"Dmitri," Sonia interjected, "you've got to remember that Misha is one in a million. He's a prodigy. You can't expect that from your students."
"I know," Dmitri said. "I don't know why it bothers me today. Most of the time I don't think too much about it."
They reached their apartment building, and Dmitri pulled over and parked. Gathering up their briefcases, they walked together to the lobby, where Dmitri retrieved the mail. Then they waited a moment for the pristine and reliable elevator. Sonia never failed to be reminded of the squalid, graffiti-scrawled elevator in Moscow, and today, as on so many others, she said a silent prayer of thanks.
When they reached the cool of the apartment, Sonia went to the kitchen, and Dmitri put down his briefcase and started going through the mail. Bills and fliers, mostly. So much junk, he thought, separating the mail into two piles. He picked up the stack of fliers and promotional letters and started to throw it in the wastebasket. Then suddenly he noticed what appeared to be a letter. He pulled it out of the stack and looked at it. From New York City. What could it be? he wondered, turning the expensive-looking envelope over in his hand. It was ecru paper of a very heavy stock. He took it to the living room couch, sat down, and tore the letter open.
Sonia came out of the kitchen with two tall glasses of iced tea, and put them down on cork coasters atop the coffee table. She sat down on a chair across from Dmitri and kicked off her sandals, wiggling her toes.
"Oh, it's so good to be home and out of the heat," she said, putting her bare feet up on an ottoman. She took a long sip of her tea.
Dmitri didn't respond, and she looked over at him. He was so absorbed in whatever he was reading—was it a letter?—that he apparently hadn't even heard her. As she watched him, she saw the expression on his face change, gradually altering from one of studious attention to one of complete—what?
"Dmitri?" she ventured in a quiet voice.
He read on, still ignoring her.
"Dmitri?" she repeated with growing apprehension and puzzlement. "What is it, Dmitri?"
He held up a hand to silence her and continued to read.
Sonia reluctantly held her tongue. Not only was she becoming increasingly anxious but she was also a little angry now. Why is he ignoring me? she asked herself. What the hell could be so important he would react like this?
A minute later, Dmitri looked over at her, then held the letter out. "I'll let you read this for yourself, Sonia."
"What is it?" she asked again.
"Just read it, Sonia," he replied.
She took the letter from his outstretched hand and began to read. Her irritation and alarm quickly turned to astonishment and wonderment. A strange sensation ran through her, as if the moment wasn't quite real, as if she were in a movie and this weren't actually happening to her. When she was finished, she quickly read through the letter again. Satisfied that her eyes were indeed not deceiving her, she put the letter down. She went to the couch and sat next to Dmitri.
He saw the tears that had already formed in her eyes, threatening to spill at any moment, and tears came into his eyes. He took her in his arms tenderly, and they wept, holding each other on the couch, trembling, crying for joy, for their lives would surely never be the same again.
After a time Sonia pulled back from her husband, though they still clung to each other. "What do you think, Dmitri?" she asked.
"What do I think?" he echoed. "What do I think?" He looked at her intensely, then almost shouted with sheer, unadulterated joy, "I think I believe in miracles, Sonia! That's what I think!"
He hugged her to him again, and they both laughed without restraint, with the glee of children. Dmitri drew back, and they smiled at each other.
"We've got to tell Misha," Sonia said excitedly, her laugher quieting.
"I'll call him now," Dmitri said. Then he turned to her. "Or do you think I should wait until his class is over?"
Sonia looked at her watch. "His class is almost over," she said thoughtfully. "Why don't we wait for him to get home? What do you say?"
"Yes," Dmitri said, "then he can read the letter himself."
Misha closed the door behind him. "Mama!" he called out. "Dad!"
"We're in here," Dmitri answered from the living room.
Misha walked in, his scuffed sneakers squeaking on the floor, his backpack, full to bursting, swinging from one hand. He stopped when he saw them, and looked at them curiously.
