Rhapsody (4 page)

Coral made a moue of distaste. "No," she
said. "It's not to my taste."

"But this food is scrumptious," Serena
enthused. "The goose-liver Steirereck—sublime!" She rubbed her
tummy with a hand and rolled her eyes heavenward. "The
caviar-semolina dumplings—yummy! Everything—"

Serena noticed the pained look on Coral's
face. "What?" she said. "What is it?"

"I don't know how you can do this to your
body," Coral said. "Putting all this rich, unhealthy food into
yourself. It almost makes me sick. I know you work out all the
time, but it just seems so ...excessive."

Serena fixed her with a stare. "I don't eat
like this all the time, Coral," she said defensively. "In fact, you
know very well that most of the time I'm on a very strict fruit and
veggie diet. This is a treat."

"If you say so," Coral said, "but I wish you
could treat yourself to something healthier."

"Drop it, Coral," Serena said.

"Thy will be done," Coral intoned. "Now, do
you want to do some sightseeing this afternoon? Or maybe some
shopping? There's a lot to see and do."

"I've got to do some more lighting tests,"
Serena said. "I trust Bennett and Jason, but I want to make sure
there're no hitches when we shoot."

"What about tonight, then?" Coral went on.
"You want to have dinner? Maybe go to a club or something?"

"I don't want to have a late night," Serena
said, stretching. "I'm a bit jet-lagged, and I think I'll turn in
early."

I've got to be there for Misha's call, she
thought. I can't miss him. No way.

"Okay," Coral said. "Maybe lunch tomorrow,
then. I'm off to Paris tomorrow evening for some meetings there."
She opened a gold compact and began whisking her face with more
ghostly rice powder. When she finished, she snapped the compact
shut with a loud clack and stared at Serena. "I just hope you're
not going to be waiting around for that evil piano-playing putz to
call you."

Serena rolled her eyes but chose to ignore
the pointed barb.

Coral picked up a tube of lipstick and gave
her lips a fresh coat of dried-blood mulberry. When she was
finished, she tossed the compact and lipstick back into her black
alligator Hermes Kelly bag, closed it, and looked at Serena. "You
having dessert?" she asked.

"You bet I am," Serena replied, smiling.
"I'll have to see what they've got. Why don't you have some? Live a
little, Coral. This is Vienna, home of the Sacher torte and a
zillion other gorgeous, yummy pastries."

"Nooooo," Coral said. "Thank you very much,
but my body couldn't take the abuse."

"Don't you want some coffee?"

"Yes," Coral said. "I think I'll have some
decaf."

"On the way back to the hotel," Serena said,
"let's stop by Demel's. I want to pick up some of their famous
pastries to munch on tonight."

"God!" Coral said in exasperation. "You're
going to be purging for days, if I know you."

"What can I say?" Serena said. "I'm just an
excessive sort of person, Coral. I like extremes, I guess."

"I guess you do," Coral said somewhat
haughtily. "It always seems to be feast or famine with you."

"I guess you're right," Serena agreed. And
she thought: My life has been like a famine for far too long, and
it's time for a feast. Yes ...some sort of feast . . .

"Are you ready to order dessert?" Coral
asked.

"Yes, I'm ready," Serena said. And she
wondered: For what?

Schonbrunn Palace was ablaze with light, all
of its 1,441 rooms lit for tonight's performance, an unnecessary
but magnificent extravagance. The Baroque and Rococo palace, named
"beautiful spring" for the stream that meandered through the
woodland in which it had been built, was far and away the
Hapsburgs' favorite. It was situated away from the formality,
intrigue, and rigid protocol of the court at the Hofburg Palace, in
central Vienna. Here, the family could five in relative
"simplicity," pursuing their hobbies and interests without the
watchful eyes of courtiers, comfortable in a setting they
considered
intime
, but built to rival Versailles, as were so
many extravagant European palaces.

Many of the guests tonight were accustomed to
such grandeur, being descendants of families such as the Hapsburgs,
and some still lived in the remnants of properties that such vast
largesse could provide. For the concert they entered through the
main courtyard. At the doorway two enormous obelisks, crowned with
Napoleonic eagles, stood guard. Napoleon had them placed there
during visits early in the nineteenth century.

