The Music Trilogy

by Kahn, Denise

  After Jacques was released, Davina continued going to the hospital. She did not spend the nights there, but she spent a large part of every night and day at Monique’s side. Alejandro tried to convince her to take a break. “She has the best care,” he said. “What could you possibly do for her that the doctors aren’t doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Davina said. “I just have to be with her.”

  Alejandro persisted. He was hoping that the bad dreams would stop, that she would be able to finally put all that had happened behind her. At night, she woke up screaming, and she would not talk about the nightmares. There was no reasoning with her. Alejandro wanted desperately to put it all behind him.

  “Querida, I’m really tired,” he said one night. “Why don’t we see Monique in the morning after we’ve had a good night’s sleep?”

  “I didn’t ask you to come with me,” she snapped. “You of all people should understand,” Davina said, her voice rising. “Our friends need us, Alejandro. You should be the one with Jacques. He’s your friend more than mine or at least he was your friend.”

  “Who do you think you are, Florence Nightingale? Alejandro asked, his Spanish temper overtaking his usual calm diplomacy.”

  Davina’s cheeks reddened. Without saying another word, she gathered her purse and jacket and slammed the door to their apartment with all of her might.

  He had gone too far, he knew, but when he thought of how she had decided on her own to spend nights at the hospital without consulting him, his anger returned. She did not return to the apartment for several days. Alejandro knew she would never forgive him.

  A week later when Davina finally calmed down she thought about the man she adored and went home. She found him camped out on the couch in their apartment. Empty Scotch bottles littered the living room. Alejandro was asleep on the sofa, his hand touching one of the empty bottles. He looked haggard. He had lost weight and he had not shaved in days. Davina quietly went to the kitchen and made breakfast. The smell of the eggs and ham cooking awoke Alejandro, and the sight of the food made him nauseous.

  Davina moved another empty bottle to place the tray on the table. They stared at each other, both of them wanting only to be in the other’s arms but their stubborn pride prevented this.

  “When did you eat last?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  She scooped up some egg onto the fork and brought it to his mouth.

  “Why do you want me to eat? Are you feeling sorry for me or what?”

  “Why should I feel sorry for you? I feel sorry only for little animals that are hurt.”

  “So, now I’m an animal?”

  “No, I didn’t say that, and if you don’t mind, my arm is getting tired holding this fork.”

  He stared at her. Had she forgiven him? He remembered her shoulder and the other bruises and cuts. Her arm was out of the sling now. “How is your arm?” he asked, lightly touching it.

  Davina shivered at his touch, an electric current coursing through her. Every time he touched her, even now. “It’s much better.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that,” he said gently.

  “Would you please eat,” she said, exasperated.

  “Why?”

  “Because…”

  “Because why?”

  “Because I love you,” she whispered.

  He opened his mouth and chewed slowly, both of them still watching each other. He took the fork from her. “I’m sorry, my love.”

  “I’m sorry too.” She kissed his forehead.

  “No, it was my fault. I wasn’t there when you needed me. I behaved like an ass. Please forgive me.”

  “Let’s just forget it.”

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  They held each other. Alejandro wanted to talk about what had happened. They had not made love in a long time. “Mi amor, do you want to talk about it?”

  Davina laid her head on his chest and sighed. “Not now. Just hold me. I need you. I need you to hold me..”

  Jacques still held on to the lamp. He slowly lifted himself up. It was already very late when he found himself standing in Place Pigalle in Paris' red light district. Hookers in shorts and T-shirts approached him. He waved them off. He wanted no part of them, he wanted his wife. A young prostitute walked up to him. Her nipples stood up under her skimpy shirt. He would not have looked twice at her if she hadn’t reminded him of Monique. She was petite like Monique but on second look, she didn’t resemble his wife at all. She was a trotteuse, after all. Now she looked at him questioningly.

  “Yes," he said simply, surprised at his own words.

