The Music Trilogy

by Kahn, Denise

  A huge bouquet or red roses was on the vanity in Davina’s dressing room, which matched the décor of the theater. Davina took the card that was attached to one of the roses. “Eres el alma de mi vida…You are the soul of my life. Good luck tonight. You will shine like the brightest star that you are. Your Fox.”

  After a two-hour nap Davina was pacing her dressing room, cursing in Spanish, completely ignoring Jacques, Jean and Bianca.

  “What’s she doing?" Jean whispered.

  “She's swearing in Spanish," Jacques said.

  “But why?” asked Bianca, who had helped Davina get into her gown.

  “I asked her that myself once,” Jacques said. “She said that she enjoyed cursing in Spanish the most. It’s musical. It fills the mouth. She can do this all the while doing trills no less." Jacques laughed. "Every artist has his or her own little quirk. I know of a famous opera singer who used to vomit before each performance. I know another one who sits in a chair without talking for an hour before he goes on. It’s very normal. It alleviates them from pressures and stage fright. It actually relaxes them. By the way, you both look fantastique this evening.”

  Jean was wearing a pale peach gown and, Jacques noticed, a pair of Davina’s earrings. She looked stunning. Jean had never worn anything like it before. Bianca wore a satiny azure dress with long tassels all along the hem.

  "You look great in your tux, Jacques,” Jean said. “Thank you for helping me in Miami.”

  “Davina deserves the praise, not me. She is a special lady. We all love her."

  “Yes, I can see why."

  There was a knock on the door. "Five minutes, Miss Walters," the voice said.

  “Okay, let's give them a show," Davina said, stopping her pacing. Jacques, Jean and Bianca followed her to the panoply and waited for the introduction to finish. The orchestra started playing the opening song. Davina took Jacques’ hands and squeezed them. Jacques kissed her on both cheeks. This was the way it had happened the first time Davina performed, and now it was a kind of ritual. It was as if she were gathering his strength. It helped ease the pressure of knowing that hundreds of spectators would soon be watching her every move and hearing every note that came out of her mouth. But knowing people were out there to take pleasure from her presence and her talent gave her a natural high. She would give them her best. She became one with her audience.

  Davina winked at Jean and Bianca. She took a deep breath and glided elegantly in her crimson gown to the center of the stage and curtsied facing the royal box.

  Jean loved the music, she was right there just behind the stage to hear it all. After the concert, she met the Queen of England and Prince Charles, who called Davina the “Queen of the Music Empire,” which made everyone laugh because the man announcing the members of the royal party had introduced the Queen as “the Queen of the British Empire!” Jean was aware that she was not the person she used to be. She had shaken the hand of a prince. Miami was so far away. Miami. How could she ever return to her own home?

  There was no time to tarry in London. The itinerary called for leaving promptly after the concert. And Jean, like a small pebble in rapids, let the river take her.

  Once the Black Angel was airborne, Jacques, still in his tuxedo, approached Davina, who was alone in her room. “Am I interrupting?” he asked, knowing full well that she was about to call Alejandro.

  “You’re never interrupting, Jacques,” she said, putting the telephone receiver down. “What’s up?”

  “I have something to show you,” he said, handing her a paper.

  JEAN ANNE CONRAD

  Born October 1, 1960, Miami, FLA

  Mother: Connie Conrad, deceased

  Father: Kevin Conrad, deserted family 1965. Last seen in

  Arizona after serving time for armed robbery.

  No other known relatives.

  JAC finished Miami High School 1977. Honor student.

  Miss Florida. Scholarships to UMiami medical school

  and FLA State. Did not attend college.

  Offers from modeling agencies. Never accepted.

  Married Simon Grady 1978. Divorced 1980.

  Arrested for assault, not convicted.

  SIMON KEITH GRADY

  Born April 10, 1959, Miami, FLA

  Mother: Samantha Ryan Grady, deceased

  Father: Joseph Grady, deceased

  No other known relatives.

  SKG attended Miami High School 3 years. Dropped out.

  Professional race car driver on national circuit 1977.

  Married Jean Conrad 1978.

  Arrested for assault and battery on wife.

  Arrested for murder; charges dropped due to lack of evidence.

  FBI reports he has become addicted to drugs, gambling.

  Last seen in Las Vegas, NV.

  “Quite a genealogy, n’est-ce pas?” Jacques said.

  “I knew she wasn’t a criminal,” Davina said in French. “I saw that man Grady at the airport. You should have seen him, Jacques. His eyes. He looked murderous.”

  “Just be careful.”

  Bianca interrupted them. “Jean seems upset. She’s crying.”

  “I’ll go to her,” Jacques said. “Don’t worry. And give my best to Alejandro.”

  Jacques closed her door quietly and found Jean. He sat down next to her. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Jean said, accepting Jacques’ handkerchief. “Yes, there is something wrong. My life.”

  “Is there something we can do?”

  “You’ve done so much already. And Davina…I’ve never met anyone like her.”

