Rhapsody (28 page)

Misha took a sip of the champagne that the
fawning waiter had presented to them as a gift of the management.
He looked over his glass at Manny, who was engrossed in
conversation with Dmitri. His father, he noticed, looked as
uncomfortable as Sonia, and Manny, if a bit more animated than
usual, was as out of place here with his affected aristocratic airs
and his Savile Row tailoring as they were. Why in the world did he
and Sasha choose to have this celebration here? Misha wondered.

He knew, of course, that Manny and Sasha had
grown up in this section of Brooklyn, that they had even named the
recording label after it. But hadn't they worked triple-time to get
themselves out of here, away from these reminders of their heavily
ethnic and less than prosperous beginnings? But then, Misha
supposed, this club and its crowd had certainly not been a part of
their humble youth. The furs and jewels, the expensive suits and
slicked-back hair, the thuggish-looking sentries stationed around
the club and the stretch limousines parked out front, all the money
being tossed around so recklessly for second-rate food and
entertainment—all of these things were part of a new breed of
Russian, and were surely not something that Manny and Sasha could
identify with.

In any case, he hadn't wanted to disappoint
Manny and Sasha when they'd broached the subject of a party. They
had wanted to celebrate Misha's recovery from his injuries, Manny'd
said, and give him a big send-off before his next world tour. Now,
rather than embarrass his friends, Misha was simply trying to
endure the gaudy spectacle around them instead of insisting that
they leave.

"Penny for your thoughts," Vera said, nudging
him on the arm with her elbow.

He turned to her and smiled. "To be honest,"
he said softly, not wanting to be overheard, "I was wondering why
the hell Manny and Sasha chose this place for a party."

Vera shrugged her elegant shoulders and
smiled. "Oh, I don't know," she said, her eyes glittering
mischievously. "Maybe they thought the music would appeal to
you."

"I think you know better than that," Misha
said with a laugh. Vera was being an awfully good sport, he
reflected. He knew that she must be cringing inside.

He reached over and squeezed her hand gently.
"Actually," he said, "I was thinking that if I have to listen to
just one more old Russian melody played on those infernal
balalaikas, I'd get up and leave."

Vera smiled. "Maybe that's why everybody
drinks so much," she said. "The music sounds better."

"That must be it," Misha replied. He leaned
closer to her. "Thank God, it's almost over. A little balalaika
goes an awfully long way. I was thinking that after we leave here,
maybe—"

"Mikhail Levin!"

The thundering baritone with its heavy
Russian accent gave Misha a start. He and Vera turned to look up at
a bear of a man towering over them at the table. He had
salt-and-pepper hair, a thick brush of mustache on a jowly red
face, and wore an expensive-looking suit, which looked odd on his
beefy, broad-shouldered body. He put a thick mitt of a hand on
Misha's shoulder, and extended the other for a shake.

"Yuri Durasov," he said, smiling hugely at
Misha, exposing teeth that had been badly capped or bonded.

Misha started to rise as he shook the
proffered hand, but Durasov quickly tapped his huge paw on Misha's
shoulder. "Please, don't get up," he said. "I just wanted to say
hello. I am one of the owners of the Club Moskva, and a big fan of
yours."

"You are?" Misha said, hoping his voice
didn't betray the doubts he had that this behemoth was truly a
devotee of classical music. But he quickly decided that he mustn't
allow himself to be fooled by appearances, and he certainly didn't
want to be rude or ungracious. "Thank you very much," he said, "I'm
glad that you enjoy my playing."

Durasov clapped him on the shoulder again.
"Beautiful," he said. "Beautiful." His steely eyes swept over Vera,
appraising her as if she were livestock at an auction.

"Your girlfriend?" he asked, his gray eyes
still drinking in Vera's cool beauty, her elegant Mary McFadden
cocktail suit and exquisite jewelry.

"Oh, sorry," Misha said. "This is my friend,
Vera Bunim."

Vera extended a hand and smiled graciously.
"How do you do, Mr. Durasov?" she said.

"It's a pleasure," he said, his gaze
lingering on her a moment longer.

"This is my mother," Misha said quickly,
indicating Sonia on his other side. "Sonia Levin."

Durasov extended a hand to her, and Sonia
took it briefly and nodded politely before pointedly focusing her
attention in the distance. She obviously had no desire to make
conversation with Yuri Durasov.

