Rhapsody (27 page)

"Your left arm is broken, Misha," Dmitri said
in a hushed voice. "It was a bad break."

Misha's mind began to spin. "But my hands are
okay?" he asked. "How bad is it? How long will it take to
heal?"

"No need to panic," Manny said. "The doctor's
prognosis is very good. Like your father said, with a bit of
physical therapy it'll be as good as new in no time."

Misha riveted Manny with his dark eyes. "How
long is no time?"

Manny shrugged. "It might be a few weeks," he
said, "but ... but more likely a few months. At least."

Misha sighed. "Ah, Jesus, Manny. My tour
schedule! What am I going to do?"

"Don't worry about that, old chap," Manny
said. "It's all taken care of."

"Your schedule is empty until you're
completely healed and ready to play again," Sasha added.

"I don't know how you two work your magic,"
he said. "I really don't. It's really taken care of?"

"You bet," Manny said. "No problem. We've
just got to get you well."

Misha moaned. "This can't be happening to
me," he said.

"It is," Sonia said, "and all because of that
foolish motorcycle. I don't want to lecture you while you're in
pain, but the plain and simple truth, Misha, is that you were being
reckless. Terribly reckless. And you know it."

Misha knew his mother was telling the truth.
Suddenly he felt like a child again, and a wave of guilt washed
over him, engulfing him in shame.

"Well, if it's any consolation," Dmitri
interjected quickly, seeing the repentant look on his son's face,
"the newspapers say that it was definitely not your fault. Several
witnesses came forward, and they say it was a hit- and-run. The
police are trying to find the guy who hit you."

Manny looked shocked. "When did you hear
this, Dmitri?" he asked.

"Just before coming over," Dmitri said.

Misha sighed again. "Well, it doesn't matter
now if they find him or not, does it? I can't play the piano."

"Oh, but you will, my boy, you will," Manny
said, quickly recovering his composure.

The nurse came in and announced in an
authoritative voice that the visitors would have to leave.

"There's a procedure we have to perform," she
said, "and visiting hours are almost over anyway. Besides, we don't
want to overtire the young man, do we?"

Sonia, Dmitri, Sasha, and Manny quickly said
their good-byes and promised to see him at the next visiting time.
Then they were gone.

I wish I could remember what happened
,
Misha thought.
I wish I could remember who did this to me. And
why
.

Vera paced the Aubusson carpet in the pale
gray and gilt of her bedroom. There were tears in her eyes, and her
body periodically trembled with fear and rage and shame. Shame was
perhaps the worst of it, eating at her like some carnivorous
animal, leaving her no peace, torturing her for her terrible
misdeeds.

She stopped pacing abruptly and sat down on a
chaise longue, picking up the newspaper again. She looked at the
picture there on the front page once more and cried aloud.

Oh, God! she thought. It's too much for
anyone to have to bear!

Violently wadding the paper up into a ball,
she hurled it across the room, where it bounced off her desk and
onto the floor, lying there, an ugly and mute testimony to her
treachery.

What am I going to do? she asked herself for
the hundredth time.

When she'd first picked up today's papers,
she'd laughed at the headlines:

HOT CLASSICAL PIANIST, MISHA LEVIN

A REAL ROCK AND ROLLER

ROCK AND ROLLED OFF HIS HARLEY

Yet the humor of the ludicrous headline wore
off very quickly. It seemed that the eyewitnesses to the accident
had come up with a license number, and the police were tracking
down the hit-and-run driver. The papers speculated that criminal
charges would be filed.

Vera shuddered anew, thinking of the horror
that she had unleashed on Misha, though unknowingly. For a moment
she thought she was going to throw up. She dashed to the bathroom
and spun the gold cold-water tap on the sink. She gulped down
handfuls of the water and splattered her face with it, then stood
up straight, looking into the mirror.

I have to come clean with the truth, she told
her reflection. No matter what the consequences are. I can't live
with myself otherwise.

With that decision made, she washed her face,
which was puffy and red from crying, and quickly applied makeup and
changed clothes for a trip downtown. Within minutes she was outside
on Fifth Avenue, hailing a cab.

