Haim Weill had notified the Bunims at once of the Levin family's arrival in Tel Aviv, and thus Sonia, Dmitri, and Misha had seen their fortunes change overnight. They had been spared the struggles of most recently arrived Russian immigrants in communities like Nazerat Illit and Arad, and those working on the many kibbutzim and moshavim.
They had immersed themselves in the study of Hebrew, although their English, French, and Russian served their immediate needs in the small, multicultural state. There had been times in the beginning—despite the wondrous turn in fortune—when the three of them felt like aliens on a far-distant planet. Russia had, after all, been the only home they'd ever known, and harsh as it could be, Sonia sometimes reflected that it was in their blood, in their very souls. At times she'd longed for the birches and lindens, the onion domes, and the snow—a longing made all the more poignant by the predominantly dry, rocky, lunar landscape that was Israel.
The ways of its people were also unfamiliar. Ultra- Orthodox, Orthodox, and Reform Jews with all their various sects within sects, and Arabs and Christians with theirs, were perplexing to the Levins. Coming from a tradition of nonpracticing Jews, they cared little for the religion or culture of their antecedents, and in Russia the practice of the Jewish faith had been driven underground. As a consequence, they were faced with a people to which they were, in theory at least, supposed to belong, but with which they felt little or no identity.
The one thing that had kept loneliness at bay—aside from their abiding love for each other—was their unwavering belief in Misha's talent and their relentless ambition for his success as a pianist. Thus far he had done nothing to disappoint them. On the contrary, at eleven years old he had already played in Mann Auditorium, the preeminent performance hall in Israel, with the Philharmonic Orchestra. He had performed in the Jerusalem Convention Center and toured with the orchestra. The Israeli critics—and they were a severe, discerning lot— had hailed him as the next Rubinstein, the next Horowitz, the next—well, you name it, thought Sonia.
Yet there remained a niggling dissatisfaction, for she knew that Misha could never realize his full potential here in this Promised Land, wonderful as it had been to them.
She picked up her glass of tea from the bedside table and took another sip, holding a piece of ice to melt on her tongue, reflecting on tonight's concert. He should be playing in Carnegie Hall tonight, she thought. Or Lincoln Center. And he should be continuing his studies with the best teachers in the world, in New York City.
Misha deserved better. She also knew that her belief in him was not simply a matter of a mother's pride. She was herself a musician and a teacher and was certain that she was objective enough to assess Misha's abilities for what they really were. Dmitri had always supported her in this deeply felt belief and agreed with her, and now she knew that there were others who shared her convictions as well.
The letter. The telephone call.
Sonia expelled a loud breath, her wonderment over the recent turn of events still giving her moments of breathlessness. The clock caught her eye, and she decided she'd better take a shower now.
Quickly disrobing, she went to the bathroom and turned the taps, testing the water until it was barely warm, perfect for a sweltering day. She stepped in and lathered up quickly, then let the water run over her for a time, relaxing her tense muscles. If only it would rinse away my nervous excitement, she thought, knowing that it would not.
She stepped out of the shower and began to towel off vigorously. Suddenly the hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she had the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Slowly, she turned, and—
"Boo!"
It was Dmitri.
"You ...you devil," she cried. "You scared me half out of my skin, Dmitri."
He took her into his arms and hugged her tightly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just couldn't resist." He began peppering her wet face with kisses. "Will you forgive me?"
"Maybe," she said. "If you're good."
Dmitri leaned back from her. "I think I can be good," he said. "In fact, I think I can be very, very good." He grinned mischievously, eyeing her naked body.
Sonia smiled knowingly.
"Are we alone?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "Misha's already left for the amphitheater."
"How about it, then?" he asked.
Sonia arched an eyebrow. "How about what?" she asked with feigned innocence.
He hugged her, pushing his groin at her playfully.
Sonia could feel his tumescence against her stomach. "Oh," she said. "That." She smiled up into his dark eyes. "I think we could do something about that."
