each other in every way.

She saw that Dmitri, too, had been observing
them, if a bit less obviously, stealing a glance from time to time
over his glass of wine. She knew that he shared her sentiments, for
hadn't they discussed Misha and Vera often enough? But Dmitri would
invariably point out that Misha and Vera had known each other for
seven long years. Seven years during which their relationship had
seemed to run hot and cold, and sometimes, perhaps more
dangerously, lukewarm.

Lately, he'd pointed out that now they both
had successful careers, plenty of money, and nothing that he could
see to stand in the way of their marriage. He reasoned, therefore,
that something was simply not clicking between them.

Sonia was nothing if not practical, and she
knew that Dmitri was right on the mark. For her part, she felt
certain that the only obstacle in the way of their perfect union
was Misha's wandering eye. Her son wanted to sow his wild oats
before settling down. But, she asked herself, how many wild oats
could a young man have?

"Mama?" Misha was looking across the table at
her with a grin.

Sonia suddenly became aware of his attention
focused on her. "Yes, Misha," she said. "What is it?"

"Have we lost you?" he asked with amusement.
He hadn't failed to notice his mother's smiling approval as she
watched Vera and himself. And he knew exactly what was on her mind.
Hadn't she made enough little hints over the years? She'd tried to
be subtle, but subtlety was not Soma's strong suit.

"No, no," Sonia replied. "I was just
thinking, Misha."

"What about?" he asked mischievously.

"Just ...things," she said evasively. Then
she abruptly changed the subject. "Where're Manny and Sasha, by the
way?" she asked. "I thought they were coming tonight. Then the
secretary called and canceled for them."

"I don't know," Misha said, her question
deflating his good humor. "I don't know what they're up to." There
was a note of irritation in his voice.

"You sound a little unhappy with the dapper
Mr. Cygelman," Vera said. "And his Arctic sidekick. What've they
done now?"

"Yes," Sonia interjected. "What have they
done?"

"It's not that they've done anything," Misha
replied. "It's just that they keep harping on me about doing a tour
in Russia. Working with some promoters they know over there. At
least I think they're over there."

Sonia set her fork down on her plate with a
clatter. "With Manny and that Sasha, who can tell?" she said
derisively. "For all you know, it might be some of those awful
gangsters we saw out in Brighton Beach. Have you thought about
that?"

"Not really," Misha said. "How am I supposed
to concentrate on my music and worry about the business end of
things, too? Anyway, whoever these guys are, they're willing to pay
an enormous amount of money to get me to do a Russian tour."