Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  "I think you know better than that," Misha said with a laugh. Vera was being an awfully good sport, he reflected. He knew that she must be cringing inside.

  He reached over and squeezed her hand gently. "Actually," he said, "I was thinking that if I have to listen to just one more old Russian melody played on those infernal balalaikas, I'd get up and leave."

  Vera smiled. "Maybe that's why everybody drinks so much," she said. "The music sounds better."

  "That must be it," Misha replied. He leaned closer to her. "Thank God, it's almost over. A little balalaika goes an awfully long way. I was thinking that after we leave here, maybe—"

  "Mikhail Levin!"

  The thundering baritone with its heavy Russian accent gave Misha a start. He and Vera turned to look up at a bear of a man towering over them at the table. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a thick brush of mustache on a jowly red face, and wore an expensive-looking suit, which looked odd on his beefy, broad-shouldered body. He put a thick mitt of a hand on Misha's shoulder, and extended the other for a shake.

  "Yuri Durasov," he said, smiling hugely at Misha, exposing teeth that had been badly capped or bonded.

  Misha started to rise as he shook the proffered hand, but Durasov quickly tapped his huge paw on Misha's shoulder. "Please, don't get up," he said. "I just wanted to say hello. I am one of the owners of the Club Moskva, and a big fan of yours."

  "You are?" Misha said, hoping his voice didn't betray the doubts he had that this behemoth was truly a devotee of classical music. But he quickly decided that he mustn't allow himself to be fooled by appearances, and he certainly didn't want to be rude or ungracious. "Thank you very much," he said, "I'm glad that you enjoy my playing."

  Durasov clapped him on the shoulder again. "Beautiful," he said. "Beautiful." His steely eyes swept over Vera, appraising her as if she were livestock at an auction.

  "Your girlfriend?" he asked, his gray eyes still drinking in Vera's cool beauty, her elegant Mary McFadden cocktail suit and exquisite jewelry.

  "Oh, sorry," Misha said. "This is my friend, Vera Bunim."

  Vera extended a hand and smiled graciously. "How do you do, Mr. Durasov?" she said.

  "It's a pleasure," he said, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer.

  "This is my mother," Misha said quickly, indicating Sonia on his other side. "Sonia Levin."

  Durasov extended a hand to her, and Sonia took it briefly and nodded politely before pointedly focusing her attention in the distance. She obviously had no desire to make conversation with Yuri Durasov.

  "I hope you enjoyed your champagne and the dinner," Durasov said, his eyes on Misha again. "We are honored to have you here."

  "The honor's ours," Misha said. "And thanks very much for the champagne."

  Durasov clapped his shoulder again, and slowly lumbered around the table to Manny and Sasha, who quickly got to their feet and shook hands with him, then introduced Dmitri.

  "Manny and Sasha seem to know him rather well," Vera said to Misha, watching the exchange across the table.

  "It certainly looks like it," Misha said, his voice conveying an anxiety that hadn't been there before. Yuri Durasov had made him feel decidedly ill at ease. Despite the man's expensive clothing, meticulous grooming, and friendly air, there was something about him that gave Misha the creeps. He suspected that beneath what appeared to be a recently acquired veneer of polish and charm, there lurked a brute who was capable of extreme violence.

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Vera asked.

  Misha looked at her. "What's that?" he said. But before Vera could reply, Manny and Yuri Durasov came around the table to Misha. Sasha had kept his seat and was looking as stony as always.

  "Misha," Manny said, his face a convivial mask that Misha had often seen. "Yuri wants to know if you would do the club the honor of playing a tune for them."

  Misha looked up at him in surprise. Manny knew that he hated this sort of thing. Playing the piano was his job, for which he was paid, as he'd told him often enough. Seeing the hopeful look on Manny's face, however, he knew that he couldn't let him down. He certainly didn't care about Yuri Durasov or his club, but he could see that, for whatever reasons, his playing something was important to Manny.

  "Well," he finally said, "I guess I could play ... something." He could hear the irritation in his voice, and made a concerted effort to lighten up. "Sure, why not?"

  Manny sighed with obvious relief. "Great!" he said. "You hear that, Yuri? He's going to play."

