Rhapsody (38 page)

In the candlelit synagogue, Vera's beauty
drew gasps of awe and appreciation. Her dress was designed by
Catherine Walker, the famous London designer who had fashioned many
of the Princess of Wales's gowns. A princess line with a round
neckline and short sleeves, its bodice was intricately beaded with
Venetian pearls, and a long silk faille train swept grandly behind
her. Her silk tulle veil was held in place by a diadem made of
diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. It had been worn by her mother on
her wedding day. Diamond drop earrings and a diamond necklace,
gifts from Misha, sparkled in the candlelight. She carried a simple
nosegay of full-blown pink roses.

Vera's only attendant was her lifelong friend
Priscilla Cavanaugh, who had once loaned her loft to Misha and Vera
to make love. She wore an Empire-style dress in pale pink silk
chiffon.

Misha was attended by his father, both of
them resplendent in white tie and tails, as was Ivan Bunim, who
gave his daughter away.

After the traditional ceremony, the reception
was held in the Bunims' Fifth Avenue apartment. Jacques Ra- venal,
renowned the world over for his incomparable party planning, was
flown in from Paris to decorate for the ceremony and the reception.
And if the guests thought the ceremony was beautiful, the reception
and dinner were unparalleled in their elegance and
sumptuousness.

The flowers alone cost thousands of dollars,
and like the guests, came from all over the world. Masses of roses,
peonies, lilies of the valley, hydrangeas, and Madagascar
stephanotis—all in whites and the palest of pink—were flown in to
decorate the synagogue and the Bunim apartment's thirty-six
rooms.

A string quartet played in the entrance
gallery as guests arrived and during dinner. In the Venetian-style
ballroom a society orchestra played later in the evening for
dancing the night away. Dinner was served in the ballroom at tables
draped with ivory Venetian damask and centered with five-foot-tall
candelabra decorated with masses of peonies, with vines trailing
down to the tables. Antique Russian silver and imperial china
gleamed, and Baccarat crystal dazzled the eye. Waiters in tuxedos
and white gloves made certain that the crystal was kept filled with
Dom Perignon and Louis Roederer Cristal champagne. The dinner was
delicious, and Vera was justifiably proud. She had decided on the
menu herself: Beluga caviar, buckwheat blinis, ere me fraiche,
whole roasted boneless quail with a lemon stuffing, spring peas,
wild rice with grapes and orange zest, baby field greens, and
toasted bleu de Bresse on Crouton.

The wedding cake was a ten-layered,
six-foot-tall creation, artfully decorated with a realistic-looking
spiral of pink and white roses creeping up its latticework. It was
served as dessert, along with lavender sorbet. Coffee and silver
dragees followed.

Vera and Misha were toasted by many of the
guests, including a senator, the governor, and a member of the
Romanov family.

After all the merriment, the jovial
conversation, the eating, drinking, and dancing, Vera and Misha
were exhausted but exhilarated at the same time. They repeatedly
tore themselves away from their parents, from Manny and Sasha and
Priscilla, and a host of well-wishing friends, only to become
involved in yet another conversation, another dance, another
tearful embrace among the flowers and candles.

Late in the evening, Misha danced Vera into a
far corner of the ballroom and whispered into her ear: "Why don't
we make our escape now, Mrs. Levin?"

"I think that's the best idea you've had all
night, Mr. Levin," she replied.

They quickly exited through a hidden jib
door, painted to look as if it were part of the room's grand
murals, and dashed laughing down the hallway to the elevator, which
would take them upstairs. At the door to Vera's bedroom, Misha took
her into his arms and kissed her passionately. Vera returned his
ardor, then pulled away.

"We're never going to get away if we don't
hurry," she said.

"I'll give you ten minutes to get ready,"
Misha said, a mischievous smile on his lips. "Or I'm leaving
without you, Mrs. Levin."

She tapped him on the cheek. "Just try it,
Mr. Levin," she said.

