Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  "Thanks," he said.

  "He's in his den," she said. "Follow me." Her high heels click-clacked on the entrance hall's marble floor as she led the way.

  The young man looked around. The house was hideously decorated—a lot of cheap faux Baroque glittery golds and silvers, with whites and reds—but immaculate, unlike the club, for which he was grateful. They probably have an army of emigres straight off the boat to clean for nearly nothing, he thought, eyeing the abundance of artificial flowers and plants with distaste.

  She led him down a short flight of stairs with white carpeting to a lower level, where he followed her down a short hallway to a door. She opened it and stood back "In here," she said nodding her big bleached hair toward the room.

  "Thanks," the young man said again. He entered the room, and she closed the door behind him.

  The older man's office had shiny jet black pile carpeting and hideous black and white leather-upholstered chairs and sofa, a gigantic black and glass desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar-looking goon sprawled on the sofa. In a white leather chair nearby sat his counterpart, flexing his fists on the chair's arms. On the wall above him was a painting of a nude woman, posed provocatively, one finger between her pouty red lips, another between her thighs.

  He approached the desk, where the older Russian sat,

  a cell phone attached to his ear as usual. He didn't acknowledge the young man but eyed him as he continued to talk.

  The waiting game again, the young man thought with irritation. And there wasn't a chair placed in front of the desk where he could sit and wait. Another one of their ridiculous tactics. You don't just keep them waiting, you keep them standing as well.

  After what seemed like an interminable length of time, the older man finished his telephone call, snapped the cell phone shut, and carefully placed it on the desk to the right of him. He then placed his meaty paws on the desk, in the very center, intertwining his sausage fingers. He looked up at the young man with his wolfs eyes, then slowly began shaking his head from side to side.

  "You are becoming a great disappointment to me," he said at last. "A great disappointment." He tapped the desktop with a thick finger, his malevolent gaze riveted to the young man.

  The younger man stood silently, knowing that nothing irritated the older Russian more than his silence, but he didn't really care. Two can play his stupid waiting game, he thought, returning the man's stare.

  The older Russian finally exploded in anger, spittle flying. "What do you have to say for yourself?" His face had turned beet red, and the veins stood out in bas relief on his face and neck.

  "I have nothing to say," the young man replied in a self-assured voice, "except that he has thus far refused to listen to reason. As you well know."

  "Nothing to say!" the older man echoed in a thunderous baritone. "Refused to listen to reason!" He glowered at the younger man as if he couldn't believe his ears. "You're going to end up in a fucking body bag, and you don't have anything to say for yourself?"

  The young man just stared back, his confidence not in the least bit affected. He knew, and the older Russian knew, that Misha Levin was an extremely difficult man to even get to, much less get close to. To convince him to sign any kind of performance and recording contract—to unknowingly become a part of their evil empire—would

  be a feat well worth waiting for. If these hooligans stood any chance at all of succeeding, they knew, and the young man knew, that he was not only their best chance but their only chance.

  The older man reached into a rear trouser pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, then proceeded to wipe beads of sweat off his flushed face and from around his thick neck. When he'd finished, he reached around and stuffed the handkerchief back down into his trouser pocket. His breathing was an audible wheeze.

  He looked up at the young man and shook his head again. "You've got till the end of the year," he said in an even tone, making an effort to check his explosive temper. "If you haven't gotten him to sign on the dotted line by then, you're both in trouble. Got that?"

  "I've got it," the young man said with a nod.

  The older Russian began scratching out something on a pad of paper. When he was finished, he ripped the sheet of paper off of the pad and held it out.

  The young man took it from him and looked down. He could barely restrain a smile. He's upping the offer, he thought with amusement. He'll pay almost anything to get Misha Levin to sign a contract with his production company.

  "This is the final offer," the older man said. "Make that clear to Levin, but don't make any threats." He looked over at the goons, who had sat silently watching the exchange. "We'll do that if and when the time comes."

