Rhapsody (47 page)

Vera picked up a silver candle snuffer and
began putting out the low-burning tapers on the dining table. How
odd, she thought, that as Misha has grown apart from us—from Sonia
and Dmitri and Nicky and me—he has grown closer and closer to
Manny. They seem to have become practically inseparable. Misha
always seems to be over at Manny and Sasha's. Or going somewhere
with them.

She hadn't particularly wanted Manny and
Sasha here tonight, but Misha had insisted. Then she herself had
decided it was a good idea to have them, remembering that old
adage: Keep your enemy close.

She was certain that she knew what this new
closeness was all about. It was simple, really. Misha had found
allies in Manny and Sasha. Allies in the battle he was having to
extricate himself from his wife and son. Because Manny detests me,
and always has. She could imagine the sorts of conversations they
must have. Misha pouring his heart out in confession. Manny
listening attentively, telling Misha that it was all right, that it
wasn't really his fault. He must do whatever he felt because he was
an artist.

Artist! What shit! she thought. It doesn't
matter if you're a coal miner or the greatest painter alive.
Infidelity is infidelity. Neglecting your child is neglecting your
child.

She snuffed out the last of the guttering
candles with an especially emphatic tap, splattering tallow with
satisfaction, then replaced the silver snuffer on the sideboard.
She stood back and looked at her reflection in the ornate Venetian
mirror above it. She was wearing a long, body-hugging, corseted
dress by Dolce & Gabbana, with sliplike shoulder straps. It had
been delicately hand-painted with flowers in yellows, reds, whites,
and purples, their wispy greenery trailing the length of the gown.
It was truly beautiful, she thought.

But was it a good choice? she wondered,
smoothing it down at her hips. Then suddenly she decided she didn't
want to play that game. She refused to think that her appearance
could be the cause of her husband's disaffection. She wasn't going
to start agonizing over every choice of dress and makeup and
hairstyle, hoping that her decisions pleased him.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned and walked
elegantly back into the candlelit living room. She was surprised to
see that everyone was getting ready to leave.

"There you are!" Sonia said. "I thought maybe
Nicky had waked up. Is he all right?"

"Oh, yes. He's sleeping soundly," Vera said.
"Are you already leaving?"

"It's getting late," Dmitri said, "and Manny
and Sasha have offered us a lift home. So we're taking advantage of
it."

"It's been really lovely, Vera," Sasha
gushed, which was totally unlike him. His pale blond hair shone in
the candlelight, and his ever watchful gray eyes seemed
sincere.

"You must both come again," Vera said,
accepting a kiss on the cheek from Manny.

"The apartment looks so beautiful, it's hard
to leave," Sonia said. "Darling, we'll never forget tonight. The
food, the flowers, everything! It was perfect, and we appreciate it
so much."

"Thanks, Sonia," Vera said. "It was for very
special people."

They exchanged kisses, then Dmitri hugged and
kissed his daughter-in-law. "We love you like our own," he
said.

"And I love you," Vera said.

"You are the luckiest man alive," Sonia said
pointedly, looking at Misha. "The luckiest man alive!" She kissed
his cheek.

"Y-yes," Misha said haltingly. "I suppose I
am." He began walking them toward die entrance hall.

Sonia, trailing behind, took Vera's hand.
"Patience, darling," she whispered into her ear. "Patience."

Vera simply nodded.

"And call me if you need anything," Sonia
added. "Anything at all."

"I will," Vera promised. "But I think it'll
be okay."

The candles had all been extinguished, the
music turned off, and Anna, the maid, had finished cleaning up
after the party. The apartment was quiet. Misha, undressing in the
bedroom, reflected on the evening. It had all been so convivial, he
thought, so warm, and stimulating, and though he hadn't looked
forward to the dinner party, his participation hadn't been anything
other than genuine. He hadn't had to force himself to participate
in the lively conversation, to indulge in Vera's superb cooking and
the excellent wines. But deep down inside he'd felt a gnawing
emptiness, a need that the company of his attentive wife, loving
parents, and doting friends couldn't provide. It wasn't the first
time he'd felt this way—being surrounded by such loving, caring
people, yet feeling so empty, so alone and sad—but for some reason
in the aftermath of tonight's celebration he felt particularly
heavy of heart.

