Rhapsody (43 page)

"Just look at her, Misha," Manny said. "She's
young and beautiful and rich in her own right. She knows a lot of
people. Believe me, she won't be on the loose long."

"You almost make it sound like I'd be doing
her a favor," Misha said.

Manny shrugged. "Well, better she's free to
start a new life of her own—you, too, for that matter—than both of
you live in a marriage that's not working. Right?"

"I—I guess so," Misha said thoughtfully.
Then: "Yes, you're right, of course. I'm just so ... so uncertain
about things right now. Except Serena." He looked at Manny. "I know
I really love her and want to be with her."

"If you're certain about that," Manny said,
"then all the rest follows. You know what you have to do if you
want to be with her."

Misha sighed again. "Yes. I know exactly what
I have to do. I guess I'm just putting off the inevitable, aren't
I?"

Manny nodded. "I'd say so, old boy." He took
another sip of his brandy, relishing thoughts of Vera's face when
she got the news. He couldn't wait to tell Sasha the news. "What
does Serena have to say about all this?" he asked.

"She is impatient," Misha said, "but she
understands."

"She's a spectacular lady," Manny said.
"Beautiful and talented. Extremely creative. You two are a lot
alike. You have a lot in common."

"We do, don't we?" Misha said, as if the
thought had never occurred to him before. Then he smiled, somewhat
ruefully. "Well, I have you to thank for introducing us."

"Guilty as charged," Manny replied. And
little did I know that eventually it would work out so perfectly,
he thought.

Misha sipped the last of his drink and set
the glass down. "I'd better get going," he said.

"You sure you won't have another drink?"
Manny asked.

"No, thanks," Misha answered. "I've got to
finish packing for London." He got up and stretched, then turned to
Manny. "Thanks for listening, Manny," he said, "and everything
else. You've been a real friend."

Manny pushed himself to his feet. "Don't
worry about it, Misha," he said. "I'm only too glad."

They started toward the entrance hall, then
Misha suddenly stopped, looking in the direction of the fireplace.
"Is that a Delvaux?" he asked with awe in his voice.

"Yes," Manny said. Then he quickly added: "I
got it for nothing, old boy! A fire sale!"

"You're kidding," Misha said, walking over
for a closer look at the painting. A large canvas painted in tones
of putty, grays, blues, and browns, it depicted four female nudes
standing in a bedroom. On the bed, was sprawled a fifth.

Misha silently studied it for a moment then
turned to Manny. "I can't believe I didn't even notice it before,"
he said. "It's really beautiful."

"Hmm," Manny said. "Got it cheap from a
friend of a friend of Sasha's in Los Angeles. You know. Desperate
for money in a hurry. Sasha seems to know a lot of that type." He
took off his glasses and began nervously cleaning them with a
handkerchief.

"How sad," Misha said. He took a last look,
then turned and headed toward the entrance hall again. "I'd better
hurry home." At the door, he turned to Manny. "Thanks again,
Manny," he said. "You've been a lot of help. I guess I'm just a
little scared. Of my feelings and all."

"You have to remember you're an artist,
Misha." Manny clapped him on the shoulder. "And you have to follow
your heart."

"I guess you're right," Misha said with a
bewildered look.

"I know I am," Manny replied, opening the
door.

"Well, 'night." Misha turned and left.

Manny closed the door behind him and walked
back into the living room. He picked up his balloon of brandy, took
a large swallow, then sat down. Poor lovesick Misha! he thought.
Follow your heart, indeed! If I play my cards right, he thought,
the Delvaux is only the beginning.

London's September sky was gray, but the
rain, an almost daily event this time of year, had temporarily let
up. Misha, umbrella in hand and Burberry thrown across his arm, got
into the limousine awaiting him on Kensington Gore and instructed
the driver to take him back to his hotel. He glanced back at the
huge dark brick pile of the Royal Albert Hall with its enormous
glass-and- iron dome. The rehearsal had gone without a hitch, but
he was glad to be going back to the hotel. He was ready for a nap
before tonight's performance.

