"No," Sonia said. "Your father and I have been discussing it now for several weeks. We decided it will be affordable, and that ...well, it's time, much as we hate to face it."
Misha looked at his father, who nodded his head. "She's right, Misha," he said, the glimmer of a smile on his lips.
"Then you really don't mind?" Misha said.
"Noooo," Sonia said, looking at him affectionately and squeezing his shoulder. "We really don't. But, please. Just promise me two things, if you will," she added.
"What?" Misha asked.
"That you'll show all of your friends," Sonia said, "the same respect that you've always shown us. Including your girlfriends. Especially your girlfriends."
Misha nodded and smiled. "What else?" he asked.
"That you'll be careful," she said, "and use protection."
"Protec ...?" Misha began, then slowly shut his mouth. He didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. How well these parents of his knew him! How understanding they were, and giving. And, of course, prying and intrusive also. Finally, he emitted a laugh, then was joined by Dmitri and Sonia, and the three of them laughed together, heartily, merrily, and as one.
Chapter Fifteen
Vera rolled over on her stomach and put an arm across Misha's hard, washboard stomach, looking up into his dark eyes. Her disheveled, pale hair hung loose, flowing just below her creamy shoulders.
Misha looked down at her and smiled.
They had been to dinner at Da Silvano in Greenwich Village, then had walked hand in hand to West Twentieth Street in Chelsea, where Priscilla Cavanaugh, a friend of Vera's, had a loft. Priscilla had let them borrow it, with a warning to be out by midnight.
"It feels so good to be with you," Misha said to her softly, stroking her hair as she stroked his chest.
"Likewise," Vera said, thinking what an understatement that was, for her at least. She'd never felt this happy, this content, this right, with anyone before. She was, in fact, astonished with her own feelings, never having experienced them before, and a little scared, if truth be told, because she didn't feel in control of her runaway emotions. She felt subjugated by them, at their mercy, and for Vera Bunim, the cool and intellectual woman that she was, that was truly frightening.
Misha continued stroking her hair. "What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Ummm," she murmured. "Nothing, really."
"Come on," Misha said. "I know you better than that, and I know you've got something on your mind. Tell me."
"Oh," Vera said, "I was just thinking about how different this is. I mean, you and me."
"How?" Misha asked. "How different?"
"Just ...well ...it's more satisfying," Vera said, afraid to share with him the real depths of the emotions she was feeling. "It seems like it's more than just ...more than just...sex." She looked up at him. "Do you know what I mean?"
Misha hugged her. "Yes," he said. "I don't feel like I've ever known anybody as well as I know you. Or felt as comfortable with anybody else." He laughed. "And the sex isn't bad, either!"
Vera joined in his laughter. "The sex is the best!" she said, tweaking one of his nipples. Then in a softer, more serious voice, she said: "It's never been like this for me before. Not even close."
Misha looked at her curiously. "What was it like?" he asked. "I mean with the others? Before?"
Vera looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "The first few times it was really awful," she said. "So fumbling and awkward. So messy!" She giggled. "And the boy! Arrrgh! Terrible, poor thing!"
Misha laughed with her. "Who was he?" he asked.
"Jamie Croft-Milnes," she said. "Lord Rowlandseer, he was. The future Earl of Something. I was about fifteen and so was he. It was at a big house party at his family's estate in England. Kent. You know, a bunch of young aristocrats and rich Americans, mostly. Experimenting with sex and drugs. Neither one of us was sure exactly what to do." She laughed again. "It was all so embarrassing."
"And then?" Misha asked. "Who else?"
"Antonio," Vera said. "An Italian guy I met in Gstaad on a skiing trip."
"And was it good?" Misha asked.
Vera looked at him. "You're being awfully nosy," she said teasingly. "I don't know if I should be telling you these things."
"Oh, come on," Misha said. "I want to know everything about you, Vera."
"Well . . ." She hesitated.
"I'll tell you," Misha said, grinning. "All about my own sordid past."