  She took him by the hand and led him down a back street into a hotel, the kind nobody in their right mind would actually want to stay at for any length of time.

  “Hundred francs," the receptionist muttered under her garlic breath.

  Jacques paid her and took the key she held up. The girl led him up the stairs to a darkened room with a large bed, a nightstand and a lamp with no shade. Two rats scurried across the floor. Two lovers, Jacques thought morosely.

  “It's going to cost you two hundred,” the young woman said. “All extras one hundred more, and I don't do any kinky stuff."

  Jacques handed her two hundred francs. She quickly put the bills in her purse and got undressed. Jacques watched her. He did not move even when she was naked. She undressed him. Still he did not move. She knelt before him and tried to please him. Nothing happened. It was as if Jacques’ mind was subconsciously telling his body that every organ was dead—starting with his heart. The woman continued with every trick she knew, but still she did not get a response.

  The prostitute took out a small vial and spoon from her purse. She filled the spoon with the powder and held it under his nose. “Take a deep breath,” she instructed him, holding one of his nostrils shut. Jacques obeyed. "Now the other," she said after quickly refilling the spoon. He inhaled again. His nose went numb and his brain exploded with the cocaine. She rubbed some of the white powder on her gums. Again she took tried to arouse him, and this time, she got a reaction, although it was minimal, and she was certain that this guy definitely had a problem. She did not get too many of this kind, not this bad. She led him to the bed and spread some of the white powder on his genitals. Soon he was hard. He suddenly grabbed the young woman and exploded into her.

  “Again,” Jacques said, “and don’t stop until I tell you.”

  She straddled him, moved rhythmically on top of him. He took one of her breasts, gripped her buttocks, pulled her down on him. He thrust into her until he climaxed.

  He watched her get off the bed and wanted more. "Get another girl," he ordered. "I have plenty of money and I want to spend it."

  She had seen his wallet. There was a bundle, and she could have it all. "You want action, Monsieur, you'll get it, , I just have to make a phone call."

  “Make it fast."

  She went down the hallway to a payphone and dialed a number. She spoke a few words into it, went back to the room.

  "My friend will be here in twenty minutes. Is that alright?"

  “Fine."

  A short while later there was a knock on the door. The prostitute unlocked the door to let in a black woman with a model’s figure. She wore a mini-skirt, a tank top and no bra. "So the man wants action?"

  “Yes, a lot."

  “Where's the money?"

  “Bring me my jacket," Jacques ordered.

  The black woman handed it to him. He took out a thousand francs and held up the money. “You don't stop until I tell you. Is that a deal?"

  The women looked from the money to each other.

  “You have a deal, Monsieur," the black woman said, very businesslike.

  “Good. What’s your name?"

  “Arlette."

  “And yours?"

  “Muriel."

  Jacques sat up against the headboard. His pupils were dilated and he was getting another erection watching the black woman undress. Her nipples, c
ontoured by dark wine colored circles, were erect. Her lips were full and sexy.

  Arlette lit a joint and put it between Jacques' lips. He took a long drag and immediately felt a buzzing in his head. The three of them shared the marijuana.

  They didn't stop for three days. Three days of sex and marijuana, cocaine and amyl nitrate. They did not sleep or eat. The drugs had taken care of those needs. But something in Jacques snapped and he became violent. "I want something stronger!" He yelled.

  The prostitutes had taken the drugs themselves, but it was nowhere near the amount they had pumped into Jacques. Muriel took out a different vial, of white powder, from her purse. She put some of the heroin into the spoon and held a lighter under it until the powder became liquid. This she injected into a vein in Jacques' arm.

  Jacques’ mood changed quickly. He relaxed. For the next two days, this was all he wanted, the heroin. He had found a new friend. On day six of the orgy, Jacques' eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites showed. His body began to convulse.

  The prostitutes had seen it before—it was the beginning of the end. They quickly got dressed and left, taking Jacques' wallet with them. They took out the money. Muriel noticed a business card. She dialed the telephone number on it.

