Misha started up the stairs. "It'll be okay, Mama," he said, turning to face her. "They won't mind at all. It's not like it's a sit-down dinner or anything."
"Misha, we have to do everything perfectly for them!" she cried. "These people expect nothing but the very best from all of us! After all they've done for us. Don't you understand that?"
"You bet I do, Mama," he said in a cynical tone of voice, turning his back to her. Then he disappeared down the second-floor hallway. "You bet I do," Sonia heard him repeat.
She sat mute, gritting her teeth in frustration. Misha was beginning to show signs of ... of rebellion, she thought. He hadn't been himself for the past few months now. Oh, sure, he was basically still the same sweet and dutiful Misha who practiced relentlessly, pleased his teachers, and played as if he'd been kissed by an angel, but his behavior of late was definitely beginning to take on a kind of edge, a kind of cockiness, sometimes a sullenness, that she found disturbing.
Though she hated to admit it, this attitude change she'd witnessed lately, this growing arrogance, was a character trait she truly found unlikable. In some ways, she thought, Misha was becoming a stranger to her— and to his father. This she knew because she and Dmitri had discussed it at length, and she had discovered that he was as perplexed as she. When Dmitri had tried to discuss his son's behavior with him, Misha had simply clammed up, shutting his father out, really wounding Dmitri, who'd thought the two of them could discuss anything.
We've been wonderful parents to him, Dmitri and I, doing everything in our power to see to it that he realizes his ambitions. Could it be that we've been too smothering? she wondered. Too demanding? Were our expectations for him too high?
She didn't think so. He had always asked for more, begging for challenges, never being satisfied.
When they had first arrived in New York seven years ago, Misha had begun lessons with one of the world's greatest teachers, Joachim Hess, and he had worked indefatigably, startling Hess with his talent and hard work. Word quickly spread among the close-knit international classical music community that there was a new wunderkind in town. After his first public recital at Juilliard, he had become the toast of the New York music world, extolled as the most exciting pianist to come along in years. The praise only drove him to work harder.
At that point Sonia, Dmitri, and Misha put their heads together to decide on the best strategy to use in handling his career, and a very clever one it turned out to be. Without the advice of agents, producers, instructors, or other luminaries in the music world, Misha himself had come up with a master plan, one that they now saw in retrospect as a stroke of genius.
"I'm not going to go to any of the competitions," he'd told them in no uncertain terms. "Not the Van Cliburn not the Tchaikovsky, not any of them."
"But why?" Dmitri had asked, amazed at this piece of news. "This is unheard of, Misha. Every up-and-coming young pianist like yourself uses the competitions to get his name out there, to build an audience and a reputation."
"No competitions," Misha reiterated. "For the same reason that I'm not going to allow any recordings to be sold yet," he added.
"No recordings! But this is suicide!" Sonia had cried at the time. "What are you thinking of? They could be your biggest source of income! And make your fame!"
"No recordings sold," Misha repeated. "Not yet. And," he continued dramatically, seemingly paying no attention to their dumbfounded expressions, "for the same reason I'm only going to play in public on very rare occasions for very small audiences, at least for the next three or four years."
When he was finished speaking, he sat looking at them with a feverish gleam in his eyes.
Dmitri and Sonia were temporarily stunned, unable to grasp what he could possibly be thinking.
Misha abruptly jumped to his feet and began to pace the room excitedly. "Don't you see?" he said, stopping and turning to them. "This is the best way in the world to generate international interest in me. To have a hungry audience in the wings, just waiting for my concerts, begging to hear me play, begging for my CDs. They'll have heard all the rumors about me, and they'll want to find out for themselves."
"But—" Sonia began.
"I'll record my concerts," Misha said, pacing the room again, "but I won't allow the release of the CDs for the next few years. Can you imagine the storm of interest— of publicity—this will generate?"
"What—?" Dmitri started to speak.
Misha silenced his father by lifting his hand. "With your teaching positions at Julliard, plus my performance fees, even if there're only a few," he continued, "we
won't have to worry about money, will we?" He looked at them.