She tinned and went into her old bedroom to
change clothes, and Misha went down the hall to a guest room, where
he would change his.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he knocked
on her door.

"Misha?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "May I come in?"

"Yes," she said.

He opened the door and saw her, standing at a
dresser. She looked beautiful in a white Chanel suit with gold
buttons and blue trim. It was the same blue as her eyes, Misha
noticed.

"I'm just about ready," she said, eyeing
herself in the mirror. She blotted her lips, then turned to him.
"You look so handsome," she said.

"Thank you," Misha said, preening in his
fashionably cut Armani suit. "And you look ravishing." He took her
into his arms and kissed her. "Now, let's get out of here," he
said.

"One more thing," she said. "I have to throw
my bouquet first."

"Then let's get it over with," he said.
"Okay?"

"I'm ready," she said. She picked up the
beautiful nosegay of roses from the bed, and they headed for the
elevator, hand in hand.

In the ballroom, the guests began to applaud
as they realized that the newlyweds had appeared in their going-
away clothes. Vera, with Misha at her side, made her way to the
platform where the band was set up. There was more applause and
laughter as several of the single women rushed in the same
direction. The orchestra conductor silenced the musicians, and
without further ado, Vera lifted the bouquet high into the air. She
threw it almost straight up over the heads of the guests below
her.

The bouquet fell, fell, fell.

Straight into the hands of Manny Cygelman,
who looked at it with bemused surprise for a moment. Then he joined
in the laughter and applause around him.

Misha pointed at him. "You're next, Manny,"
he said. "Who's she going to be?"

"I don't have a clue, old man," his agent
said, with a laugh. Then he turned and graciously handed the nose
gay to Priscilla Cavanaugh, who stood at his side. Sasha watched
the spectacle with a smug expression.

Vera took Misha's arm, and they started
waving goodbyes all around, slowly making their way through the
guests, headed toward the entrance gallery and a final escape.
Their parents awaited them at the elevator, teary-eyed once again.
After hugs and kisses all around, Vera and Misha left. A car would
be waiting downstairs to take them to the airport, where a
chartered Gulfstream V would whisk them off on a nonstop flight to
their honeymoon destination.

Perched high atop a hill near Ubud, in
central Bali, the house overlooked the spectacular Ayung River
Gorge, volcanic mountains, and terraced rice paddies. It appeared
to be part of the tropical forest in which it was set, being made
almost entirely of ironwood beams, teak, and coconut palms. Many of
its rooms were entirely open to the elements, while others were
surrounded with glass French doors that took advantage of the
dramatic views but offered refuge from the weather.

The air carried with it the sounds of wind
chimes, cicadas, and bullfrogs. The sweet scents of a profusion of
flowering trees and plants commingled to form an intoxicating
perfume that suffused the house with its headiness.

It was here, in this house, on an enormous
teak bed swathed in draperies of pristine white mosquito netting,
that Vera conceived her first child.

Night after night, day after day, she and
Misha made love in that giant bed, the smell of their sex charging
the air, blending with the scented breezes, driving them to heights
of erotic passion that were unfamiliar to Vera, so powerful and
compelling was their thirst for each other. Their lovemaking had
always been full of wonder for her, but it had taken on a new
dimension, one almost of carnal obsession.

The overcrowded beaches with their tourist
hotels were far away, the way Misha and Vera had planned it. Here
alone, except for the efficient and discreet servants, they had
settled in for a honeymoon stay of quiet reading, listening to
music, and taking walks. All without a care in the world.

After several days of little else but eating,
sleeping, and making love—days that had seemed to merge seamlessly
into one with their single-minded activity—Vera lay in the huge
bed, Misha asleep at her side. She pondered the mystery and miracle
of their love.

Her body literally ached from their
lovemaking, something that had never happened to her before, and
she felt immensely fulfilled in a way she had never known was
possible. She had believed that Misha loved her, but she had never
thought that he would find her as sexually exciting as he did.