"Promise?" Vera asked.
"Promise," he said.
"Well, Antonio was fun," she said. "And experienced. Probably with about every girl in Switzerland." She laughed. "He was very energetic, but he was also gentle. He helped me overcome my fears and shyness and to enjoy it." She looked at Misha. "But I knew it meant nothing with him. It wasn't even a crush. It was just..."
"Fucking?" Misha supplied.
"Exactly," she said.
"And then?" he persisted.
"Well, I dated a lot of guys, but there was nobody serious," she said. "The only other person I had a ...well, a sort of a fling with was Simon. A guy I dated in England." She turned suddenly quiet.
"Go on," Misha said. "What about this Simon?"
"Oh, we met at a party in London," she said with a sigh. "He's an artist. A painter. Studies at the Slade. Very good-looking. Very intense. Very macho and very possessive. It was ...interesting, at first. You know?"
Misha nodded. "I think so."
"It was all so new to me," she went on. "His sort of man, I mean. He had a motorcycle and a black leather jacket and all that," she said. "Sort of a rebel, I guess. But the macho attitude got to be unbearable, and the possessiveness. He went nuts if I so much as even looked at another man. I swore never again."
She looked up at him and shrugged again. "And that's really it," she said. "Till there was you."
Misha smiled and hugged her to him, kissing her on the forehead. "Till there was me," he said softly. "And you," he added, his lips brushing her eyes, her nose, and then her mouth.
Vera responded immediately, swept up on a tide of passion, of desire, of hunger for this man. "Oh," she whispered, "I'm going to miss you so much when you're on tour."
"I'll miss you, too," Misha said, his mouth moving down to her neck, where he licked and kissed her. "But I haven't left yet. We've got a little more time. Besides, I'll be able to see you in London, and I'll be coming back to New York regularly, so we won't be separated for too long."
His kisses became more urgent, and his hands went to her breasts, but then Vera jerked back. "Oh, Misha!" she exclaimed. "It's ...it's so scary."
"What?" he asked. "What's so scary?"
"Just thinking about being separated from you," she said. "I know it hasn't been long, but I think ... I think I'm in love with you." She looked into his eyes, afraid of what she would see there and already sorry that she had voiced such a revelation. The last thing she wanted to do was scare him off with what might appear to be a demand on his affections.
Misha looked thoughtfully off into the distance, his expression difficult to read. Finally, he hugged her and said, "I honestly don't know what I feel, Vera." He met her gaze. "I know you're a great friend, and I love being with you. But I really don't know what else to say."
"It's okay, Misha," she said softly.
He sighed. "Except I do know that I'm going to be putting my career before everything else for a while." He gave her a meaningful look.
"I understand," Vera said, nodding her head slightly. She hoped that her face didn't reflect the turmoil that she felt, the sadness that wrenched her heart in two.
If only he could have told me that he loves me, too, she thought miserably. While she appreciated his being forthcoming with her, his honesty was little compensation for the profound sorrow she felt.
He kissed her tenderly, but she pulled away. "What?" he asked, reluctantly parting his lips from hers. "What is it?"
"What time is it?" she asked.
&n
bsp; He looked at his wristwatch and grimaced. "Oh, God, no," he moaned. "Twenty of twelve."
"We're going to have to hurry," Vera said. "Before Priscilla gets back." She rolled away from him and sat up in bed. "She'll be furious if we're still here when she gets home. She's got some new boyfriend, and she plans on having quite a night with him."
"This is hell," Misha said. "Pure unadulterated hell."
She turned and looked at him. "Yes," she said gloomily, "it is." Then she brightened. "But just think, Misha! Soon you may have your own place. And I'll have one of my own in London, too."
"Not soon enough," he groused, sitting up beside her. Then he leaned over and kissed the pulsating artery on her neck. "Not soon enough."
They got out of bed and dressed quickly, then straightened the disheveled comforter on the bed. Misha took her in his arms and held her tightly.
Vera looked up at him and smiled. "You know what?" she said.