  "This is a real honor," Yuri Durasov said. "A real honor. You want to come with me?" He extended an arm toward the small stage.

  Misha rose to his feet, and Durasov led him to the front of the club, where he spoke briefly to one of the balalaika players. There were murmurs and curious glances around the dinner tables as the music died down and Durasov mounted the stage and took Misha to the piano. Durasov then turned to the microphone, and a hush fell over the club's guests.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "We are greatly honored here at the Club Moskva tonight to have as our guest one of our very own. The great classical pianist from Russia, Mikhail Levin."

  The audience burst into applause, and there were a few whistles. Misha wondered if any of these people had ever even heard of him, but he smiled at their response. Durasov turned to him and bowed, and after a few moments of concentration Misha began to play the instantly recognizable "Moonlight" movement, from Beethoven's Piano Sonata in C-sharp Minor. Though not Russian, its cry of unrequited love and its familiarity, he thought, would appeal to the club's rowdy crowd.

  Misha played for a few minutes, guessing that the audience wouldn't want to hear much of this sort of music—it was certainly not what they'd come to the Club Moskva for—then improvised an ending, stood, and bowed. The audience's reaction was wildly enthusiastic, the deafening applause, whistles, and shouts no doubt fueled by the copious amounts of alcohol they were busily consuming.

  Durasov rescued him from the stage, pumping his hand vigorously, and returned him to his seat at the dinner table. Misha sat down, and smiled tightly at Vera when she patted him reassuringly on the arm.

  "That was very generous of you," she said.

  Misha merely shrugged.

  "Quite nice under the circumstances," Sonia leaned over and said. "But a complete waste of your talent," she added in a voice brimming with irritation.

  Misha nodded curtly but didn't speak. He looked across the table at Manny. "I think it's time we left," Misha said.

  "Right you are, old man," Manny replied. His manner was jovial, but the look on his face was sheepish. He placed his hands on the table and pushed himself up to his feet. "I'll be back in just a minute," he said. "Come on, Sasha," he added. Sasha got up, then the two of them turned and walked toward a long, darkened hallway, to what Misha assumed to be an office.

  Durasov appeared at Misha's shoulder again, clapping a huge paw on him as before. "Thank you for playing," he said. "I hope you will return to our club and bring all of your friends. We like your kind of people."

  Before Misha could respond, Sonia, who was looking up at Durasov with thinly veiled contempt, said: "I'm not so sure that our kind of people mix well with your kind of people, Mr. Durasov. Aren't you a gangster? And isn't this place one of those hangouts for the Russian mob?"

  Yuri Durasov froze momentarily, and then the ingratiating expression on his face turned to one of stony fury. His gray eyes were colder than ice. He withdrew his hand from Misha's shoulder and snapped his thick fingers loudly.

  "Out!" he said in a quiet but ferocious voice. "All of you. Get out! This instant!"

  Three of the thuggish sentries appeared around the table. Sonia couldn't help feel a sense of unease; their thick-fingered hands were on the backs of the chairs they sat upon. As though ready to pull them out from under us, she thought.

  "We don't need your help," she snapped, scraping her chair back and getting to her feet with dignity.

  "Sonia, plea
se," Dmitri said, coming around the table to her side. "Don't forget your manners. Mr. Durasov has been very nice to us—"

  "Always the great peacemaker, aren't you!" she said coldly to her husband.

  Misha and Vera rose to their feet. Vera surveyed the scene calmly, her expression inscrutable.

  "Come on, Mama," Misha urged quietly. "Let's go." He took her arm, and Dmitri took Vera's. They started toward the club's entrance hall, where the woman in coat check already had their coats in a pile across the counter.

  Manny, with Sasha trailing behind him, came rushing toward them from the hallway, a look of consternation on his face. "What—?"

  Durasov grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket. "You!" he growled. "Come with me. You, too." He pointed at Sasha. He jerked Manny toward him, and led him back down the hallway again, toward the office, with Sasha, once again, trailing behind.

  Misha stared after them as he helped his mother into her coat, then shrugged into his own while Dmitri helped Vera with hers. They'd started out the club's doors when Vera reached out and took Misha's arm.

