Rhapsody (37 page)

Tonight, she'd taken advantage of his absence
and stayed late at her office, catching up on work, nibbling on a
tuna sandwich she'd called out for. So much for dinner! she
thought. But it didn't matter, because she couldn't wait to crawl
between the sheets. She headed straight for her bedroom, where she
undressed and slipped into an old T-shirt, smiling with secret
delight as she did so: it was one of Misha's, and her very favorite
thing to sleep in.

She padded into the tiny bathroom, loosening
her pale blond hair from the silk Chanel scarf casually tied at the
base of her neck as she went. At the old pedestal sink she flossed
and brushed her teeth and washed and dried her face, then flipped
off the light and made a beeline for her bed.

Sliding beneath the covers, she savored the
feel of the crisp linen sheets against her. This is truly heaven,
she thought. Just what the doctor ordered for my overworked bones.
Just then the telephone jangled in her ear, startling her at
first.

She reached over and grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?" she said.

For a moment she heard only breathing, a
clearly audible respiration that sent a chill up her spine.

"Who ...who is it?" she asked, slightly
unnerved.

There was no answer.

The breathing continued, rhythmic and
...threatening.

Vera shivered, then thought: Don't be silly.
It's only a stupid prank. She started to slam down the receiver,
but at that exact moment she heard her name.

"Veeeerrr-rrraaaaa."

It was a low, gravelly voice, her name
drawled out eerily. The voice was unmistakably British, and
instantly recognizable: Simon Hampton.

Oh, my God, she wondered, what's he doing
calling me after all this time? A call from Simon could mean only
one thing: trouble. She made an effort to control her pounding
heart and the rising fear that held her in its thrall. "Simon," she
said, despising the quaver of apprehension she heard in her
voice.

"You've been seeing that fag musician again,"
Simon said in a mocking tone.

Oh, my God! He's ...he's been following
me!

The realization was like a powerful physical
blow, and Vera thought for a moment that she would surely be sick.
This can't be happening to me! She felt an involuntary tremor run
through her, and she nearly dropped the receiver.

"You shouldn't be seeing him, Vera," Simon
said in a singsong, as if he were chastising a naughty child. "It
might be very dangerous for him if you do."

"You wouldn't dare," Vera cried, fear—now
mixed with anger—consuming her. "I'll report you to the police,"
she said. "I'll tell them that you're the person who tried—"

"Shut up!" Simon snarled. "I can get to your
precious faggot before the police can. I'm right around the corner
from him."

"You're lying, you bastard," Vera cried.

"Now, now, Vera," he said in the mocking
singsong. "We want to watch our language." Then his voice became
even more threatening as he reverted to his normal baritone. "The
piano player's gone downstairs to a cafe. Having a nightcap with
that fat manager of his. I can see them, Vera."

Vera choked back a sob. Is it possible? she
wondered with horror. Can he really see Misha? Or is he bluffing?
Just trying to scare me?

What can I do? she agonized.

Her mind reeled with possibilities, but she
couldn't sort through them, couldn't make sense of them.

"Meet me," he said in a demanding voice.

"Meet you?" she nearly whimpered.

"Yeah," he said. "Down in the Village. It'll
be like old times. Just you and me, Vera. We'll have a drink. Go
for a walk."

Vera was both revolted and terrified at the
very idea of seeing Simon now. Was he completely crazy? Would he
try to hurt her? To pay her back for seeing Misha?

Oh, my God! What if he knows we're getting
married? What will he do then? She felt a knot of fear such as she
had never known form in her stomach, wrenching it into a tight
fist.

What am I to do? she asked herself again. But
she knew what she must do.

Her head spinning, her stomach lurching into
her throat, she took a deep breath and finally spoke: "Okay,
Simon," she said, with as calm a voice as she could muster. "Where
do you want to meet?"

"A little cafe on West Street," he said. "At
the foot of Christopher Street, head north. You'll see it. It's a
sidewalk cafe."