Misha smiled widely when he saw her come into
the room. "I didn't expect to see you so soon again," he said. "The
flowers are beautiful." He glanced at the enormous orchid plant,
heavy with blossoms in full bloom.

Vera walked over to the bed and gave him a
chaste kiss on the lips. "You seem to be doing a little better
today," she said.

"Yeah," Misha said. "This sure helps." He
pointed to the push-button device in his hand.

"What is it?" Vera asked.

"I just push the button, like so." Misha
pushed the button, smiling up at her. "And give myself more
painkiller."

Vera laughed, but it was not mirthful.

"I'll be out of here in no time, and back on
the road again." He noticed the solemn look on Vera's face. "What's
with you?" he asked.

Vera avoided his gaze. "I ... oh, I . . ."
she began.

"What, Vera?" he asked. "What is it? I've
never seen you like this before."

"I ... I have to talk to you about something
very important, Misha," she said.

"Then why don't you pull up a chair and sit?"
he said. "You'll be a lot more comfortable than standing there
looking so miserable."

Vera slid a chair over and sat down, looking
over at him. "I don't know where to begin," she said.

"How about the beginning?" Misha said with
amusement in his voice.

"Well... oh, Misha! This is so hard!" she
cried. "The most difficult thing I've ever done!"

"Whatever it is, Vera," he said soothingly,
"it's between you and me. So it's safe, okay?"

"Okay," she said. "I ...I ...you remember I
told you about that guy ...Simon, who I used to see in London?"

"Yeah," he said. "The muy macho, possessive
motor- cycle-maniac-artist."

"Yes," she said. "That's the one." She paused
a moment, taking a deep breath, then finally gathered the courage
to go on. "Well, the last few years while you've been touring, I
saw Simon a few times, mostly in the last year."

"You've been holding out on me, Vera," Misha
said. He felt a twinge of jealous anger, despite the agreement he
and Vera had to see other people. "I thought you weren't going to
see him anymore. You didn't like all that macho, possessive
crap."

"I didn't," Vera said somewhat defensively,
"but he seemed to have turned over a new leaf. You know, not being
so possessive and all. Playing the good guy, respecting my privacy.
I really believed him. I thought he just wanted to ...you know
...have some fun."

"Ah," Misha laughed. "The plot thickens."

"I'm afraid it's not very funny, Misha," she
said softly. "Because ...because Simon, of course, knew that I'd
dated you. He knew ... he knew how I ...how I felt about you, and .
. ." Tears welled up in her eyes, and she choked.

"Oh, Vera," Misha said, distressed. "Please
don't cry. Please. You know I can't stand it when you cry."

"I'm sorry," she choked. "I just can't help
it. Because what happened is ... is so terrible!"

She caught her breath, then continued. "Simon
came to New York this summer. He had a show at some gallery down in
Chelsea. I knew about it, but I didn't see him. I swear."

"So? Big deal. Simon comes to New York. So do
millions of other people," Misha said.

"Yes, but Simon didn't come for just the art
show. He came with a purpose," Vera said.

Misha blinked, now very curious about where
this was leading.

"Simon came to New York to try to kill you,
Misha," she blurted out. "It was Simon who ran into your bike.
Deliberately. He tried to kill you. He's still insanely jealous and
possessive, and I should have known! It's all my fault!" She burst
into tears again and couldn't continue.

Misha lay there stunned. Finally he found his
tongue. "But how do you know all this, Vera? Are you sure?"

She nodded, then wiped her eyes with a hand.
"He called me," she said. "Bragging about it. He said they'd never
catch him. He was driving a stolen car. He's crazy! And even if
they think it was just a hit-and-run, I know he was trying to kill
you. He told me so. Oh ...God! It's all my fault, Misha!" Her tears
burst forth anew.

"Vera," Misha said, "you didn't know. It's
not your fault. Don't be so upset."

"But I was keeping him a secret from you."
She gasped a heavy sigh. "I knew that you were seeing other girls
besides the ones we always talked about. And I. ... I decided to
have Simon on the side, as a sort of way to get even, I guess.
Telling myself that if you could do it, so could I."

