Rhapsody (19 page)

"But—" Sonia began.

"I'll record my concerts," Misha said, pacing
the room again, "but I won't allow the release of the CDs for the
next few years. Can you imagine the storm of interest— of
publicity—this will generate?"

"What—?" Dmitri started to speak.

Misha silenced his father by lifting his
hand. "With your teaching positions at Julliard, plus my
performance fees, even if there're only a few," he continued,
"we

won't have to worry about money, will we?" He
looked at them.

"Nooo," Dmitri said, "we can manage. It's
just that—"

"Good," Misha said. "It's settled, then." He
leaned with a hand on one of the Steinway concert grand pianos,
looking up at the ceiling dreamily. "I won't perform in Carnegie
Recital Hall until I'm eighteen. Until then I'll tease the music
world mercilessly, doing maybe one performance a year at Juilliard.
After I do Carnegie Recital Hall, I'll have them beating down my
door."

"Misha," Dmitri said, "what you are proposing
is the very opposite of what most young musicians would do."

"And that's the point," Misha had said.

That had been four years ago, Sonia
remembered. He had been fourteen years old and already so wise in
some ways. At first she and Dmitri had had misgivings, worrying
that this strategy would backfire, that interest in Misha would die
out and that any potential audience would gradually lose interest
after waiting so long. They had played along, however, encouraging
him, always being there for him, and had been relieved to see that
the curiosity about him had finally evolved into what had virtually
become an international clamor among the cognoscenti.

Now, she surmised, with a resignation that
made her a little sad, she and Dmitri would finally be taking a
backseat to agents, to producers, to recording companies, to
conductors, to marketing experts, and to a host of others who would
each have a part in carrying out their son's future in music.

Sonia anxiously rubbed her arms with her
hands, then hugged herself. She hoped against hope that Misha had
been right and that she and Dmitri had done the right thing in
letting him carry out such an unusual approach to handling his
career.

Well, she thought at last, with her usual
practicality, the proof is in the pudding. So we'll
see—tonight.

Tonight: Carnegie Recital Hall.

The glittering audience, usually so sedate at
these affairs, was stamping its feet, to Sonia's and Dmitri's
astonishment, demanding more and more, as if Maria Callas had
finally left the stage after performing her last encore, leaving
the audience begging for one more. Only in this case the thunderous
noise of stamping feet, clapping hands, shrill whistles, and loud
shouts of Bravo! was all for Misha.

Sonia turned to her husband with a wide smile
on her face. "Do you suppose they're ever going to leave?" she
asked.

"It's crazy!" Dmitri said. "Wild!" He hugged
her. "And I love it!"

Gradually, the audience did finally begin to
disperse. Sonia and Dmitri became surrounded by well-wishers on
their way out, many who knew them and some who only knew who they
were. They shook countless hands, accepted an untold number of
compliments, and kissed numberless cheeks, and when they were
finally left to themselves, they stood nearly exhausted, yet still
exhilarated after the performance.

"I guess we'd better get back to the dressing
room," Dmitri said.

"Yes," Sonia said. "It's time we got started
to the Bunims'." She paused and looked at Dmitri curiously. "Did
you see them, by the way?"

"Oh, yes," Dmitri said. "They were two or
three rows behind us."

"Funny," Sonia said thoughtfully. "I would
have thought they would say hello."

"I think they were just being very nice,"
Dmitri said, "and deliberately sparing us more handshakes and more
compliments."

"You're probably right," Sonia said, nodding
her head. "Besides, they must get home for their guests."

They made their way backstage, but couldn't
get close to the dressing rooms. A noisy crowd was gathered outside
Misha's door, many of them young women but with a sprinkling of men
as well, all with programs in hand, waiting for autographs,
jostling one another for space and proximity to Misha's door.

"Oh, my God," Sonia said. "He'll never get
out of here at this rate. What're we going to do?"

"Step back, please," shouted a baritone,
British- sounding voice with the ring of authority, firm yet
polite. "Please, step back. Kindly clear a path."