Dmitri kissed her on the lips. "I'll see you in the bedroom."
He patted her playfully on the behind, then turned and walked out. Sonia finished drying off and dabbed herself with cologne. She looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and smiled. I think I'll keep the gray, she thought, then walked into the bedroom.
Dmitri lay on the bed, naked, his long, lean body still handsome, more rugged-looking now with its deep tan than it had ever been in Russia. He beckoned to her with a hand. She walked to the bedside, and Dmitri reached out and ran his hands gently over her taut flesh, up to her breasts, down to her thighs.
Sonia shivered at his touch, delight and desire beginning to create a fiery heat in her loins. She sat down beside him, and Dmitri pulled her down to him with his long, strong arms, kissing her deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, exploring. She spread her length out on the bed, face to face with him, and their kisses became more passionate, more urgent.
Dmitri stroked her back, her buttocks, and her thighs, then took a breast in his hand. He lowered his mouth to it and began to kiss and lick it gently.
Sonia moaned with pleasure and need, one of her hands moving down to his tumescence, stroking it tenderly.
Dmitri gasped aloud, and he moved a hand to the mound between her legs, a finger entering her, feeling the wetness that was already there.
Sonia moaned again, anxious now for him to enter her. "Oh, Dmitri ...Dmitri ...please—"
The telephone at the bedside rang shrilly in their ears.
"Jesus!" Dmitri groaned. He looked at the offending instrument, then at his wife. "Let's turn it off," he said.
Sonia nodded with a smile, reaching over with a hand to it, but suddenly stopped. "The concert!" she said, looking at Dmitri. "Misha may have forgotten something. I'd better get it, Dmitri."
He emitted a low growl. "Shit."
Sonia picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
Dmitri, stroking one of her breasts, watched her as she listened to the voice at the other end. Slowly he sat up, his hand leaving her breast, as he saw the look of curiosity, then the growing horror that crept over her features.
"Where?" Sonia asked, her voice quavering, the telephone receiver trembling in her hand.
"Yes, yes," she said. "We're on our way." She abruptly slammed the receiver down in its cradle, and a pitiful mewling sound escaped her lips.
"What is it, Sonia?" Dmitri asked. "What is it?"
She shook her head back and forth, moaning, tears coming into her eyes.
Dmitri shook her arm. "Sonia!" he cried. "For God's sake, what is it?"
"Misha," she gasped. "Misha ...he ...he's been in a car accident." She burst into tears, but even as the tears flowed she leapt out of bed. "We must hurry, Dmitri." She dashed to the closet. "Hurry. To the hospital."
Oh, my God! Dmitri thought, quickly jumping to his feet. Misha ... the concert... his hands!
Chapter Eleven
Dmitri slammed on the brakes, and the car jerked to a stop. They could see the signs indicating the emergency room entrance. Even before he could kill the engine, Sonia had her door open and was getting out of the car, prepared to run ahead of him.
"Wait, Sonia!" he called to her. "Wait for me."
"Hurry, Dmitri. Hurry!" Her face was a mask of anguish, flushed from the heat and her fears.
Dmitri got
out of the car, quickly locked it, and looked around. No parking. What the hell. He didn't care right now. He hurried over to where Sonia anxiously waited for him and put an arm around her shoulders. They rushed to the emergency room door together.
Once inside the cool of the hospital, they hurried to the information desk and asked for Misha. They were quickly led through swinging double doors toward a curtained-off cubicle in the emergency room. They heard groans and cries of pain from every direction, and Sonia grabbed Dmitri's arm tightly.
As they drew near the cubicle in a far corner where the nurse was leading them, Sonia was certain that she heard laughter. It sounds like Misha! she thought. She tightened her grip on Dmitri's arm and glanced at him, but he was staring grimly ahead.
The nurse pushed aside a curtain, and they saw their son, prone on a gurney, a doctor bent over him.
"Misha!" Sonia and Dmitri cried in unison.
He looked up at them with a wide smile. He had never looked so handsome, so well, so alive to his parents. Then they saw the bandage on his chin.
