Coral cleared her throat again. "Serena, I won't say anything else about this, I promise." She reached across the table and patted one of Serena's hands with her own. "But please, please, please," she begged. "Don't allow this man to toy with you like he did the last time. I honestly believe that he is capable of doing you great harm. I think he is evil, Serena."
She raised her eyebrows significantly, looking into Serena's eyes. "You know that I don't use the word lightly. I've heard all sorts of stories about the things he's done to other women, and some of them were very ...unsavory. I think he's very dangerous. Just remember, Misha Levin is looking out for one thing and one thing only: that weapon he's got between his legs."
Serena had listened intently, but now she burst out into laughter. "Coral!" she protested with a sputter. "Not all men are like that, you know?"
"This is no laughing matter, Serena," Coral said with irritation. "Misha Levin is like that," she said emphatically. "And besides, you have to remember that he's a married man now. There's Vera Levin to consider, and from what I hear, she is a formidable woman. Oh, she may look cool as a cucumber and be oh so very social and on a lot of benefit committees and all that sort of thing, but she's also a wife and mother—and an aggressive social climber. I don't think you'd want to cross swords with her."
Serena slammed her wineglass down on the table. "Coral," she said with exasperation, her hazel eyes flashing, "I am not planning on having an affair with Misha Levin. I simply saw the man in the street, okay? So drop it, will you? Jesus!"
Coral held up one long, slender hand, a finger of which was adorned with a large, perfect pearl set in gold. One of her treasured Verdura pieces. "I'm finished," she said. "I won't say another word."
"Promise?" Serena said.
"Scout's honor," Coral replied. "Now then, have you got everything lined up for the shoots?"
"Yes," Serena said. "It's all taken care of. Jason and Bennett are taking care of a lot of the details."
"Oh, and how are the boys?" Coral asked.
"They're great," Serena replied. "Like sponges, the two of them. Soaking up everything I know."
"Good," Coral said. "That's hard to find in assistants these days."
"Anyway," Serena continued, "everybody's been a lot more cooperative than I expected, so barring unforeseen difficulties, it ought to be a piece of cake."
"You've worked your usual charm on these great Middle European politicians, I assume," Coral said knowingly.
"You might say that." Serena smiled. "It doesn't hurt to stroke their egos a little to get them to cooperate."
"Good," Coral said. "Sometimes, I don't know how you do it. This group seems so ...gray. So dull. All bad suits and bad haircuts."
"Well . . ." Serena said mirthfully, "they are easy to resist."
"Well, thank God for that," Coral said, sitting back in her chair.
Serena looked at Coral, then at her plate. "You're not eating. Don't you like the salad?" she asked.
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?
Chapter Four
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.
"Well, old chap, outdid yourself tonight." Manny Cygelman, resplendent in custom-made Savile Row white tie and tails, sidled up to Misha and Vera.
Misha smiled. "Yes. It did go very well, didn't it, Manny?" he said.
"Extremely pleased," Manny said in his most affected voice. "Everybody. Dazzling performance. Certainly won't hurt your career to have played this concert."
"No," Misha said, "I guess not."
"See you've met the queen of the European music festivals, Princess von Wallenburg."
"Yes," Misha said. "Vera knows her. She seems very nice."
"Pays to know her," Manny said. "Good woman to have on your side. Wouldn't want her for an enemy." He scrutinized his prize client closely. "Feeling all right, old boy? You seem a bit ...bothered."
"Just tired," Misha said again. "I think I'll go on back to the hotel, Manny." He turned to his wife. "You don't mind, Vera, do you? Manny loves to squire you around. I'll send the limousine back to fetch you."
Vera put a hand on his arm. "If you want to leave, darling, I'll go with you."
"No, no," Misha said. "You two stay and enjoy yourselves. Work your very special magic on the crowd." He squeezed her hand. "Have a good time. I feel like being alone awhile to come down from the performance. Maybe I'll turn in early."
"Are you sure?" Vera asked, a worried expression on her face.
"Yes," Misha said definitely. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. I just need to rest." He turned to Manny. "You'll take care of this beautiful lady?"
"With pleasure, old boy," Manny said, taking Vera's arm.
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