"I hope you enjoyed your champagne and the
dinner," Durasov said, his eyes on Misha again. "We are honored to
have you here."

"The honor's ours," Misha said. "And thanks
very much for the champagne."

Durasov clapped his shoulder again, and
slowly lumbered around the table to Manny and Sasha, who quickly
got to their feet and shook hands with him, then introduced
Dmitri.

"Manny and Sasha seem to know him rather
well," Vera said to Misha, watching the exchange across the
table.

"It certainly looks like it," Misha said, his
voice conveying an anxiety that hadn't been there before. Yuri
Durasov had made him feel decidedly ill at ease. Despite the man's
expensive clothing, meticulous grooming, and friendly air, there
was something about him that gave Misha the creeps. He suspected
that beneath what appeared to be a recently acquired veneer of
polish and charm, there lurked a brute who was capable of extreme
violence.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Vera
asked.

Misha looked at her. "What's that?" he said.
But before Vera could reply, Manny and Yuri Durasov came around the
table to Misha. Sasha had kept his seat and was looking as stony as
always.

"Misha," Manny said, his face a convivial
mask that Misha had often seen. "Yuri wants to know if you would do
the club the honor of playing a tune for them."

Misha looked up at him in surprise. Manny
knew that he hated this sort of thing. Playing the piano was his
job, for which he was paid, as he'd told him often enough. Seeing
the hopeful look on Manny's face, however, he knew that he couldn't
let him down. He certainly didn't care about Yuri Durasov or his
club, but he could see that, for whatever reasons, his playing
something was important to Manny.

"Well," he finally said, "I guess I could
play ... something." He could hear the irritation in his voice, and
made a concerted effort to lighten up. "Sure, why not?"

Manny sighed with obvious relief. "Great!" he
said. "You hear that, Yuri? He's going to play."

"This is a real honor," Yuri Durasov said. "A
real honor. You want to come with me?" He extended an arm toward
the small stage.

Misha rose to his feet, and Durasov led him
to the front of the club, where he spoke briefly to one of the
balalaika players. There were murmurs and curious glances around
the dinner tables as the music died down and Durasov mounted the
stage and took Misha to the piano. Durasov then turned to the
microphone, and a hush fell over the club's guests.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "We are
greatly honored here at the Club Moskva tonight to have as our
guest one of our very own. The great classical pianist from Russia,
Mikhail Levin."

The audience burst into applause, and there
were a few whistles. Misha wondered if any of these people had ever
even heard of him, but he smiled at their response. Durasov turned
to him and bowed, and after a few moments of concentration Misha
began to play the instantly recognizable "Moonlight" movement, from
Beethoven's Piano Sonata in C-sharp Minor. Though not Russian, its
cry of unrequited love and its familiarity, he thought, would
appeal to the club's rowdy crowd.

Misha played for a few minutes, guessing that
the audience wouldn't want to hear much of this sort of music—it
was certainly not what they'd come to the Club Moskva for—then
improvised an ending, stood, and bowed. The audience's reaction was
wildly enthusiastic, the deafening applause, whistles, and shouts
no doubt fueled by the copious amounts of alcohol they were busily
consuming.

Durasov rescued him from the stage, pumping
his hand vigorously, and returned him to his seat at the dinner
table. Misha sat down, and smiled tightly at Vera when she patted
him reassuringly on the arm.

"That was very generous of you," she
said.

Misha merely shrugged.

"Quite nice under the circumstances," Sonia
leaned over and said. "But a complete waste of your talent," she
added in a voice brimming with irritation.

Misha nodded curtly but didn't speak. He
looked across the table at Manny. "I think it's time we left,"
Misha said.

"Right you are, old man," Manny replied. His
manner was jovial, but the look on his face was sheepish. He placed
his hands on the table and pushed himself up to his feet. "I'll be
back in just a minute," he said. "Come on, Sasha," he added. Sasha
got up, then the two of them turned and walked toward a long,
darkened hallway, to what Misha assumed to be an office.

Durasov appeared at Misha's shoulder again,
clapping a huge paw on him as before. "Thank you for playing," he
said. "I hope you will return to our club and bring all of your
friends. We like your kind of people."