"Nooo," Dmitri said, "we can manage. It's just that—"
"Good," Misha said. "It's settled, then." He leaned with a hand on one of the Steinway concert grand pianos, looking up at the ceiling dreamily. "I won't perform in Carnegie Recital Hall until I'm eighteen. Until then I'll tease the music world mercilessly, doing maybe one performance a year at Juilliard. After I do Carnegie Recital Hall, I'll have them beating down my door."
"Misha," Dmitri said, "what you are proposing is the very opposite of what most young musicians would do."
"And that's the point," Misha had said.
That had been four years ago, Sonia remembered. He had been fourteen years old and already so wise in some ways. At first she and Dmitri had had misgivings, worrying that this strategy would backfire, that interest in Misha would die out and that any potential audience would gradually lose interest after waiting so long. They had played along, however, encouraging him, always being there for him, and had been relieved to see that the curiosity about him had finally evolved into what had virtually become an international clamor among the cognoscenti.
Now, she surmised, with a resignation that made her a little sad, she and Dmitri would finally be taking a backseat to agents, to producers, to recording companies, to conductors, to marketing experts, and to a host of others who would each have a part in carrying out their son's future in music.
Sonia anxiously rubbed her arms with her hands, then hugged herself. She hoped against hope that Misha had been right and that she and Dmitri had done the right thing in letting him carry out such an unusual approach to handling his career.
Well, she thought at last, with her usual practicality, the proof is in the pudding. So we'll see—tonight.
Tonight: Carnegie Recital Hall.
The glittering audience, usually so sedate at these affairs, was stamping its feet, to Sonia's and Dmitri's astonishment, demanding more and more, as if Maria Callas had finally left the stage after performing her last encore, leaving the audience begging for one more. Only in this case the thunderous noise of stamping feet, clapping hands, shrill whistles, and loud shouts of Bravo! was all for Misha.
Sonia turned to her husband with a wide smile on her face. "Do you suppose they're ever going to leave?" she asked.
"It's crazy!" Dmitri said. "Wild!" He hugged her. "And I love it!"
Gradually, the audience did finally begin to disperse. Sonia and Dmitri became surrounded by well-wishers on their way out, many who knew them and some who only knew who they were. They shook countless hands, accepted an untold number of compliments, and kissed numberless cheeks, and when they were finally left to themselves, they stood nearly exhausted, yet still exhilarated after the performance.
"I guess we'd better get back to the dressing room," Dmitri said.
"Yes," Sonia said. "It's time we got started to the Bunims'." She paused and looked at Dmitri curiously. "Did you see them, by the way?"
"Oh, yes," Dmitri said. "They were two or three rows behind us."
"Funny," Sonia said thoughtfully. "I would have thought they would say hello."
"I think they were just being very nice," Dmitri said, "and deliberately sparing us more handshakes and more compliments."
"You're probably right," Sonia said, nodding her head. "Besides, they must get home for their guests."
/> They made their way backstage, but couldn't get close to the dressing rooms. A noisy crowd was gathered outside Misha's door, many of them young women but with a sprinkling of men as well, all with programs in hand, waiting for autographs, jostling one another for space and proximity to Misha's door.
"Oh, my God," Sonia said. "He'll never get out of here at this rate. What're we going to do?"
"Step back, please," shouted a baritone, British- sounding voice with the ring of authority, firm yet polite. "Please, step back. Kindly clear a path."
A young man grasped Sonia by the arm and began to lead her forward, turning to Dmitri and indicating by a nod of his head that he should follow with another young man, who had sidled up to Dmitri. It was as if the Red Sea parted before them, with the short, overweight man in his resplendent tuxedo and tortoiseshell glasses continuing to cajole the crowd in his very posh- sounding voice. "Please, step back. Kindly clear a path, please."
They arrived at Misha's dressing room door none the worse for wear, and the stranger gave it five rapid, distinct knocks. The door opened a crack, and then was swung open just enough for them to slide in, first Sonia, then Dmitri, and finally the strangers.