  "Maybe your parents should go on out to the car, Misha," she said coolly, "and we should wait here for Manny and Sasha." She gave Misha a significant look.

  Misha eyed her thoughtfully, then nodded his assent. "Dad, take Mama on out to the car, will you?" he said. "We'll be right out."

  "Sure, son," Dmitri replied. He took his wife's arm. "Let's go, Sonia," he said. "Quietly, please."

  Sonia threw her shoulders back and held her head high, her bearing even more regal than usual. A smile of satisfaction fleetingly crossed her lips, but she didn't utter another word.

  They exited through the heavy steel door that the mammoth doorman, silent and forbidding in a black leather trench coat, held open for them, his face expressionless.

  Vera turned to Misha. "Do you think we ought to go look for them?" she asked, a worried look on her face.

  "Maybe we should," Misha said. "But I really don't like this, Vera. Why don't you go on out to the car and wait there?"

  "No," she answered with determination in her voice. "I'm staying with you. Let's go see—"

  At that moment Manny and Sasha, unaware of them, hurried from out of the shadowy hallway. Manny's hands were clutched to his stomach, and his face shone with the sheen of perspiration. Sasha had a look of panic in his piercing gray eyes.

  "What the hell, Manny?" Misha said.

  Manny quickly dropped his hands and tried to plant a smile on his lips. His effort was feeble. He pulled a crisp white linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket and quickly began wiping the sweat from his face.

  "Let's go," he said, his voice a breathy rasp. "Come on, Sasha." Then he and Sasha made a quick beeline for the door, not waiting for them.

  Vera looked up at Misha, her eyebrows raised questioningly. He shrugged, his lips set in a grim line, then put an arm around Vera's shoulders. They followed Manny and Sasha out into the cold, dark Brooklyn night.

  It's too late to ask any questions now, Misha thought.

  He certainly had no intention of grilling Manny and Sasha while his mother was still with them. Later, he thought. Yes. I'll ask them about this later, when we're alone.

  But later didn't come. The next day the hectic activity surrounding his departure on the world tour became a whirlwind of preparation: scheduling and rescheduling, packing and repacking, endless telephone calls, tying up a hundred loose ends in Manhattan, and saying goodbyes. It was easy to forget about the questions he'd wanted to ask Manny and Sasha, especially since he didn't really want to know the answers.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Prague

  Prague was a fairy-tale dream come true. It was like stepping centuries back in time, into a confection of a city complete with a turreted castle on a hill. Set on both sides of the Vltava River and linked by fifteen bridges, the city's beautiful center, with its domes and spires and steeples, gave Misha a thrill.

  On the way in from Ruzyne Airport he had been sadly disappointed by the ugly gray stucco apartment blocks that lined the road in the outskirts. They were utilitarian workers' flats that could have been transplanted from that dreary section of Moscow where he and his parents had once been forced to live. What grim reminders, he thought, of the forty years of ruthless Communist rule here in the Czech Republic. But the city itself, he was delighted to see, had survived intact and was every bit as ravishing as he'd been told.

  A young man named Karel had met him at the airport. He was an emissary sent by the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra to assist Misha. On the way into the city, Karel talked nonstop about the rebirth of Prague since the fall of the Berlin Wall and the "Velvet Revolution."

  Misha checked into the beautifully refurbished Palace Hotel on Panska, close to Wenceslas Square. He was pleasantly surprised to be offered a glass of complementary champagne.

  "You have a message, Mr. Levin," the smiling receptionist told him.

  "Thanks," Misha said, taking it from her. He glanced down at the piece of paper and saw that the message was from Manny. He had taken an earlier flight over here and was now engaged in a business meeting. Misha folded the message and stuck it in his pocket, then turned to Karel.

  "Thanks for your help," he said, "but I think I can handle everything else on my own."

  Karel looked crestfallen. An aspiring musician, he wanted to get to know the famous Mikhail Levin better. "But ... an interpreter, a guide—?"