As the driver slowly negotiated the big car
through the heavy traffic from Knightsbridge to South Kensington,
Misha reflected on his upcoming performances. The Royal Albert Hall
would certainly never have been his first choice as a venue in
London. It was huge, seating at least thirty-five hundred people,
and for the annual Proms—a series of serious concerts by top
classical musicians—the seats in the pit were taken out and over
six thousand people were accommodated. Misha's popularity as a
performer, however, had made filling up the vast space two nights
in a row an easy matter. Both nights were sold out.

Misha preferred more intimate settings.
Unlike most musicians, he wasn't intimidated by enormous spaces
like the Royal Albert Hall and Avery Fisher Hall in New York's
Lincoln Center, but they did pose problems. The majority of piano
music had been composed for performing in intimate spaces. In this
case Misha had solved this problem brilliantly by choosing an
all-Liszt program. The Liszt pieces had all been composed to be
performed in large, public halls and were thus perfectly suited to
the Royal Albert. He would begin with the Sonata in B Minor, play a
ballade, a consolation, a
funerailles
, and wind it up with
the Mephisto Waltz no. 1. It was an utterly romantic repertoire,
which suited his mood perfectly: he had privately dedicated
tonight's performance to Serena.

Too bad she couldn't be here for the concert,
he thought. At least he was certain that his sound would be as good
as possible in the vast hall. At one time the Royal Albert had a
double echo caused by the huge glass-and-iron dome. Sir Thomas
Beecham had joked that if a musician wanted a second performance of
his music, he had only to play it in the Royal Albert. In the 1960s
the problem had been solved by putting huge saucer- shaped discs in
the dome. While the sound was now beautiful, it certainly didn't
equal the supreme acoustics of Carnegie Hall's wood and plaster. So
today Misha had worked for hours doing more sound tests than usual,
finally satisfying himself with the results.

The limousine pulled to a stop at 33 Roland
Gardens, rousing Misha from his reverie. He looked out at Blakes,
his home away from home in London. Set in a somber mansion block in
South Kensington, Blakes was a small hotel with only sixty rooms,
but it was very chic, an oasis of quiet favored by a well-heeled
clientele. The rich and famous could come and go without fear of
reporters and their flashbulbs invading their privacy.

The endlessly talented Anouska Hempel, an
erstwhile actress turned designer, known more formally as Lady
Weinberg, had created in Blakes a folie de grandeur par excellence.
While its decoration might be considered eccentric by some, Misha
found its theatrical elegance and opulent luxury to his taste.

The driver opened his door, and Misha slid
out of the big car. He dismissed the driver for the time being and
headed for his room. It had faux tortoiseshell walls hung with
prints of Asian costumes and faux marble mirrors. The room was
dominated by a huge four-poster bed complete with a canopy draped
in dark red silk damask lined with black velvet. Its headboard was
appliqued in gold, and the draping was held by tasseled ropes as
thick as hawsers. The bed's posts were wrapped in red and black in
the Venetian manner.

He couldn't wait to pull back its opulent
silk damask spread and slide between the antique linen sheets.
There he could clear his mind of all extraneous concerns but the
music, and then nap before tonight's performance.

It was not to be, however.

In the lobby, perched on an Asian-inspired
settee next to a lovebird's cage, sat Coral Randolph. She looked
for all the world like a raptor, he thought, a peregrine falcon
perhaps, poised to descend on its prey. Her jet black hair,
magnolia skin, and glittering emerald eyes seemed somehow
appropriate to this setting, as did her black cashmere suit with
its Russian sable-lined cape. Coral Randolph was opulence
personified.

As he approached her, passing the
piazza-style market umbrella, she stood on very high Gucci heels.
She held a black leather Hermes handbag and elbow-length black
leather gloves in one hand. He couldn't help but notice the
extraordinary cabochon emeralds at her ears and throat, as well as
those set into a gold cuff at her wrist and the one huge perfect
one set in a gold ring on one of her fingers. Her nails and mouth
were painted a cognac.

"Why, Ms. Randolph," Misha intoned with as
much charm as he could muster. "What a surprise seeing you
here."

"Coral, please," she said, extending her free
hand.