"I'll be there," she said, "but it'll take me
a while to get dressed and get down there in a taxi."

"Ciao," he said. The line went dead.

Vera replaced the receiver in its cradle and
sat still as a stone, thinking. After several minutes, she slid out
of bed and got busy.

She went to her closet and pulled out an old
pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and black sneakers. She put them
on, then searched until she found an old baseball cap. She put her
hair up in it and pulled it low over her brow.

In a dresser drawer she rummaged through
neatly folded underclothes until she found the gift her father had
given her several years ago. She threw it and her wallet in her
black leather shoulder bag, then grabbed her keys and dashed out of
the apartment in search of a taxi.

Vera sipped the chilled chablis in her glass,
eyeing Simon across the table. He had been throwing back generous
amounts of bourbon and water, and she saw that he was beginning to
get sloshed. The cafe was deserted and had been ever since she'd
arrived. It was a Wednesday night, and the sidewalks had been
virtually empty, only the occasional pedestrian hurrying by. The
incessant stream of traffic on the West Side Highway was beginning
to thin out.

She had been very wary at first, seeing Simon
seated there, his long blond hair dirty and windblown, his big blue
eyes sparkling, his tall, muscular body at ease, sprawled at a
sidewalk table. Oddly enough, they hadn't discussed the telephone
call or Misha. Simon didn't seem to want to, and Vera was anxious
not to provoke his wrath. He seemed content merely to be in her
company, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He had
talked about his latest show at a small gallery in London, and the
painting projects he was working on now.

Maybe this will satisfy him, she thought
hopefully. Maybe I'll be able to simply get up, leave him here, and
go straight to Misha's. Then we'll alert the police. Maybe ...maybe
I won't be forced to do anything crazy. But she had no way of
knowing what Simon was going to do next and didn't want to take any
chances.

"Do you still want to take that walk?" Vera
finally asked.

"Yeah, sure," Simon said, smiling over at
her. "Are you ready?"

"Whenever you are," she said evenly, trying
not to betray the nervousness she felt.

He asked for the check, and the waiter
brought it, disappearing back inside. Simon looked at the bill and
counted out some cash. Then he placed his glass atop both and got
to his feet, stretching his arms.

Vera looked up at him. Oh my God, she thought
miserably. I'd forgotten how big he is. How tall and muscular. How
will I ever do it, if I have to? She quickly rose to her feet and
walked over to him.

Simon put one of his powerful arms around her
shoulders. "Let's walk over to the piers," he said, pointing across
the West Side Highway toward the Hudson River.

"Whatever you'd like," Vera said, attempting
a smile.

He hugged her to him closely, and they
crossed the highway, then walked along the promenade. There was
chain-link fencing along the shore side of the piers, put there to
keep people from wandering out onto them.

"Look," Simon said, pointing at a gap in the
fence. "We can climb through here and go all the way out to the end
of the pier."

"Do you think that's safe?" Vera asked.

"Yeah," Simon said. "I've seen people out
there."

He helped her climb through the gap, then
followed close behind her. They strolled all the way out to the
very end, far out into the darkness of the Hudson River. At the
pier's edge, they stood, gazing over toward the distant lights of
New Jersey.

"It's strangely beautiful," Vera said, "isn't
it?"

"Yeah," Simon said. "It is."

The sky was overcast, and they could see no
stars. It was virtually dark out here, eerie with only the sounds
of the powerful wind and the distant traffic. No one else was
about, at least not that Vera could see.

She shivered, and Simon drew her closer,
stroking her arm with his. But it wasn't the wind that chilled her.
No. It was knowing what she might have to do. And this, she thought
grimly, is the perfect place to do it.

Simon turned to her, and she could see his
eyes gleaming in the near-darkness. "You're going to marry him," he
said quietly. "Aren't you?" His grip on her shoulder became
suddenly painful.

For the second time that evening, Vera
thought she would surely be sick. The pressure of his powerful arm
and hand gripped like a vise, and the gleam in his eye was one of
utter madness. I'm trapped and helpless, and he's going to kill me!
She struggled to find the words to answer him.