  “Hallo, oui?" Davina answered.

  “Do you have a friend named Jacques?" Muriel asked.

  “Yes. Where is he? Do you know where he is?" Davina knew something was very wrong. She hadn't heard from Jacques in almost a week. Now she was frightened.

  “He's at the Hotel du Midi, in Pigalle, room number five. I suggest you hurry." The line went dead.

  Davina ran out of her apartment on the Avenue Foche and miraculously found a taxi. She gave the driver the address and slapped a hundred francs in his hand. "Fly!" she ordered him.

  He did. They arrived in fifteen minutes. "Wait here," Davina said, hoping against hope that this was the wrong place, that Jacques could not possibly be here. The odor of stale filth and mold assaulted her senses as she ran up the stairs. She did not bother to knock.

  Jacques lay naked on the bed, spasms wracking his body. She ran to the window and called out to the taxi driver. “Come up quickly!" she cried. "Number five."

  The cab driver, grateful for the money in his pocket, did not hesitate. He was at her side in seconds. He froze at what he beheld.

  “Don't just stand there!" Davina shouted. "Help me. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

  The cabby threw a blanket over Jacques and lifted him over his shoulder. He carried him down the stairs. Davina laid five hundred francs on the reception desk. "You don't know a thing. Clear?" The receptionist nodded eagerly and pocketed the money. It happened so fast she never noticed the international star.

  Davina got into the back seat and the driver laid Jacques' head on her lap.

  “What’s your name?" Davina asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Maurice."

  “Well, Maurice, if you get us to the hospital before he dies, you will be a thousand francs richer."

  “Oui, Mademoiselle.” The Peugeot lurched forward. The financial promise and the simple fact that all Frenchmen want to prove that they are Le Mans race car drivers were all the incentive Maurice needed.

  Jacques was turning cyanotic. Davina called to him and realized that he was not able to breathe. She put her mouth over his and breathed into him, hoping that this was the right way to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  Maurice looked from the road ahead to the rear view mirror, wondering if he was about to deliver a dead man.

  “Jacques, you son-of-a-bitch!” Davina shouted, shaking his head. “Don't you dare die on me! Don't you dare let Monique down. She needs you, Jacques! Jacques, you bastard, breathe!” Jacques gasped and muttered something incoherent.

  "Maurice, get on that radio and call the hospital. Tell them what is happening. Tell them we’re coming!"

  “Oui,” Maurice said, wondering what is going on? How am I supposed to know what’s going on?

  “Keep breathing,” Davina repeated. "Jacques! Monique and I both need you.” She cradled his head in her arms. “Jacques, Jacques, please…”

  The doctor said a few more minutes and Jacques would have died. “Encore un peu, et c’était fini,” he told Davina. “Il a de la chance, he’s lucky.” She had saved his life, and Maurice of course played no small part in this.

  “Will the Monsieur be alright?" Maurice asked her when she came out of the Emergency Room. He genuinely cared and she could see that.

  She nodded. "Oui, mon ami," she said, shaking his hand, "you have saved a man's life. Thank you. By the way do you know who I am?”

  “Of course, Mademoiselle."

  “Maurice do you know who I am?

  Maurice gaped at the five thousand francs that Davina pressed into his palm. He wanted to share his good fortune. He was proud to have done a good deed and to have helped the beautiful lady. He would buy his family a nice present. First he would bring home a pheasant. “I have never seen you.”

  “Merci, Maurice.”

  Alejandro and Davina had agreed to meet at their favorite restaurant for dinner. She was already an hour late and Davina was never late. He thought she might be at the hospital with Monique. He went home to wait. Her hospital visits no longer irritated him, at least not to the extent they once had. He realized that she would stop going when she was ready. She too, after all, had been through a trauma. The doctor told him that Monique could be in a coma for years. Years. Davina could not go on like this for years.

