Rhapsody (50 page)

Misha nodded. "That's my final word. Now, go
home and help Sasha finish getting ready for our trip. I want to be
alone for a while."

Manny pushed himself to his feet. He looked
over at Misha. "See you later," he said.

"See you later," Misha echoed.

Manny turned and left the room, his stomach
churning with the bile of defeat.

Vera was seated at the big antique pine table
in the kitchen, sipping her morning coffee, her appointment book
and a scattering of various lists at her side. She'd already seen
Nicky off to his kindergarten, and was double-checking her
appointment book for today's meetings and making a list of the
telephone calls she should return.

When Misha walked in, she looked up. "Manny
called," she said. "The limo will be here in a few minutes. Mario's
already been up and taken your luggage down to the lobby." She
looked back down at her appointment book, where she was jotting
down a note, hoping that Misha wouldn't notice that she was
troubled by his leaving.

"Thanks," Misha said. She's always so busy,
he thought. Running the household, keeping up with her job at the
auction house, caring for Nicky. And caring for me. All without
complaint.

He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Vera . .
." he began.

She looked over at him questioningly, a
slight smile on her face. "Hmm?" she murmured, trying to appear to
be somewhat distracted.

"I'm glad we've talked," he said, "and I want
you to know that ...well, I'll try to straighten out the mess I've
made ...somehow."

Vera took a sip of her coffee and set the cup
back down. "Whatever you decide to do, Misha," she replied in a
soft voice, "let's both try to go about it in a civilized manner."
She twisted her wedding band nervously. "You know where I stand. I
...I ...love you regardless, and I will be here for you. But I want
to be treated fairly."

Misha nodded. He wanted to say he loved her,
too, but he felt that the words would have no meaning for Vera
right now.

Before he could respond, the intercom buzzer
rang, signaling that the limousine had arrived to take him to
Kennedy and his flight to Japan.

"You'd better go," Vera said. "Don't keep the
driver waiting." She rose to her feet.

Misha got up and stood by his chair for a
moment, then abruptly went around the table and put his hands on
her shoulders. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, then drew
back and looked at her.

Vera returned his gaze, looking into his
dark, troubled eyes. She desperately wanted to hold him and to be
held, but she didn't want to push too far.

Misha gave her a squeeze, then turned and was
gone.

Vera stood, staring at the empty kitchen
doorway, tears welling up in her eyes. Please, she prayed, come
back to me. Please come back to me and Nicky.

In the private elevator foyer, Misha punched
the button for the lobby. Waiting for the elevator car to arrive,
he twisted around on his feet in nervous anticipation.

Out of the comer of his eye, he caught sight
of the mezuzah on the door frame. The same one that he had himself
nailed there years ago. The mezuzah he had bought to replace the
one old Arkady had given him in Moscow long ago.

Misha reached over and brushed the cold metal
with his fingertips, thinking about Arkady, his loving mentor, and
his wise and benevolent guidance and advice. He realized that he
hadn't thought of Arkady in a long, long time.

I wonder what Arkady would have to say
about my life now?
Misha asked himself. But he felt fairly
certain that he knew the answer to that question: Not much. No, not
much at all. Arkady would tell him that he'd let his passions run
away with him. At the expense of his virtue.

Oh, Arkady, forgive me
, he prayed.
And help me. Please help me to know what to do. I'm lost,
Arkady. Lost.

Misha leaned over and reverentially brushed
the mezuzah with his lips. He heard the elevator car arriving and
quickly turned back around, fingering the tears from his eyes. When
the doors opened, he stepped in and was gone.

The older Russian stepped from the
apartment's entrance hall into its vast living room, his
sycophantic younger muscle, in their trademark twin black leather
trench coats and lizard-skin cowboy boots, at his heels. He planted
his feet on the deep plush-pile carpeting and looked around, taking
in the huge room with its expensive-looking modem furniture and its
paintings and sculpture. Through the French doors in the distance
he could glimpse the lush retreat of the wraparound terrace and its
evergreen plantings, here high above ordinary mortals and the noise
and grime of the city streets.

