Rhapsody (46 page)

Can it be?
he wondered, all thoughts
of the review forgotten. With dread he began to read.

SIMON CURZON HAMPTON RETROSPECTIVE

FREDERICA EBERLY GALLERY

Curator Peregrine Lavery-Blunt has assembled an
impressive collection of the post-modern paintings by the late
Simon Curzon Hampton. The paintings—and there are a large number of
canvases—were executed primarily in the early 1990s, before the
artist's untimely and bizarre death.

Hampton, a graduate of Eton and the Slade School of
Fine Art, is represented in many private collections, including the
Saatchi Collection in London. His estate is represented here by the
Frederica Eberly Gallery exclusively.

The current retrospective was assembled with the
assistance of the artist's family and various well-known
collectors. His brother, Mitchell James Hampton, a sometime race
car driver, provided five works, and his father, the well-known
sports figure, Curzon Cavendar Hampton, of Hastings Lodge,
Castledown, Surrey, supplied several others. His mother, Lady
Isabel Etherington-Hawkes, has said that none of his works are in
her possession because she finds them "too depressing." She resides
in Buenos Aires and caused a scandal among the social set in 1972,
when she deserted her husband and sons for the well-known South
American polo player, Enrique Gomez-Rodriquez.

At the time of his mysterious death five years ago—he
was found drowned near the Verrazano Narrows Bridge in New York
City—Hampton was in New York City for a show of his paintings at
the Schulman Lazare Gallery.

"Good God," Misha whispered as he finished
reading the article.

"What is it?" Serena asked, emerging from the
bathroom.

Misha looked up. She saw the troubled
expression on his face. "This article," he said, stabbing the paper
with a finger. "It's about somebody Vera used to know. Used to
date, in fact. He ...well, he was a troublemaker." Misha, for some
reason, decided on the spur of the moment that he wouldn't tell
Serena about Simon Hampton trying to kill him.

"You're kidding," Serena said. "Somebody Vera
used to date?" She snuggled next to him in bed. "Here, let me
see."

Misha absentmindedly handed her the
newspaper. He became lost in thought, wondering if Vera knew about
this. If she knew Simon was dead. An involuntary shiver ran through
him. Simon's long-ago attack on him, coupled with finding out about
his strange death after all these years, left him with an uneasy
feeling.

"Wow!" Serena said. "Weird."

"Here," Misha said, snapping out of his
reverie. He took the newspaper from her, folded it, and placed it
on the bedside table. He looked at her and smiled. "Let's try to
forget about that, okay?"

"Sure," she said.

"Why the solemn look all of a sudden," he
asked. "Is it the article?"

"God, no!" she said. "I didn't know him! It's
...it's nothing."

"Come on, Serena," Misha cajoled. "What's
going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

"Oh, I was just thinking," she said. "In the
bathroom. I'm ...I'm really sick of these assignments."

"You mean like this one?" he asked. "Fashion
shoots?"

"Exactly like this one," she said harshly.
"I'm starting to really hate them."

"Was it just this shoot?" he asked.

"No, Misha," she replied. "A lot of the
others, too. I've been thinking about this for a very long time.
I'm sick and tired of taking pictures of celebrities, no matter who
they are, and I'm sick of fashion shoots. It's getting to be old
hat. The same old thing over and over. Nothing new. Besides, I want
some respect for my work."

"Serena," he said, "everybody likes your
work. Why else would you have such a huge contract?"

"I know that," she said. "But it's not those
people I want to please anymore. It's a different crowd I'm
after."

"You mean the critics?" Misha asked.

"I guess so," she said. "I want to start
doing some serious photography. The kind of stuff that'll get me
gallery shows and reviews."

"But there've been shows of your work," Misha
pointed out.

"Yeah," she said, "but at places like the
Fashion Institute of Technology. I'm talking about something
completely different, Misha." She looked at him. "I want to do
serious pictures that'll be bought by museums and collectors. Like
that guy that Vera knew. His paintings. I want to go in that
direction. You see what I mean?"

