Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  Serena looked at him a moment, then laughed uproariously. "I'm sorry," she finally sputtered. "I ... I just don't believe I'm hearing this. You don't have a fucking clue, Misha, do you?"

  He rose abruptly to his feet, and began gathering up his clothing and putting it on. He wanted to get away from her and this place as fast as possible. He didn't like her mocking him now, and he was very disturbed by the ugliness in her character that it showed.

  Serena watched him dress. "You don't have to leave, Misha," she said.

  He buckled his belt and zipped up his trousers, then looked down at her, his face full of sorrow.

  "Oh, yes, Serena," he said. "I think I do." He slid into his jacket. "Good-bye, Serena," he added in a whisper.

  "See ya later," she said, reaching for a nail file on the nightstand.

  Back down on the street, Misha felt aimless, like a boat adrift. He simply didn't know what to do next, where to go, how to make sense of what had just transpired.

  What do I do now? he asked himself.

  He had always known that he would have to see her on her terms. But was she truly unwilling to compromise at all? Did she truly have no more feeling for him than that? Was she truly unwilling to make changes for a husband? And a family?

  After what she'd been through growing up, he'd imagined that she would welcome the opportunity to show a child or children that the world wasn't necessarily the bleak and monstrous place she had experienced. That the world could be nurturing, bountiful, and loving.

  He supposed that her family was Coral Randolph and Sally Parker. Nothing wrong with that, he thought. And, of course, there were all the models and stylists and assistants and their inevitable hangers-on who peopled her life, celebrated ups with her, helped her through the downs, no doubt. So many of them were cocaine-snorting, amphetamine-popping, pot-smoking wastrels, he thought. Often not the best sort of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers.

  That won't do for me, he thought. Absolutely not. I want a wife. And children. I want a real family of my own. To share my life with.

  Unbidden tears formed in his eyes. I am lost, he thought. So lost. And I don't know what to do or where to go.

  Then he began to walk. He walked and walked and walked, aimlessly, paying no attention to where he was going. Time had failed to exist for him, and he felt as if he were in a dimension outside it. He had no idea how long this wandering went on.

  When he finally looked up, to avoid a pedestrian in his way, he looked around. He realized that he'd walked all the way from SoHo to Midtown and beyond. The east Sixties.

  Then it came to him. As if a lightning bolt had struck him and unleashed from his confused mind an idea that had been there all along, just waiting to be discovered.

  Misha knew what he would do. Yes! He knew with a certainty he had never felt before. He looked about him again. The city seemed to have taken on a clarity that he'd never seen before. Then, with a confident, self- assured stride, he picked up his pace, headed in the direction of his solution, no longer aimless, no longer lost.

  I know exactly what to do. Exactly where to go, he thought. And he marveled: I've found myself at last. I know my heart's desire.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  "Misha, I want you to think about this," she said. "At least for a few days, if not longer." She eyed him warily across the table. "You should be absolutely certain in your own mind that this is what you really want to do."

  Misha nodded and his dark eyes flashed. "I don't have to think about it," he said in an earnest voice. "I've already thought about it. Make no mistake about that. This is definitely what I want to do."

  His eyes, she thought, had never sparkled with such determination, and that handsome square jaw of his had never looked more assertive. Still, she felt that she must make certain that his decision wasn't a snap one, made in the heat of anger or in desperation. And she knew that it might very well be.

  She took a deep, fortifying breath. "Misha," she said, as evenly as she could. "I just want to clear up one thing first."

  "Anything," he said. "What is it? You can ask me anything."

  "I... I hope," she said, choosing her words carefully, "that you're not making this decision on ...on ...the rebound."

  Misha returned her gaze. "On the rebound?" he repeated. "Why would you think that?"

  "If there's one time in our lives when we've got to be absolutely honest with each other," she said, "then that time is surely now."

  He readily nodded in agreement.