"I ... I came here ... to ... to meet you …
.didn't I, Simon?" she stammered. "Just like you wanted me to."

"You didn't answer my question, Vera," he
said. He looked at her with a strange sort of triumph in his eyes.
"But you don't have to, because I know. Everybody in London
knows."

"You're hurting me, Simon!" she cried.
"Please let me go!"

He shook his head slowly, looking into her
eyes. "I don't think so," he said calmly. "If I can't have you,
Vera, then nobody's going to."

Vera struggled to escape his grasp, but it
was impossible.

Simon began to laugh, then said: "You'll come
up a lovely floater, Vera."

She suddenly went white-hot with a
combination of fury and fear, struggling more urgently, then
kicking wildly at him with her feet.

Simon laughed again, then loosened his grip
slightly and started to push her over the edge of the pier.

Vera saw her chance and swung around,
bringing her knee up into his crotch with all her might, slamming
it home with a grunt.

Simon gasped in pain, his eyes momentarily
focusing on her with shock. He released her instantly and grabbed
his crotch. When he did, Vera saw him lose his footing, one boot
slipping over the edge of the pier. His arms flailed at the air as
he fell sideways, like a broken puppet, off the pier.

Vera looked on, her eyes wide with horror.
She heard a loud thunk, and could swear that she could feel its
impact in the boards beneath her feet. Then there was a muffled
splash, barely perceptible above the sound of the wind.

For a moment Vera didn't move. She could hear
the sound of her own labored breathing, coming in loud gasps. Then,
gingerly she looked down, over the edge of the pier. In the
near-darkness the first thing that caught her eye was an enormous
iron bolt projecting from a half-rotten piling. Beneath it she
could see nothing but

the blackness of the water, slapping gently
against the pier.

Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, my God!

She began to heave uncontrollably, her tuna
sandwich cascading down into the darkness. Tears began to run from
her eyes, but she forced herself to keep searching for any sign of
Simon.

The water continued lapping gently against
the pilings, unbroken, undisturbed.

She finally got to her feet, backing
carefully from the pier's edge. Tremors began to run through her
entire body, and she choked on the bile in her throat. Get a grip,
she told herself. It's over, and you've got to get out of here!

She brought a hand first to her eyes, then to
her mouth, wiping it on her jeans. Taking a deep breath, she turned
and started back to the landside of the pier, moving quickly but
not running. When she got to the fence, she found the gap and
crawled through, then made her way across the highway and up back
streets to Eighth Avenue, where she hailed a taxi back uptown.

In the safety of her apartment, she took the
snub-nose Smith & Wesson from her shoulder bag and replaced it
in the dresser where she kept it.

Thank God
, she prayed,
that I
didn't have to use it!

She began to tremble, and tears began to flow
from her eyes.
But I would have done it
, she thought.
I
was prepared to commit murder to protect Misha
. She began to
sob.
What kind of a woman am I? What kind of a monster?

The wedding was celebrated at the Fifth
Avenue Synagogue and was, everyone agreed, an extravaganza rarely
seen among even the rich and important society crowd and the
cultivated music and art world denizens who attended.

Everyone is here, Vera thought. At least two
members of the president's cabinet, two senators, the governor and
mayor, financiers from everywhere, several titled Europeans and New
York bluebloods, along with famous conductors, composers,
musicians, and artists.

Sonia and Dmitri Levin, teary-eyed at the
ceremony, were thrilled that their son had finally come to his
senses. Even Ivan and Tatiana Bunim, who had always objected to
their daughter's romantic interest in Misha, had given their
blessings to the marriage.

They had often discussed Vera's reluctance to
develop a relationship with any of the appropriate young men who
had been interested in her, and they knew the reason. They also
knew very well how stubborn and single- minded their beautiful
daughter could be. Although they had hoped she would form an
alliance with a scion of one of the legendary Jewish families of
great wealth, they realized that Mikhail Levin was an excellent
catch for any young woman.