Rhapsody (52 page)

He dipped into the shopping bag again and
took out a small paper bag. A typical hardware store bag, and
indeed that's where he'd found this purchase. He examined it
closely. It was a simple sledgehammer, small variety, the kind with
a wooden handle about six inches long and a heavy steel head about
five inches long.

It could batter someone's brains out
,
he thought.
Or smash a hand to pieces
.

He slipped it into the other large pocket of
his overcoat, then held the coat up for inspection. There was a
slight bulge, but nothing that would draw undue attention. He
smiled with satisfaction.

Finally he extracted a small roll of duct
tape. Good for shutting someone up, he thought. He tossed it into
the pocket with the handcuffs, and held his overcoat up once again.
A little bulge as before, but nothing to be worried about.

He laid the coat back down and walked into
the bathroom, where he took a small bottle of pills out of his fine
black leather shaving kit. He held the bottle up to the light.
Ketamine. It hadn't taken any effort to get these heavy-duty animal
anesthetics. After all, Ketamine was very popular in the downtown
clubs these days and easy to get hold of. Ketamine would do the
trick.

Only I won't be taking the pills. Misha Levin
will.

Walking out of the bathroom, his cell phone
bleeped, distracting him.
Jesus!
he thought.
The fucking
thing bleeped half the night and all day long
. Well, he wasn't
going to answer it. He didn't want to talk to the only people who
had the number for this particular phone. This is my business now,
he thought.
They can go fuck themselves
. He grabbed it from
the table and unceremoniously threw the phone across the room. It
bounced off the wall and fell to the floor.

He headed toward the bathroom again.
Time
to pour all my pills into one big capsule
, he thought.
Then
it's to the elevator after that's done. It's just upstairs a few
floors to Misha Levin, world-famous classical pianist and world-
class prick
.

There was a detached smile on his face, and
his eyes burned bright with anticipation.

Misha, laden with shopping bags, stepped into
his suite at the Four Seasons Hotel Chinzan-so and closed the door
behind him. Mr. Hara, his publicity agent in Tokyo, had politely
offered to help him with his load, but Misha had declined the
offer. He wanted to be alone right now. Setting down the cumbersome
bags, he shrugged out of his black cashmere overcoat and hung it
up. Manny and Sasha had teased him about looking like a ninja here
in Tokyo. He was wearing his customary working outfit: black
turtleneck sweater, black trousers, and comfortable black Mephisto
sneakers.

He'd spent part of the afternoon going
through the usual pre-concert procedures: testing the acoustics in
the concert hall, positioning and fine-tuning the piano with his
assistant, and rehearsal. The afternoon had gone swimmingly, he
thought. The acoustics in the Tokyo Opera City Concert Hall, the
result of a great deal of research and vast expenditures of money,
were as near perfect as could be, so his job had been relatively
simple.

He picked up his shopping bags and carried
them out to the suite's private garden patio—he had one of the
hotel's coveted Conservatory Suites—where he set them down to go
through later. First a drink, he thought. Retracing his steps to
the sitting room, he made himself a scotch and water. Swirling the
ice around, he took it back out to the patio and sat down in a
comfortable chair, sipping his drink and idly glancing at the
shopping bags.

He smiled with contentment. This morning he'd
gotten up early and ventured out alone to buy souvenirs and gifts.
Now, he thought, I'll have another look at the booty. He set his
drink down and scooted one of the bags over to his side and began
rummaging around in it.

First, he pulled out the oiled paper umbrella
he'd bought for Vera. Removing the beautiful tissue paper it was
wrapped in, he opened it and looked at the exquisite cherry
blossoms, which had been hand-painted all around it. He'd been told
the umbrellas were actually quite effective in the rain. That
doesn't really matter, he thought. It's so beautiful, who cares if
it works? Vera certainly won't. She'll love its delicate colors and
design. He closed it and placed it on the coffee table.