  The behemoths half smiled, as if in anticipation of being able to exert their brute force.

  The older man returned his gaze to the young man. "We want Levin's willing cooperation if at all possible. That's the ideal situation, and that's your department. Leave the rest to us."

  The young man smiled evilly. "It would give me great pleasure to convince Misha Levin that he must sign with you," he said. "I have immediate access to him, his wife, his child, anyone, and I could be very, ah .. . convincing."

  The older man eyed him shrewdly. He knew the young man was a brilliant manipulator. But it hadn't occurred to him that he might actually be capable of anything physical. Now he thought he recognized a kindred spirit of sorts. A man who would use any means possible to get what he wanted.

  "Just do as we say for the time being," the older man said "If and when the time comes, I'll decide how we'll go about convincing Misha Levin that he must cooperate with us."

  The young man nodded

  "And keep in mind that time is becoming increasingly important," the older Russian said "There are political and economic changes in Russia every day, so go to work on him."

  The young man nodded again.

  "Now get out of here," the older Russian said "And don't miss any Saturday night calls."

  The young man turned on his heel and started toward the door. He nodded to the goons, who had been watching him with indolent expressions. One of them cracked his knuckles and his lips became a smirk

  The young man restrained a smile once again They think they're in control. Well, let them think it. I'll show them who has control. Who knows how to get things done. They don't have a clue who or what they're dealing with here.

  Chapter Thirty

  New York City, April 1999

  "Look, Grandma!" Nicky cried "Look!" When he was certain that he had her undivided attention, he carefully positioned his foot over a bright red balloon, then gave it a gleeful stomp. It burst with a loud pop!

  Sonia's eyes widened in a semblance of alarm, and she threw her hands to her heart, as if mortally wounded. "Ah! I 'm shot!" she wailed. "Your poor old grandmother is shot!" She slumped to her side, and her eyes fluttered shut.

  Nicky shrieked with laughter and tore off in search of more mischief. Sonia opened her eyes and straightened up in her chair, a smile on her face as she surveyed the chaotic scene before her.

  Hundreds of balloons, all in colors that bobbed about the apartment's high ceilings, their long streamers dangling temptingly. Their deflated counterparts, victims of innocent child play, lay mute on the floor after loud and startling explosions. The apartment's spacious rooms were still filled with the squeals of laughter. She heard the encouragement or admonishment of several doting parents, and saw that Olga, Nicky's efficient nanny, was busily searching out the missing in action.

  Birthday cake and ice cream were generously smeared on faces and clothes. Nor had some of the furniture and rugs been spared, Sonia noticed. But it didn't matter, she thought, judging that no irreparable harm had been done. Besides, it was Nicky's fourth birthday, and the party, to her and Vera's immense satisfaction, had been a boisterous, messy, and completely delightful affair— and, thankfully, was drawing to a close. Clivo the Clown had come and gone, after enchanting some of the childr
en while simultaneously terrifying others with his age- old slapstick shenanigans. Manuel the Magician, his tatty old cloak and Hispanic accent notwithstanding, had departed to pleas of "More! More! More!"

  Now parents, nannies, and au pairs were arriving to pick up the little ones, and between good-byes she'd decided to get off her tired feet.

  The explosive pop! of yet another balloon meeting its end gave her a start, and she saw that Nicky was the culprit She looked at her grandson with unabashed pride.

  He's so much like his father was at that age, she thought. The same raven black hair framed his angelic face, and the same beguiling eyes, so dark brown they appeared to be black, begged for your attention. Even in his child's plump little face, she was certain that she could discern his father's handsome features slowly emerging. He's going to be a heartbreaker, she surmised. And that, too, is just like his father.

  "It's been a wonderful party, hasn't it?" Vera said, patting her mother-in-law on the shoulder and sitting down next to her.

