"Spare me, Manny," Misha said. "Would you want me to play for a crowd like that?" he asked. "Would you want me to give them some kind of legitimacy because I'd played for them?"
Manny shifted uncomfortably in his chair again. "Well, I don't think ..."
"Maybe," Misha said with emphasis, "maybe someday I will go back and play there." He paused and took a breath. "But not for people like that. Not for mobsters."
Manny, his head hanging in defeat, looked up. "That's your final word?" he asked.
Misha nodded. "That's my final word. Now, go home and help Sasha finish getting ready for our trip. I want to be alone for a while."
Manny pushed himself to his feet. He looked over at Misha. "See you later," he said.
"See you later," Misha echoed.
Manny turned and left the room, his stomach churning with the bile of defeat.
Vera was seated at the big antique pine table in the kitchen, sipping her morning coffee, her appointment book and a scattering of various lists at her side. She'd already seen Nicky off to his kindergarten, and was double-checking her appointment book for today's meetings and making a list of the telephone calls she should return.
When Misha walked in, she looked up. "Manny called," she said. "The limo will be here in a few minutes. Mario's already been up and taken your luggage down to the lobby." She looked back down at her appointment book, where she was jotting down a note, hoping that Misha wouldn't notice that she was troubled by his leaving.
"Thanks," Misha said. She's always so busy, he thought. Running the household, keeping up with her job at the auction house, caring for Nicky. And caring for me. All without complaint.
He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Vera . . ." he began.
She looked over at him questioningly, a slight smile on her face. "Hmm?" she murmured, trying to appear to be somewhat distracted.
"I'm glad we've talked," he said, "and I want you to know that ...well, I'll try to straighten out the mess I've made ...somehow."
Vera took a sip of her coffee and set the cup back down. "Whatever you decide to do, Misha," she replied in a soft voice, "let's both try to go about it in a civilized manner." She twisted her wedding band nervously. "You know where I stand. I ...I ...love you regardless, and I will be here for you. But I want to be treated fairly."
Misha nodded. He wanted to say he loved her, too, but he felt that the words would have no meaning for Vera right now.
Before he could respond, the intercom buzzer rang, signaling that the limousine had arrived to take him to Kennedy and his flight to Japan.
"You'd better go," Vera said. "Don't keep the driver waiting." She rose to her feet.
Misha got up and stood by his chair for a moment, then abruptly went around the table and put his hands on her shoulders. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, then drew back and looked at her.
Vera returned his gaze, looking into his dark, troubled eyes. She desperately wanted to hold him and to be held, but she didn't want to push too far.
Misha gave her a squeeze, then turned and was gone.
Vera stood, staring at the empty kitchen doorway, tears welling up in her eyes. Please, she prayed, come back to me. Please come back to me and Nicky.
In the private elevator foyer, Misha punched the button for the lobby. Waiting for the elevator car to arrive, he twisted around on his feet in nervous anticipation.
Out of the comer of his eye, he caught sight of the mezuzah on the door frame. The same one that he had himself nailed there years ago. The mezuzah he had bought to replace the one old Arkady had given him in Moscow long ago.
Misha reached over and brushed the cold metal with his fingertips, thinking about Arkady, his loving mentor, and his wise and benevolent guidance and advice. He realized that he hadn't thought of Arkady in a long, long time.
I wonder what Arkady would have to say about my life now? Misha asked himself. But he felt fairly certain that he knew the answer to that question: Not much. No, not much at all. Arkady would tell him that he'd let his passions run away with him. At the expense of his virtue.
Oh, Arkady, forgive me, he prayed. And help me. Please help me to know what to do. I'm lost, Arkady. Lost.
Misha leaned over and reverentially brushed the mezuzah with his lips. He heard the elevator car arriving and quickly turned back around, fingering the tears from his eyes. When the doors opened, he stepped in and was gone.
