Rhapsody (22 page)

Vera Bunim, he thought, was much more than a
quick roll in the hay, unlike Katya, and despite that first night
together—the night they had met—Misha was certain that it was not
in Vera's nature to make casual sex a habit. That night had been a
fluke. That night, she'd told him, had been different because they
had been attracted to each other, of course, and even though they'd
never met, they did have a history of sorts together. She'd known
about the Russian prodigy her family was helping since he'd been
six years old, and she'd followed the Levin family's progress all
the way up to the night of his Carnegie Recital Hall debut, the
night they'd first made love.

The night we first made love, he thought. But
was it love?

Trying to clear his mind of these thoughts,
Misha went into the bathroom, where he turned the shower on,
adjusting the taps so that the water was refreshingly cool. He
stepped in and lathered up, but he still couldn't stop thinking
about Vera, try as he might.

God, it was all so complicated, he
thought.

Even their lovemaking—the stolen moments
they'd had since that first night—was an exercise in subterfuge, a
constant test of their resourcefulness, their abilities to find
ways, time, and places to meet.

While Dmitri and Sonia encouraged Misha to
see Vera—were in fact delighted in what they suspected was a
budding romance—they would not have thought a sexual relationship
between the two of them was wise at this juncture in their lives.
After all, Misha and Vera were only eighteen years old—too young
and inexperienced to settle down, and they were both just embarking
on careers. Vera, as far as they were concerned, would someday make
the perfect daughter-in-law, but they saw that day but dimly, in
the distant future, after Misha's name was made and his career
flourished.

Ivan and Tatiana Bunim, on the other hand,
had no objection to Vera and Misha becoming friends, but the idea
of a romance between the two was repugnant. If their beautiful
daughter wanted to have a sexual dalliance with the young emigre—if
she thought of sex with him as one might think of an after-dinner
mint—fine. But the Bunims would be shocked to learn of a budding
romance between the two young people. For Misha Levin, with all his
fine attributes, was, as far as they were concerned, not marriage
material for their daughter.

Though he was a Jew of Russian extraction, he
was straight off the boat, so to speak. They felt a powerful need
to distance themselves as much as possible from the shtetls of
Mother Russia. In the inevitable pecking order that was intrinsic
to international society, Ivan and Tatiana had always known—indeed,
much to their chagrin—that they didn't rank at the very top echelon
and never would, no matter how hard they tried, no matter how much
money they made and gave away. They were determined, however, that
Vera would be accepted into this tier above them. In order for that
to happen, she must marry exceedingly well.

If the groom-to-be was to be Jewish—and this
was not a consideration of any importance to the Bunims—then it was
imperative that he be a Jew of German extraction, and vastly rich.
A Russian Jew would simply not do, looked down upon by Jews in
international society as they were.

All of this and more Vera had gradually
revealed to Misha during the last few weeks as they had become more
and more familiar with each other, slowly becoming friends as well
as lovers.

Vastly rich, Misha thought, rinsing his long
black hair in the shower. That was, of course, the number one
requirement for any prospective mate for Vera Bunim, regardless of
religious background or country of origin.

He laughed aloud.

Rules me out, he thought. I'll certainly
never be rich enough, not the kind of money they're thinking about.
And I'll never be anything but Russian.

Well, he didn't really care right now. He
turned the shower off and stepped out, grabbing a towel and
starting to dry off.

It's all just as well, he thought, vigorously
toweling his muscular legs. They can have all their stupid social
prejudices. Because I'm sure not ready to settle down yet. I want
to experience everything there is out there before I commit myself
to anyone. Even someone like Vera.

His athletic body dry now, he dried his hair
with the towel and shaved and brushed his teeth. Looking in the
bathroom mirror, he liked what he saw reflected there and
understood why women liked it, too. Vera included.

And, he thought, smiling at his image, I'd
like to have a whole lot more of that appreciative female attention
before I get tied down with anybody.

Walking back into the bedroom, he opened the
closet door and began searching for just the right thing to wear
for tonight's date. He liked to dress carefully for Vera, even if
it was for the most casual occasion, because of his own innate
sense of pride and vanity, and because Vera herself always made a
special effort for him.