Misha took her hand in his and bowed over it
in the Continental fashion, bringing it to his lips but not
touching it. He straightened up and looked at her. "And it's
Misha," he said. He could smell her perfume. Its aroma was powerful
and expensive.

"Very well, Misha," Coral said. "I realize
that this isn't the best time, but I must have a few words with
you. Immediately."

She was the picture of politeness, Misha
thought, but there was a command in her voice that dared one to
defy her.

"I could spare a few minutes," he said. "You
know I

have a performance tonight, and I have to
rest beforehand."

"Yes," Coral said, with a barely perceptible
nod. "Perhaps in your room, then. Right away."

"Not in the restaurant?" Misha asked.

"No," Coral said firmly, with a slight shake
of her head. "Privacy is essential."

"Very well," Misha said. "It's this way."

Once in the dark grandeur of his room, he
turned to Coral. "Please have a seat," he said. "Make yourself
comfortable."

"Thank you," Coral said, and seated herself
on an Asian chair of inlaid black lacquer.

"I'm going to call down for a drink," Misha
said. "What would you like?"

"Champagne with a bit of Campari in it,"
Coral said without hesitation.

Misha called down their order, then turned to
Coral. "Would you like to hang up your cape?" he asked.

"No, thank you," Coral said. "I freeze in
London at this time of year."

Misha hung his Burberry in the closet, then
sat down on a chair. He started to take off his Gucci loafers, then
stopped. "Do you mind?" he asked, looking over at Coral. "I've been
at it for hours."

"No," Coral said, "of course not."

Misha finished, then wiggled his toes and got
to his feet. He sat on the bed, then leaned back against the sea of
pillows, and spread out his long legs. "Are you staying here?" he
asked.

"No," Coral replied, "I'm at the Ritz."

"How did you know I was here?" he asked.

Coral looked at him. "Serena, of course," she
said.

"I guess I know what you've come to discuss
with me," he said.

There was a tap at the door, and Misha got
off the bed and answered it. A waiter brought their drinks in on a
silver tray and set it down on a table, then turned and left.

Misha handed Coral her champagne and
Campari.

"Thank you," she said.

He took his scotch and water back to the bed
with him, where he spread out against the pillows again. He raised
his glass. "Cheers," he said.

Coral raised hers. "Cheers," she repeated
with a slight smile, and took a sip of her drink. Then she set the
crystal flute down and turned to Misha.

"I might as well get to the point," she
said.

"Yes," Misha said, smiling. "Might as
well."

Coral cleared her throat. "Serena doesn't
know I've come to see you, and I'd rather she didn't."

"I can keep a secret," Misha said.

"I know about your involvement with Serena,
of course," Coral said, "and I don't like it, to be perfectly
honest. She thinks the two of you are in love."

"We are," Misha said.

"I don't know whether I believe that or not,"
Coral said. "But it's beside the point really. What I have to say
is this. Serena is a very fragile young woman. She's been terribly
abused in the past and was deeply hurt the last time the two of you
were involved."

"Yes, but—"

"Please, Misha," Coral said, "let me finish
what I have to say so that I can leave and you can have your
nap."

"Okay." Misha shrugged.

"The situation is infinitely more complicated
this time because you have a wife and child," Coral continued. "But
all the complications aside, Serena is determined that the two of
you will be together. That you will eventually marry." She looked
at Misha to see what his reaction, if any, would be to that
statement.

She was not disappointed.

"I want more than anything in the world to
marry her," Misha said ardently, sitting up in the bed. "I really
love Serena, Coral. With all my heart."

"I see," Coral said. "Well, this affair has
been going on now for nearly a year. Since Vienna. And Serena is
becoming increasing anxious and impatient. So much so that I'm
afraid it will affect her work."

She took a sip of her drink before
continuing. "I find

it regrettable that your wife and child may
be harmed by whatever happens, but my primary interest here is
Serena, of course. She's been practically like a daughter to me,
and there is no one else to watch out for her interests."

She looked over at Misha, her emerald eyes
sparkling. "My point is, I want you to either marry Serena," she
said evenly and calmly, "or I want you to break it off with her
immediately."