Part Four
NOW
Fall 1999
Upper West Side, Manhattan
The older Russian stepped from the apartment's entrance hall into its vast living room, his sycophantic younger muscle, in their trademark twin black leather trench coats and lizard-skin cowboy boots, at his heels. He planted his feet on the deep plush-pile carpeting and looked around, taking in the huge room with its expensive-looking modem furniture and its paintings and sculpture. Through the French doors in the distance he could glimpse the lush retreat of the wraparound terrace and its evergreen plantings, here high above ordinary mortals and the noise and grime of the city streets.
One of his goons let out a low whistle, nodding as his eyes swept the circumference of the luxurious space. "This what they call culture, huh?" he said in his thick Russian accent
"Great fuck pad," his buddy said, rocking on his boot heels.
"Stay here," the older Russian said, ignoring their remarks. He walked the length of the living room to the French doors and went out onto the terrace. Pausing at the balustrade, he looked out over the city and beyond. It was a cold but crystal clear day, and he could see north to the George Washington Bridge and the Palisades of New Jersey.
Some people know how to live, he reflected. Know how to spend their money. And some of it's thanks to me.
He was genuinely appreciative of what he vaguely recognized as good taste and sophistication, but he was also envious and resentful. These kinds of people, he thought, acted superior to him and didn't give him the respect that was his due.
I'm sick and tired of stupid excuses from the smartass, he decided. I'm sick of the whole business, in fact. He took a deep breath and shifted his gaze south, to the World Trade Center and out to the Verrazano Narrows. It's time for results.
That was why he'd come here today. He'd made a final offer—an enormous offer—but not exorbitant in terms of the benefits he and his organization would reap. If Mikhail Levin accepted it. With Mikhail Levin's name, they would have no trouble packing concert halls, selling CDs, setting up distribution deals, and signing up other music- world luminaries. As it was, everything was in place.
What they needed now was a big name to get the ball rolling. He was going to get the answer today—here on a piece of the younger Russian's own turf. He knew the young man would return soon, and he wanted to be here to surprise him, give him a scare. If the young man had finally convinced Levin, there wouldn't be any need for any further action. If that was not the case, however, then ...well, he would see.
Levin, after all, was virtually defenseless. He had a wife, a kid, and a mistress—which could all easily be used to get him to cooperate.
He knew, of course, that Levin had left for Japan today. Kyoto. That his management was leaving tomorrow. For Tokyo. A perfect situation, he thought Levin and his girlfriend in Kyoto. His "friends" in Tokyo. His wife and kid in New York.
He turned and walked back into the apartment, where one of his goons was giving the furnishings and art closer inspection while the other was sprawled on a sofa, thumbing through a book.
"This is some weird shit," the goon with the book said, holding it up. "Look at this. Buncha naked fags or something."
The older man paid no attention to him but walked over to the drinks table, where he poured some club soda into a crystal old-fashioned glass and drank it down in one swallow. He poured another one, took a sip, then set it down on the table when he heard the front door opening. He walked to the middle of the room and stood there, his feet planted wide, waiting for the you
ng man to appear.
The young man came through the arched entry into the living room, a briefcase and keys in hand. He saw the older Russian and stopped in his tracks. His face instantly drained of color, and for a moment he could only stare in disbelief.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked angrily after recovering from his initial shock. "And how the fuck did you get in?"
"Never mind how," the older Russian said.
He looked over at the goons. "Put that book back where you found it," he snapped at the one who sat on a couch. The goon slammed the book shut and banged it down on the coffee table.
The young man placed his briefcase on a chair and put his keys down on top of it. Then he turned to the older Russian. "What do you want?" he asked in a calmer tone of voice.
"An answer," the older man said.
The young man didn't answer for a moment "The answer's no," he finally said.
The older Russian's expression didn't change, but he was not happy to hear this news. "You're certain about that," he said.
"Absolutely," the younger man said. "He won't do it. He thinks the deal reeks of scum like you."