"What's going on?" he asked, smiling. "Why the wine? You celebrating something?" He dropped his backpack to the floor and went over to the couch, where he kissed his mother on the cheek, then his father.
"Sit down," Sonia said.
"What is it?" Misha asked again, sitting down sideways in a chair, his legs dangling over the arms.
Sonia handed him the letter. "Here, read this," she said.
Misha took the letter from her and quickly scanned it. When he was finished, he jumped to his feet, almost dancing around the living room. "All right!" he yelled jubilantly. "All right!" He kissed and hugged Sonia again, then his father. "We're going to New York! Finally!"
Sonia and Dmitri watched him, taking pleasure in his reaction. They had always dreamed of this moment for him. When he eventually sat down again, he looked over at his parents.
"When do we leave?" he asked.
"We have a lot of loose ends to tie up here," Dmitri said, "but I don't think it will take us too long."
"But Mr. Bunim says in the letter that we can come anytime," Misha said.
"I know," Sonia said, "but your father and I have discussed it and think that we should make sure the university has replacements for us before we go. Then, we have to look for an apartment in New York, and . . ."
Misha laughed. "There must be dozens of people lined up for your jobs," he said. "That'll take about a day."
"You're right," Dmitri said, "but the university will want to do a search for the best people for the jobs."
"And there're other things to do, too," Sonia said. "We'll have to sell the car and the furniture and pack, but it won't take too long."
"But the Bunims said they'd finance everything," Misha said. "We could just let somebody else—"
"It's a loan," Dmitri said. "A loan, Misha. You read the letter. He's loaning us the money to come to New York and get established. It's not a gift. So we don't want to just up and leave. We'll still have to be careful, son."
Misha was suddenly quiet, then looked at them thoughtfully. "I wonder why he didn't do this before?" he asked. "Why did he wait all this time. Why now?"
"Misha," Sonia said, "you're excited. You didn't read the letter very closely. He says in plain English that he wanted to be certain that you would benefit by the training in New York. You know, that you're qualified, that you're mature enough."
"Seems to me," Misha said, "he should've known that for a long time."
"Listen, son," Dmitri said. "The Bunims have been very generous, helping us through Haim to get established here in Tel Aviv. You know that."
"Yes," Misha said, "I know."
"And through Haim," Dmitri went on, "we've managed to pay them back for helping us get this apartment and everything else. But I guess they're like most rich people, they want value for their money. So Mr. Bunim's been waiting to make sure that we're worth it."
"In other words," Misha said, "he wanted to make sure that I have the talent to make it in New York? That I'm worth it?"
"That's it, exactly," Sonia said, nodding.
Misha looked at his father, then his mother, an intense look in his dark, fiery eyes. Sonia looked away. She didn't think she'd ever seen such naked determination in anyone's eyes before. It was a little frightening, this look, and made her uncomfortable. She told herself that it was only the harsh Israeli sunlight pouring in through the windows, striking his eyes at a certain angle. Yes, she decided, it must be a trick of the light. She looked back over at Misha.
"I'll show him," Misha said in a low voice that was almost a growl. "
You just wait and see. I'll show him."
Chapter Twelve
New York City, 1986
"Afternoon, Misha," the doorman said, nodding his head as he held open the door. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
"Hey, Sam," Misha said. "It sure is." He strolled on into the apartment building's darkly lit lobby, a big black leather gym bag in hand, his Walkman dangling loose around his neck, emitting a loud, tinny buzz.
"And Misha?" Sam called after him.
He turned around and looked questioningly at the doorman. "Yeah, Sam?"
"Good luck tonight," he said with a salute.
"Thanks, Sam," Misha replied, smiling at the doorman's gesture.
He walked on toward the elevator bank, his sneakers squishing on the floor, looking around the lobby's vast, tastefully restrained expanse of marble. As always, there were three massive bouquets of fresh flowers, one on an elegant French-looking commode against a wall, one on a low coffee table surrounded by couches, and another on a table between the elevators. The smell of huge pink and white lilies engulfed him.
Nice change after the street outside, he thought, punching the elevator call button.