Besides, he thought, there probably won't be
too many more nights like this before I leave. Before I'm off
touring the world, playing my music, meeting all kinds of
women.

He put on a lightweight white linen Armani
shirt—it showed off his tanned and glowing skin—and well-worn but
pristine Levi's, snug ones that accentuated his body in all the
right places. No underwear or socks, he decided, just the brown
suede Gucci loafers and brown Barry Kieselstein-Cord belt, all
topped off with his navy blue double-breasted blazer made of
featherweight pashmina.

He looked in the full-length bedroom mirror
and decided he looked cool. Real cool. Cosmopolitan yet casual.
Fine for an informal summer dinner at a trendy restaurant and ....
?

He didn't yet know. It depended on whether or
not they had a place to go.

With that thought he made a grimace of
distaste. His mind had come full circle, right back to the issue
that preoccupied his mind so much lately. He needed his own space,
away from his parents, where he could do anything he pleased, when
he pleased.

"Ah, shit," he said aloud, frowning now.
Maybe ...maybe I should just bite the bullet and go ahead and
broach the subject with Dad. And Mama, too. See what they have to
say.

He glanced at his watch. Almost seven
o'clock. He had plenty of time to talk to them before meeting Vera
at eight-thirty. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Arkady, he prayed, putting his hands together
in a prayerful gesture, please be there for me tonight. Please,
please, please! Be there for me now.

He went downstairs to the living room, where
he saw Dmitri, sitting, his feet up on an ottoman, reading the New
York Times. Summer light, coming through the enormous windows,
suffused the double-height room with a soft glow. Sonia was not
there. She was most likely in the kitchen, he supposed.

"Misha," Dmitri said, looking up from his
newspaper. "Are you going out, son? You look nice. Where're you off
to tonight?"

"Vera and I are going out to dinner," Misha
replied, "and maybe take in a movie or something."

"Good," Dmitri said. "You two must be having
fun together, huh?"

"Yes," Misha said, somewhat resentful of the
question. He'd really rather not discuss his friendship with
Vera—or anyone else—with his father.

Sonia walked into the room, a dishtowel in
hand. "I thought I heard you," she said. She looked at him. "All
dressed up, I see," she said. "Or sort of," she amended. "No tie,
old jeans. Oh, and no socks! Is this a trend?"

"I don't know," Misha replied somewhat
sullenly. "But it's me."

"Okay, okay," Sonia demurred. "It's you. I
meant no offense, Misha." She paused, studying her son's face. "Off
to see Vera?" she asked finally.

"Yes," he said.

"How nice," Sonia said with a smile, "that
the two of you have become friends."

"Yeah," Misha said, "it is." He stood there a
moment longer, trying to decide what to do. Broach the subject now
or not? Then he took a seat in a chair near his father. Might as
well get it over with, he thought. What's to lose?

"I wanted to discuss something with the two
of you," he said.

Sonia heard the earnest tone of his voice and
immediately sat down on a couch, wondering what he needed to talk
about. Was he in trouble of some sort? Could he be getting cold
feet about performing? Whatever it was, it must be serious, she
thought, because Misha hadn't been discussing much of anything with
the two of them lately.

"We're listening, Misha," Dmitri said. "You
know you can tell us anything, son."

Misha looked at his father, then his mother,
and took a deep breath. "I don't know how to say this," he said,
"but lately I've been feeling like ... well, like ... I don't have
enough privacy. I'm eighteen now, and beginning a new life. You
know I love you both very much and appreciate how wonderful you've
been to me."

He paused a moment, hanging his head, as if
embarrassed by his honest expression of his love for them, his
hands folded together between his knees.

"I just ... I just ...feel . . ." he
began.

"You want a place of your own, don't you?"
Sonia said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Misha's head jerked up, and he looked at her
wide- eyed. "I... I guess ... that's ... what... I..." he said.