  "Let me try to explain a little about Davina,” Jacques said. “I can see you cannot quite figure her out. That is understandable, for Davina is not your usual everyday person. She is special, not only to her fans but even more so to us, to her close friends. Actually she gives too much of herself and I am afraid that one day she will be hurt, and when she is, she will come down hard. She is strong. She can handle any situation thrown at her, believe me, I know. What she gives comes from her heart. “

  Jean listened carefully to what the Frenchman was saying.

  “But don't ever hurt her, Jean,” Jacques warned, “because if you do, you will have to deal with me. Do not misunderstand me. I am not trying to scare you, but Davina is very important in my life and I will not allow anything bad to happen to her."

  “I understand,” Jean said, although she did not understand.

  “Bonsoir, Jean.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Would this river, Jean wondered, take her to a waterfall? Or would it carry her to a meadow or a quiet forest, somewhere safe, a place nobody owned, a place she could be at peace for the rest of her life. And that could not be for long.

  ♫

  PARIS

  CHAPTER 13

  The concert in Paris was at the Olympia Theater. Jacques and Jean watched from the back as Davina took the stage. She greeted the audience in their native tongue. "Bonsoir,” she said. “It is always a pleasure to be back in France. As you might know, I spent many years in your beautiful country and I would like to dedicate my first song to la Belle France, a song composed by that great chansonnier, Charles Trenet.”

  The lights dimmed and a solitary spotlight illuminated Davina's face. "Douce France," she sang to the country she had come to love.

  The French adored her. The morning edition of Le Figaro said she was un phénomène.

  Jean woke up more tired than she was when she went to sleep after the concert and the exclusive club, where all of them, even Davina’s pilots and Bianca, danced until dawn. She looked at her watch. It was almost noon. She got into the shower and turned on the hot water, then the cold, and then hot again, hoping this would revive her. Drying herself, she looked in the full-length mirror. The ugly scars under her breasts had almost disappeared. She put on clothes Davina had loaned her. The jeans were a little loose and so was the shirt. She and Davina were the same height but Davina was mor
e muscular, more athletic. Jean suddenly realized that she was very hungry. Before she could eat, she had to take her pills, her cocktail, as the doctor called it.

  Jean found Davina nursing a Coke at one of the outdoor tables that were part of the hotel’s restaurant. Her face was very serious. She seemed depressed. Jean considered giving Davina her privacy, but Davina waved to her.

  “Is that the only thing you drink?” Jean asked.

  “Beside champagne and an occasional brandy, yes. And water of course.”

  “I don’t mean to disturb you, you seem…”

  “You’re not. I just came from seeing a friend in the hospital. She’s in a coma.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Jean,” Davina began, pretending to be very serious. “Tell me the truth. Have you ever been to a bullfight?”

  “No! No kidding. Oh, I think I get it,” Jean said. “Am I going to a bullfight?”

  “Yup.”

  ♫

  SPAIN

  CHAPTER 14

  It was already forty degrees Celsius in the shade, hot enough to make a tomato wilt, and the air crackled with an invisible energy that was everywhere in Pamplona on this, the first day of the feast of San Fermin. Flowers and balloons adorned the facades of the buildings, shops and balconies. Men, young and old, overweight and slender, jostled one another in the street. They were dressed in black pants and white shirts. They wore a red sash tied around their middle and a red scarf around their neck. These were the runners.

  It was tradition, as Davina explained to Jean. “The men are out to prove that they really are macho. The tourists do it for sport or to impress their girlfriends. I wanted to run myself, but they don't allow women. Really pissed me off.”

  “I had a feeling you were crazy,” Jean said.

  One of the runners called out to Davina.

  “What did he say?”

  “Probably just what you thought he said.”

  Now the runner got down on his knees and pretended to be pleading.

  “Now that’s a hansome Spaniard, but what’s he saying?”

  Davina did not answer, instead she climbed over the wooden barricade, and arms outstretched, went to the runner. They embraced and kissed passionately.

  Jean remembered to close her mouth when Davina and her man walked arm-in-arm back to the barricade.

  "Jean, this is my fiancé, Alejandro del Valle."

  “Oh, how do you do.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Alejandro said. “But you must excuse me, ladies. It’s almost time.” He gave Davina a quick kiss on the lips.

  “Cuidate. Be careful,” Davina cautioned him and she climbed back over the barricade.

  “Why is he running? Surely he doesn't need to prove that he's a macho man.”

  “Yes, we all know that," Davina sighed. "But he’s a Spaniard, and he respects his country's traditions.”

  The sound of a rocket exploding announced the release of the bulls from the corrals at the edge of the town. A small group of men came running down the street. Behind them, a larger group, slower; then a third group running very fast, and then yet another group of runners, supposedly the bravest and noisiest of them all. They ran as fast as they could, shouting and screaming. The bulls were right behind them.

  A bull was practically upon a runner but the man quickly jumped on the barricade in front of Davina and Jean. The bull threw up his head, gouging the wood of the barricade instead of the runner with its horns. The crowd screamed and clapped, and some people ran to hide until the bulls had passed through the streets and were in the corrida, the bullring.