  "Not necessary," Misha said firmly. "I've got a lot of work to do. But thanks." Well-meaning though he may be, Misha thought, I'll be able to concentrate on the tasks at hand a lot better without the constant commentary.

  "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levin, and if I can be any further service to you, have the orchestra office contact me."

  He turned to leave, and Misha called after him. "Karel?"

  The young man turned back around.

  "Please have the limousine and chauffeur remain here," Misha said. "I will definitely be needing them."

  Karel smiled and nodded, then strode out the lobby door.

  The chauffeured limousine would speed his getting around, Misha thought, and he had a lot to do in a very short period of time. First on his list was going to Dvorak Hall in the Rudolfinum. He would be performing there with the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra tomorrow night.

  He was familiar with many of the world's concert halls at this point in his career, but he had never before played in Prague. Every concert hall has its idiosyncrasies, and he would have to familiarize himself with them before his performance. As always, his sound must be as perfect as possible.

  He went up to his suite, tipped the friendly bellhop, and looked around. The suite had large rooms and comfortable amenities. Big, soft bath towels, hair dryers, and cable TV. They're making an effort to catch up with the West, he thought.

  He quickly unpacked and showered, then slipped into his work clothes. A black turtleneck sweater, black slacks, and comfortable black loafers. He put on his long black cashmere overcoat and draped a scarf around his neck, then grabbed his gloves, pocketed his room key, and headed out.

  Inside the limousine, Misha gazed out at the charming cobblestoned streets and squares and the beautiful architecture: Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, and Rococo, with the occasional Art Nouveau masterpiece. They reached the Rudolfinum in Jan Palach Square within minutes. The grand neo-Renaissance building, named for the ill- fated crown prince of Mayerling fame, was decorated with a veritable army of elaborately executed statues of composers, sculptors, painters, and architects. No wonder it's called the Temple to Beauty, Misha mused. Its beauty was an inspiration to him.

  In one of Dvorak Hall's splendid colonnades, he was besieged by a crowd. Administrators, musicians, conductors, and various minions flocked around him in appreciative awe. They enthusiastically welcomed him to Prague.

  Misha was appreciative and gracious, but after the initial flurry of greetings, he set to work. First he checked out his favorite Steinw
ay concert grand and talked to David Gregory, the tuner who had traveled with it. No problems there, thank God. One of his greatest fears was always that something would happen to his favorite piano and he would be forced to perform on an unfamiliar, or worse, inferior one. When David was finished with his fine-tuning, Misha did several sound tests, both alone and with the orchestra. Finally, there was a long rehearsal.

  Several hours and countless cups of strong but delicious Czech coffee later, he was satisfied. Another rehearsal tomorrow, he felt, and he would be ready. He headed outside to the waiting limousine. It was dark and cold.

  "The Palace Hotel," he told Jan, the chauffeur, as he settled into his seat. He was exhausted and couldn't wait to have a quick bite to eat. I'll risk the mercies of room service tonight, he thought. Then I'll crawl straight into bed.

  But it was not to be.

  In the hotel lobby, Manny hurried over to him. "Well, well, old man," he said enthusiastically, clapping him on the shoulder. "How did it go at the Rudolfinum?"

  "Okay," Misha said in a tired voice. "I think everything will be ready for the concert. Where's Sasha? Didn't he come?"

  "No," Manny said, "he had too much work to do in New York. I don't know. Contracts and stuff. Whatever. Anyway," Manny added, "you're free tonight?"

  "I'm exhausted, Manny," he said. "I'm going to call room service for a snack and go straight to bed."

  Manny's face dropped, but only momentarily. "Look, Misha, there's someone here you absolutely must meet," he said.

  "Who might that be?" Misha asked, not really curious but deciding to hear Manny out.

  "Remember when we were talking about getting a really top-notch photographer to do pictures for the new CD covers and publicity shots?"

  "Yes," Misha said matter-of-factly, wondering what was up.

  "Well, guess what, old man?" Manny enthused, rubbing his hands together vigorously. "The most extraordinary coincidence!" His bright eyes locked on Misha's.

  "What is it, Manny?" Misha asked with tired exasperation. "Get to the point. I'm bushed and want to go to bed. Remember?"