  "And I expect you to be as honest with me as I am with you," she went on. "So tell me the truth, Misha. Are you doing this . . ." She paused and took another deep breath, then hurried on, rushing her words while she had the courage to use them. "...because you're angry with her? Have you come running to me just to get back at her?"

  Misha's face reddened, and his eyes strayed from hers, off into the distance. Then he heaved a sigh, and his eyes shifted back to hers.

  "You knew," he said.

  "Yes," she said, nodding.

  "How long have you known?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "I don't know. Well... for a long time. Since the beginning, I guess."

  Misha was stunned. "How?" he asked. "How did you know?"

  "It doesn't really matter, does it?" she said. "I'd heard rumors," she said. "After all, we do know some of the same people."

  He looked at her. "You never said a thing," he said in a sad voice. "Not a single word."

  She remained silent.

  "All this time," he said, "and you carried on valiantly, like there was nothing to worry about, as if everything was as it should be."

  He reached over the table and took one of her hands in his. "You're even more wonderful than I'd thought," he said. "And that's why I want to marry you, Vera. Not because I'm angry with her. And not to get back at her. I decided that I've loved you all along. All these years."

  Tears of joy crept into the corners of Vera's eyes and began to spill unchecked down her cheeks. She wasn't certain that she believed him, but she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to!

  "I just didn't know it, Vera," he continued. "I guess I was too blind, too stupid, too self-absorbed to recognize it for what it was." He paused, and his voice softened. "To see that I loved you all the time. That you're the only woman I ever really wanted."

  He reached over and gently wiped the tears from her face with a fingertip.

  "You ...you're really sure about this?" she finally managed to whisper.

  "Oh, yes," he said, bringing her hand to his lips and tenderly kissing it. "I want to marry you. I want us to have children and be a family. Please say yes, Vera."

  Vera saw the plea in his eyes, unconcealed and vulnerable. Her mind was reeling with a thousand unexpressed emotions, but she forced herself to utter her prevailing sentiment: "Yes," she said. "Oh, yes, Misha. I will marry you. Yes, yes, yes!"

  Later, back at her office, Vera realized that she didn't even know the name of the nondescript little restaurant where Misha had proposed to her. He had come rushing in just as she was getting ready to leave for lunch. Then he'd taken her arm and rushed her off, mumbling mysteriously that they must talk, at once. Now, she didn't even think she could remember what block it was on.

  But it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered to her right now. Not even the beautiful Serena Gibbons, who she knew had held such a spell over Misha. For Vera finally, after years of patient waiting, had just what she wanted: Misha Levin.

  She wanted to shout it from the rooftops, to let the whole world know that Mikhail Levin loved her, Vera Bunim, and that she and Misha were going to be husband and wife. But she went about her work dutifully and with her usual poise, containing for the time being her utter joy.

  Life will be perfect now, she thought. No matter what happens, with Misha at my side, nothing in life can defeat or hurt me.

  Vera let herself into her apartment. She dropped her keys in a silver bowl on the commode in the foyer and put her shoulder
bag on a chair.

  "Home, sweet home," she said aloud, expelling a sigh of gratified relief. "Home at long last."

  Vera was exhausted. The wedding was but a little more than a week away, and helping her mother with the myriad wedding details—plus keeping up with her heavy workload at the same time—were taking their toll.

  The apartment was oddly silent because, unlike nearly every evening for the last few weeks, Misha was not here. That, too, filled her with a sense of relief. As much as she missed his company, she was glad that he was busy tonight.

  Tonight. What was tonight ...?

  Oh, right. The dinner and a long business meeting with Manny and Sasha. So he would be staying across town at his own apartment.

  If he were here, she thought, our evening would just be beginning. We would be up half the night ...Cooking together. Eating together. Talking together. Planning things together. And, of course, making love together.

  Together. That was the magic word.