Before Misha could respond, Sonia, who was
looking up at Durasov with thinly veiled contempt, said: "I'm not
so sure that our kind of people mix well with your kind of people,
Mr. Durasov. Aren't you a gangster? And isn't this place one of
those hangouts for the Russian mob?"

Yuri Durasov froze momentarily, and then the
ingratiating expression on his face turned to one of stony fury.
His gray eyes were colder than ice. He withdrew his hand from
Misha's shoulder and snapped his thick fingers loudly.

"Out!" he said in a quiet but ferocious
voice. "All of you. Get out! This instant!"

Three of the thuggish sentries appeared
around the table. Sonia couldn't help feel a sense of unease; their
thick-fingered hands were on the backs of the chairs they sat upon.
As though ready to pull them out from under us, she thought.

"We don't need your help," she snapped,
scraping her chair back and getting to her feet with dignity.

"Sonia, please," Dmitri said, coming around
the table to her side. "Don't forget your manners. Mr. Durasov has
been very nice to us—"

"Always the great peacemaker, aren't you!"
she said coldly to her husband.

Misha and Vera rose to their feet. Vera
surveyed the scene calmly, her expression inscrutable.

"Come on, Mama," Misha urged quietly. "Let's
go." He took her arm, and Dmitri took Vera's. They started toward
the club's entrance hall, where the woman in coat check already had
their coats in a pile across the counter.

Manny, with Sasha trailing behind him, came
rushing toward them from the hallway, a look of consternation on
his face. "What—?"

Durasov grabbed him by the lapel of his
jacket. "You!" he growled. "Come with me. You, too." He pointed at
Sasha. He jerked Manny toward him, and led him back down the
hallway again, toward the office, with Sasha, once again, trailing
behind.

Misha stared after them as he helped his
mother into her coat, then shrugged into his own while Dmitri
helped Vera with hers. They'd started out the club's doors when
Vera reached out and took Misha's arm.

"Maybe your parents should go on out to the
car, Misha," she said coolly, "and we should wait here for Manny
and Sasha." She gave Misha a significant look.

Misha eyed her thoughtfully, then nodded his
assent. "Dad, take Mama on out to the car, will you?" he said.
"We'll be right out."

"Sure, son," Dmitri replied. He took his
wife's arm. "Let's go, Sonia," he said. "Quietly, please."

Sonia threw her shoulders back and held her
head high, her bearing even more regal than usual. A smile of
satisfaction fleetingly crossed her lips, but she didn't utter
another word.

They exited through the heavy steel door that
the mammoth doorman, silent and forbidding in a black leather
trench coat, held open for them, his face expressionless.

Vera turned to Misha. "Do you think we ought
to go look for them?" she asked, a worried look on her face.

"Maybe we should," Misha said. "But I really
don't like this, Vera. Why don't you go on out to the car and wait
there?"

"No," she answered with determination in her
voice. "I'm staying with you. Let's go see—"

At that moment Manny and Sasha, unaware of
them, hurried from out of the shadowy hallway. Manny's hands were
clutched to his stomach, and his face shone with the sheen of
perspiration. Sasha had a look of panic in his piercing gray
eyes.

"What the hell, Manny?" Misha said.

Manny quickly dropped his hands and tried to
plant a smile on his lips. His effort was feeble. He pulled a crisp
white linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket and quickly began
wiping the sweat from his face.

"Let's go," he said, his voice a breathy
rasp. "Come on, Sasha." Then he and Sasha made a quick beeline for
the door, not waiting for them.

Vera looked up at Misha, her eyebrows raised
questioningly. He shrugged, his lips set in a grim line, then put
an arm around Vera's shoulders. They followed Manny and Sasha out
into the cold, dark Brooklyn night.

It's too late to ask any questions now, Misha
thought.

He certainly had no intention of grilling
Manny and Sasha while his mother was still with them. Later, he
thought. Yes. I'll ask them about this later, when we're alone.

But later didn't come. The next day the
hectic activity surrounding his departure on the world tour became
a whirlwind of preparation: scheduling and rescheduling, packing
and repacking, endless telephone calls, tying up a hundred loose
ends in Manhattan, and saying goodbyes. It was easy to forget about
the questions he'd wanted to ask Manny and Sasha, especially since
he didn't really want to know the answers.