No matter how faithful, no woman has ever
been more loved, Vera thought. What have I ever done to deserve
such love? she asked herself. To be so desired? Then she wondered:
Am I worthy of such love?

Unsolicited, the memory of that horrifying
night before the wedding sprang into her mind, twisting its way
into her consciousness like a poisonous snake, flicking its hideous
tongue at her, accusing her.

She had tried to rationalize her actions that
night, telling herself over and over that what she'd set out to do
was out of necessity. She told herself repeatedly that she hadn't,
after all, killed anybody. But the guilt still ate at her,
insinuating that her intentions mattered, and that those intentions
had been murderous.

I was going to murder him, she thought. I
went there with every intention of killing him if I had to. I must
be some kind of.. . monster!

She covered her face with her hands, as if to
block out the vision of Simon reeling off the pier, his hands
flailing at the air, grasping for a hold that wasn't there. Then
she heard the horrible thud when he hit the giant bolt, the barely
perceptible splash as he hit the water. She looked into the
blackness of the filthy water that lapped so gently against the
pilings and saw—Vera almost mewled in terror—Simon's evil eyes
looking up at her from under the water, his mouth a twisted rictus,
accusing her of murder.

She began to pant, gasping for air, as a
sheen of cold sweat covered her face. Her hands shook, and she
moaned. Grasping a pillow, she covered her face with it, trying to
still her agonizing pain.

She would never tell Misha what had happened.
Never. She couldn't let anything spoil the perfect love that they
felt for each other.

She slowly removed the pillow from her face
and laid it at her side. Her breathing returned to normal, and she
began to relax. Perhaps, she thought sensibly, these horrible
visions and the debilitating guilt will eventually dissipate.
Perhaps I can even learn to like myself again. After all, Simon
intended to kill me . . .

She was jerked out of her reverie by Misha's
voice.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked
sleepily.

She looked at him, conjuring up a smile. It
was surprisingly easy when she looked at his handsome face wreathed
by his disheveled raven hair. "Oh," she said calmly, "you and me.
How great it's going to be moving into your apartment. And what a
great honeymoon this is."

Misha grinned and reached over and pulled her
closer to him. He nibbled on her ear playfully. "Do you really
think so?" he asked.

"Yes, I really think so," Vera replied, the
dark thoughts of only moments before already receding from her
mind.

"Let's make it even better," Misha said,
running one of his hands over her breasts, lightly flicking her
nipples. He lowered his mouth to one of them, almost reverently,
she thought, then began licking and kissing her there.

Vera gasped in pleasure and ran her hands
over his hard, muscled chest, down to his tight stomach, and on
down to the thicket between his legs. He gasped as she encircled
his turgid cock with her hand. She delighted in its power, its
ability to give pleasure, and its life-giving seed.

They made love, once again leaving her sated
and, unknown to them both, pregnant.

When they left for New York days later, they
were exhilarated and refreshed. They had become much more than the
loving friends who'd experimented with sex before their marriage.
They had become true lovers.

May it always be like this, Vera prayed. May
we always love each other the way we have these last weeks. Please,
God. Never let it change.

The house was expensive. Outrageously
expensive. And ugly. Monstrously ugly. Or so the young man thought
as he pulled up to the curb in his outrageously expensive but
tasteful car. He sat on the buttery soft leather upholstery for a
moment, studying the offensive edifice. He didn't think he'd ever
seen so much money put to such contemptible use.

The gargantuan pile was such a pastiche of
stylistic elements from different periods, of building materials of
every conceivable kind, that he could only assume that the designer
and owner had worked very hard to make certain that no period of
history had been neglected and no expensive specimen of wood or
stone had been ignored in its building.

It's no distance at all between Brighton
Beach and Manhattan Beach, but it was light-years away in every
other respect. Brighton Beach was a somewhat down-at- the-heels
community of Russian emigres. Manhattan Beach was quickly becoming
an extraordinarily expensive enclave of very successful Russian
emigres, many of whom, like the man he was about to see, had their
business virtually around the corner in Brighton Beach.