Sonia rose to her feet and went to the chair
in which he sat. She perched on its overstuffed arm, sliding an arm
of hers around her son's shoulder and hugging him. She patted his
back and mussed his hair, then leaned down and planted a kiss on
his forehead.

"Misha, Misha," she said. "You mustn't
underestimate your mama. Nor your dad. And you mustn't be afraid or
nervous, ever, to talk to us."

He looked up at her with his dark eyes.

"Of course it's time you got your own place,"
Sonia continued. "As much as we hate to see you go, as much as
we'll miss you sometimes."

Would this woman never fail to surprise him?
"Do you really mean it, Mama?" he asked quietly, a look of wonder
on his face.

"Yes," Sonia said. "Why else would I have
talked to real estate agents already? Why else would I have already
seen the perfect place for you in the Hotel des Artistes?"

"You've got to be kidding," he said in
amazement.

"No," Sonia said. "Your father and I have
been discussing it now for several weeks. We decided it will be
affordable, and that ...well, it's time, much as we hate to face
it."

Misha looked at his father, who nodded his
head. "She's right, Misha," he said, the glimmer of a smile on his
lips.

"Then you really don't mind?" Misha said.

"Noooo," Sonia said, looking at him
affectionately and squeezing his shoulder. "We really don't. But,
please. Just promise me two things, if you will," she added.

"What?" Misha asked.

"That you'll show all of your friends," Sonia
said, "the same respect that you've always shown us. Including your
girlfriends. Especially your girlfriends."

Misha nodded and smiled. "What else?" he
asked.

"That you'll be careful," she said, "and use
protection."

"Protec ...?" Misha began, then slowly shut
his mouth. He didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. How well
these parents of his knew him! How understanding they were, and
giving. And, of course, prying and intrusive also. Finally, he
emitted a laugh, then was joined by Dmitri and Sonia, and the three
of them laughed together, heartily, merrily, and as one.

Vera rolled over on her stomach and put an
arm across Misha's hard, washboard stomach, looking up into his
dark eyes. Her disheveled, pale hair hung loose, flowing just below
her creamy shoulders.

Misha looked down at her and smiled.

They had been to dinner at Da Silvano in
Greenwich Village, then had walked hand in hand to West Twentieth
Street in Chelsea, where Priscilla Cavanaugh, a friend of Vera's,
had a loft. Priscilla had let them borrow it, with a warning to be
out by midnight.

"It feels so good to be with you," Misha said
to her softly, stroking her hair as she stroked his chest.

"Likewise," Vera said, thinking what an
understatement that was, for her at least. She'd never felt this
happy, this content, this right, with anyone before. She was, in
fact, astonished with her own feelings, never having experienced
them before, and a little scared, if truth be told, because she
didn't feel in control of her runaway emotions. She felt subjugated
by them, at their mercy, and for Vera Bunim, the cool and
intellectual woman that she was, that was truly frightening.

Misha continued stroking her hair. "What are
you thinking about?" he asked.

"Ummm," she murmured. "Nothing, really."

"Come on," Misha said. "I know you better
than that, and I know you've got something on your mind. Tell
me."

"Oh," Vera said, "I was just thinking about
how different this is. I mean, you and me."

"How?" Misha asked. "How different?"

"Just ...well ...it's more satisfying," Vera
said, afraid to share with him the real depths of the emotions she
was feeling. "It seems like it's more than just ...more than
just...sex." She looked up at him. "Do you know what I mean?"

Misha hugged her. "Yes," he said. "I don't
feel like I've ever known anybody as well as I know you. Or felt as
comfortable with anybody else." He laughed. "And the sex isn't bad,
either!"

Vera joined in his laughter. "The sex is the
best!" she said, tweaking one of his nipples. Then in a softer,
more serious voice, she said: "It's never been like this for me
before. Not even close."

Misha looked at her curiously. "What was it
like?" he asked. "I mean with the others? Before?"

Vera looked thoughtful for a moment, then
shrugged. "The first few times it was really awful," she said. "So
fumbling and awkward. So messy!" She giggled. "And the boy! Arrrgh!
Terrible, poor thing!"