One of his goons let out a low whistle,
nodding as his eyes swept the circumference of the luxurious space.
"This what they call culture, huh?" he said in his thick Russian
accent

"Great fuck pad," his buddy said, rocking on
his boot heels.

"Stay here," the older Russian said, ignoring
their remarks. He walked the length of the living room to the
French doors and went out onto the terrace. Pausing at the
balustrade, he looked out over the city and beyond. It was a cold
but crystal clear day, and he could see north to the George
Washington Bridge and the Palisades of New Jersey.

Some people know how to live
, he
reflected.
Know how to spend their money. And some of it's
thanks to me
.

He was genuinely appreciative of what he
vaguely recognized as good taste and sophistication, but he was
also envious and resentful. These kinds of people, he thought,
acted superior to him and didn't give him the respect that was his
due.

I'm sick and tired of stupid excuses from the
smartass
, he decided.
I'm sick of the whole business, in
fact
. He took a deep breath and shifted his gaze south, to the
World Trade Center and out to the Verrazano Narrows.
It's time
for results
.

That was why he'd come here today. He'd made
a final offer—an enormous offer—but not exorbitant in terms of the
benefits he and his organization would reap. If Mikhail Levin
accepted it. With Mikhail Levin's name, they would have no trouble
packing concert halls, selling CDs, setting up distribution deals,
and signing up other music- world luminaries. As it was, everything
was in place.

What they needed now was a big name to get
the ball rolling. He was going to get the answer today—here on a
piece of the younger Russian's own turf. He knew the young man
would return soon, and he wanted to be here to surprise him, give
him a scare. If the young man had finally convinced Levin, there
wouldn't be any need for any further action. If that was not the
case, however, then ...well, he would see.

Levin, after all, was virtually defenseless.
He had a wife, a kid, and a mistress—which could all easily be used
to get him to cooperate.

He knew, of course, that Levin had left for
Japan today. Kyoto. That his management was leaving tomorrow. For
Tokyo. A perfect situation, he thought Levin and his girlfriend in
Kyoto. His "friends" in Tokyo. His wife and kid in New York.

He turned and walked back into the apartment,
where one of his goons was giving the furnishings and art closer
inspection while the other was sprawled on a sofa, thumbing through
a book.

"This is some weird shit," the goon with the
book said, holding it up. "Look at this. Buncha naked fags or
something."

The older man paid no attention to him but
walked over to the drinks table, where he poured some club soda
into a crystal old-fashioned glass and drank it down in one
swallow. He poured another one, took a sip, then set it down on the
table when he heard the front door opening. He walked to the middle
of the room and stood there, his feet planted wide, waiting for the
young man to appear
.

The young man came through the arched entry
into the living room, a briefcase and keys in hand. He saw the
older Russian and stopped in his tracks. His face instantly drained
of color, and for a moment he could only stare in disbelief.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked
angrily after recovering from his initial shock. "And how the fuck
did you get in?"

"Never mind how," the older Russian said.

He looked over at the goons. "Put that book
back where you found it," he snapped at the one who sat on a couch.
The goon slammed the book shut and banged it down on the coffee
table.

The young man placed his briefcase on a chair
and put his keys down on top of it. Then he turned to the older
Russian. "What do you want?" he asked in a calmer tone of
voice.

"An answer," the older man said.

The young man didn't answer for a moment "The
answer's no," he finally said.

The older Russian's expression didn't change,
but he was not happy to hear this news. "You're certain about
that," he said.

"Absolutely," the younger man said. "He won't
do it. He thinks the deal reeks of scum like you."

The goons looked up at their boss, and their
bodies seemed to spring to life, all rippling muscle and tension
just waiting to pounce.

The older Russian stood staring at the
young man.
The little cocksucker's a lot braver than I'd
thought
, he decided.
He sure as hell isn't afraid of us.
Maybe he's the one who ought to have a go at Levin. Like he
wanted
.