A young man grasped Sonia by the arm and
began to lead her forward, turning to Dmitri and indicating by a
nod of his head that he should follow with another young man, who
had sidled up to Dmitri. It was as if the Red Sea parted before
them, with the short, overweight man in his resplendent tuxedo and
tortoiseshell glasses continuing to cajole the crowd in his very
posh- sounding voice. "Please, step back. Kindly clear a path,
please."

They arrived at Misha's dressing room door
none the worse for wear, and the stranger gave it five rapid,
distinct knocks. The door opened a crack, and then was swung open
just enough for them to slide in, first Sonia, then Dmitri, and
finally the strangers.

Misha sat back down in a chair in the little
dressing room, a towel draped around his shoulders. He was using
the ends of it to rub his face over and over, wiping off the sweat
from the combination of stage lights and nerves.

He looked up and smiled widely. "It was okay,
huh?"

"Misha, it was fantastic!" Sonia
enthused.

"The best you've ever played!" Dmitri said
simultaneously.

Misha kissed his mother and father, then
grabbed the towel from around his neck and used it to vigorously
dry his sweat-soaked mane of hair. "I think they liked it, don't
you?" he said, with laughter in his voice.

"Liked it?" Sonia cried. "My God, I've never
seen an audience respond like that. The enthusiasm! The—"

Suddenly Misha stopped drying his hair and
dropped the towel. "Mama," he said. "These are my friends Manny
Cygelman and Sasha Soloviev."

Sonia turned first to the rotund young man
with the balding pate and tortoiseshell spectacles, dressed
elegantly in what appeared to be custom-made clothes. Manny almost
blushed under her assessing scrutiny. The other young man, Sasha,
stood silently watching her. He was taller and thinner than Manny,
but equally well dressed.

"So," she finally said, shaking his proffered
hand, "you're the famous Manny Cygelman."

"Well, I'm not famous, Mrs. Levin," Manny
replied, "but I am undeniably Manny Cygelman."

"Well, if you're as good at being an agent as
you are at crowd control," Sonia said, "then I'm betting you're
going to be top-notch." She gave him the benefit of her best
smile.

"I will accept that as a compliment coming
from you, Mrs. Levin," Manny said.

"And please, Manny," she said, "you're a
friend of Misha's. So call me Sonia. Okay?"

"Okay," Manny said.

"And you're Sasha?" Sonia said to the taller
and thinner man.

"Yes," he said, shaking her hand. He seemed
slightly uncomfortable, she noticed.

"A friend of Manny's?" she asked.

"That, too," the young man said with a slight
blush.

"Welcome," Sonia said. Then she turned to
Misha and began fretting over his mass of hair.

"You're going to have to have a blow-dryer
backstage, Misha," she said. "Or you're going to have to get all
that ...that mess cut off. A rock star you're not."

"No way," Misha said. "My fans love it."

"The fans," Sonia repeated. "The fans."

Misha gave his hair a final toss and rose to
his feet. "Is everybody ready to party?"

"All right!" Manny said.

Sasha smiled tightly.

"Just remember, young man," Sonia said,
"tonight was a great success, but don't forget where we're going.
Best behavior. Understand?"

Misha laughed. "Manny, they're worried
because the Bunims are so grand, you know? One generation off the
boat from Russia, and they think they're the Romanovs."

Manny smiled, but a serious look came into
his eyes. "From what I hear, they practically are the
Romanovs."

"You," Sonia said, "have the right attitude,
Manny Cygelman. Now, we'd better get moving, but oh, my God, what
do we do about the crowd outside?"

"I'll take care of it," Manny said. "I'll get
you two out, while Sasha maneuvers Misha through. He can give a few
autographs on the way. It won't take too long, so we can wait out
front. Okay?"

"I think that's a good idea," Dmitri
said.

"I think he's brilliant," Sonia said, patting
Manny's nearly bald pate. He took her arm, and away they went,
Manny putting on his best British accent for the crowd.

The entry gallery, as it was referred to,
left little doubt as to the character of the inhabitants of the
vast apartment, set high above Fifth Avenue in the east Seventies.
The floors were of gleaming black-and-white checkerboard marble
with cabochon insets of malachite and lapis lazuli. Overhead, four
matched crystal chandeliers, antique Russian ones of the waterfall
shape, brilliantly lit the gallery.