Expelling a loud sigh, he neatly hung his
trousers in the closet. Perhaps, he thought, it was knowing that
evenings like this one were soon to end altogether. At least in
this beautiful setting, with this cast of characters assembled
together. He would see everyone that had been here, of course, but
it would never be the same.

He'd planned to have a talk with Vera this
evening— and still planned to—but the dinner party made his task
much more difficult. Celebrating with the only family he'd ever
known had only served to emphasize the enormity of what he was
about to do.

And it is enormous, he thought. For he
realized that while he and Serena certainly had a close
relationship, an intimacy that was fresh and lusty and joyful, it
was not always comfortable or easy. Sometimes, in fact, Serena
seemed like an enigma to him. How well do I really know her? he
asked himself.

He slipped into his bathrobe and padded into
his bathroom. He began brushing his teeth, looking in the mirror
over the sink but seeing, instead of his own reflection there, the
ravishing creature he so desperately wanted to be with. Oh, God, he
thought, she is so beautiful and so desirable, yet … yet does what
I'm about to do make sense? Is it what I really want?

He suddenly thought of Nicky and his little
boy's excitement tonight, getting to eat with the grown-ups and
stay up late with his grandparents. He could see his chubby, pink
cheeks and his raven black hair, could see the glee in his dark
eyes and hear his contagious laughter.

Serena had said that she eventually wanted a
family and some semblance of a home life, but did she really mean
it? For that matter, did she even know her own heart? Certainly,
she knew what she wanted career-wise, and that seemed to take
precedence over everything else. It always has, hasn't it? he told
himself. Would that ever really change?

Finished in the bathroom, he went back to the
bedroom, where he spread out, still thoughtful, on the bed. He
reached over for the small balloon of Armagnac on his bedside table
and took a sip. He'd promised himself that he would confront Vera,
but now the mere thought filled him with a mixture of dread and
sorrow. The Armagnac, normally so soothing, tasted fiery and vile
on his palate tonight.

What rotten timing, he thought. Just before
the holidays. Could he have possibly timed it worse? Vera and Nicky
would have both his parents and hers, so they wouldn't have to be
alone. And of course, he would be with Serena or would he? Come to
think of it, Serena hadn't even mentioned the holidays. She'd only
seemed interested in meeting him somewhere in the Far East while he
was performing there. It would be convenient for them both, since
she was dead set on going to Cambodia to take photographs. His trip
would fall between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so maybe they could
work something out. She would surely make it a point to be back for
Christmas, wouldn't she?

Vera came into the bedroom then, and he
looked up at her. She had looked beautiful tonight in her new
dress, and she looked no less so in her cream silk robe with its
lace trim. Her pale blond hair was down, just sweeping her
shoulders, and her Dresden blue eyes looked serene and content.
"Where were you?" he asked.

"Just checking on Nicky," she said, smiling.
"I thought I heard him coughing, but I guess I was imagining
it."

"You don't want to spoil him," Misha said,
thinking that she spent an awfully lot of time seeing to Nicky.

"I hardly think that checking on him at my
bedtime is going to spoil him, Misha," Vera said coolly. "Sometimes
I enjoy just watching him sleep."

Misha suddenly felt annoyed with her, and at
the same time knew that it was an irrational feeling. He resented
her being the perfect mother and wife. It made his own
self-absorption seem that much more odious to him.

She took off her robe, laying it on a chair,
and slid out of her slippers. Then turning, she looked at him.
"Aren't you going to bed?" she asked.

"In a while," he said, taking another sip of
his brandy.

Vera pulled back the covers and got into bed
beside him. "I think tonight went very well, don't you?" she asked,
making conversation.

"Yes," Misha said matter-of-factly. "It was
very nice."

"I hope next week's dinner party goes as
well," Vera said.