"Follow me," he said to the young man. "Let's
have a little talk."

The young man wasn't sure it was a good idea
for him to be out on the terrace with the older Russian. Then he
realized that they still needed him, perhaps more than ever.

He smiled confidently at the goons, who sat
watching him, then squared his shoulders and walked over to the
French doors and out onto the terrace.

Misha had fallen in love with Kyoto, Japan's
former imperial city, and Serena, if not precisely in love, was an
enthusiastic sight-seer and voracious shopper.

Magnificent Buddhist temples—over sixteen
hundred of them—Shinto shrines, Zen monasteries, and Amida temples
beckoned from every neighborhood. Palaces, gardens, and pleasure
pavilions abounded with their delights. The city's sensitivity to
beauty was evident in so many ways that Misha understood easily why
it was always flooded with pilgrims, come to pay their
respects.

In its eleven centuries Kyoto had endured
earthquakes, fires, and the desecration of war, always to rebuild
with reverence for its past. Despite its urban sprawl and
twentieth-century high-rises, it was the center of traditional
culture in Japan, and its residents had worked to protect its
precious cultural artifacts from ruthless modernization.

Misha loved the old wood and plaster row
houses, which had all but disappeared elsewhere in Japan,
particularly the
ochaya
, the traditionally styled two-story
wooden teahouses where geishas entertained. When strolling through
the Gion district he and Serena caught their first glimpses of a
geisha and her apprentices, maiko, on their way to appointments at
the teahouses. At the Minami-za, Japan's oldest theater, they were
intrigued by the Kabuki drama, and the solemn chanting and masks of
the No play they saw at the Kanze Kaikan No Theater left them no
less dazzled.

On Shinmonzen-dori they shopped for antique
pottery and lacquerware. On Imadegawa-dori, Misha bought Serena a
beautiful silk kimono. At the famous To-ji, a flea market, Serena
found exquisite old silk obi and furoshiki—silk for gift
wrapping—which she gave to Misha for having pillow covers made.
They stopped for unidentifiable but delicious grilled fish in an
open-air market, and at Rakusho, a tea shop in a former villa, they
had a frothy
matcha
, the tea reserved for the tea
ceremony.

Misha decided that what he loved most about
this ancient city was its devotion to the spirit, as evidenced by
its many temples and shrines, and the flesh, as seen in its
districts set aside for physical pleasure. One could worship in so
many ways in Kyoto, he thought with a secret smile. Yet he saw that
there was an artistic blending of both flesh and spirit in
everything.

And I'm certainly not immune, he reflected as
he and Serena strolled, exhausted after a full day of sightseeing,
back to the Tawaraya, the ancient inn where they were staying.

He had come to Kyoto determined that the
first thing he and Serena would do was sit down and have a talk. He
still wasn't sure that he knew his own heart, and he knew even less
of hers. Yet when he'd arrived at the Tawaraya, Kyoto's most famous
ryokan
, Serena was waiting for him in their
antique-furnished room. She'd welcomed him wearing a
yukata
,
a simple cotton kimono, open down the front—and nothing else. Her
body, resplendent in all its beautiful curves and angles, had
beckoned to him as always. He'd needed no further coaxing to arouse
his desire for her, to forget that he had wanted to talk to
her.

They'd made love on the immaculate futon, a
passionate and satisfying experience. Yet he'd felt that something
was missing, that they were both holding back in some indefinable
way. He hadn't had a chance to think about it, however. Afterward,
they'd immediately headed out to begin sightseeing.

Now, as they took off their shoes at the
doorway to the ryokan and put on the slippers provided by the inn,
he reflected that their activity, while pleasurable, had been a
delaying tactic. Holding off the inevitable discussion they both
knew was coming. While Serena had been convivial and engaging,
interested in what they were doing, she had nevertheless seemed
distracted. Perhaps, he thought, she's simply preoccupied by
thoughts of her trip to Cambodia.