Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  Misha dutifully opened his lips to receive the thermometer, then closed them over it. What the hell, he wondered. What am I doing in this place?

  The nurse removed the thermometer, looked at the digital readout, and made a note on a chart. "Welcome back to the world of the living," she said with a curious almost-smile. "You have visitors waiting to see you, so I'll send them on in now."

  Visitors? His mind didn't quite seem to grasp the concept.

  The nurse turned and left the room in a stream of squish-squishes, pulling the door shut quietly behind her. It almost instantly opened again, and Sonia, with Dmitri, Manny, and Sasha close behind her, inched tentatively into the room.

  Misha watched as they slowly made their way to his bedside, aware of the worry and outright fear etched into their faces.

  Sonia leaned over the bed and touched her fingertips to her lips, then very lightly brushed his forehead with them, choking back a sob. Dmitri had tears in his eyes, and appeared to be restraining himself from reaching out to Misha, afraid to touch him for fear of causing him pain. Manny, always in control of any situation, seemed genuinely at a loss. It was the first time Misha had ever seen him so distraught. Sasha's face was stony, but then it nearly always was.

  Sonia drew herself up, tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh, Misha, Misha," she wept quietly.

  "What ...why ...why am I here?" Misha rasped, tears forming in his own eyes, seeing the tears of his mother and the distress of Dmitri and Manny.

  "You were in an accident," Dmitri said. "You're very lucky to be alive, Misha."

  An accident? he thought with surprise.

  "A motorcycle accident," Sonia said, her emphasis on the word loaded with meaning, which was not lost on Misha. She wanted to smother him with love but couldn't conceal her anger, either.

  Suddenly images of that night came flooding back into his memory. The motorcycle. He could remember going to the garage to get it out. He was going to see Yelena. Then he could remember leaving the garage on the bike. But the memory abruptly ended there.

  "Am I ...am I ...okay?" he asked.

  "It's going to be a long, hard road to recovery, son," Dmitri said. "A lot of physical therapy and—"

  "What ...what's wrong?" Misha burst out, fear in his voice.

  "Your left leg is broken," Sonia said. "And . . ." She couldn't continue as tears threatened to spill from her eyes again.

  "Your left arm is broken, Misha," Dmitri said in a hushed voice. "It was a bad break."

  Misha's mind began to spin. "But my hands are okay?" he asked. "How bad is it? How long will it take to heal?"

  "No need to panic," Manny said. "The doctor's prognosis is very good. Like your father said, with a bit of physical therapy it'll be as good as new in no time."

  Misha riveted Manny with his dark eyes. "How long is no time?"

  Manny shrugged. "It might be a few weeks," he said, "but ... but more likely a few months. At least."

  Misha sighed. "Ah, Jesus, Manny. My tour schedule! What am I going to do?"

  "Don't worry about that, old chap," Manny said. "It's all taken care of."

  "Your schedule is empty until you're completely healed and ready to play again," Sasha added.

  "I don't know how you two work your magic," he said. "I really don't. It's really taken care of?"

  "You bet," Manny said. "No problem. We've just got to get you well."

  Misha moaned. "This can't be happening to me," he said.

  "It is," Sonia said, "and all because of that foolish motorcycle. I don't want to lecture you while you're in pain, but the plain and simple truth, Misha, is that you were being reckless. Terribly reckless. And you know it."

  Misha knew his mother was telling the truth. Suddenly he felt like a child again, and a wave of guilt washed over him, engulfing him in shame.

  "Well, if it's any consolation," Dmitri interjected quickly, seeing the repentant look on his son's face, "the newspapers say that it was definitely not your fault. Several witnesses came forward, and they say it was a hit- and-run. The police are trying to find the guy who hit you."

  Manny looked shocked. "When did you hear this, Dmitri?" he asked.

  "Just before coming over," Dmitri said.

  Misha sighed again. "Well, it doesn't matter now if they find him or not, does it? I can't play the piano."

  "Oh, but you will, my boy, you will," Manny said, quickly recovering his composure.