  When Davina walked into the apartment two hours after their agreed on meeting time, he was determined not to let this upset him. He had news that could be upsetting enough for her.

  She threw her arms around him. “I’m sorry, my love. I’ve been with Jacques.” She told him all that had happened.

  “But he will be alright?”

  “He’s alive. The drugs almost killed him. He’ll have to go into therapy for several weeks. If he takes another drug, it will kill him.”

  “Amor, I have news for you too, but for the life of me, I can’t tell if it's good or bad," Alejandro said. He took a deep breath. “I have been promoted to Consul."

  "That's wonderful, my love." Her mind was still somewhere else.

  "Yes, that’s the good part. The bad part is that I've been appointed to the embassy in Havana."

  "What's wrong with Havana? I've heard Cuba is a beautiful island."

  "Yes, that's true, but you see, amor mio, I cannot refuse to go.” Confused, Davina sat upright, giving him her full attention. “The problem is we can’t get married if I’m in Havana because you’re an American citizen. I can’t even let you visit me. The Cuban government would presume you to be a spy. And because your father is an American ambassador, a member of the United States Government, they would not bother to presume it. They would be sure of it.” Davina’s eyes grew wide. “The situation is quite ticklish,” Alejandro continued. “I don't know what to do. I’ve tried to figure this out. I can’t live without you, amor. What are we to do?" He slumped into a chair across from Davina and held her hands. They sat without speaking for awhile.

  Davina broke the silence. "Are you allowed to leave on weekends?"

  “Well, yes."

  "Can you visit anyone, even us spies, when you’re outside of Cuba?"

  “Of course, as long as it’s not on Cuban soil. You have an idea, I hope, Amor.”

  "We could buy a house in Miami and you could fly in as you pleased..."

  "Amor mio, that’s brilliant!"

  “So we could be together.”

  Alejandro took her in his arms. “My love, will you wait for me? The appointment can’t be longer than two years. Then we’ll get married?

  “I’ll of course I’ll wait for my fox.” Davina knew what it meant to refuse an appointment in the diplomatic corps. It meant a demotion or ruining any further chance of promotion. "Of course I will, silly man. You know you are the most importa
nt thing in my life, don't you?"

  Alejandro picked her up and carried her to the bed. They lay next to each other, neither of them speaking. A river of private thoughts occupied them both. Leaving Paris for the United States meant leaving Monique and Jacques. It meant no more daily visits to the hospital. It meant long days away from each other. It meant a new life. Neither of them had ever been to Miami.

  “I am so lucky because the most beautiful woman in the world loves me.” He kissed her gently on the lips. “My love, do you remember your promise to Monique about singing?”

  She had not thought about it in a long time. It was unimportant because Davina did not want to believe that her friend would not sing again. But yes, she remembered.

  “It would be perfect for you, and for Jacques as well,” he said.

  Jacques needed something to keep him occupied—music had the power to help him.

  "You could sing while I'm in Havana, and it would certainly help Jacques take his mind off Monique and keep him busy. He has such talent and it is being wasted. You know how much he's been insisting you sing, besides, you never break a promise. What do you say?

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Good.”

  ♫

  CHAPTER 9

  William Walters was working at his desk at the U.S. Embassy in Paris when he collapsed. Margaret heard the odd noise and went into his office, only to find him lying unconscious on the floor. The doctors said it was an MI, a myocardial infarction, a heart attack. Dr. Briand, the attending physician, had further news for Melina and Davina. Walters also had cancer. The prognosis was not good.

  Melina hoped she hadn't heard right. This was much too sudden. “Are you sure?”

  The doctor nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “There are treatments, aren't there? Couldn't he go into remission?" Davina asked.

  “Yes, but the cancer is in his bones. Everyone is different. Some people react well to treatment, others do not respond at all. I must stress the point that the cancer is already widespread and if we did treat him for the cancer, we would have to start treatments immediately. Again the chances are extremely slim."