Next, he took out the first gift he'd bought
this morning. The box was long and heavy. He opened it to reveal an
ornately engraved replica of a Samurai sword. For Nicky. It was, he
realized, a touristy sort of gift to purchase, as was the umbrella,
but he also knew that Nicky would be thrilled to death with it.
Nicky, like most little boys, loved weapons.

Misha took the sword from its niche in the
box and examined the length of steel closely, surprised at its
weight. Running his thumb along the edge, he quickly jerked it
away. It was very sharp. Jesus, he thought. I could have sliced my
thumb. Not good for a performance. He carefully placed the sword
back in its fitted niche and looked at it.

Well, he decided, not good for a kid, either.
Nicky will just have to admire it on the wall until he's older and
can appreciate the fact that it's more than a mere toy.

He placed it next to the umbrella on the
table and slid another shopping bag over to him, taking out a large
box, this one also very heavy. He opened it and removed the paper
from around an antique porcelain charger, about two feet in
diameter. It had been made in Arita, on Kyushu, and was elaborately
decorated with birds and flowers. He knew that Vera would love it
as much as he did. After admiring it, he carefully placed it on the
table with his other purchases, then sat looking at them, taking
immense satisfaction in the fact that they were going to give so
much pleasure to those he loved most. There were more gifts, quite
a few more—handmade writing papers, lengths of exquisite silk,
several small pieces of porcelain—but he would look at the rest of
them later.

He stood and sipped his drink, gazing out the
patio windows. The hotel was beautifully situated in what had once
been an imperial garden, and as he surveyed the scene before him,
the events of the last few days began to unfold in his mind like a
movie reel, superimposing themselves on the city's landscape.

He had seen Serena and Jason off in Kyoto.
There had been no tears, only smiles, and for that he was grateful.
Despite his discussion with Serena—telling her that he didn't think
he should leave his wife and son for her—they had parted, if not
friends exactly, then in a friendly, civilized manner. He thought
that Serena had seemed almost relieved. It was hard for him to
tell. She was so excited by her trip that nothing else seemed to
matter.

"I'll let you know when I get back," she'd
said, "but don't worry, I won't bug you." She'd smiled hugely,
thinking: You're sweet, Misha, but you're right. It would never
work. Only she didn't want to tell him that.

"I'll be too damned busy with the thousands
of pictures I'm going to take to think about anything else," she'd
said, laughing. "Including you." She'd given him a kiss on the
cheek and looked into his eyes. For a moment there was a wistful
expression on her face, but it was replaced quickly by a look of
determination. "Bye," she'd said. Then she turned and was gone.

She'd been like a joyful little girl, he
thought, setting out on a new adventure. He knew now that they
would probably never see each other again. It was far too
dangerous. The fires within them might not have been fully
extinguished, and any encouragement to reignite them would
inevitably lead only to heartbreak for one or both of them. And
others, he thought.

Now he felt a powerful need to be with his
wife and son, to restore—perhaps reinvent—the loving relationship
they'd once had. He knew that there was work to do, and healing,
but deep down inside he knew that they could make a go of it.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Misha
jerked. Who on earth? he wondered. Everybody knows I'm not to be
disturbed before a concert.

He set his drink down and went to the door,
disgruntlement on his face. He didn't like this, not one little
bit.

I'll get rid of whoever it is, he thought. In
double-time.

"You ready, Jason?" Serena asked.

"Yep," he replied. "Whenever you are."

"Let's go," she said, turning and smiling at
him

"Don't you think we really ought to, like,
you know, take that guide with us, Serena?" Jason asked.

She shook her head. "No," she said. "He'll
just get in the way. We can get back without him. Besides, he's
stretched out asleep on the ground. Let's leave him be."

"If you say so," Jason said doubtfully.

Serena took another look around and shivered.
This place gave her the heebie-jeebies. Bad vibes seemed to emanate
from the walls, even the ground on which the place was built. It
was almost as if the walls could speak, and what they had to say
was so obscene she didn't think she could stand hearing much more
of it.

