Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  "Thanks, Sonia," Vera said. "It was for very special people."

  They exchanged kisses, then Dmitri hugged and kissed his daughter-in-law. "We love you like our own," he said.

  "And I love you," Vera said.

  "You are the luckiest man alive," Sonia said pointedly, looking at Misha. "The luckiest man alive!" She kissed his cheek.

  "Y-yes," Misha said haltingly. "I suppose I am." He began walking them toward die entrance hall.

  Sonia, trailing behind, took Vera's hand. "Patience, darling," she whispered into her ear. "Patience."

  Vera simply nodded.

  "And call me if you need anything," Sonia added. "Anything at all."

  "I will," Vera promised. "But I think it'll be okay."

  The candles had all been extinguished, the music turned off, and Anna, the maid, had finished cleaning up after the party. The apartment was quiet. Misha, undressing in the bedroom, reflected on the evening. It had all been so convivial, he thought, so warm, and stimulating, and though he hadn't looked forward to the dinner party, his participation hadn't been anything other than genuine. He hadn't had to force himself to participate in the lively conversation, to indulge in Vera's superb cooking and the excellent wines. But deep down inside he'd felt a gnawing emptiness, a need that the company of his attentive wife, loving parents, and doting friends couldn't provide. It wasn't the first time he'd felt this way—being surrounded by such loving, caring people, yet feeling so empty, so alone and sad—but for some reason in the aftermath of tonight's celebration he felt particularly heavy of heart.

  Expelling a loud sigh, he neatly hung his trousers in the closet. Perhaps, he thought, it was knowing that evenings like this one were soon to end altogether. At least in this beautiful setting, with this cast of characters assembled together. He would see everyone that had been here, of course, but it would never be the same.

  He'd planned to have a talk with Vera this evening— and still planned to—but the dinner party made his task much more difficult. Celebrating with the only family he'd ever known had only served to emphasize the enormity of what he was about to do.

  And it is enormous, he thought. For he realized that while he and Serena certainly had a close relationship, an intimacy that was fresh and lusty and joyful, it was not always comfortable or easy. Sometimes, in fact, Serena seemed like an enigma to him. How well do I really know her? he asked himself.

  He slipped into his bathrobe and padded into his bathroom. He began brushing his teeth, looking in the mirror over the sink but seeing, instead of his own reflection there, the ravishing creature he so desperately wanted to be with. Oh, God, he thought, she is so beautiful and so desirable, yet … yet does what I'm about to do make sense? Is it what I really want?

  He suddenly thought of Nicky and his little boy's excitement tonight, getting to eat with the grown-ups and stay up late with his grandparents. He could see his chubby, pink cheeks and his raven black hair, could see the glee in his dark eyes and hear his contagious laughter.

  Serena had said that she eventually wanted a family and some semblance of a home life, but did she really mean it? For that matter, did she even know her own heart? Certainly, she knew what she wanted career-wise, and that seemed to take precedence over everything else. It always has, hasn't it? he told himself. Would that ever really change?

  Finished in the bathroom, he went back to the bedroom, where he spread out, still thoughtful, on the bed. He reached over for the small balloon of Armagnac on his bedside table and took a sip. He'd promised himself that he would confront Vera, but now the mere thought filled him with a mixture of dread and sorrow. The Armagnac, normally so soothing, tasted fiery and vile on his palate tonight.

  What rotten timing, he thought. Just before the holidays. Could he have possibly timed it worse? Vera and Nicky would have both his parents and hers, so they wouldn't have to be alone. And of course, he would be with Serena or would he? Come to think of it, Serena hadn't even mentioned the holidays. She'd only seemed interested in meeting him somewhere in the Far East while he was performing there. It would be convenient for them both, since she was dead set on going to Cambodia to take photographs. His trip would fall between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so maybe they could work something out. She would surely make it a point to be back for Christmas, wouldn't she?

