Rhapsody (26 page)

Vera's icy demeanor didn't change. She sat
staring at him with that unrelenting gaze. Then, gradually her face
melted, and she began to laugh, too, her laughter building into an
uproarious, joyful sound, joined by Misha's now carefree
full-throated roar. They collapsed upon each other, hugging and
kissing in their laughter, until finally Vera drew back, wiping the
mirthful tears from her eyes.

"You're unbelievable!" Misha said, taking a
hand of hers in his. "The greatest!"

"Well, do you want to have an old-fashioned
roll in the hay before you say good-bye?" she asked in a playful
voice. Oh, God, I hope he doesn't hear the desperation in my voice,
she thought.

Misha froze. That would only lead her on, he
thought, giving her false hope. I can't do it. I've got to make the
break now! After a moment he shook his head. "I don't think it
would be a good idea, Vera."

"Okay," she said. "Don't look so forlorn. I
was only kidding." If only, she wanted to cry.

"I hope nothing else changes between us,
Vera," Misha said. "I hope everything can be the same. I mean, that
we can still be best friends and all."

Does that mean with or without the screwing?
she wanted to scream.

"I hope so, too, Misha," she said. "I would
like that very much. Anyway, you know where I am if you need
me."

"Yes," he said. "And you know where I am." He
squeezed her hand.

She looked into his eyes. "Why don't you go
back down to the party now, Misha?" she said. "You've hardly seen
your parents."

"What about you?" he asked.

"I think I'll stay up here a few more
minutes," she said. "Have a little more of the bubbly. Alone." She
patted his cheek with a hand. "You don't mind? I just need a few
minutes of privacy."

"No," he said. "Not at all. You'll be down
soon?"

"Yes," she said. "Now, off you go! Scat!"

Misha got to his feet and leaned over to kiss
her. She turned a cheek to him, and he kissed it chastely. "Now,
scat!" she said again, and he turned and went back inside.

The moment he passed through the French doors
into her bedroom, her tears began to flow. They were profuse,
unstopping, for she thought her heart had been wrenched in two and
would never be whole again. She had never loved anyone like she had
loved Misha, not from the moment that she first laid eyes on him.
She couldn't explain it. It wasn't rational. But it had happened,
nevertheless. And now she didn't see how she could ever be happy
with anybody else.

But a voice somewhere in her mind told her
not to give up, not to do anything rash. If she continued to wait,
if she kept alive her undying love for Misha, then he would come
back. He would sort out his confused feelings. He would decide he
had to have her.

She got up and went into her bedroom and
dried her tears, then went into the bathroom to check her makeup.
Her eyes were a dead giveaway, but she could hide some of the
damage with makeup. Ten minutes later, she had worked a magician's
feat, repairing her face to its earlier serene and glowing
perfection.

She looked at herself closely. I've always
had everything in the world that most people could want, she
thought. And I've never had to work for it. I have worked at
pleasing my parents, at keeping myself fit, at doing well in
school, and I will work hard in my career. Now I must work hard,
harder than I've ever worked in my life, to keep Misha. Or to get
him back, if I ever had him.

I am not going to play the grieving
girlfriend. No. I am not going to make scenes or throw tantrums.
No. Hurl accusations, place blame. No. Nor am I ever going to throw
myself at him again.

What I am going to do, is be my cool,
intelligent self, keeping busy, quietly waiting. Let him continue
to sow his oats. Be there when he comes running back. Offer succor,
not punishment.

Because I want him, Vera thought. And I'm
going to have him.

She turned from the mirror and went back
downstairs to the party in her honor, greeting her guests with
poise, charming them all, her serene demeanor giving away nothing
of what had just transpired.

No one noticed the broken heart that bled so
copiously in her chest.

Misha closed the score of Beethoven's Piano
Sonata No. 1, op. 11, the famous "Moonlight" portion, adagio
sostenuto, which he had been practicing. He felt energized with
adrenaline despite the long, grueling hours of work he had put in.
Two three-hour shifts after a morning workout, with a brief break
for lunch. Pushing back from the piano, he got up and stretched.
That's when he remembered the telephone call he'd had earlier in
the day.