"What?" he asked.
"You didn't tell me about your sordid past," she said, tapping his nose with a fingertip.
"Next time," Misha said with a grin. "I promise."
"I'm going to hold you to it," Vera said. "I want to know everything there is to know about you, too."
"You will," he said. He kissed her passionately, then drew back. "I hate having to part this way," he said bitterly.
"We must," Vera said, "but only for now. It won't be for long."
I wish that we would never have to part, Vera thought. I wish we could always be together. But even as swept up in the emotional maelstrom that this love was for her, she knew that she could not have what she wanted. At least not now, when they were so young and inexperienced. Vera, however, felt certain that someday in the future, when the time was right, she would have what she wanted.
And that, of course, was Misha Levin.
Chapter Sixteen
London, 1990
Her flat in London's once bohemian but now highly fashionable and exclusive Chelsea district was in Cheyne Walk, inarguably one of London's most sought-after addresses. The house itself was a grand nineteenth-century limestone mansion that had been broken up into large, airy apartments at the turn of the century.
Although she would have preferred living in a younger, hipper neighborhood, like the trendy Notting Hill area, Vera did not want to appear to be ungrateful to her parents by complaining that the accommodations they had bought for her were ridiculously lavish for a student. She did, however, harbor a resentment toward their generosity, since it undeniably gave them a hold over her. Also, she found Angus, the live-in manservant they'd hired to see to her needs, an intrusion into her privacy. He was a powerfully built middle-aged man who, oddly, had been well trained as both a butler and a security expert.
Vera had laughingly told friends, "He knows how to serve a drink and cripple your best friend—all in one fell swoop!"
Though said jokingly, it was nevertheless true, and made her feel eerily uncomfortable.
Finally she'd resigned herself to her parents' well- meaning protective measures—and had reached a truce of sorts with Angus regarding her personal life. Through compromise she had enjoyed the last four years in London, first studying art history at the Corthault Institute, now getting a graduate diploma in fine and decorative arts from Christie's and the Royal Society of the Arts.
Seated in her library, a large room with antique mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookcases and walls covered in hunter green felt, Vera was working diligently on a paper that was soon due. Her desk, a George I yew and mahogany table, was piled high with books and papers, and faced the wall, a necessity as she became too easily distracted by window views or perspectives into her other rooms.
She put down her pen and rubbed her bleary eyes with her fingers. She'd been at it for about two hours already, and was tiring. As she glanced up at the wall, a welcoming pleasure suffused her with its warmth.
For above the desk hung a bulletin board, and pinned over its entirety were postcards from all over the world: Vienna, Prague, Budapest, Berlin, Copenhagen, Helsinki, Paris, Munich, Geneva, Rome, Venice, Madrid, Lisbon, Sydney, Capetown, Nairobi, Tokyo. Many of them were typical pictures of tourist attractions in the various cities—palaces, opera houses, performing arts centers, that sort of thing—but where possible, Misha had sent her rather risque and sometimes downright silly cards. From Capetown, Nairobi, and Sydney there were photographs of copulating animals—frogs, hyenas, and zebras. From Paris there was a photograph of turn-of-the-century prostitutes, posing provocatively in antiquated-looking maillots, garters, and hose.
How like Misha! she thought with warm amusement. Who else's taste runs the gamut from the grandest of palaces to the very sleazy all the way to unquestionably plain bad taste.
But good taste or bad, she loved them all, especially the vulgar ones. In the last four years, since he had been on his world tours—playing the piano to great acclaim— the two of them had corresponded almost religiously, sending each other weekly, sometimes even daily, updates on their lives. Thus they chronicled their ups and downs, oftentimes divulged the quotidian details of their daily lives, the parties, the concerts, the people they met, and to some extent their emotional lives.