The goons looked up at their boss, and their bodies seemed to spring to life, all rippling muscle and tension just waiting to pounce.
The older Russian stood staring at the young man. The little cocksucker's a lot braver than I'd thought, he decided. He sure as hell isn't afraid of us. Maybe he's the one who ought to have a go at Levin. Like he wanted.
"Follow me," he said to the young man. "Let's have a little talk."
The young man wasn't sure it was a good idea for him to be out on the terrace with the older Russian. Then he realized that they still needed him, perhaps more than ever.
He smiled confidently at the goons, who sat watching him, then squared his shoulders and walked over to the French doors and out onto the terrace.
Chapter Thirty-six
Misha had fallen in love with Kyoto, Japan's former imperial city, and Serena, if not precisely in love, was an enthusiastic sight-seer and voracious shopper.
Magnificent Buddhist temples—over sixteen hundred of them—Shinto shrines, Zen monasteries, and Amida temples beckoned from every neighborhood. Palaces, gardens, and pleasure pavilions abounded with their delights. The city's sensitivity to beauty was evident in so many ways that Misha understood easily why it was always flooded with pilgrims, come to pay their respects.
In its eleven centuries Kyoto had endured earthquakes, fires, and the desecration of war, always to rebuild with reverence for its past. Despite its urban sprawl and twentieth-century high-rises, it was the center of traditional culture in Japan, and its residents had worked to protect its precious cultural artifacts from ruthless modernization.
Misha loved the old wood and plaster row houses, which had all but disappeared elsewhere in Japan, particularly the ochaya, the traditionally styled two-story wooden teahouses where geishas entertained. When strolling through the Gion district he and Serena caught their first glimpses of a geisha and her apprentices, maiko, on their way to appointments at the teahouses. At the Minami-za, Japan's oldest theater, they were intrigued by the Kabuki drama, and the solemn chanting and masks of the No play they saw at the Kanze Kaikan No Theater left them no less dazzled.
On Shinmonzen-dori they shopped for antique pottery and lacquerware. On Imadegawa-dori, Misha bought Serena a beautiful silk kimono. At the famous To-ji, a flea market, Serena found exquisite old silk obi and furoshiki—silk for gift wrapping—which she gave to Misha for having pillow covers made. They stopped for unidentifiable but delicious grilled fish in an open-air market, and at Rakusho, a tea shop in a former villa, they had a frothy matcha, the tea reserved for the tea ceremony.
Misha decided that what he loved most about this ancient city was its devotion to the spirit, as evidenced by its many temples and shrines, and the flesh, as seen in its districts set aside for physical pleasure. One could worship in so many ways in Kyoto, he thought with a secret smile. Yet he saw that there was an artistic blending of both flesh and spirit in everything.
And I'm certainly not immune, he reflected as he and Serena strolled, exhausted after a full day of sightseeing, back to the Tawaraya, the ancient inn where they were staying.
He had come to Kyoto determined that the first thing he and Serena would do was sit down and have a talk. He still wasn't sure that he knew his own heart, and he knew even less of hers. Yet when he'd arrived at the Tawaraya, Kyoto's most famous ryokan, Serena was waiting for him in their antique-furnished room. She'd welcomed him wearing a yukata, a simple cotton kimono, open down the front—and nothing else. Her body, resplendent in all its beautiful curves and angles, had beckoned to him as always. He'd needed no further coaxing to arouse his desire for her, to forget that he had wanted to talk to her.
They'd made love on the immaculate futon, a passionate and satisfying experience. Yet he'd felt that something was missing, that they were both holding back in some indefinable way. He hadn't had a chance to think about it, however. Afterward, they'd immediately headed out to begin sightseeing.
Now, as they took off their shoes at the doorway to the ryokan and put on the slippers provided by the inn, he reflected that their activity, while pleasurable, had been a delaying tactic. Holding off the inevitable discussion they both knew was coming. While Serena had been convivial and engaging, interested in what they were doing, she had nevertheless seemed distracted. Perhaps, he thought, she's simply preoccupied by thoughts of her trip to Cambodia.