  Tonight, she'd taken advantage of his absence and stayed late at her office, catching up on work, nibbling on a tuna sandwich she'd called out for. So much for dinner! she thought. But it didn't matter, because she couldn't wait to crawl between the sheets. She headed straight for her bedroom, where she undressed and slipped into an old T-shirt, smiling with secret delight as she did so: it was one of Misha's, and her very favorite thing to sleep in.

  She padded into the tiny bathroom, loosening her pale blond hair from the silk Chanel scarf casually tied at the base of her neck as she went. At the old pedestal sink she flossed and brushed her teeth and washed and dried her face, then flipped off the light and made a beeline for her bed.

  Sliding beneath the covers, she savored the feel of the crisp linen sheets against her. This is truly heaven, she thought. Just what the doctor ordered for my overworked bones. Just then the telephone jangled in her ear, startling her at first.

  She reached over and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?" she said.

  For a moment she heard only breathing, a clearly audible respiration that sent a chill up her spine.

  "Who ...who is it?" she asked, slightly unnerved.

  There was no answer.

  The breathing continued, rhythmic and ...threatening.

  Vera shivered, then thought: Don't be silly. It's only a stupid prank. She started to slam down the receiver, but at that exact moment she heard her name.

  "Veeeerrr-rrraaaaa."

  It was a low, gravelly voice, her name drawled out eerily. The voice was unmistakably British, and instantly recognizable: Simon Hampton.

  Oh, my God, she wondered, what's he doing calling me after all this time? A call from Simon could mean only one thing: trouble. She made an effort to control her pounding heart and the rising fear that held her in its thrall. "Simon," she said, despising the quaver of apprehension she heard in her voice.

  "You've been seeing that fag musician again," Simon said in a mocking tone.

  Oh, my God! He's ...he's been following me!

  The realization was like a powerful physical blow, and Vera thought for a moment that she would surely be sick. This can't be happening to me! She felt an involuntary tremor run through her, and she nearly dropped the receiver.

  "You shouldn't be seeing him, Vera," Simon said in a singsong, as if he were chastising a naughty child. "It might be very dangerous for him if you do."

  "You wouldn't dare," Vera cried, fear—now mixed with anger—consuming her. "I'll report you to the police," she said. "I'll tell them that you're the person who tried—"

  "Shut up!" Simon snarled. "I can get to your precious faggot before the police can. I'm right around the corner from him."

  "You're lying, you bastard," Vera cried.

  "Now, now, Vera," he said in the mocking singsong. "We want to watch our language." Then his voice became even more threatening as he reverted to his normal baritone. "The piano player's gone downstairs to a cafe. Having a nightcap with that fat manager of his. I can see them, Vera."

  Vera choked back a sob. Is it possible? she wondered with horror. Can he really see Misha? Or is he bluffing? Just trying to scare me?

  What can I do? she agonized.

  Her mind reeled with possibilities, but she couldn't sort through them, couldn't make sense of them.

  "Meet me," he said in a demanding voice.

  "Meet you?" she nearly whimpered.

  "Yeah," he said. "Down in the Village. It'll be like old times. Just you and me, Vera. We'll have a drink. Go for a walk."

  Vera was both revolted and terrified at the very idea of seeing Simon now. Was he completely crazy? Would he try to hurt her? To pay her back for seeing Misha?

  Oh, my God! What if he knows we're getting married? What will he do then? She felt a knot of fear such as she had never known form in her stomach, wrenching it into a tight fist.

  What am I to do? she asked herself again. But she knew what she must do.

  Her head spinning, her stomach lurching into her throat, she took a deep breath and finally spoke: "Okay, Simon," she said, with as calm a voice as she could muster. "Where do you want to meet?"

  "A little cafe on West Street," he said. "At the foot of Christopher Street, head north. You'll see it. It's a sidewalk cafe."

  "I'll be there," she said, "but it'll take me a while to get dressed and get down there in a taxi."

  "Ciao," he said. The line went dead.

  Vera replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat still as a stone, thinking. After several minutes, she slid out of bed and got busy.