Perfect timing, he thought with a smile.

He went to his desk, where he flipped through
his black alligator date book, looking to see what, if anything, he
had scheduled for tonight. He'd been so busy practicing during the
day, learning new pieces and expanding his repertoire, then going
out every night that he had to rely on his date book to keep his
schedule straight.

Yelena had telephoned to say that she was
coming into town, then right out again. So if he saw her, it would
have to be tonight. She was going to be modeling during the day,
doing a photo shoot for Vogue.

Looking at tonight's slot in his book, he saw
that he'd penned in: Christina. Late dinner. Life. Christina was a
beauty he'd met during intermission at the ballet. Life was the
hottest dance club du jour.

Jesus, he thought. What am I going to do?

Christina was a bubbly dark-haired beauty,
lots of fun, with a slightly roly-poly but voluptuous body that
ought to be in pictures. Porno pictures maybe, not Vogue.

Yelena, on the other hand, was a very tall,
skinny Russian model, with drop-dead bone structure, legs that
didn't stop, and looks that literally stopped traffic. She also had
the soul of a hit man.

Neither one of them was a brain surgeon
exactly, Elton John being the only piano player they'd ever heard
of. But that doesn't always matter, does it? Misha told
himself.

So who is it to be?

Dance-with-her-till-she-drops, then
fuck-her-till-she- screams Christina? Or the steel-thighed,
kinky-minded Yelena?

Well, he reasoned, he could see Christina
almost anytime. She lived down in Tribeca, was unattached, and was
very much a free spirit. She went out nearly every night of the
week, so she probably wouldn't be too upset if he canceled out on
her. She would just pick up the telephone and call any number of
readily available escorts.

Yelena, then. She would only be here tonight,
and it had been months since their last date, a date that he didn't
think he'd ever forget. The acrobatics had been exhausting but
memorable.

He picked up the telephone and dialed the
number she had left, some photographer's studio downtown where the
shoot was taking place. When he finally got through to her, she
told him to meet her at the Morgan Hotel on Madison Avenue, where
she was staying. She'd probably be there by nine o'clock.

"I've got a surprise for you," he told
her.

"Oh, and what's that?" she asked in her
heavily accented English.

"You'll see," Misha said mysteriously. "But I
think you're going to like it."

"Come on, Misha," she said, "tell me!"

"A new toy, that's all I'll say," he said.
"See you at nine."

He hung up the receiver and looked at his
watch. Six o'clock. Plenty of time to get cleaned up, dressed, and
wow her with his surprise.

Misha strutted down the street to the garage,
feeling like he had the world on a string. He was wearing tight
Levi's, his new motorcycle jacket, and biker boots. Had his shiny
new helmet in hand. A new breed of urban cowboy.

In the garage, he fired up his new
Harley-Davidson soft-tail, all gleaming chrome and black paint. A
recent purchase he'd kept secret from everyone. His parents and
Manny and Vera would have been apoplectic had they known,
envisioning his lifeless body on the roadside and a brilliant
career gone down the drain.

Well, what they don't know won't hurt them,
he told himself. I'm twenty-four years old, and it's high time I
had some real fun.

Since he had time, he decided to head
downtown on the West Side Highway, then cruise back uptown on the
East Side to the Morgan. He headed west, across town, and hit the
highway, going south, doing seventy miles an hour, exhilarated by
the speed and the wind on his body. The mayor and his crackdown on
speed could shove it! At West Twenty-third Street, he stopped at
the light and decided to take a left and head straight across town
to Madison Avenue. When he got the green arrow, he turned, and—

Jesus!

A car in the turn lane next to him—the same
car that had been speeding down the West Side Highway alongside
him—was veering into him. Headed straight for him.

What the—?

Misha opened the throttle and gave the bike
gas, swerving to avoid the car, but he was too late. He saw the car
veer closer, its side looming impossibly large in his visor, and he
knew at that moment that he was going to be hit.

It was all over.