He sighed as they made their way to their room, immune to the serene beauty of the ancient inn, still lost in thought. Her ambition he could understand. Wasn't he consumed by his own? Yet ... yet he realized that, unfair as it might be, he didn't want to be secondary to her ambition.
At the door to their room, they removed their slippers and padded onto the tatami-matted floor with bare feet. Tonight they would be served dinner here in their room. Misha knew that it would be exquisitely presented on beautiful porcelain and lacquerware, course after course. There would be shabu-shabu, a dish of thinly sliced beef, suppon, a turtle dish; tsukemono, assorted pickled vegetables. Dish after dish, on and on. Suddenly he wasn't looking forward to it.
Serena began undressing, throwing her clothes on a chair. She slipped into the yukata and turned to face him.
"Don't you want to get comfortable?" she asked.
Misha hesitated a moment before answering. "I ... I guess so," he finally said, and began stripping off his clothes.
Serena eyed him with a quizzical expression. "What's wrong, Misha?" she asked. "You were awfully quiet coming back to the inn."
He shook his head. "Nothing, really," he said. "But I thought the same thing. That you were being awfully quiet."
Serena sat down and tossed her raven black hair out of her eyes. She held her hands out in front of her and examined her long, BrazenBerry-polished fingernails. She seemed absorbed in them, ignoring his response to her, as if her expensive manicure was the most important thing in the world.
Misha silently folded his clothes and slipped into his yukata, then sat down in front of her and took her long, tapering hands in his. "Talk to me, Serena," he said. "We've been having fun, but you're at least as preoccupied as I am. What is it, huh?"
She looked at him and sighed. "I guess I'm just anxious to get going," she said. "You know. To Cambodia. It's just yours truly and Jason this trip. I've got a lot of work to do, and I need to get to it."
"Jason's here?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Didn't I tell you? He's staying in a little inn hidden away over in Gion."
"Maybe we should invite him to dinner," Misha said.
"No," Serena said, shaking her head. "He'd be bored stiff. He's probably already out exploring the bars anyway."
"I guess so," Misha said. He squeezed her hands lightly. "So," he said. "You're anxious to get going. And that's all? I mean, that's the only reason you're so ...well, a little dist
ant?"
"Yes," Serena said, looking at him. "I guess so. I'm glad we could meet, Misha, but I guess it was just bad timing."
For a moment he didn't believe his ears. This stopover was "bad timing"? Hadn't she expected him to tell her that he was getting a divorce? Didn't she expect him to ask her to marry him? Hadn't they reached a turning point in their relationship? Perhaps they had. Only it wasn't the turning point he'd thought.
Serena, however, dispelled this notion with her next comment. "Besides, Misha," she said, her hazel eyes looking into him, "I've been waiting for you to tell me that you're getting a divorce and that we're going to get married." There was a hint of a smile on her lips.
So she had been thinking about it. But now that the subject was out on the table, his mind went blank. "I... I don't know what to say," he said. "I ... I talked to Vera, but ..."
"But what?" Serena asked. She jerked her hands out of his. "But what?" she repeated.
"We talked about a divorce," Misha said, "but we didn't come to any definite conclusion."
Serena sighed. "Lame," she said. "That is so lame."
"Call it what you will," Misha retorted, "but that's the way we left it."
" 'We'!" Serena spat. "What's 'we' got to do with it? It's simple. You're supposed to be getting rid of her!"
Misha cringed. He could understand her anger and disappointment, but he couldn't handle her insensitivity toward Vera and their marriage.
"Serena," he said. "Vera and I've known each other for a very long time. You don't just unceremoniously dump somebody that you've known and ...and ...loved for that long. You should know that."
Serena looked at him with a pouting expression. "What about me?" she asked.
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