Tonight's visitors had been assembled for
nearly two hours now, seated in gilt bamboo-turned ballroom chairs,
intently listening to Misha play, or pretending to. The air was
heady with expensive perfume, the intoxicating scent from thousands
of flowers, and, of course, the beauty of the music itself.

With a flourish Misha Levin's hands
descended, striking the final notes of Mozart's Rondo in A Minor,
K.511. A more exciting finale to this performance could hardly have
been imagined. After a moment of suspenseful silence, the audience
burst into enthusiastic applause. Bravos resounded in the
glittering hall, echoing off the gilt-and- mirrored walls and
dazzling crystal chandeliers. Then, as if on cue, the audience rose
to its feet, to pay the ultimate homage to one of the world's
preeminent virtuoso classical pianists.

Misha sat for a moment, seemingly oblivious
to the audience's response, his mind still in the music's thrall.
Then as if abruptly relinquishing its hold with a snap of his head,
he stood and turned to face his adoring fans. He placed a hand on
his Steinway concert grand piano. It had been shipped from New York
along with its tuner, expressly for tonight's performance.
Graciously bowing his raven-haired head several times, he smiled,
acknowledging the audience's appreciation, both gratified and
relieved that he had been in top form.

Perfectionist that he was, he always strove
for his best, no matter the venue, but this evening was special in
several ways. European political, industrial, business, and social
leaders from the highest stratum of society had paid thousands of
dollars for the privilege of hearing him. Sprinkled among them were
several royal and serene highnesses from Europe's oldest and most
noble families. They were for the most part a discerning group,
both accustomed to and appreciative of the very best, and that is
what he had wanted to give them.

The beneficiary, the United Nations' land
mine fund, was a cause that was close to his heart. In his travels
he had witnessed the human devastation that these buried monsters
could cause, and he had committed himself to raising money for the
fund at every opportunity. Tonight's concert would add considerably
to the fund's coffers and, at the same time, focus attention on the
cause.

There was a unique consideration at play
tonight, however, at least to the musician in Misha: the almost
overwhelming emotional experience of playing in this room, steeped
in history as it was. For it was here, in Schonbrunn Palace's Hall
of Mirrors, that six-year-old Mozart and his ten-year-old sister,
Nannerl, had per formed for the Empress Maria Theresa. It was on
that long-ago night that Mozart had declared that he wanted to
marry the seven-year-old Marie Antoinette, who had sat with her
mother, the empress. After his performance Mozart had kissed the
empress, then made himself comfortable on her lap.

As the applause slowly died down, the
corporeal reality of the distinguished audience intruded upon the
sublime realm of the spirit, and Misha quickly found himself
enveloped in a crowd of well-wishers. Their good intentions, while
appreciated, only served to increase the growing impatience he
felt, now that his performance had come to an end.

As was expected, he mingled among the
extravagant flower arrangements, accepting lavish praise and making
conversation with the perfumed ladies and fastidiously groomed
gentlemen, all sipping champagne from crystal flutes and delicately
eating Beluga Malossol caviar, which passing waiters proffered from
silver trays. There were a few familiar faces—those ardent music
lovers who traveled the world over, willing to pay any price to
hear him or other great favorites—but there were also many
introductions to industrial and political leaders who, while they
may not truly appreciate music, could be important to his career
and the event's cause.

For an hour or so he was at his most charming
and courteous, but as time wore on, his efforts at socializing
became more halfhearted. Wrapped up in his thoughts, he retreated
to a distant corner of the hall.

"Darling?"

Misha started at the familiar voice, so
deeply absorbed had he become. "Yes?" he said, forcing himself out
of his reverie.

"Where are you tonight, darling?" It was
Vera, and there was a note of concern in her voice.

"I'm here," he said, smiling indulgently at
his wife. "I was just thinking about... the performance." The he—
for that is what it was, he told himself—flowed glibly off his
tongue.

"Well, you were practically rude to the
countess," Vera went on, a hint of admonishment in her tone. "You
know how influential she is, Misha. She's on the board at Salzburg,
and has a great deal of say in the music festival."