  She went to her closet and pulled out an old pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and black sneakers. She put them on, then searched until she found an old baseball cap. She put her hair up in it and pulled it low over her brow.

  In a dresser drawer she rummaged through neatly folded underclothes until she found the gift her father had given her several years ago. She threw it and her wallet in her black leather shoulder bag, then grabbed her keys and dashed out of the apartment in search of a taxi.

  Vera sipped the chilled chablis in her glass, eyeing Simon across the table. He had been throwing back generous amounts of bourbon and water, and she saw that he was beginning to get sloshed. The cafe was deserted and had been ever since she'd arrived. It was a Wednesday night, and the sidewalks had been virtually empty, only the occasional pedestrian hurrying by. The incessant stream of traffic on the West Side Highway was beginning to thin out.

  She had been very wary at first, seeing Simon seated there, his long blond hair dirty and windblown, his big blue eyes sparkling, his tall, muscular body at ease, sprawled at a sidewalk table. Oddly enough, they hadn't discussed the telephone call or Misha. Simon didn't seem to want to, and Vera was anxious not to provoke his wrath. He seemed content merely to be in her company, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He had talked about his latest show at a small gallery in London, and the painting projects he was working on now.

  Maybe this will satisfy him, she thought hopefully. Maybe I'll be able to simply get up, leave him here, and go straight to Misha's. Then we'll alert the police. Maybe ...maybe I won't be forced to do anything crazy. But she had no way of knowing what Simon was going to do next and didn't want to take any chances.

  "Do you still want to take that walk?" Vera finally asked.

  "Yeah, sure," Simon said, smiling over at her. "Are you ready?"

  "Whenever you are," she said evenly, trying not to betray the nervousness she felt.

  He asked for the check, and the waiter brought it, disappearing back inside. Simon looked at the bill and counted out some cash. Then he placed his glass atop both and got to his feet, stretching his arms.

  Vera looked up at him. Oh my God, she thought miserably. I'd forgotten how big he is. How tall and muscular. How will I ever do it, if I have to? She quickly rose to her feet and walked over to him.

  Simon put one of his powerful arms around her shoulders. "Let's walk over to the piers," he said, pointing across the West Side High
way toward the Hudson River.

  "Whatever you'd like," Vera said, attempting a smile.

  He hugged her to him closely, and they crossed the highway, then walked along the promenade. There was chain-link fencing along the shore side of the piers, put there to keep people from wandering out onto them.

  "Look," Simon said, pointing at a gap in the fence. "We can climb through here and go all the way out to the end of the pier."

  "Do you think that's safe?" Vera asked.

  "Yeah," Simon said. "I've seen people out there."

  He helped her climb through the gap, then followed close behind her. They strolled all the way out to the very end, far out into the darkness of the Hudson River. At the pier's edge, they stood, gazing over toward the distant lights of New Jersey.

  "It's strangely beautiful," Vera said, "isn't it?"

  "Yeah," Simon said. "It is."

  The sky was overcast, and they could see no stars. It was virtually dark out here, eerie with only the sounds of the powerful wind and the distant traffic. No one else was about, at least not that Vera could see.

  She shivered, and Simon drew her closer, stroking her arm with his. But it wasn't the wind that chilled her. No. It was knowing what she might have to do. And this, she thought grimly, is the perfect place to do it.

  Simon turned to her, and she could see his eyes gleaming in the near-darkness. "You're going to marry him," he said quietly. "Aren't you?" His grip on her shoulder became suddenly painful.

  For the second time that evening, Vera thought she would surely be sick. The pressure of his powerful arm and hand gripped like a vise, and the gleam in his eye was one of utter madness. I'm trapped and helpless, and he's going to kill me! She struggled to find the words to answer him.

  "I ... I came here ... to ... to meet you … .didn't I, Simon?" she stammered. "Just like you wanted me to."

  "You didn't answer my question, Vera," he said. He looked at her with a strange sort of triumph in his eyes. "But you don't have to, because I know. Everybody in London knows."