  Vera came into the bedroom then, and he looked up at her. She had looked beautiful tonight in her new dress, and she looked no less so in her cream silk robe with its lace trim. Her pale blond hair was down, just sweeping her shoulders, and her Dresden blue eyes looked serene and content. "Where were you?" he asked.

  "Just checking on Nicky," she said, smiling. "I thought I heard him coughing, but I guess I was imagining it."

  "You don't want to spoil him," Misha said, thinking that she spent an awfully lot of time seeing to Nicky.

  "I hardly think that checking on him at my bedtime is going to spoil him, Misha," Vera said coolly. "Sometimes I enjoy just watching him sleep."

  Misha suddenly felt annoyed with her, and at the same time knew that it was an irrational feeling. He resented her being the perfect mother and wife. It made his own self-absorption seem that much more odious to him.

  She took off her robe, laying it on a chair, and slid out of her slippers. Then turning, she looked at him. "Aren't you going to bed?" she asked.

  "In a while," he said, taking another sip of his brandy.

  Vera pulled back the covers and got into bed beside him. "I think tonight went very well, don't you?" she asked, making conversation.

  "Yes," Misha said matter-of-factly. "It was very nice."

  "I hope next week's dinner party goes as well," Vera said.

  He looked at her. "Next week's?"

  "Yes," Vera replied, looking at him in alarm. "Don't tell me you've forgotten, Misha."

  "Forgotten what?" he asked with puzzlement.

  "You promised me you'd be here for the Caprioli- Fontini dinner. You know how important it is," she said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

  He grunted noncommittally.

  "I'm trying to get their art collection for the auction house to sell," she went on. "I'll get a huge fee if I pull it off."

  "You always manage, Vera," he said nonchalantly, "with or without me."

  "But ...but you promised!" she said with exasperation. "They're big fans of classical music and of yours, Misha. I told them you would be here because you're not on tour. You promised me," she repeated. She ran a hand through her hair nervously and sighed.

  "Well, perhaps you should have taken me out of the quotient," Misha snapped. "Your job has nothing to do with me!" He glared at her. "I don't understand why you make all of these social obligations anyway, and then try to involve me. I bet you've got parties and dinners lined up from now through the New Year."

  "As a matter of fact, I do," Vera said in a slightly miffed tone. "But this is the only one that was supposed to involve you other than family functions. I deliberately planned this around your tour dates. And I did ask you about it beforehand, Misha. When you told me you definitely had decided not to do the Russian tour, I scheduled this."

  She searched his face for a reaction, but he sat mutely, staring straight ahead, holding the balloon of Armagnac with both hands at his waist, pointedly ignoring her. He's like a pouting child, she thought disgruntedly. I'd better try another tack. Try to rescue the situation.

  "Misha," she said softly, "I know you need lots of time to yourself these days, and I understand—"

  "Just drop it, Vera," he snapped harshly, turning angrily to her. "Haven't you done enough to complicate matters for me? You are not running my life, and you don't understand a fucking thing!"

  Vera felt a powerful anger blooming deep down inside her, then growing until it burst through her normally cool facade. Her patience snapped.

  I don't deserve this, she thought. I've done nothing to deserve being treated like this.

  She turned to face him. "Why are
you acting like this, Misha?" she said firmly. "Why are you treating me this way? There was a time when you would've gladly gone out of your way to be here for something like the Caprioli-Fontini dinner. You would have been proud of me and wanted to help."

  Then, despite her attempt at self-control, her voice choked, and she caught her breath before going on. "What's happening, Misha?" she finally cried. "What's happening to us?"

  His eyes flitted across her face; then he quickly averted his gaze from her again. Oh, God, he thought, why does it have to be like this?

  "I ... I ... I don't know," he finally said almost plaintively. "I just …" He paused, gritting his teeth, then took a swallow of the Armagnac.

  Vera saw that his face was etched with anguish. It was a tortured expression she'd never seen on his handsome features before. Suddenly she realized that he wanted to tell her everything, to tell her about his affair. He was struggling to find the right words to use, to soften the blow, she assumed, but he was having trouble doing it. That, she told herself, explains his overreaction tonight, his testiness. It was a result of his own emotional turmoil, that battle he was waging within himself over her and ... the other woman.