Central Park South was one of the most prestigious addresses in New York City, but ironically, it nearly always smelled of horse manure. Like today, in the warm spring weather. Misha felt sorry for the pathetic old horses, most of which should have been put out to pasture long ago, pulling their tackily decorated buggies. They lined up along the length of the street here, day in, day out, waiting for the tourists who took rides in the park.
Like everything else in this city, you had to take the good with the bad. Like horseshit on Central Park South, Misha thought. Every pleasure has its price. It was a city of extremes, existing side by side, and no matter how insulated you thought you were, there was no escaping the realities that New York inflicted on you.
The elevator arrived, and he stepped back, allowing an elegantly dressed woman to step out. Her hair was all dyed blond flips and waves and twirls, firmly cemented into place, and her almost totally unlined face— a plastic surgeon's playground—was a palette of colors from the various concoctions skillfully applied to it.
"Good afternoon," Misha said, flashing a wide smile.
Her sharp blue eyes surveyed his sweat-soaked gym clothes and his long, still damp hair. She lifted her chin perceptibly, then grandly stared straight through him and hobbled out.
He idly wondered why she hadn't spoken, why she never did speak to him, for he ran into her occasionally, and she had yet to acknowledge him. Was it the way he was dressed? Probably not. She'd seen him in everything from white tie and tails to torn-up blue jeans. Did she know who he was—and he was almost certain she did— and want to pretend that she didn't?
He didn't really know, but his curiosity was piqued. The more well known he had become, he'd discovered, the more bizarrely the people around him reacted to him. He didn't really believe that celebrity had changed him all that much, but he knew that it had definitely changed the behavior of those around him.
He stepped into the car and punched the button for the penthouse, relishing the very word. Penthouse. On the very top of the building, with a view of the entirety of Central Park, the East Side across the East River to Long Island, and the West Side over the Hudson River to New Jersey. It seemed to be on the top of the very world.
Like me, he thought with a smile of satisfaction. On top of the world.
The elevator car bobbed to a halt, and Misha got off, fishing in his gym pants for the keys to the apartment. Before he unlocked the door, he rubbed the silver metal mezuzah on the door frame with a fingertip, then brushed it lightly with a reverent kiss. It was the mezuzah he'd bought to replace the one Arkady had given him all those years ago in Moscow.
Twelve years, Misha thought. Arkady is long dead and buried, and I'm eighteen years old and living in New York City.
Russia often seemed like a dream to him now—he'd only been six years old when they'd left—but Arkady was firmly imprinted in his mind forever, in every detail of physique and dress, every nuance of speech and manner, every loving little piece of advice, every little lecture. Misha would always remember him, and with a deep and abiding love, of that he was certain. Arkady was his only loving memory of Russia.
He stepped into the enormous mauve entry foyer to the grand old apartment he shared with his parents. He tossed his keys into a heavily carved Russian silver bowl set on a console—also Russian—in the entryway, then went through the tall double doors into the vast, double- height living room, its ceiling soaring to over twenty feet.
No one was about, and he skirted around the twin Steinway concert grand pianos set back to back in their ebony magnificence, and stepped over to the wall of windows, which faced north, over Central Park, straight ahead. The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows was breathtakingly beautiful and never failed to impress him with its majesty. He sometimes imagined that this view—his view—encompassed his park and his city, spread out at his feet, paying homage to the great artist that he was becoming. This was a thought, however, that he kept to himself. He knew that his family and friends would surely accuse him of a dangerous hubris.
"Misha!" It was his mother.
He jerked involuntarily, so rapt had he been in the view that he hadn't heard her approach.
"Where have you been?" Sonia asked. "I've been worried to death. My God, the concert tonight! And the party afterward!"
Misha turned from the window. His mother was already dressed for the evening, wearing a simple long black gown with a tailored silk-satin bodice and chiffon skirt and sleeves, a dress she'd had made several years ago for his concerts. She wore tiny diamond studs in her ears, a gift from Dmitri, and a small pearl and diamond brooch, a gift from Misha, on her bodice.