  "Oh, yes, Vera," Sonia replied, "it's been a fabulous party. Nicky and all the children have had such a good time." She looked at Vera with a wistful smile on her face. "I was just thinking how like his father Nicky is," she said. "Of course, you've heard that a million times, and not just from me."

  "Oh, yes," Vera said with a laugh. Her alert blue eyes shifted to her son. He was racing about the room in a frenzy of youthful delight, grasping at the balloon streamers within his reach. "But it's true," she said. "He's so like Misha, it's uncanny. And he idolizes his father."

  "Where is Misha?" Sonia asked. "I thought he was going to stop by for the party."

  "So did I," Vera said. She sighed and shifted uneasily in her chair. "I don't know what's held him up." She gazed off into the distance a moment, as if searching for an answer, and unconsciously began nudging her wedding band and engagement ring around her finger with a thumb.

  She tinned to Sonia. "I'm just glad that he made a big production out of Nicky's birthday this morning," she said, "and gave him his present after breakfast."

  Sonia knew her daughter-in-law extremely well, and she could see that Vera was annoyed with Misha. Even though she was making an effort to conceal it, her beautiful daughter-in-law was obviously nervous. She had a strong suspicion that it was more than Misha's missing the birthday party that had upset her.

  What could it be? she wondered, wishing that she could ask Vera what was troubling her. They have everything, she told herself. A beautiful home, successful careers, and plenty of money. Best of all, they have each other and an extraordinary child. But something was definitely amiss. She didn't want to pry, however. Vera, she knew, felt free to discuss her problems with her and would talk to her when and if she needed to.

  It's strange, she thought. Vera comes to me, but never goes to her own mother. But then Tatiana Bunim, for all her good qualities, was hardly the type of woman that one would feel comfortable confiding in. She wasn't even motherly, Sonia thought, let alone grandmotherly.

  She turned to Vera and gave her a gentle pat on the arm. "Maybe," Sonia ventured, "our Misha will still make it." She didn't herself believe it, not now that the party was virtually over, but she wanted to do what she could to bolster up Vera's flagging spirits.

  "Probably not." Vera smiled ruefully. "But I appreciate your efforts to make me feel better," she added.

  Misha's failure to show up was just one in what was becoming a very long string of more and more frequent absences. After their marriage and during the first six months of her pregnancy, she'd traveled with Misha to almost every performance, be it far-off Tokyo or nearby Pittsburgh. Then, after Nicky's birth, she'd quite naturally stayed in New York for the first few months, running the household and helping raise their son. She hadn't quit her job altogether, but had worked out an arrangement with the auction house whereby she acted as a consultant and worked on special events. That way she could work at home and would be free to travel with Misha at almost any time. Theoretically, at least.

  It hadn't worked out that way however. The demands on her time in New York made traveling with him more difficult than either of them had imagined. Should Nicky be sick, for example, she wouldn't even consider leaving him at home alone with Olga, no matter how efficient she might be. Then, too, her job required that she entertain very important clients, a responsibility that Vera didn't take tightly. As a result, Misha often traveled alone nowadays.

  She'd long since grown accustomed to his being away. These were necessary absences, after all. But what disturbed Vera was Misha's behavior when he was home. He was increasingly aloof and restless, preoccupied and distracted.

  It's as if he's absent when he's actually here, she thought.

  When she'd tried to broach the subject, Misha lightly told her that she was imagining things, or worse, he retreated into himself, closing up and refusing to discuss it.

  As much as she hated to think it, Vera was beginning to fear that he was disenchanted with their marriage and family life.

  With Nicky, his own son, and me.

  She could remember Nicky's first two birthdays as if they were yesterday. Misha had planned and executed extravagant celebrations, not leaving anything to chance, insisting on doing nearly everything himself. He'd been a lively and attentive presence for his son. Then, last year, when Nicky turned three, Misha had left everything up to her. She hadn't minded at all but was surprised. When she asked him about it, he'd merely shrugged and said he was too busy. She knew that if he'd wanted to, he could have found the time. At least, she thought, he'd made the effort to put in an appearance at the party.

