Rhapsody (49 page)

The thought of the dashing and famous pianist
reminded her of an unanswered question or two she had forgotten to
ask Serena. She cleared her throat.

"Serena," she ventured, "why are you planning
the stopover in Kyoto?"

Serena looked up from her sorting, her large
dark eyes sparkling. "I'm going to meet Misha there," she said.
There was a determination in her voice that barred all
discussion.

"I see," Coral said in as neutral a tone as
she could muster. "He's performing there?"

"Yes," Serena said. She dropped the equipment
she held in one hand and sat up, looking into Coral's eyes. "I
think he's going to ask me to marry him, Coral. He's asking his
wife for a divorce."

Coral did not like hearing this bit of news,
not one single little bit, but she controlled herself. I've done
all I can do in that department, she told herself. She won't listen
to a word I have to say about it anyway.

"Well," she said mildly, "I hope you'll keep
me posted."

"I promise to check in regularly," Serena
said. She glanced at Coral out of the corner of her eye. What? she
thought. No lecture about meeting Misha in Kyoto? Will wonders
never cease?

Coral rose to her feet. "I'd best get back
uptown," she said. "Brandi and I have plans so I won't see you
again before you leave, but Sally will be taking you to Kennedy as
usual. Give me a kiss before I go?"

Serena, sitting amid piles of equipment,
looked up and smiled. "Of course," she said. She got up from the
floor and hugged Coral tightly, then kissed her on both cheeks and
stood back. "Don't worry, Coral," she said. "It'll be fine. I'm
sure of it."

"I hope so," Coral said, oddly feeling
teary-eyed, a rare phenomenon in the pantheon of her emotional
responses. She threw her shoulders back and picked up her handbag.
"I'll see myself out," she said. "You go on with your sorting."

"Okay," Serena said. "I've got tons to do to
get ready."

Coral turned and walked toward the giant
loft's entry hall. She looks older somehow, Serena thought, and
lonely. Suddenly she went after her, coming up behind her and
putting an arm around Coral's waist. Coral gazed up at her with a
perplexed but grateful expression.

At the elevator, Serena kissed her again, on
the lips this time. Then the doors closed and Coral disappeared
from sight.

Misha closed the last of his suitcases with a
loud snap, spun the locks, then placed it on the floor alongside
the others. He slumped down onto the bed, staring at the luggage,
lined up in a neat row like soldiers. He sighed, thinking about the
upcoming tour. He had decidedly mixed feelings about this trip to
Japan. On the one hand, he looked forward to it. Although he had
played in both Tokyo and Kyoto before, he'd hardly had time to do
more than perform, eat, and sleep, and had seen almost nothing of
the country. This trip would be different, however, since he was
allowing himself time to explore the local culture, which had
always intrigued him.

On the other hand, his enthusiasm was
tempered somewhat by his meeting with Serena in Kyoto. He was
leaving ahead of schedule to meet her there. He didn't quite know
how he felt about that. He did know that the instant he laid eyes
on her, he would want her as desperately as always, but beyond
that—beyond the mutual lusty fulfilling of their physical
desires—did he really want more?

God, he thought miserably, how did I get
myself into this mess? He knew that Serena expected him to announce
that he'd asked Vera for a divorce. Hadn't he told her as much
himself? Hadn't he convinced himself that that was what he wanted
and that that was what he was going to do? His emotions were more
in a state of confusion than ever, feeling a powerful attraction
and desire for Serena, yet at the same time feeling a profound need
and, yes, he thought, love, for Vera.

"Are you ready, old man?" Manny said as he
stepped into the bedroom, his custom-made Lobb shoes silent on the
antique silk Tabriz rug.

Misha turned and looked at him in surprise.
"Yes, all set. What about you?"

"Sasha's finishing up for both of us," Manny
said. "We've got time, since we're not leaving until day after
tomorrow."

"I didn't expect to see you tonight," Misha
said.

"I called and Vera said you were about
finished packing," Manny replied, "so I strolled on over. I wanted
to have a word with you before you leave, if you don't mind."