Misha looked at her and expelled a deep
breath. "You're talking about switching from commercial to art
photography," he said.

"Right," Serena said, looking at him with a
smile.

"Are you certain about this?" he asked.

"Yes," Serena answered, "and I'm going to
have a confab with Coral about it. I want to start taking some
serious pictures."

"That's going to be quite a switch," he said.
"And a huge challenge. You know, the critics will be gunning for
you because you've been so successful commercially."

"I know all that," she said. "And I'll just
have to take that chance."

"Do you have anything in mind?" Misha
asked.

Serena shook her head. "Nothing definite
yet," she said. "But I've been giving it a lot of thought."

"And what have you thought?" he asked,
tenderly brushing a strand of hair from her face with his
fingertips.

"Oh, just that maybe next month when I'm in
the Far East on
another
fashion shoot"—she turned to him
with a grimace on her face—"I might make some side trips. Go to
Vietnam, Cambodia. Like that. See what I can get."

"You're absolutely serious?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "You know. Things like,
what's Hanoi like now? The killing fields? Pol Pot's successors?
There's a lot of stuff there that's open now, stuff that I know I
could get to. Pol Pot's prisons and all. It might be really
interesting. And serious. It might get me some respect as a
photographer."

"This sort of thing might keep you on the
road a lot more than what you do now," Misha pointed out. "And it
might be a bit depressing to boot."

She nodded. "I know. I've thought about that,
too," she said. "I know I can handle the ...unpleasantness of some
of it. And I figure that if you really love me, you'll put up with
it. I might be gone a lot for long periods of time." She studied
his face.

Misha sighed. He didn't like hearing this. He
had envisioned her eventually scaling back some of her commercial
work so that they could have more of a home life, a family life—and
children.

"I hadn't expected this," he confessed in as
neutral a tone as he could muster.

"No," Serena said. "But it's the direction
I'm definitely going in, so I had to tell you."

"But what about being with me?" Misha said
with mild exasperation. "And what about those children you said you
wanted?"

"Oh, Misha, please." She scowled and slapped
the bed with a hand. "There's plenty of time for all that kind of
stuff."

He stared straight ahead. This is almost like
deja vu, he thought. Like all those years ago when she refused to
budge an inch, career-wise, so that we could have more time
together. But then neither did I.

"Misha," she cajoled, "this is very important
to me. Please, don't be angry."

He turned to her. She looked like a lost
child, vulnerable and afraid. He pulled her to him and stroked her
hair. "I'm not angry, Serena," he said.

"Thank God," she said, snuggling closer. She
ran a hand down his chest, then unknotted his bathrobe and ran her
hand down between his thighs.

Misha immediately responded, leaning down to
kiss her. "How could I be angry with you?" he whispered, already
forgetting his worries and irritations, already swept up in an
overpowering hunger for her.

Candles. Dozens of beeswax candles.

Chandeliers in the living and dining rooms
and candelabra placed strategically about the apartment glimmered
iridescently, their Old World luminescence suffusing the apartment
with an air of mystery and romance.

On the deserted dining table, the shifting
light of tapers, now burning low, glinted off the imperial silver
and china. It danced against antique Russian crystal, casting
prismatic shards of color about the room.

Flowers, hundreds of them, all old-fashioned
fullblown English roses—palest pink Abraham Darby, fading red
Othello, creamy ivory Heritage, and pale yellow Thomas Graham—were
stuffed blossom to blossom in silver mint julep cups that ran the
length of the dining table. Fragrant nosegays of them were placed
throughout the rooms, their combined aromas imbuing the air with a
sweet intoxication.

Vera had gone all out to make the evening a
truly memorable one for everyone. Sonia and Dmitri had officially
retired from their full-time positions at Juilliard, and Vera
wanted to mark the occasion with a very special dinner.