Misha sat back down in a chair in the little dressing room, a towel draped around his shoulders. He was using the ends of it to rub his face over and over, wiping off the sweat from the combination of stage lights and nerves.
He looked up and smiled widely. "It was okay, huh?"
"Misha, it was fantastic!" Sonia enthused.
"The best you've ever played!" Dmitri said simultaneously.
Misha kissed his mother and father, then grabbed the towel from around his neck and used it to vigorously dry his sweat-soaked mane of hair. "I think they liked it, don't you?" he said, with laughter in his voice.
"Liked it?" Sonia cried. "My God, I've never seen an audience respond like that. The enthusiasm! The—"
Suddenly Misha stopped drying his hair and dropped the towel. "Mama," he said. "These are my friends Manny Cygelman and Sasha Soloviev."
Sonia turned first to the rotund young man with the balding pate and tortoiseshell spectacles, dressed elegantly in what appeared to be custom-made clothes. Manny almost blushed under her assessing scrutiny. The other young man, Sasha, stood silently watching her. He was taller and thinner than Manny, but equally well dressed.
"So," she finally said, shaking his proffered hand, "you're the famous Manny Cygelman."
"Well, I'm not famous, Mrs. Levin," Manny replied, "but I am undeniably Manny Cygelman."
"Well, if you're as good at being an agent as you are at crowd control," Sonia said, "then I'm betting you're going to be top-notch." She gave him the benefit of her best smile.
"I will accept that as a compliment coming from you, Mrs. Levin," Manny said.
"And please, Manny," she said, "you're a friend of Misha's. So call me Sonia. Okay?"
"Okay," Manny said.
"And you're Sasha?" Sonia said to the taller and thinner man.
"Yes," he said, shaking her hand. He seemed slightly uncomfortable, she noticed.
"A friend of Manny's?" she asked.
"That, too," the young man said with a slight blush.
"Welcome," Sonia said. Then she turned to Misha and began fretting over his mass of hair.
"You're going to have to have a blow-dryer backstage, Misha," she said. "Or you're going to have to get all that ...that mess cut off. A rock star you're not."
"No way," Misha said. "My fans love it."
"The fans," Sonia repeated. "The fans."
Misha gave his hair a final toss and rose to his feet. "Is everybody ready to party?"
"All right!" Manny said.
Sasha smiled tightly.
"Just remember, young man," Sonia said, "tonight was a great success, but don't forget where we're going. Best behavior. Understand?"
Misha laughed. "Manny, they're worried because the Bunims are so grand, you know? One generation off the boat from Russia, and they think they're the Romanovs."
Manny smiled, but a serious look came into his eyes. "From what I hear, they practically are the Romanovs."
"You," Sonia said, "have the right attitude, Manny Cygelman. Now, we'd better get moving, but oh, my God, what do we do about the crowd outside?"
"I'll take care of it," Manny said. "I'll get you two out, while Sasha maneuvers Misha through. He can give a few autographs on the way. It won't take too long, so we can wait out front. Okay?"
"I think that's a good idea," Dmitri said.
"I think he's brilliant," Sonia said, patting Manny's nearly bald pate. He took her arm, and away they went, Manny putting on his best British accent for the crowd.
Chapter Thirteen
The entry gallery, as it was referred to, left little doubt as to the character of the inhabitants of the vast apartment, set high above Fifth Avenue in the east Seventies. The floors were of gleaming black-and-white checkerboard marble with cabochon insets of malachite and lapis lazuli. Overhead, four matched crystal chandeliers, antique Russian ones of the waterfall shape, brilliantly lit the gallery.
Its walls were lined with neoclassical carved marble pilasters between which priceless paintings—Picassos, Miros, Matisses, Legers, and Braques, among them— were hung against the gold silk damask fabric. Ornately carved gold-leafed French consoles with marble tops held large marble busts of antiquity and Meissen pots of enormous hothouse orchids, their brilliant blooms cascading to the tabletops. Heavily carved and gilded hall chairs, which once graced the entry halls of stately British homes, lined both of the long walls.