"No," Misha said, looking at Manny with a
curious expression. He wondered what could be so urgent that Manny
hadn't simply called him. "Why don't we have a drink in my
study?"

"Great, old man, great," Manny enthused.

Misha got up and led the way to his small
book-lined study, where he went straight to the drinks table.
"What'll you have, Manny?"

"A couple of fingers of scotch," he replied.
"A whisper of water. Hold the ice."

Misha made the drink and handed it to
him.

"Thanks, old man," Manny said.

Misha poured himself a small scotch and added
ice cubes and a splash of water.

"Here's to Japan," Manny said. He lifted his
glass, and Misha followed suit.

"To Japan," Misha echoed
unenthusiastically.

They sipped at their drinks and took seats in
comfortable Edwardian chairs, which were upholstered in worn old
leather, on either side of the fireplace. Light danced across their
features from the log fire that flickered in the grate.

"What's on your mind, Manny?" Misha
asked.

Manny shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and
looked over at Misha through the thick lenses of his tortoise-
shell glasses. "Well," he began slowly, "I wanted to broach the
subject of Russia again."

Misha's face froze, but his eyes glittered in
the light of the fire. Manny had no doubt that he'd struck that
familiar nerve in Misha which positively vibrated with his intense
hatred of his homeland.

"I know I'm upsetting you by bringing this
up," Manny rushed on, before Misha could tell him to drop the
subject. "But it's something that I've absolutely got to discuss
with you, Misha." His voice was uncharacteristically earnest.
"Please listen to me. Please. Just hear me out before you fly off
the handle and tell me to get lost." He looked at Misha with a
pleading expression, a rarity for Manny Cygelman.

Misha acquiesced with a barely perceptible
nod of his head but remained silent, his body assuming a pose of
stiff formality.

Manny took a sip of his scotch, set the
crystal old- fashioned glass down, then launched into his well-
rehearsed speech. "Your CD sales are fine," Manny said, "and your
concert bookings are great. They both have been phenomenal since
the very beginning, all those years ago. But"—he looked Misha in
the eye— "how long will sales and bookings continue at this
rate?"

He shrugged. "We don't know, do we? The whole
bottom could fall out of everything. CD sales could drop, and
concert bookings could shrivel. Nobody can really predict that sort
of thing."

Misha eyed him shrewdly. "Why would my career
suddenly take a nose-dive if I continue to play as I do now,
Manny?" he asked. "Why would people suddenly stop going to my
concerts? Why would they suddenly stop buying my CDs? It makes no
sense, Manny. You're grasping at straws. You and Sasha both.
Desperately trying to get me to do a Russian tour. Again."

Misha allowed his body to relax in the chair,
sitting back. He took a sip of his drink, idly waiting to hear how
his very inventive agent would respond. Manny's machinations! he
thought with amusement. The gears in that Byzantine mind of his
never stop turning.

Manny cleared his throat. "You're right," he
conceded. "Fans and classical music lovers aren't suddenly going to
stop buying your CDs or going to your concerts. Not suddenly. But,
and this is a big 'but,' as new talent comes along, some of your
fans are inevitably going to drop you for somebody new to the
scene. Somebody fresh. Somebody different. Let's face it, Misha,
you're not the young prodigy you once were, and that aspect of your
drawing power is coming to a close. No matter how beautifully you
play."

Manny paused and took another sip of his
scotch, hoping that he hadn't offended Misha and at the same time
hoping that Misha was digesting what he'd said.

And he was. Misha knew that there was a
degree of truth in what Manny said, especially if a performer
overexposed himself, no matter how rare and wondrous his talent.
Discovering where that fine line lay—between too much exposure and
not enough—was a very difficult task, if not impossible. He also
knew that a lot of his fans were as mercurial as butterflies, fed
by the buzz and hype of music critics, the press, and the recording
industry. Many of them would drop him in an instant, any allegiance
to him forgotten as they took up with the next boy wonder to come
down the road.