Its walls were lined with neoclassical carved
marble pilasters between which priceless paintings—Picassos, Miros,
Matisses, Legers, and Braques, among them— were hung against the
gold silk damask fabric. Ornately carved gold-leafed French
consoles with marble tops held large marble busts of antiquity and
Meissen pots of enormous hothouse orchids, their brilliant blooms
cascading to the tabletops. Heavily carved and gilded hall chairs,
which once graced the entry halls of stately British homes, lined
both of the long walls.

The entry gallery set the tone for the
remainder of the Bunim family's thirty-six-room palace of
treasures, dazzling those chosen few ever permitted beyond its
gilded portals.

Manny tugged at Misha's sleeve. "Have you
been here before, old chap?" he asked, wide-eyed despite his
efforts at appearing to be a blase sophisticate.

"Yeah," Misha replied. "A few times. You
know, they sponsored us in Israel and helped us get to New
York."

"The Bunims?" Manny gasped in genuine awe.
"You hear that, Sasha?" he said, tinning to his friend.

Sasha merely nodded and continued looking
about the entry gallery.

"Yeah," Misha said, looking at Manny. "And
believe me, nobody will ever forget it."

Manny looked surprised for a moment. "I think
I catch your drift," he finally said. "But it is spectacularly
beautiful, isn't it?"

Vaslav, the majordomo, ushered Sonia and
Dmitri to the drawing room entry first.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dmitri Levin," he intoned in a
firm, loud voice.

Misha, Manny, and Sasha heard the noise level
of conversation drop considerably, followed by a polite scattering
of applause. The applause was an unusual gesture, and the guests,
of course, were demonstrating their appreciation of Misha's
parents, knowing that the great pianist himself would most likely
be waiting in the wings.

Vaslav, who was huge—tall and
broad-shouldered— immediately returned and ushered Misha to the
entry.

"Mr. Mikhail Levin," he announced.

A loud round of applause ensued and continued
for some time. In response Misha bowed his head several times to
the assembled guests. As the applause died, the noise level of
conversation grew much higher and more animated than before.

When Vaslav announced Emmanuel Cygelman, then
Sasha Soloviev, hardly a head turned to look at them, but the
Bunims, perfect hosts that they were, immediately took note of them
both. They soon made their way over, introducing themselves, making
pleasant conversation, knowing as they now did, that Manny and
Sasha were friends of the evening's star.

Misha easily mingled with the guests,
accepting their lavish praise for his performance with poise and
self-confidence. It was not in his nature to be self-deprecating,
but he didn't give the impression of being an accomplished
egomaniac, either.

When the crowd of well-wishers had finally
subsided, Misha retired to a corner of the drawing room, where he
could quietly enjoy the vintage champagne and caviar lavishly
lumped on toast points. Surveying the glittering crowd, he could
see that Dmitri was engrossed in conversation with Ivan Bunim, the
two of them talking as if they were the best of friends. Manny and
Sasha, standing near one of the baronial marble fireplaces,
appeared to be attentively listening to Tatiana Bunim.

Where was his mother? he idly wondered,
surprised that he didn't see her in the thick of the action. Then
he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, heading toward
him—with one of the most stunning women he'd ever laid eyes on
firmly in tow.

As they approached, he stopped eating and
gazed at the beauty. She was very tall, at least five feet, nine
inches, with long, pale blond hair pulled back into a chignon. She
looked ethereal, he thought, angelic even, in her paleness. Her
skin appeared to be flawless in its perfection, and her eyes were
an intelligent but icy blue.

How perfect she looks in that white gown, he
thought. So pure, so innocent, so .. . virginal.

"Misha," Sonia said as they drew near. "I
knew I would find you hiding in plain view."

"Just taking a little break from the party,
Mama," Misha said, returning her smile.

"I have someone very special for you to
meet," Sonia went on. She patted the young woman's arm. "This is
Vera Bunim, Ivan and Tatiana's daughter. My son, Misha Levin."

For a moment Misha was surprised. He had
always heard about the Bunims' daughter but had never met her, had
never, in fact, given her a thought. Nor had he ever paid any
attention to the photographs in their Faberge frames he'd seen
scattered about the library the few times he'd been here.