The entry gallery set the tone for the remainder of the Bunim family's thirty-six-room palace of treasures, dazzling those chosen few ever permitted beyond its gilded portals.
Manny tugged at Misha's sleeve. "Have you been here before, old chap?" he asked, wide-eyed despite his efforts at appearing to be a blase sophisticate.
"Yeah," Misha replied. "A few times. You know, they sponsored us in Israel and helped us get to New York."
"The Bunims?" Manny gasped in genuine awe. "You hear that, Sasha?" he said, tinning to his friend.
Sasha merely nodded and continued looking about the entry gallery.
"Yeah," Misha said, looking at Manny. "And believe me, nobody will ever forget it."
Manny looked surprised for a moment. "I think I catch your drift," he finally said. "But it is spectacularly beautiful, isn't it?"
Vaslav, the majordomo, ushered Sonia and Dmitri to the drawing room entry first.
"Mr. and Mrs. Dmitri Levin," he intoned in a firm, loud voice.
Misha, Manny, and Sasha heard the noise level of conversation drop considerably, followed by a polite scattering of applause. The applause was an unusual gesture, and the guests, of course, were demonstrating their appreciation of Misha's parents, knowing that the great pianist himself would most likely be waiting in the wings.
Vaslav, who was huge—tall and broad-shouldered— immediately returned and ushered Misha to the entry.
"Mr. Mikhail Levin," he announced.
A loud round of applause ensued and continued for some time. In response Misha bowed his head several times to the assembled guests. As the applause died, the noise level of conversation grew much higher and more animated than before.
When Vaslav announced Emmanuel Cygelman, then Sasha Soloviev, hardly a head turned to look at them, but the Bunims, perfect hosts that they were, immediately took note of them both. They soon made their way over, introducing themselves, making pleasant conversation, knowing as they now did, that Manny and Sasha were friends of the evening's star.
Misha easily mingled with the guests, accepting their lavish praise for his performance with poise and self-confidence. It was not in his nature to be self-deprecating, but he didn't give the impression of being an accomplished egomaniac, either.
When the crowd of well-wishers had finally subsided, Misha retired to a corner of the drawing room, where he could quietly enjoy the
vintage champagne and caviar lavishly lumped on toast points. Surveying the glittering crowd, he could see that Dmitri was engrossed in conversation with Ivan Bunim, the two of them talking as if they were the best of friends. Manny and Sasha, standing near one of the baronial marble fireplaces, appeared to be attentively listening to Tatiana Bunim.
Where was his mother? he idly wondered, surprised that he didn't see her in the thick of the action. Then he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, heading toward him—with one of the most stunning women he'd ever laid eyes on firmly in tow.
As they approached, he stopped eating and gazed at the beauty. She was very tall, at least five feet, nine inches, with long, pale blond hair pulled back into a chignon. She looked ethereal, he thought, angelic even, in her paleness. Her skin appeared to be flawless in its perfection, and her eyes were an intelligent but icy blue.
How perfect she looks in that white gown, he thought. So pure, so innocent, so .. . virginal.
"Misha," Sonia said as they drew near. "I knew I would find you hiding in plain view."
"Just taking a little break from the party, Mama," Misha said, returning her smile.
"I have someone very special for you to meet," Sonia went on. She patted the young woman's arm. "This is Vera Bunim, Ivan and Tatiana's daughter. My son, Misha Levin."
For a moment Misha was surprised. He had always heard about the Bunims' daughter but had never met her, had never, in fact, given her a thought. Nor had he ever paid any attention to the photographs in their Faberge frames he'd seen scattered about the library the few times he'd been here.
He put out his hand, and Vera took it in hers. "It's a pleasure," Misha said, flashing his most winning smile. "I've heard so much about you."
Vera nodded, a smile on her perfect lips. "And I've heard a great deal about you, Misha."
Her voice, he thought, was also perfect. Not too little girl, but soft, cultured, with the slightest drawl. He supposed it was a boarding school voice.
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