They'd been shooting pictures for hours in
one of Pol Pot's former detention camps. It was a prison such as
Serena and Jason had never seen. The walls were now covered with
photographs of Cambodians who'd been horribly tortured and killed
here. There'd been thousands.

Thousands, she thought. Just in this one
place. Millions all over the country. And nobody cared. She wanted
to change that. She'd been talking to survivors, with the help of a
translator, and photographing them. There was so much to do, so
much to learn, so much more to see and document.

She flung her long raven hair out of her
eyes. How could I have become so distracted by Misha? she wondered.
Or any other man, for that matter. I should have been here weeks or
even months ago, working on this project It's like I've finally
found something that really means something to me.

Despite the creepiness of the place, the
sense of horror that lingered in the air like a miasma, she felt
extraordinarily happy. She was in her element, shooting
pictures.

Now, she and Jason were calling it a day and
going back to the fleabag that called itself a hotel. Their guide,
who demanded more money at every bend in the road, had wandered off
to sleep while they worked. Well, she thought, getting back to the
hotel is easy. A long bicycle ride but easy to find.

She started out ahead of Jason, both of them
loaded down with equipment in backpacks, peddling through the
brush, taking a shortcut bade to the main road. Her eyes scanned
the treetops and bits of sky above her. It was a clear day,
beautiful really, as dusk fast approached. She turned her head,
looking back at Jason. "I'll beat you back to the hotel," she
cried, a huge smile on her face, at once beguiling and joyful.

Suddenly there was an explosion.

Jason, bringing up the rear, was thrown off
his bicycle. When he finally scrabbled to his feet, he looked up
ahead, reorienting himself, then threw his hands over his face for
a moment. When he removed them, he began to scream. And scream.

Misha opened the door and stood back in
surprise. "I thought you two were going shopping," he said.

"We did," the young man said. "But I'm
finished and just thought if you had a few minutes we could have a
drink and talk over a few things."

Misha didn't hide his irritation, but he
opened the door wide. "Come on in," he said.

"I know this isn't good timing," the young
man said, "but I really need to talk to you."

"Sure, sure," Misha said, walking back out to
the garden patio. "It's not a problem as long as I can take my
nap."

His nap!
the young man thought.
The
world could come crumbling down around him, and all he'd think
about would be his nap! Or his rehearsal! Or his cock!

"I won't be long, Misha," the young man said.
"I promise."

"Want a drink?" Misha asked.

"I'll make it," the young man said, seeing
the bottle of scotch on a table in the sitting room. "Want yours
freshened up?"

"Why not?" Misha said, sitting back down in
the comfortable chair he'd just left. "But only a splash of scotch.
I've got to be in top form tonight."

"Goes without saying," the young man said. He
went into the conservatory and picked up Misha's drink, then walked
back to the table in the sitting room. He turned his back to Misha
and mixed himself a scotch and water, humming tunelessly all the
while. That done, he took the capsule of Ketamine from his overcoat
pocket, opened it, and poured the powder into Misha's nearly empty
glass. He then splashed some scotch in the glass, filled it with
water and ice, and stirred it vigorously, making certain the powder
was completely dissolved.

When he finished, he turned to Misha, who sat
waiting patiently for him in the conservatory. "Voila," he said,
walking back to Misha with the appropriate drink extended in one
hand. "You'll have a very nice nap now."

Misha smiled. "Thanks," he said, taking the
proffered drink. He held it in his hand, swirling the ice around,
then took a large swallow.
The sooner I finish this, the sooner
he'll feel compelled to leave
, he thought. "What's on your
mind?" he asked.

The young man stood sipping his drink,
looking out at the Tokyo skyline. "This is some view," he said.
"These Conservatory Suites are fantastic."

"They are, aren't they," Misha said, looking
at the young man. "Why don't you take off your coat and sit down?"
he asked. Damn, just get on with it, he thought. I'm tired and need
my rest.

"I'm fine," the young man said, looking at
Misha. "Here's to tonight's performance, by the way," he said,
lifting his glass ceremoniously, then taking a sip.