She looked up at him, her face a sorrowful
mask. "I feel so ashamed," she said. "My little secret has turned
out to be a lot more dangerous than I'd ever imagined."

Misha felt another rush of jealousy. But
then, he reminded himself, hadn't he behaved the same way? Hadn't
there been lots of girls he hadn't told her about? But none of the
girls he knew had tried to kill Vera!

He looked over at her tear-streaked face, her
blond hair disheveled. He didn't like her deception, but he didn't
want Vera to feel worse. He didn't want to punish her in any way,
because he knew that in her heart she was punishing herself more
than he ever could.

Nevertheless, when he spoke, his words were
firm. "I think you ought to leave now, Vera," Misha said. "And I
don't want you to tell anyone that you know anything about this.
Certainly not the police. Neither one of us wants the kind of nasty
publicity this would generate. This will be our secret. Just try to
forget about it. And for God's sake, stay away from this ...this
Simon."

She looked at him in shock. "Never again will
I ever see him!" she cried. "My father will make certain he never
bothers me again."

"Fine," Misha said. "Now please, Vera, just
go. And don't call me. I need time ... I'll call you."

Vera sat for a moment longer, then rose to
her feet and approached the bed, but Misha waved her away with his
right hand.

"Please," he repeated, "just go."

Vera turned, tears in her eyes again, and
left the hospital room.

I've lost him forever
, she thought
miserably.
And it's all my own fault
.

But she hadn't lost him forever.

It was only a matter of weeks before Misha
was out of the hospital and on his feet, with the help of crutches,
and calling her. Would Yelena or Christina or Valerie or Gigi or
Vanka or any of the other mostly one-named beauties he knew take
time out from their work and their habitual club crawling to
minister to his needs? He knew better than to ask. When he thought
about it, they had abandoned him while he was out of commission,
not bothering to visit him in the hospital or send flowers or even
a note.

Vera had dropped everything and rearranged
her work schedule as much as possible, even skipping lunch, to
accommodate his needs. And they were many. Helping him to and from
his physical therapy sessions downtown, helping out around the
apartment, sometimes even cooking and cleaning. Sonia, of course,
would have relished taking care of her son, but Misha didn't want
her hovering presence around. She always made him feel as if he
were a child again. He could have hired someone, and did on
occasion, to do the heavy cleaning and chores that Vera simply
couldn't make the time for.

She devoted herself to him slavishly, making
certain that one day soon Misha would once again stride across the
concert stage and sit down at his piano and dazzle an assembled
audience.

He was the love of her life, no matter what,
and she would give him time to come to love her. Perhaps if she
continued to lavish all of her love on him, he would begin to
realize that he need not look elsewhere.

"The food is Russian, the music is Russian,
and everybody speaks Russian," said Sonia with a disdainful air.
"But I'm telling you, Misha. These are not our kind of people."

"Try to relax and enjoy yourself, Mama,"
Misha said, trying to humor her.

But Sonia was in no mood to be humored. "Look
about you," she went on, her hand sweeping around with an elegant,
if out-of-place stylish gesture. "These people are uncouth. The
women with their garish makeup and bad bleach jobs. Those dresses!
Straps all over the place, exposing nearly everything. And the men!
They look like a bunch of gangsters!"

Misha laughed. "Don't let your imagination
run away with you," he said.

"Oh, well," she said, "at least the blinis
were almost like in the old country."

"That's more like it," he said, patting her
on the back. But Misha himself was secretly wondering if she wasn't
right on the mark. It was an uncouth crowd, and the men did indeed
look like a bunch of gangsters who'd come here to party with their
girlfriends or mistresses. He doubted that there were many wives in
this club tonight.

If Manny and Sasha hadn't insisted on this
celebration in Brighton Beach, none of them would be here, in this
declasse nightclub packed to the rafters with Russian emigres.
Misha didn't have anything against Brooklyn or the recently arrived
Russians who'd flocked here to Brighton Beach, but these were not
Russians or an aspect of Russian life that he knew much of anything
about, or cared to learn about, for that matter. The cheap glitter
and raucous, vodka-swilling crowd were as alien to him and his
family as the predominately gutter- accented Russian they heard
spoken around them.