  She looked at him. He sat staring silently into his glass of Armagnac. "It's because of the affair you're having, isn't it?" she said in a very quiet voice. "That's what this is all really about, isn't it?"

  Misha jerked slightly and then looked over at her, returning her stare. But he remained silent. How can I lie to her? he wondered, seeing the look of compassion in her eyes. Yet...how can I tell her the truth?

  "I know you're having an affair, Misha," she continued, her voice almost a whisper. "And if I must accommodate it, then so be it. But your cooperation would be helpful."

  "How do you know I'm having an affair?" he asked quietly. He wondered whether or not she really did know, and if so, how.

  "It's obvious," Vera said matter-of-factly. "You don't want me anymore. You are less and less interested in Nicky—"

  "That's not true," he interjected with an edge of anger in his voice.

  "Well, you spend less and less time with him," she amended. "And you spend less and less time at home these days. I would have to be stupid not to realize that something is going on, Misha."

  He hung his head. "I guess so," he said at last, not looking up at her.

  "Then why don't we talk about it, Misha," she said gently. "It's time to get it out in the open, and get past it or ...whatever. Deal with it in any case."

  "I ... I don't know what to say, Vera," he said.

  "How about the truth?" she replied. "We've always shared everything, Misha. This shouldn't be so different."

  He looked up at her. Vera had always been there for him, and he knew deep down inside that she would be now.

  He nodded again and closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them, he said, "Yes, I've been seeing someone."

  Vera cringed inside and felt deathly sick for a moment. For even though she'd known the truth for a long time, hearing him confess it made her physically ill. She wanted to scream louder than she'd ever screamed in her life, and at the same time she wanted to lash out at him with both her fists. Instead, she sat, breathing deeply, trying to control herself. Lashing out at him would accomplish nothing except perhaps drive him away. When she could finally trust herself to speak reasonably, she asked: "Is it serious, Misha?"

  He looked into his nearly empty glass. "Yes ...no." He sighed. "I don't know. I guess ... I guess so." He looked up at her.

  "Do you know what you want to do about it?" she asked.

  "No," Misha said. "I'm ... I'm very confused right now. I don't know what to do."

  Vera suddenly felt deflated. It must be very serious, she thought, if he's this undecided about what to do. If it was a mere flirtation, he would've said so immediately.

  "I ... I hope," she said, "that you'll know soon, because I don't think I can go on living this way much longer."

  "I can't either," Misha said disgustedly. He looked over at her. "You know, you're not the only person who's suffering in this situation, Vera," he said.

  "I didn't mean to imply that I was," she retorted. "But I am the one forced into this situation, Misha. I haven't chosen it, like you."

  He suddenly leapt off the bed and began pacing the floor, guilt and self-loathing fueling his anger with her.

  "You can be awfully self-righteous," he said.

  "Misha, I'm simply trying to—" she began.

  "You're trying to make me feel worse than I already do!" he snapped unreasonably.

  "That's not true!" Vera cried. "I'm—"

  He stopped pacing and glared at her. "Oh, I know you too well," he interjected again before she could finish, "and you're not the perfect little angel that everybody seems to think you are." He pointed an accusatory finger at her.

  "I know that the perfect little Miss Vera used to get a little on the side with nasty Simon Hampton, didn't you?"

  "Misha, you're being—" she began to no avail.

  "I'm being what?" he roared. "I'm being realistic. Because you were screwing around with the creep before we married and for all I know you could be screwing around now!"

  Vera looked at him with a mixture of astonishment, horror, and fury. "Simon Hampton is dead," she said from between gritted teeth. "Dead!"

  Misha looked at her with surprise. "Dead?" he said. How did she know? One of her friends in London could have called her with the news, he guessed, or it might even have been in the New York papers, though he doubted it.

  "Yes!" Vera said miserably. "Dead!"