He gradually drifted up, up, up from under
the thick, gauzy cloud that seemed to have a grip on his
consciousness. First he heard sounds in the distance, not certain
what they were, then slowly became aware of a faint, diffuse sort
of light. In the beginning even its dimness was too bright for his
unadjusted eyes, becoming bearable only after long minutes of
trying to focus.

The world was a blur of cottony white, pale
greens, and a yellowy beige, with indistinct definition. Then the
sounds began to make sense: the glint of metal against metal, the
squishing of rubber soles on tile, doors opening and closing, a PA
system paging names he couldn't make out.

Struggling to think, to force himself up out
of the lethargy that had him in its hold, he gradually became aware
of his limbs and tried to move his arms.

A bolt of excruciating pain, like a charge of
lightning, shot up his arm, and a subsequent throb in his head
engulfed his entire skull in the white-hot heat of agony. His body
broke out into a sweat so profuse that it soaked the bedsheets, and
he gasped for air.

What's wrong? he wondered.

Where the hell am I?

The jolt of pain had brought him fully awake,
if still a bit disoriented, and he moved only his eyes, searching
his surroundings.

A hospital room. But where? What hospital?
And why?

The door swished open, and he heard rubber
soles squeaking on the tile. Suddenly a nurse loomed over him.

"We're awake, I see," she said, fiddling with
IV lines at the side of his bed.

Misha could see that she had gray hair, cut
very short, almost like a man's, with more than a hint of mustache
to match. She looked like a woman who would not suffer fools
gladly.

"Where ...?" he rasped, then tried to clear
his throat. "Where am ...I?" he finally managed.

"St. Vincent's," the nurse replied, removing
the wrapper from a disposable thermometer.

"Where?" he asked again.

"St. Vincent's Hospital," she replied in a
matter-of-fact voice. "In the Village. Greenwich Village. Here,"
she said, "open up for me." She held the thermometer positioned at
his mouth.

Misha dutifully opened his lips to receive
the thermometer, then closed them over it. What the hell, he
wondered. What am I doing in this place?

The nurse removed the thermometer, looked at
the digital readout, and made a note on a chart. "Welcome back to
the world of the living," she said with a curious almost-smile.
"You have visitors waiting to see you, so I'll send them on in
now."

Visitors? His mind didn't quite seem to grasp
the concept.

The nurse turned and left the room in a
stream of squish-squishes, pulling the door shut quietly behind
her. It almost instantly opened again, and Sonia, with Dmitri,
Manny, and Sasha close behind her, inched tentatively into the
room.

Misha watched as they slowly made their way
to his bedside, aware of the worry and outright fear etched into
their faces.

Sonia leaned over the bed and touched her
fingertips to her lips, then very lightly brushed his forehead with
them, choking back a sob. Dmitri had tears in his eyes, and
appeared to be restraining himself from reaching out to Misha,
afraid to touch him for fear of causing him pain. Manny, always in
control of any situation, seemed genuinely at a loss. It was the
first time Misha had ever seen him so distraught. Sasha's face was
stony, but then it nearly always was.

Sonia drew herself up, tears coursing down
her cheeks. "Oh, Misha, Misha," she wept quietly.

"What ...why ...why am I here?" Misha rasped,
tears forming in his own eyes, seeing the tears of his mother and
the distress of Dmitri and Manny.

"You were in an accident," Dmitri said.
"You're very lucky to be alive, Misha."

An accident? he thought with surprise.

"A motorcycle accident," Sonia said, her
emphasis on the word loaded with meaning, which was not lost on
Misha. She wanted to smother him with love but couldn't conceal her
anger, either.

Suddenly images of that night came flooding
back into his memory. The motorcycle. He could remember going to
the garage to get it out. He was going to see Yelena. Then he could
remember leaving the garage on the bike. But the memory abruptly
ended there.

"Am I ...am I ...okay?" he asked.

"It's going to be a long, hard road to
recovery, son," Dmitri said. "A lot of physical therapy and—"

"What ...what's wrong?" Misha burst out, fear
in his voice.

"Your left leg is broken," Sonia said. "And .
. ." She couldn't continue as tears threatened to spill from her
eyes again.