  The nurse came in and announced in an authoritative voice that the visitors would have to leave.

  "There's a procedure we have to perform," she said, "and visiting hours are almost over anyway. Besides, we don't want to overtire the young man, do we?"

  Sonia, Dmitri, Sasha, and Manny quickly said their good-byes and promised to see him at the next visiting time. Then they were gone.

  I wish I could remember what happened, Misha thought. I wish I could remember who did this to me. And why.

  Chapter Twenty

  Vera paced the Aubusson carpet in the pale gray and gilt of her bedroom. There were tears in her eyes, and her body periodically trembled with fear and rage and shame. Shame was perhaps the worst of it, eating at her like some carnivorous animal, leaving her no peace, torturing her for her terrible misdeeds.

  She stopped pacing abruptly and sat down on a chaise longue, picking up the newspaper again. She looked at the picture there on the front page once more and cried aloud.

  Oh, God! she thought. It's too much for anyone to have to bear!

  Violently wadding the paper up into a ball, she hurled it across the room, where it bounced off her desk and onto the floor, lying there, an ugly and mute testimony to her treachery.

  What am I going to do? she asked herself for the hundredth time.

  When she'd first picked up today's papers, she'd laughed at the headlines:

  HOT CLASSICAL PIANIST, MISHA LEVIN

  A REAL ROCK AND ROLLER

  ROCK AND ROLLED OFF HIS HARLEY

  Yet the humor of the ludicrous headline wore off very quickly. It seemed that the eyewitnesses to the accident had come up with a license number, and the police were tracking down the hit-and-run driver. The papers speculated that criminal charges would be filed.

  Vera shuddered anew, thinking of the horror that she had unleashed on Misha, though unknowingly. For a moment she thought she was going to throw up. She dashed to the bathroom and spun the gold cold-water tap on the sink. She gulped down handfuls of the water and splattered her face with it, then stood up straight, looking into the mirror.

  I have to come clean with the truth, she told her reflection. No matter what the consequences are. I can't live with myself otherwise.

  With that decision made, she washed her face, which was puffy and red from crying, and quickly applied makeup and changed clothes for a trip downtown. Within minutes she was outside on Fifth Avenue, hailing a cab.

  Misha smiled widely when he saw her come into the room. "I didn't expect to see you so soon again," he said. "The flowers are beautiful." He glanced at the enormous orchid plant, heavy with blossoms in full bloom.

  Vera walked over to the bed and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. "You seem to be doing a little better today," she said.

  "Yeah," Misha said. "This sure helps." He pointed to the push-button device in his hand.

  "What is it?" Vera asked.

  "I just push the button, like so." Misha pushed the button, smiling up at her. "And give myself more painkiller."

  Vera laughed, but it was not mirthful.

  "I'll be out of here in no time, and back on the road again." He noticed the solemn look on Vera's face. "What's with you?" he asked.

  Vera avoided his gaze. "I ... oh, I . . ." she began.

  "What, Vera?" he asked. "What is it? I've never seen you like this before."

  "I ... I have to talk to you about something very important, Misha," she said.

  "Then why don't you pull up a chair and sit?" he said. "You'll be a lot more comfortable than stan
ding there looking so miserable."

  Vera slid a chair over and sat down, looking over at him. "I don't know where to begin," she said.

  "How about the beginning?" Misha said with amusement in his voice.

  "Well... oh, Misha! This is so hard!" she cried. "The most difficult thing I've ever done!"

  "Whatever it is, Vera," he said soothingly, "it's between you and me. So it's safe, okay?"

  "Okay," she said. "I ...I ...you remember I told you about that guy ...Simon, who I used to see in London?"

  "Yeah," he said. "The muy macho, possessive motor- cycle-maniac-artist."

  "Yes," she said. "That's the one." She paused a moment, taking a deep breath, then finally gathered the courage to go on. "Well, the last few years while you've been touring, I saw Simon a few times, mostly in the last year."

