Rhapsody (6 page)

Misha picked up his scotch and took another
sip, savoring its smooth, heated descent down his throat to his
stomach, where its fiery warmth spread out like a blanket.

Yes, two such different people, he
thought.

Yet...Yet, I still don't think I've ever
loved anybody like I loved her. I've certainly never had that same
profound physical craving for anyone else.

He sipped the last of his scotch, then set
down the empty glass again. He leaned over and clicked off the lamp
on the night table, then closed his eyes to sleep. But sleep eluded
him, and he tossed and turned, obsessed with his thoughts of
Serena, of their past together, and, finally, of their date
tomorrow.

What will tomorrow bring? he wondered. He
didn't know, but in his heightened state of physical longing, of
arousal, he prayed for release.

The day dawned bleak and gray, a chill wind
sweeping in from the east, a harbinger of the winter to come. Misha
opened his eyes. In the diffuse light coming through the elaborate
draperies at the windows, the first thing in his line of vision was
Vera's pale blond hair fanned out over the pillow. Never had her
porcelain profile looked more beautiful, her neck and shoulders
more beckoning. Her breathing was deep and regular. She was still
sound asleep.

Perhaps, he thought, perhaps ... I should
slide my arms around her, and wake her as I…

He furrowed his brow.

No, let her sleep. For suddenly, Serena's
Madonnalike face, framed by its raven black hair, and her
resplendent body, in all its tantalizing eroticism, flashed before
his mind's eye. A wave of sensuous pleasure engulfed him. He was
aroused—doubly so by the mere thought that he would be seeing her
today.

He felt deep down inside that their running
into each other had been fate, that somehow or other it was meant
to be. That his urges—their urges, surely—were meant to be
assuaged. There was an inevitability about it, Misha decided, a
powerlessness to control it that was not characteristic of him at
all.

Slowly he sat up and looked around the grand
second- floor bedroom of the suite. The exquisite ball gown that
Vera had worn last evening was carefully laid over a chair, its
gemstones twinkling in the dim light. What a magnificent piece of
work it is, Misha thought. And Vera looked beautiful in it, more
beautiful than ever. She really had made a supreme effort. He
smiled ruefully. But then, Vera always did, didn't she?

Guilt, as it had last night, began to worm
its way into his consciousness. This woman had done everything in
her power to be the perfect wife and mother, to try to satisfy him.
Running a hand through his long, black hair, he slammed a mental
door shut on this line of thought.

He quietly pulled off the covers, swung his
legs out of bed, and stood up, stretching his long limbs. He padded
into the bathroom, where he lathered up and stood under a hot
steamy shower for long minutes, all the while thinking about last
night's performance.

After weeks of practice and rehearsal, and
finally the performance itself, he was usually left physically and
emotionally drained, and last evening had taken its toll. Oddly
enough, however, he felt energized today, still a little high, more
so than usual after performing.

Generally, adrenaline relentlessly drove him
during the final weeks of preparing for a performance, then
enveloped him in a fever-pitch high during and after the
performance itself, the rush heightened all the more in intensity
if the concert was a success, such as last night's. The glow of
success and the accompanying festivities dissipated quickly,
however, and his spirits inevitably sank, sometimes plunging into a
near-crippling depression.

Gradually, however, he had learned to cope
with this aftermath. He came to realize that he was simply tired
and sad. Sad that it was over. Slowly life would interest him
again. Music, its siren call beckoning, would entice him anew, and
he would answer that call, mercilessly throwing himself into
practice for the next performance, for the next recording
session.

Misha turned off the shower and began to dry
himself with a towel. Today he still felt the remnants of the high
he'd experienced for the previous weeks. Curious that it hasn't
dissipated yet, he thought, but perhaps it was because he hadn't
really celebrated. He'd been too preoccupied at the party afterward
to enjoy himself. Yes, he decided, carefully shaving now, that was
it. He hadn't celebrated.

So today would be just that. A little
celebration. He deserved it, and Vera, too. She had worked almost
as hard as he had to see that last night was a success. When he'd
left her there with Manny, she'd been charming the powers that be.
So typical of Vera, he thought. She left little to chance where his
career was concerned, and often explored avenues that even Manny
overlooked or was too busy to pursue.