Yet Misha didn't worry about such matters. He
was still extremely popular and in constant demand. He had no
doubts about his own abilities—his playing had never been better,
he believed—and there was a contingent of faithful music lovers who
would never desert him, as long as he could play as well as he
played now. These music lovers looked for quality, and weren't
slaves to all the hype and buzz. As for the long range ...Well, he
thought, I'll deal with that when the time comes.

"There's a brilliant way to deal with this
situation," Manny rushed on. "Before it becomes a real problem. I
think one way to generate new excitement—a way to punch up your
career—is to do this Russian thing. Now, listen carefully."

Manny looked over at Misha to see if he was
paying attention. Satisfied that he was, he quickly continued, his
words tripping over one another in his mounting excitement.

"I've told you before how it could be built
up as a grand gesture on your part," he said. "Picture it, Misha! A
return to your homeland for the first time since you were a child.
Back to your roots, since that evil Wall has finally come down. I
can see the newspapers now: 'Misha Levin forgives Russia at last
for the cruelties that were perpetrated against him and his
family.'"

Manny paused briefly, looking at Misha
intensely, waiting for a response. When it didn't come, he hurried
on again. "A move like that would receive international attention,"
he said with emphasis. "Just think of the press. And even if you
don't care about the press, think of the money."

Misha waved a hand at him, as if it were not
worth mentioning.

"They're offering a fortune, Misha! A
fortune!" Manny cried. "They want to do a five-year deal. Two
concerts a year. That's all. You'd play Moscow and St. Petersburg.
That's it! Half the money up front!"

Misha held a hand up in an effort to halt
Manny's swift and ebullient flow of words, but Manny was so caught
up in the excitement of the moment, he paid no attention.

"Wait, wait, wait, Misha!" Manny exclaimed.
"Think of the proceeds from the Russian CD recordings. It would
give us a whole new marketing approach. For five years running.
People will be waiting with bated breath for the latest Misha Levin
in Moscow. Misha Levin in St. Petersburg! Then we'll box an entire
set at the end of the five years. It's a gold mine. More money than
you've ever made!"

Manny dramatically slapped his right fist
into his left hand, then threw both hands wide. His eyes were huge
with his excitement about the possibilities, and his breath was
coming in audible gasps.

Misha looked at him and smiled. "Manny," he
said calmly, "have you and the producers you've talked to about
this—whoever they are—considered the dire state of the economy in
Russia? Have you asked yourselves where all this money in Russia is
coming from? For that matter, who are these Russians that can
afford to pay the ticket prices that they'll have to ask to fill up
the concert halls?"

Manny waved off the questions. "The country
may be broke, Misha," he said, "but believe me, there's still
plenty of money floating around Russia. Tons of money, Sasha, and
I'll fill those concert halls to bursting with people with their
money, their custom-made suits and couture gowns and expensive
jewelry. Make no mistake about that, old man."

Misha looked at him thoughtfully for a
moment, his hands at his chin, two fingers steepled. Then, he
reached over and picked up his scotch, took the last sip, and set
the glass back down.

"Manny," he said, "you know who these people
are, don't you?" It wasn't a question but a declaration of
certainty. "You know that they're mobsters and hooligans who've
stolen everything they can get their greedy hands on. They're men
who are bleeding the country dry, letting the poor starve, taking
everything they can get. The Palace Hotel in St. Moritz is full of
them. Monte Carlo is full of them. The best restaurants all over
the world are full of them. Spending all that stolen money."

Manny's excitement had slowly ebbed as Misha
spoke, and he now wore an unhappy expression on his plump face.
"What you say may be true to some extent, Misha, but they've got
the money to fill those halls and make those recordings possible,
nevertheless. Besides, some of them aren't hooligans. Some of them
have simply taken advantage of the opportunities that arose with
the fall of communism."

"Spare me, Manny," Misha said. "Would you
want me to play for a crowd like that?" he asked. "Would you want
me to give them some kind of legitimacy because I'd played for
them?"

Manny shifted uncomfortably in his chair
again. "Well, I don't think ..."

"Maybe," Misha said with emphasis, "maybe
someday I will go back and play there." He paused and took a
breath. "But not for people like that. Not for mobsters."

Manny, his head hanging in defeat, looked up.
"That's your final word?" he asked.