Misha had offered to take them all out for a
lavishly expensive dinner—Le Bernardin, La Chanterelle,
Petroussian, anywhere—but Vera had insisted that they have a family
dinner at home. Sonia and Dmitri were thrilled with her
thoughtfulness, but had told Vera to go to no trouble, knowing that
she had so many responsibilities. Vera, however, was determined
that no one—not even her richest and most important international
clients at the auction house—would ever have a more beautiful
dinner party than that which she would give for her beloved
in-laws.

Sonia was now seventy years old and Dmitri
seventy- two, and although they would continue to teach a handful
of talented students at home, their public professional careers
were at an end. It was a big transition for them, Vera realized,
and while they were both in good health, she could also see that
they were beginning to slow down considerably. There was a bit less
spring in their steps, a bit less of that indefatigable energy that
had propelled them so very far in life.

From the dining room Vera peered unseen into
the vast living room's flickering light and couldn't help but smile
with pleasure. She loved watching Misha interact with his parents,
especially when he was in an expansive mood. Tonight he had been at
his most ebullient—the old Misha, she thought wistfully—happily
jabbering and gesticulating, animated and engaging and—loving.

The interplay between the three of them was
both heartwarming and inspiring. She had always hoped that the
relationship between herself and Misha and Nicky could be like
that. It was at times like these—simple, small moments, most people
would call them—that she realized the importance of family, its
awesome capacity for warmth and goodness and love.

Oh, how I wish it could always be this way,
she thought. That tonight would never end.

But she knew that her wishes were futile.
Tonight was exceptional in more ways than one. Misha's gregarious
mood would inevitably dissipate into withdrawal and quietude,
casting a cloud of gloom over the house, and she and Nicky would be
excluded from his world, as if they were strangers. Sonia and
Dmitri would suffer the same alienation, if at a distance, because
Misha would undoubtedly neglect seeing them for weeks at a time
when he withdrew into his other, exclusionary world. And in this
other world, she was certain, Misha was not lonely, like her. No.
It was a world he shared with—

"Vera, tonight was really lovely," a voice
from behind her said.

Vera turned around, her reverie interrupted
by the familiar voice. Manny stood watching her, a crooked smile on
his face. Almost a smirk, she thought. Or am I imagining it? He was
slightly flushed from the copious amounts of wine he had drunk.

"Thank you, Manny," she said. "I'm glad you
enjoyed it, and I'm glad you and Sasha came. He's worked for you
such a long time, and I feel like we got to know him a little
better tonight."

"He loved it," Manny said. "The food was
exceptional. I can't believe you did all this yourself and didn't
have it catered."

Vera smiled. "I try," she said. She looked at
him. "Can I get you something?"

"No, no," Manny said quickly. "I was just
...just upstairs using the bathroom. Sasha was in the powder room
down here. We're going to be going in a bit."

"So soon?" Vera said.

"Yes," Manny said. "Early morning, you
see."

"Don't leave without a good night kiss," Vera
said. "I'm just seeing to a couple of things here and will be back
in the living room in a minute."

"Right you are," Manny replied. He turned to
leave, then stopped. "Vera?" he said.

"Yes?" she replied, looking at him
questioningly. "What is it?"

"I know I shouldn't be asking this of you,"
he said haltingly, "but ... but I wondered if you might try to
convince Misha that doing the tour of Russia would be a good
idea."

"He's already said no to that," she said.
"Yet again. I know Sasha talked to him about it earlier this
evening."

"Oh, I know," he said. "But I mean have him
think about the future. Because the opportunity is always there.
And it is golden, you know."

Vera looked at him with curiosity. Why is he
suddenly trying to conspire with me? she wondered. "I know it's a
golden opportunity, Manny," she said. "And I think it's high time
Misha let go of all those resentments he's

harbored for so long against Russia. But he
still feels very strongly about it."

"I know, Vera, but—" he began.

"Manny," she interjected, "I'll try to talk
to him about it again. I have before, but I don't know how much
good I can do."

"Well, thanks, Vera," he said.

"You're welcome," she replied.

Manny turned and crossed the dining room and
disappeared through the arches into the flickering light of the
double-height living room.