Today, Misha decided, he would arrange
something special for Vera and himself, perhaps a tour of the
Hofburg, a celebratory lunch afterward, and then ...well, then he
would make his excuses.

Trying not to disturb his still slumbering
wife, he quickly dressed. Black cashmere turtleneck sweater, black
wool trousers and sports jacket, black Gucci loafers. Ready for a
hearty breakfast downstairs, where he could read the papers and
enjoy a little time alone.

The moment he stepped into the elegant dining
room, Manny waved to him. Well, Misha thought, forget a quiet
perusal of the papers. But what the hell. He was feeling
particularly expansive this morning, generous with his time and
himself.

He strode over to the table, the maitre d'
scurrying along behind him, and took a seat, then the proffered
menu.

"How're you feeling this morning, old chap?"
Manny asked, looking up from his newspaper. He was dressed to the
nines as usual, today in his pinstripe international
banker-diplomat mode. "Better, I trust."

"Much," Misha said. "All I needed was a good
night's sleep. I guess this trip and the concert took more out of
me than I thought."

Manny pointed at the newspaper. "Well, it was
worth it, my boy," he said, "well worth it. There'll be more
reviews in Der Standard and Die Presse, but this one is superb.
Superb!"

The waiter materialized, and Misha ordered
breakfast. Ham, sausages, three fried eggs, fried potatoes, and
toast. Orange juice and coffee. He was ravenous, as he always was
the day after a concert.

"Who wrote it, Manny?" Misha asked.

"Gertler. Here, have a look?" Manny extended
the newspaper across the table to Misha.

"No," he said, waving the paper away. "Just
give me the gist. I don't want to read it."

"What?" Manny said, eyeing him through his
tortoise- shell glasses. "I told you the review's superb, and it
is."

Misha stirred cream and sugar into his
coffee. "Look, Manny," he replied. "I don't mean to be arrogant,
but I was at my very best last night. You know it, and I know it."
He looked Manny in the eye. "So fuck the critics."

Manny grunted noncommittally. "You're right,"
he said, "but you never know when they'll send in a hatchet man to
chop you into little pieces because somebody happens to be pissed
off at you."

Misha sipped his coffee and didn't reply.

"Anyway," Manny continued, "Herr Gertler's
review is all 'dazzling transcriptions.' 'Old-fashioned virtuoso.'
" He thumped the newspaper. " 'Bold' and 'lushly moody.' You get
the picture."

"Yes," Misha said. "I get the picture." His
food arrived, and he began eating voraciously.

"So," Manny asked, "what would you like to do
today? There's nothing on the agenda until that party at Prince and
Princess von Wallenburg's tonight."

"I thought maybe Vera would like to see the
Hofburg," Misha said between bites of sausage. "You know the
Hapsburg jewels. All that." He took a sip of coffee before
continuing. "Then, this afternoon, I want to do some shopping.
Alone."

"You?" Manny exclaimed. "Shop?"

"Yes. Why not?" Misha said, his eyebrows
raised questioningly. "I want to pick up some things for Nicky.
Maybe a surprise for Vera."

Manny looked at him with a quizzical
expression. This was not like Misha. Misha never shopped unless he
had to. "What's up?" he finally asked.

"Up?" Misha replied. "Nothing's up. I just
want to be alone, do some shopping and ...soak up some of the
atmosphere."

"Gimme a break," Manny said. He abruptly
dropped his Anglophile pose, his voice and manner reverting to the
streets of Brooklyn from which he hailed. "I know you well enough
to know you've got something on your mind, Misha. You've been
acting weird ever since lunch yesterday. Now, what's cooking? What
is it?"

Misha's eyes strayed out the windows to the
Palais Schwarzenburg's lushly planted fifteen-acre gardens. He
could see that the sun was beginning to break through the clouds,
with the promise of a crystal clear, if chilly, day. His gaze
returned to Manny across the table. There was a secretive smile on
Misha's lips, but he didn't utter a word.

"Uh-oh," Manny said, looking at him. "I smell
trouble. T-r-o-u-b-l-e, trouble."