He looked at her. "Next week's?"

"Yes," Vera replied, looking at him in alarm.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten, Misha."

"Forgotten what?" he asked with
puzzlement.

"You promised me you'd be here for the
Caprioli- Fontini dinner. You know how important it is," she said,
trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

He grunted noncommittally.

"I'm trying to get their art collection for
the auction house to sell," she went on. "I'll get a huge fee if I
pull it off."

"You always manage, Vera," he said
nonchalantly, "with or without me."

"But ...but you promised!" she said with
exasperation. "They're big fans of classical music and of yours,
Misha. I told them you would be here because you're not on tour.
You promised me," she repeated. She ran a hand through her hair
nervously and sighed.

"Well, perhaps you should have taken me out
of the quotient," Misha snapped. "Your job has nothing to do with
me!" He glared at her. "I don't understand why you make all of
these social obligations anyway, and then try to involve me. I bet
you've got parties and dinners lined up from now through the New
Year."

"As a matter of fact, I do," Vera said in a
slightly miffed tone. "But this is the only one that was supposed
to involve you other than family functions. I deliberately planned
this around your tour dates. And I did ask you about it beforehand,
Misha. When you told me you definitely had decided not to do the
Russian tour, I scheduled this."

She searched his face for a reaction, but he
sat mutely, staring straight ahead, holding the balloon of Armagnac
with both hands at his waist, pointedly ignoring her. He's like a
pouting child, she thought disgruntedly. I'd better try another
tack. Try to rescue the situation.

"Misha," she said softly, "I know you need
lots of time to yourself these days, and I understand—"

"Just drop it, Vera," he snapped harshly,
turning angrily to her. "Haven't you done enough to complicate
matters for me? You are not running my life, and you don't
understand a fucking thing!"

Vera felt a powerful anger blooming deep down
inside her, then growing until it burst through her normally cool
facade. Her patience snapped.

I don't deserve this
, she thought.
I've done nothing to deserve being treated like this
.

She turned to face him. "Why are you acting
like this, Misha?" she said firmly. "Why are you treating me this
way? There was a time when you would've gladly gone out of your way
to be here for something like the Caprioli-Fontini dinner. You
would have been proud of me and wanted to help."

Then, despite her attempt at self-control,
her voice choked, and she caught her breath before going on.
"What's happening, Misha?" she finally cried. "What's happening to
us?"

His eyes flitted across her face; then he
quickly averted his gaze from her again. Oh, God, he thought, why
does it have to be like this?

"I ... I ... I don't know," he finally said
almost plaintively. "I just …" He paused, gritting his teeth, then
took a swallow of the Armagnac.

Vera saw that his face was etched with
anguish. It was a tortured expression she'd never seen on his
handsome features before. Suddenly she realized that he wanted to
tell her everything, to tell her about his affair. He was
struggling to find the right words to use, to soften the blow, she
assumed, but he was having trouble doing it. That, she told
herself, explains his overreaction tonight, his testiness. It was a
result of his own emotional turmoil, that battle he was waging
within himself over her and ... the other woman.

She looked at him. He sat staring silently
into his glass of Armagnac. "It's because of the affair you're
having, isn't it?" she said in a very quiet voice. "That's what
this is all really about, isn't it?"

Misha jerked slightly and then looked over at
her, returning her stare. But he remained silent. How can I lie to
her? he wondered, seeing the look of compassion in her eyes.
Yet...how can I tell her the truth?

"I know you're having an affair, Misha," she
continued, her voice almost a whisper. "And if I must accommodate
it, then so be it. But your cooperation would be helpful."

"How do you know I'm having an affair?" he
asked quietly. He wondered whether or not she really did know, and
if so, how.

"It's obvious," Vera said matter-of-factly.
"You don't want me anymore. You are less and less interested in
Nicky—"

"That's not true," he interjected with an
edge of anger in his voice.

"Well, you spend less and less time with
him," she amended. "And you spend less and less time at home these
days. I would have to be stupid not to realize that something is
going on, Misha."