She reached out to an ivory-veneered box and opened the lid. Inside, it was stuffed full of letters. These letters and postcards had kept them in touch with each other, serving almost as a kind of therapy. When Misha grew lonely on the road, his notes to and from Vera helped fill the emptiness he often felt, especially during the long nights in anonymous hotel rooms. For Vera the notes served much the same purpose. She had found that in many of the social situations into which she was constantly being thrust by her family and friends, she sometimes became lonely. It didn't matter that she was being exposed to a constant stream of new and interesting people, many of whom wanted to become friends. She felt that her life was being misspent in some way, that she was wasting precious time. She knew the answer to this dilemma: she was without Misha.
She pushed her chair back from the table, deciding that she had done enough work on her paper today. Her work on the history of furniture and the decorative arts at Christie's and the Royal Society of the Arts was soon drawing to a close, and she was going to finish in the top of her class, no mean accomplishment. She could hardly wait to begin to apply some of the knowledge she had acquired, hopefully working for one of the major auction houses, either Sotheby's or Christie's in New York or London. Her father had assured her that she would have no trouble getting such a job, since he was a stockholder in one of the companies and a highly valued customer of them both. Besides, she was more than qualified.
At this point in time she had a powerful urge to get on with her life. Now that school was nearly over, she hoped that a job, whatever it turned out to be, would be fulfilling—and that a job alone, for a while at least, would be fulfilling for her. For she knew that Misha, despite their four-year, oftentimes long-distance friendship and the intimate sexual liaisons they scheduled whenever possible, was still not ready to make a commitment to her or—thank God!—to anyone else.
Vera knew now, more than ever, that she was still in love with him. Her love for him had only grown in the last four years. A part of her was waiting—and waiting, waiting, waiting!—for him to ultimately come to the decision that she was the one.
"Ma'am?"
Vera was startled from her reverie by Angus, who had appeared at the library door on whispery feet. How does he do it? she wondered for the thousandth time. He's as big as a truck, but moves like a ballerina.
She looked over at him, standing there waiting in such repose, such self-possession. "What is it, Angus?" she asked.
"There's a telephone call for you on line one," he said. "The young man."
She knew who he meant, and her heart jumped with excitement. "Thanks, Angus," she said. "I'll take it in here."
Angus turned and disappeared down the hallway, toward the kitchen.
She had all the telephones turn
ed off while she worked, except for the one in the kitchen, which she couldn't hear, and Angus knew to interrupt her only if her father or mother, Misha, or Simon called.
She picked up the receiver on her desk. "Hello?" she said.
"Hey," the gravelly baritone answered. "You coming over tonight?"
"Yes," Vera said. "I'll probably leave here in about an hour. Okay?"
"See you then."
"Bye," Vera said, but the phone had already been hung up at the other end.
She replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat thinking, knowing that she should go upstairs and bathe and dress for her date—if that's what it could be called—but she wasn't quite ready to yet. She idly wondered if she really wanted to go out at all, asking herself if it wouldn't be smarter just to stay at home tonight. She often questioned if it was wise to be seeing this man.
She knew that Misha sometimes went out with other women, and he knew about her men as well. After all, his dates were chronicled in the gossip magazines and in society columns on both sides of the Atlantic, as were hers. They had often discussed some of the speculation written about them in the press, laughing, enjoying the often ridiculous assumptions made by the reporters. She'd found that they both had fallen into the habit of reassuring the other that the latest "love interest," as reported in the press, was no more than an acquaintance, someone just met, someone publicists had attempted to create a stir with; in short, never anyone to be concerned about.
"Oh, her," Misha had said just the other night. "Her father is a big patron of the arts in Italy, and Manny introduced me to her. He thought it would be smart to be seen out with her. You know. Stir up a lot of interest, since she's a big fashion model and all."
"She certainly is beautiful," Vera had said.
"Yes," Misha allowed, "but there's not much upstairs. You know what I mean?"
"Yes," Vera said, thinking that it often wasn't what was upstairs that interested men so much as what was downstairs.
"What about this Hugh ...Whoever?" Misha had asked. "I saw your picture in Hello! magazine with him. At some party."
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