Misha took a sip of coffee, then put down his
cup. "Just take care of Vera this afternoon after lunch. Would
you?" he said.

"Jesus!" Manny exclaimed. "It's a fucking
woman, isn't it?"

Misha ignored him, concentrating on his food
again.

"Give!" Manny said in exasperation. "Talk to
me, Misha! This is Manny, remember?"

When Misha remained silent, chewing on a
piece of toast, Manny emitted a loud sigh. "Shit," he said. "I'll
do it. I'll take care of Vera, but I hope I don't live to regret
this."

Misha continued eating contentedly, knowing
that Manny would do exactly what he'd asked him to do.

"A little more to your left," Serena called
out. "Please!" She waved her arm, indicating the direction in which
she wanted the men to move.

There was hesitation, stumbling, laughter,
and general chaos, as there had been all morning.

"Left!" she cried, waving furiously. "Left,
gentlemen, left!

Jason, one of her assistants, jumped to his
feet and bounded over to help the men align themselves
properly.

She stifled a growl of exasperation but
smiled politely. Heads of state, she thought with frustration.
Assholes of state is more like it. Most of them understood and
spoke English well, so the language barrier wasn't the problem. No,
the problem with this shoot, she decided, was that these political
big shots weren't taking her or the shoot very seriously.

Locker room clowns, she thought with rising
disgust. If she could shoot them individually, she didn't think
she'd be having this problem. But she couldn't do that— she was
stuck with The Group—whether she liked it or not. And like a lot of
men in a group, they had to pump up their testosterone levels for
one another—and her.

Arms akimbo, she studied the men, lined up as
they were in the
Zeremoniensaal
, one of the Hofburg palace's
throne rooms. She liked the juxtaposition of their contemporary, if
somewhat dull, appearance with the overwrought Baroque gilt and
marble splendor of this, the Hapsburgs' former seat of power.

"Okay!" she enthused. "That's good. Great!
Hold it." She put her eye back down to the Hasselblad's viewer for
a moment. "Don't move!" she cried.

With a flick of a button the camera's motor
drive started whirring away. She shot frame after frame of these,
the new faces of Mittel and Eastern Europe. Faces she would like to
shove her fist in right now. She'd been shooting for over two
hours, with limited help. She'd only brought Jason and Bennett, her
favorite and most knowledgeable assistants with her from New York.
She knew that she had plenty of acceptable shots for the magazine.
But she still wasn't satisfied. Despite the setting, she just
didn't feel that she'd captured anything beyond the ordinary, the
mundane.

Face it, she told herself. There's simply no
magic happening here today. Part of the problem, she realized, was
her subjects. They were reacting to her as a woman first and a
photographer second. For some reason her usual tactics, including
her "disguise," weren't working today.

Long ago, Serena had developed this disguise,
born of ingenuity and necessity. She'd quickly learned the
importance of dressing down for photo shoots. There were the
practical considerations, of course. Most shoots encompassed long
hours of physically grueling labor, and it was sometimes very dirty
work—even here in a palace like the Hofburg, where all that marble
wasn't necessarily as pristine as it looked.

Practicality aside, the single most important
lesson she'd learned was that whether a shoot was with men or
women, or both, she could accomplish a lot more if she minimalized
her own, undeniably exotic, presence on the set, drawing as little
attention to herself as possible. For her appearance, she'd soon
discovered, was distracting to clients and hindered their
cooperation. She was a threat to many of the women, and an object
to be conquered by most of the men.

That explained the disguise and her look
today: the complete lack of makeup, the loose ponytail low on her
neck, and the ratty old baseball cap worn on her head. Plus, the
wrinkled work shirt and paint-splotched, torn Levi's. All worn with
down-at-the-heel, high-top sneakers. But the clincher, she thought,
were the nerdy, black- framed eyeglasses perched on her nose. The
ones with the dirty masking tape wrapped around the temples. She
didn't need them, of course—they had clear lenses so they didn't
distort her vision—but they were essential to her disguise.

Why was today different? she wondered. Don't
I look like somebody's plain-Jane cousin? Perhaps, she thought,
they were merely excited by being photographed here in the splendor
of the former court of the Holy Roman Empire. Or perhaps it was
coming together like this for the first time.