Sonia felt tears begin to form in her eyes yet again, but this time they were tears of relief. Her heart swelled with gratitude. She wanted to cradle Misha in her arms, but she didn't want to get in the doctor's way.
"What—?" Dmitri began.
"It's nothing," Misha said. "I'm all right, Dad."
The doctor looked up at them, shaking her head. "Your son is a very lucky young man," she said. Her hair was a mass of frizzy black ringlets, and she wore glasses with Coca-Cola bottle lenses. "A few stitches in his chin, a few in his knee, and he'll be as good as new."
"Oh, thank God," Sonia said. "You're sure? Everything else is okay?"
Misha grinned. "If you're worried about my hands, they're fine."
The doctor nodded and smiled, revealing widely spaced yellow teeth. Sonia noticed that her name tag read WEITZMANN. "He'll be able to play tonight if he wants to." She looked back down at Misha's knee, where she was dressing his wound.
"No," Dmitri said. "I think we'd better take you home to rest."
"No, Dad," Misha cried in a determined voice. "I'm perfectly all right. There's no reason for me not to play."
"How are Ben and Avi?" Sonia asked, suddenly remembering his friends.
"They're okay," Misha said. "Avi didn't have a scratch on him. He was sitting in the backseat. But Ben probably has a broken nose."
"Where is he?" she asked.
"In one of the other cubicles," Misha said.
"Can we see him?" Sonia asked Dr. Weitzmann.
The doctor looked back up. "If you'll wait a few minutes, I'll go see," she said.
"Thank you," Sonia said. She stepped closer to the gurney and leaned over, tenderly kissing Misha on the forehead. "We're so relieved," she said. "When they called, they couldn't tell us anything except that you'd been in an accident."
Misha grimaced. "You know how people drive in Tel Aviv," he said. "Some jerk—a real old man—ran a light and front-ended Ben. It was the other guy's fault."
"Well, never mind," Sonia said. "What's important is that you're all okay. Was the man who hit you injured?"
"No," Misha said. "He was just a little shook up. He wouldn't even go to the hospital." He looked over at his father. "You didn't mean what you said, did you, Dad? About going home?"
Dmitri nodded. "You've had a shock, Misha," his father said. "I really think it would be best if you came back home with us and had a good, long rest."
"Aw," Misha groaned in exasperation. "That is so stupid! I'm fine. You can see for yourself."
"You could have been killed!" Sonia interjected.
"Mama," Misha said, "do I look dead?"
Sonia couldn't help but laugh. "No," she said, "that you don't. But it's like your father said. You've had a shock to your system. Perhaps tonight you should—"
"No!" Misha said. "This may be the last time I get to perform in Israel for a long time, Mama. You know that. You, too, Dad." He looked at his father, an earnest expression on his face.
His parents knew the truth of his words, and remained silent.
"You know how much this means to me," Misha continued. "Besides, I owe it to my audience to show up, don't you agree?"
"Misha, people will understand if you have to cancel," Dmitri said.
"Maybe," Misha said, "but they'll be disappointed." He turned the full wattage of those large, bright eyes on his parents. "This country has been very good to us, and I don't want to let these people down. Surely you can understand that."
Dmitri looked at his son's imploring face. He's so willful, he thought. But he knows what he wants, and he knows what he can do ... at least I hope he does.
Dmitri turned to Sonia. "What do you think?" he asked.
Sonia looked at Misha worriedly, then turned her gaze on Dmitri, her mind made up. "If he thinks he can do it, then I think ... I think he should, Dmitri."
"Right on!" Misha almost shouted, shoving a fist in the air. "That's the spirit."
The humid air was still heat charged, the atmosphere stifling in the park, with no breeze tonight to alleviate the discomfort. Nevertheless, the audience seemed to find relief in Chopin's beautiful music as Misha's playing transported them—and that's what it does, Sonia thought, transports—to another, more gracious time.