  "You've been holding out on me, Vera," Misha said. He felt a twinge of jealous anger, despite the agreement he and Vera had to see other people. "I thought you weren't going to see him anymore. You didn't like all that macho, possessive crap."

  "I didn't," Vera said somewhat defensively, "but he seemed to have turned over a new leaf. You know, not being so possessive and all. Playing the good guy, respecting my privacy. I really believed him. I thought he just wanted to ...you know ...have some fun."

  "Ah," Misha laughed. "The plot thickens."

  "I'm afraid it's not very funny, Misha," she said softly. "Because ...because Simon, of course, knew that I'd dated you. He knew ... he knew how I ...how I felt about you, and . . ." Tears welled up in her eyes, and she choked.

  "Oh, Vera," Misha said, distressed. "Please don't cry. Please. You know I can't stand it when you cry."

  "I'm sorry," she choked. "I just can't help it. Because what happened is ... is so terrible!"

  She caught her breath, then continued. "Simon came to New York this summer. He had a show at some gallery down in Chelsea. I knew about it, but I didn't see him. I swear."

  "So? Big deal. Simon comes to New York. So do millions of other people," Misha said.

  "Yes, but Simon didn't come for just the art show. He came with a purpose," Vera said.

  Misha blinked, now very curious about where this was leading.

  "Simon came to New York to try to kill you, Misha," she blurted out. "It was Simon who ran into your bike. Deliberately. He tried to kill you. He's still insanely jealous and possessive, and I should have known! It's all my fault!" She burst into tears again and couldn't continue.

  Misha lay there stunned. Finally he found his tongue. "But how do you know all this, Vera? Are you sure?"

  She nodded, then wiped her eyes with a hand. "He called me," she said. "Bragging about it. He said they'd never catch him. He was driving a stolen car. He's crazy! And even if they think it was just a hit-and-run, I know he was trying to kill you. He told me so. Oh ...God! It's all my fault, Misha!" Her tears burst forth anew.

  "Vera," Misha said, "you didn't know. It's not your fault. Don't be so upset."

  "But I was keeping him a secret from you." She gasped a heavy sigh. "I knew that you were seeing other girls besides the ones we always talked about. And I. ... I decided to have Simon on the side, as a sort of way to get even, I guess. Telling myself that if you could do it, so could I."

  She looked up at him, her face a sorrowful mask. "I feel so ashamed," she said. "My little secret has turned out to be a lot more dangerous than I'd ever imagined."

  Misha felt another rush of jealousy. But then, he reminded himself, hadn't he behaved the same way? Hadn't there been lots of girls he hadn't told her about? But none of the girls he knew had tried to kill Vera!

  He looked over at her tear-streaked face, her blond hair disheveled. He didn't like her deception, but he didn't want Vera to feel worse. He didn't want to punish her in any way, because he knew that in her heart she was punishing herself more than he ever could.

  Nevertheless, when he spoke, his words were firm. "I think you ought to leave now, Vera," Misha said. "And I don't want you to tell anyone that you know anything about this. Certainly not the police. Neither one of us wants the kind of nasty publicity this would generate. This will be our secret. Just try to forget about it. And for God's sake, stay away from this ...this Simon."

  She looked at him in shock. "Never again will I ever see him!" she cried. "My father will make certain he never bothers me again."

  "Fine," Misha said. "Now please, Vera, just go. And don't call me. I need time ... I'll call you."

  Vera sat for a moment longer, then rose to her feet and approached the bed, but Misha waved her away with his right hand.

  "Please," he repeated, "just go."

  Vera turned, tears in her eyes again, and left the hospital room.

  I've lost him forever, she thought miserably. And it's all my own fault.

  But she hadn't lost him forever.

  It was only a matter of weeks before Misha was out of the hospital and on his feet, with the help of crutches, and calling her. Would Yelena or Christina or Valerie or Gigi or Vanka or any of the other mostly one-named beauties he knew take time out from their work and their habitual club crawling to minister to his needs? He knew better than to ask. When he thought about it, they had abandoned him while he was out of commission, not bothering to visit him in the hospital or send flowers or even a note.