  And now this year. Not even showing up.

  What's happened? she asked herself. What's going on?

  She'd told herself that she wouldn't agonize about it today, but she couldn't help but reflect back on the last five years of their marriage. During the first two years or so he'd been the picture of a doting father and husband. When she went into labor with Nicky, Misha had had sympathetic labor pains. When she gave birth, he'd insisted on being there with her. Later, despite the nanny and household help, he'd wanted to learn to change Nicky's diapers and to feed him. He'd tucked the baby into his perambulator and taken him for long walks, proudly showing him off to the entire neighborhood.

  Vera didn't doubt for a minute that Misha loved his son with all his heart. But in the last year Misha had begun to show less and less interest in Nicky.

  And me, she reflected painfully.

  Something she couldn't yet put her finger on had slowly pulled her husband away from her and Nicky. For a while she'd thought that it had started after their trip to Vienna. It was the last trip they'd taken together, and she'd looked forward to it, only to be disappointed by his inattentiveness. That old enthusiasm he used to have when she was along for the trip was missing. After she'd given it some thought, however, she began to realize that it had started long before the trip to Vienna, a year or two at least. The trip had simply marked a turning point in the downhill slide of their relationship. Since then his attention had been increasingly drawn elsewhere, and she'd begun to seriously ask herself why.

  Was it mere boredom? she wondered Disenchantment? If not, what? Or, she trembled to think, who? Had he actually met someone to replace her in his affections?

  Vera didn't know, but she made up her mind to find out, one way or another. She loved Misha, and nothing—or nobody—was going to take him away from her.

  Through the open window of Serena's loft, a truck rumbling and banging along Vestry Street added percussion to Mabel Mercer's soft rendition of "Honeysuckle Rose." Neither she nor Misha heard a thing. All they had eyes and ears for was each other.

  Their clothes, tossed haphazardly about the room, were a testament to their haste to relish each other's bodies unencumbered. In the subdued lighting of her bedroom, they lay absorbed in the satisfaction of shared desire.

  Serena's fingers were tangled in his hair. "Ahhh!" she moaned, giving herself up to hi
s ministrations. "That's soooo good, Misha." She relished the feel of his hot breath on her there, his tongue caressing her. "Oh, it's so ...goooood!"

  From down between her long, firm thighs, he looked up at her. Her head was thrown back against the pillow, but he could see that her face was set in a look of euphoric determination. He knew that she was close, very close, which only served to make his urgency all the greater. He couldn't wait a second longer. He rose up, his weight on his hands to either side of her, then quickly mounted her, plunging in to the hilt.

  Serena gasped and threw her arms around his back, clutching him with all her might. "Oh, yes, Misha," she cried. "Yes! Oh, my God. Yes!"

  They began to move together in a rhythmic frenzy, their desire for each other overwhelming them, and it was only moments before she cried out in ecstasy, her nails digging into his back. He felt her body arch against him, and then she began to tremble from head to toe.

  Misha let himself go then, in a final, powerful lunge, and groaned with pleasure as he released all his pent-up passion in a lusty explosion. His body shuddered mightily, and he collapsed atop her. He peppered her face with kisses, holding her to him tightly as he gasped for air.

  They lay catching their breath, their bodies, coated in a fine sheen of perspiration, heaving one against the other.

  "That was ... so fantastic," Misha finally managed to rasp, looking into her eyes.

  Serena smiled. "Y ...yes," she panted. "It... it was the best, Misha." She ran her fingers through his hair lovingly. "The ... the very, very best."

  He kissed her lips, then slowly rolled off onto his side, his breath gradually returning to normal. He slid an arm under her shoulders. Serena turned onto her side and

  snuggled close against him, expelling an immense sigh of utter contentment.

  "Oh, God, Serena," he said. "I'm so glad you're back." He gently stroked long tendrils of raven black hair away from her face.