She didn't believe it was her imagination, but she would swear that Misha had never played this professionally before, with such virtuosity.
He's putting his all into it tonight, she told herself. He's glad to be alive, and he's grateful to these people who have given him this opportunity to play, who have come out to hear him.
She squeezed Dmitri's hand, and he turned and looked at her, a smile on his lips. He put an arm around her waist and hugged her to him, then turned his attention back to the stage.
Even though they had good reason to be concerned, Sonia decided that they shouldn't have been worried about Misha performing tonight. He always pushed himself to the limit, but young as he was, he always seemed to know what he was capable of, just how far to go before pulling back.
He's like an athlete in training for the Olympics, she thought, with hardly a break in the grueling routine.
She often worried that his genius for music would leave him impoverished in other areas of his life, and she remembered Arkady's admonishments about allowing Misha to be a boy. A normal life was not an easy task for a prodigy who practiced for hours a day, every single day of the week, but she felt that they'd encouraged him in other pursuits, although they needn't have worried. Misha did well in school and had developed other interests, interests typical of the average young man, she supposed.
Without fail, he exercised every day, lifting weights, jogging, or playing racquetball. He sometimes fenced with friends. He loved loud, brash American and English rock music, volleyball at the beach, and—to her horror— skateboarding. She and Dmitri frequently had to remind themselves of Arkady's advice—he was a young man now—and let Misha pursue these interests.
She smiled to herself, watching him toss that mane of raven hair as he struck a chord onstage. How handsome he is! she thought for the millionth time. And how dangerous that combination of looks, talent, and his willfulness could be! He's got the potential to be a real heartbreaker ... a lady-killer. She often hoped that his willful nature and the self-centered attention to his talent and ambition—attention that was a necessity if he was to succeed—would not make him a selfish partner.
She had known far too many artists, be they musicians, painters, writers, or sculptors, who had devoured those around them to serve their own needs. Whether unknowingly or deliberately, they left a path of emotional ruin behind them, destroying their families, their loved ones, in relationships that were essentially parasitic and utterly self-centered. All for their art, or so the excuse usually went. Deep down inside, she knew that Misha was like many of these artists, but she told herself that this would change with time ...and the right woman.
Her mind drif
ted back to the letter they'd received. She remembered that day with extraordinary clarity. She had waited for Dmitri in her office, where she attended to administrative duties, while he finished his classes. In the late afternoon they had gone home from the university together, as they often did.
On the drive to the apartment, he had been unusually withdrawn, and Sonia had sensed that he was in a bad humor.
"What is it, Dmitri?" she'd finally asked. "You're so ... distant."
He shrugged. "Nothing," he replied, staring ahead at the bumper-to-bumper traffic as they crept along.
"Dmitri, I know something's bothering you," she said. "Maybe you'd feel better if you talked about it."
He glanced at her, then turned back, staring out the windshield. "Oh, I guess I'm just frustrated, Sonia. With teaching. With students."
Sonia laughed lightly. "That sounds too familiar," she said. "Did anything in particular happen today?"
"No," Dmitri said, easing the car into the traffic circling around Magen David Square. "Nothing out of the ordinary. It's just the usual, I guess."
"What?" Sonia persisted. "The routine?"
"Maybe that's part of it," he answered. "But it's mostly the students. One after the other all day long, and half of them don't really want to be there. They don't have their hearts in it, you know?"
"Do I ever," Sonia replied dryly, gazing out the window at the palm trees.
"Another thirty or forty percent of them show some interest, and do what they have to to get by." He paused as he stopped for a traffic light, then continued when the traffic began to move again. "A lot of them don't have much ability. I guess about ten percent of my students actually want to be there, doing what they're doing and really working at it."
"But only one or two of those will ever go anyplace with it," Sonia said. "Right?"
"Exactly," Dmitri said. He glanced at her again. "I guess it just gets to me sometimes. I feel like I'm not accomplishing very much. I look at these kids, and I can't help but think about the way that Misha works, his drive and passion."
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