  "When was this?" Misha asked. "When?" he repeated when she didn't immediately answer.

  "Right before our wedding," Vera finally said.

  "What happened to him?" he asked, trying to find out what she knew.

  Suddenly Vera realized they were in treacherous waters, and she didn't know what to say.

  "Well?" Misha taunted. "What?"

  "He drowned off one of the piers in the Hudson River," Vera said quietly.

  Misha looked at her curiously. How on earth would she know that? he wondered. The papers—if she saw them—said he'd been found drowned near the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. He could have floated there from anywhere in the New York Bay. What the hell's going on here? he asked himself.

  "How do you know that?" he finally asked her.

  Vera began twisting her wedding band nervously, round and round her finger, trying to think what to say, her mind reeling with possibilities and implications.

  "He ... I ... I don't remember," she sputtered at last, knowing it was a lame response at best.

  "You don't remember?" Misha asked sarcastically.

  Vera looked away and didn't speak.

  "You claim he drowned out on the piers. But he was found down by the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. How do you know where he died?" He paused, studying her troubled features. "Why don't you tell me the truth? You always lied about Simon Hampton, didn't you? Why don't you try to tell me the truth now? Huh?"

  Vera sat mutely, her misery and turmoil clearly evident on her elegant face. How in the name of God did the conversation take this turn? she asked herself. How could I have let this happen?

  "Come on, Vera," Misha cajoled nastily. "Out with it. How did you know about Simon Hampton's drowning?"

  "Because I was there!" she cried at last. "Because I saw it happen!"

  Misha looked at her in stunned disbelief. "You were there?" he said. "You saw it?"

  Vera nodded. "That's what I said, Misha," she said quietly.

  His mind whirled with a million questions, and for a moment he couldn't focus on one. Finally he asked,

  "Why, Vera? Why were you seeing Simon Hampton right before our wedding? Were you two still seeing each other?"

  "Oh, Jesus," Vera said. "You think it was a sexual tryst or something? It wasn't that at all."

  "Then what was it?" Misha continued relentlessly. "What in God's name were you doing with him?"

&
nbsp; "I was trying to keep him from killing you," Vera finally said.

  "Killing me? Again?"

  Vera merely nodded again as tears began to fill her eyes and spill onto her cheeks.

  Misha's heart lurched at the sight of her tears, and he sat down on the bed and gently took one of her hands in his. "Tell me about it, Vera," he said softly. "Please tell me everything."

  And she did, telling him exactly what had transpired that horrible evening over five years ago, a night she had hoped to bury forever.

  Misha listened without interrupting her, alternately fascinated, revolted, and ultimately convinced that no one else had ever loved him enough to make that sort of self-sacrifice for him.

  When she finished her story, she looked up at him, tears still in her eyes. Misha slowly took her in his arms and held her there, stroking her head and her back, while fresh tears, prompted by his simple loving act, began to flow unchecked down her cheeks once again. She cried and cried until she'd cried herself out, for the time being at least, feeling a great burden lifted from her heart. The secret she had for so long carried was finally out, and she felt its weight lifted, giving her a sense of freedom from its heavy guilt and shame.

  She reluctantly drew back from the comfort of his arms and reached over to the bedside table for a Kleenex. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  Looking at Misha, she smiled ruefully. "I suppose there's some sort of irony in all this somewhere."

  Misha cocked his head. "What's that?"

  "We were always going to be open and honest with each other," Vera replied, "and now I'm finally telling you my last ugly little secret on the very night you've finally chosen to tell me that you're having an affair with Serena Gibbons and most likely want a divorce."

  Misha, who'd been watching her so placidly, jerked involuntarily at the sound of Serena's name. A flush immediately reddened his face. He was momentarily nonplused.

  This revelation, tripping so easily off her lips, made him a little angry: she had known but never breathed a word to him. How foolish he'd been to think that he could hide anything from her. At the same time, like Vera, he felt a vast sense of relief that his secret, too, was at last revealed. There would be no more subterfuge, and for that he felt, also like Vera, a new freedom.