  Vera had dropped everything and rearranged her work schedule as much as possible, even skipping lunch, to accommodate his needs. And they were many. Helping him to and from his physical therapy sessions downtown, helping out around the apartment, sometimes even cooking and cleaning. Sonia, of course, would have relished taking care of her son, but Misha didn't want her hovering presence around. She always made him feel as if he were a child again. He could have hired someone, and did on occasion, to do the heavy cleaning and chores that Vera simply couldn't make the time for.

  She devoted herself to him slavishly, making certain that one day soon Misha would once again stride across the concert stage and sit down at his piano and dazzle an assembled audience.

  He was the love of her life, no matter what, and she would give him time to come to love her. Perhaps if she continued to lavish all of her love on him, he would begin to realize that he need not look elsewhere.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Brighton Beach, 1993

  "The food is Russian, the music is Russian, and everybody speaks Russian," said Sonia with a disdainful air. "But I'm telling you, Misha. These are not our kind of people."

  "Try to relax and enjoy yourself, Mama," Misha said, trying to humor her.

  But Sonia was in no mood to be humored. "Look about you," she went on, her hand sweeping around with an elegant, if out-of-place stylish gesture. "These people are uncouth. The women with their garish makeup and bad bleach jobs. Those dresses! Straps all over the place, exposing nearly everything. And the men! They look like a bunch of gangsters!"

  Misha laughed. "Don't let your imagination run away with you," he said.

  "Oh, well," she said, "at least the blinis were almost like in the old country."

  "That's more like it," he said, patting her on the back. But Misha himself was secretly wondering if she wasn't right on the mark. It was an uncouth crowd, and the men did indeed look like a bunch of gangsters who'd come here to party with their girlfriends or mistresses. He doubted that there were many wives in this club tonight.

  If Manny and Sasha hadn't insisted on this celebration in Brighton Beach, none of them would be here, in this declasse nightclub packed to the rafters with Russian emigres. Misha didn't have anything against Brooklyn or the recently arrived Russians who'd flocked here to Brighton Beach, but these were not Russians or an aspect of Russian life that he knew much of anything about, or cared to learn about, for that matter. The cheap glitter and raucous, vodka-swilling crowd were as alien to him and his family as the predominately gutter- accented Russian they heard spoken around them.

  Misha took a sip of the champagne that the fawning waiter had presen
ted to them as a gift of the management. He looked over his glass at Manny, who was engrossed in conversation with Dmitri. His father, he noticed, looked as uncomfortable as Sonia, and Manny, if a bit more animated than usual, was as out of place here with his affected aristocratic airs and his Savile Row tailoring as they were. Why in the world did he and Sasha choose to have this celebration here? Misha wondered.

  He knew, of course, that Manny and Sasha had grown up in this section of Brooklyn, that they had even named the recording label after it. But hadn't they worked triple-time to get themselves out of here, away from these reminders of their heavily ethnic and less than prosperous beginnings? But then, Misha supposed, this club and its crowd had certainly not been a part of their humble youth. The furs and jewels, the expensive suits and slicked-back hair, the thuggish-looking sentries stationed around the club and the stretch limousines parked out front, all the money being tossed around so recklessly for second-rate food and entertainment—all of these things were part of a new breed of Russian, and were surely not something that Manny and Sasha could identify with.

  In any case, he hadn't wanted to disappoint Manny and Sasha when they'd broached the subject of a party. They had wanted to celebrate Misha's recovery from his injuries, Manny'd said, and give him a big send-off before his next world tour. Now, rather than embarrass his friends, Misha was simply trying to endure the gaudy spectacle around them instead of insisting that they leave.

  "Penny for your thoughts," Vera said, nudging him on the arm with her elbow.

  He turned to her and smiled. "To be honest," he said softly, not wanting to be overheard, "I was wondering why the hell Manny and Sasha chose this place for a party."

  Vera shrugged her elegant shoulders and smiled. "Oh, I don't know," she said, her eyes glittering mischievously. "Maybe they thought the music would appeal to you."