"You look beautiful, Mama," Misha said.
"Thank you, Misha," she replied, her anger somewhat mollified by the compliment. Sonia Levin at fifty-seven was almost totally white-haired, but she was a tall and regal woman, erect as a girl, who wore her age well. Those dark eyes set in her lightly lined but clear skin still flashed with youthful vitality, and her attitude toward life was unwaveringly optimistic.
"What took you so long?" she asked.
"I met somebody at the gym, Mama," Misha said, "and we got to talking and before I knew it . . ." He shrugged.
"Look at you!" she cried. "You're filthy from that place!"
"I didn't take the time to shower at the gym," Misha said. "I hurried on home to get cleaned up here because of the time."
"And who did you meet that made you forget the time?" she asked. "Who is so important?"
"A guy who's a musicians' agent," Misha replied. "He handles classical musicians. Manny Cygelman."
Sonia, arms akimbo, regarded him thoughtfully. "An agent," she said.
"Yes, Mama, an agent," Misha answered. "That's what I said."
"You can have any agent in the world," Sonia said. "You have agents beating down the doors to handle you. So why are you wasting your time with this Manny ...this Manny Whoever that I never even heard of?"
"I like him, Mama," Misha said. "I like him a lot."
Misha sank down onto a couch and started unlacing his sneakers.
"Good, so you like him," Sonia said. "But I wouldn't think about him representing you. Not if I were you. I don't remember his name on the list we made of the top agents." She strode over toward the couch, then sat down in a chair facing it.
Misha grimaced. "I didn't say he was going to represent me, Mama. But I like him. He's young and he's hungry. You know what I mean."
He held a sneaker up in his hand, gesturing with it. "He's got to earn his living, make his way in the world, you know? He's not like a lot of those people. Old and tired and bored. Just going through the motions."
Sonia was becoming irritated. "Misha, Misha," she said. "Who have you been talking to? This Manny person?"
"Nobody!" he said defensively. "Everybody in the
music business knows this."
"Listen to me," she said. "Please. Don't do anything rash with this ...this Manny ...this Manny Whatever. He might be somebody out to rob you. This city is full of unscrupulous people. You know that. You're getting to be a famous pianist. This guy smells money. He comes on to you—"
"Mama," Misha said with exasperation, "it's not like that, okay? Just cool it. I like Manny as a person. And his name is Manny Cygelman. Emmanuel Cygelman. I didn't say he was going to be my agent, did I?"
"No. Not in so many words," Sonia conceded. "But I know you, Misha Levin. I know how you like to be different. I know how you like underdogs. And I also know you're headstrong and in too much of a hurry sometimes. I say—"
"Mama," Misha cried. "Cool it! For God's sake, Manny and I just met, okay?"
"Okay," Sonia said, "okay. If you say so." She squirmed slightly in her chair, not really wanting to drop the subject yet, but realizing that to pursue it now was not wise. Misha might storm out of the room and remain incommunicado for a while. She couldn't have that. Not now. Tonight was too important.
"Listen," she finally said. "You'd better start getting ready. And don't forget, we have to go to the Bunims after the concert tonight."
"I know," Misha said.
"Your clothes are all laid out up in your bedroom, ready for you," Sonia said. "Your father is getting dressed now. All you have to do is shave and shower. Okay?"
"Okay, Mama," Misha said. He stood up, grabbing his sneakers and gym bag, and headed for the stairs up to his bedroom. "They won't mind if I bring a friend or two, will they?"
"A friend? Or two?" Sonia's eyes widened with alarm, and she stared after her son as if he was mad.
"Yes," Misha said easily. "I asked Manny to come along after the concert. And I told him he could bring his friend Sasha."
"You ...you asked this ...this stranger to come along to a party at the Bunims'?' Sonia sputtered. "And to bring his friend? What's with you, Misha? Have you lost your mind? To the Bunims', of all people." She threw her arms into the air dramatically. "I don't believe you."
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