"Sorry, Vera," he said. "I guess I'm a little
weary. Jet lag or something."
What is she prattling on about
anyway
? he asked himself. Some ancient Countess von und zu
Something-or-other. He found that he was irrationally irritated,
with Vera and this glittering party. It was his own preoccupation,
however, that disturbed him the most, for he couldn't seem to shake
its hold over him.

"Do you feel ill?" she asked.

"No, no," he answered, trying to reassure
her. "Just tired."

"You worry me, Misha," she persisted. "You're
not yourself. You haven't been since lunch."

Why doesn't she leave me alone? he wondered.
God! How I would give anything to get out of this stifling
atmosphere with all these relics of a by-gone age and get back to
the hotel where I can—what? But he knew what. Speak with Serena on
the telephone. Arrange a meeting for tomorrow afternoon.

"I'll be fine," he said to his wife, a tired
smile crossing his lips.

He saw the consternation etched into her
elegant features. A sudden wave of guilt, like a fever, washed over
him, and he realized that betraying her in his thoughts, as he
surely was, was virtually tantamount to the actual deed. But what
choice do I have? he asked himself.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said to her,
hoping that his voice had the ring of sincerity, for it was true.
"Ravishing."

"Thank you, Misha," she said, smiling. "I
didn't think you'd noticed, and I made a very special effort for
you tonight."

And indeed she had, he noticed. She was
wearing an opulent Christian Lacroix couture ball gown. Its bodice,
all creamy lace that ended in handkerchief sleeves, was gem
encrusted, and its skirt was the same lace underlaid with a
rose-colored satin petticoat. The gown had required three fittings
in Paris and was a masterpiece of the couturier's art.

Her pale blond hair was pulled back into an
elegant twist, with slightly curled tendrils framing her porcelain-
skinned face. She wore diamonds, white and pink, on her ears, at
her throat, and on her wrists. Normally a more conservative
dresser, she had about her the air of a Marie Antoinette fantasy
tonight.

Misha looked at her admiringly, asking
himself how he could even think of betraying this lovely creature.
But try as he might, he could not wrench his mind away from
thoughts of Serena Gibbons. It was as if she had cast a spell on
him, a spell he didn't have the power to break.

"Vera, liebes Kind! An elegant lady of an
ancient age tottered up to them and exchanged air kisses in the
Continental fashion with Vera. She was dressed in a rather dowdy
manner, Misha observed, old lace and satin hanging limply on her
skeletal frame, but she wore what appeared to be the entire wealth
of the Holy Roman Empire in precious stones.

"I must meet this divine man," the woman said
to Vera, her English embroidered with the merest trace of a German
accent. She nodded toward Misha, her wispy white hair riotously
escaping the confines of the tiara she wore, its immense stones
looking far too weighty for her head.

"Katharina," Vera obliged, "this is my
husband, Misha. And this, Misha," she said, turning to her husband,
"is Princess Katharina von Wallenburg."

Misha took the princess's bony, liver-spotted
hand in his own and bent over to kiss it, careful of the enormous
stones in her many rings. "I am very pleased to make your
acquaintance," he said, making an effort to turn on his charm once
again.

"Likewise," the princess replied, her smile
exposing yellowing teeth. Her shrewd, hooded old eyes twinkled
cornflower blue. "The concert was magnificent, as I'm certain
everyone has told you, so I won't bore you about it any further.
But it was so beautiful that Rudolph and I will be making an extra
little gift to the fund. In your name."

"I am honored," Misha said humbly, "and I
thank you very much." He noticed that Vera was smiling broadly, and
knew that he had her to thank for this honor. It was her tireless
socializing on his behalf that had brought the princess here.

"I won't keep you," the elderly princess
said. "I know everyone wants to meet you. You must be exhausted
with the chitchat." Then she turned to Vera. "We look forward to
seeing you at dinner tomorrow evening, liebes Kind," she said.

Vera smiled. "We do, too, Katharina," she
said. "We're staying over just for you."

"Only a few of us," the princess said.
"Twenty-five or thirty devoted music lovers." She winked
coquettishly at Misha. "With very deep pockets and lots of
influence." She tottered off without another word, her
old-fashioned lavender scent trailing behind her.