  It seemed as if the entire city, including all the tourists, was at the corrida. From the stands, they watched the runners enter the arena, the bulls prancing right behind them. Down in the bullring, the men who perhaps harbored such dreams acted as if they were professional bullfighters. They would call out to a bull, holding out a shirt or a piece of red cloth. One of the runners, who had already instigated the crowd to applaud, came too close, and the bull, seizing the opportunity, swung his head and caught the man, goring him in the back. The bull lifted the runner off the ground with his horns and threw him. The spectators gasped en masse. The injured man lay immobile on the dusty ground. Other runners worked at getting the bull’s attention away from him. Another rocket went off and the heavy animals were led out of the arena.

  Jean was very pale. "Why would anyone want to do this?"

  Alejandro, who had come out of the bullring to join them, supplied the answer. "For fun,” he said.

  “Fun? If it’s fun, it’s dangerous fun.”

  “Ah, but life is full of danger,” Alejandro said, smiling broadly. “Here in the corrida, you meet danger face to face. You calculate it, overcome it and defeat it. That is why it is fun. It is the joy of being a conqueror, a victor, and defying the danger."

  “But that man didn't do any of that, and now he's probably dying."

  “Yes, but he did not calculate correctly. He was not a good player, and now he is the conquered. I'm afraid he’s paying for it with a cornada."

  Jean turned her head away from the arena.

  “Shortly, you will see the reverse operation," Alejandro continued.

  “How do you mean?" Jean asked.

  “The corrida will begin shortly. Then it is only one man against one beast and the odds are in the man's favor. Being an American, I have a feeling you might change your mind about the gored man. You might even be somewhat happy about it."

  “No, no, I don’t think so.”

  “I have seen it with many Americans, even Davina," he said. "She sees things differently and in her own personal way, and it is her right to feel and think as she pleases.”

  “Davina is happy to see a man get gored? Are you kidding? She probably couldn’t kill a fly.”

  “Precisely,” Alejandro said. “Davina cannot kill a fly but she could possibly kill a man."

  Jean looked at Davina. "What’s he talking about?"

  “He’s a Spaniard,” Davina said and shrugged. “Animals will not hurt humans unless they have good reason to, usually to defend themselves. Animals don’t kill for sport. But people are different. People kill for no particular reason. I personally find this aspect of the human race cruel.”

  “Its man against bull in the corrida,” Alejandro said. “The animal is defenseless no matter how hard he tries to protect himself, but the man isn’t defenseless. Physically he’s not as strong as the bull, but he has weapons to weaken the animal and to finally conquer it. If the man gets hurt or killed, he’s the one who has made a mistake. It is dangerous. It’s also an art, an art of grace and technique.”

  “That’s the part I can enjoy,” Davina said. “Although it’s still cruel and unfair to the bull.”

  Another runner joined them.

  “Rodrigo!” Davina exclaimed. “Como estas? How are you?"

  “Bien, guapa, I am well, beautiful, and you?" he said, hugging her.

  “Jean, this is Rodrigo del Valle, Alejandro's brother."

  Rodrigo took Jean's hand and bowed, in the typically Spanish way, holding her hand very close to his lips but not kissing it.

  “How do you do."

  He had the same build and the same good looks as his older brother—dark thick hair but dark eyes, and a strong athletic body that showed through his white shirt, wet with perspiration.

  The announcer's voice came over the loudspeaker. "Welcome to the Feria de San Fermin! We are honored that you have come to celebrate with us. A special salute to the distinguished guests we have among us today. His Excellency Don Alejandro del Valle..."

  Alejandro stood and bowed to the applauding crowd.

  "The singer Señorita Davina Walters...”

  Again and again the crowd cheered as the announcer continued presenting prominent personalities. The arena was packed. All the seats were occupied except for one, the President's. As soon as he arrived, the corrida could begin. The spectators grew impatient, as usu
al.

  Three of Spain's greatest matadors were scheduled to fight and there was a buzzing of voices and other sounds throughout the stadium, like a million swarming locusts, waiting for the trumpets to announce the start of the bullfight. Women wore flowers in their hair and fanned themselves with avanicos.

  Finally, the President made his entrance and the crowd cheered. His seat in the grandstand was next to Alejandro's group. As he entered, he stopped to greet the women in the loge in the typically Spanish way.

  The President sat down. That was the signal. The trumpets rang out the unique and distinct bullfighting theme, which was the signal for the performers to march into the arena. The first three men with the tri-cornered hats were the matadors, literally, the killers. Then came the toreadors, the ones who play with the bulls. Behind on horseback were the picadors, who spear or poke the bulls with their long lances. Behind them were the servants of the ring and the teams of mules who take away the dead bull.

  The three matadors bowed in front of the President's box and turned back into the arena. They swung their capes from side to side and the trumpets blared. The first bull came charging into the ring. Once in the middle, he stopped and looked around. The bullfighters closed in on him, their capes swaying. "Hah, toro, hah!" one of the matadors shouted. The bull, eyeing the cape, charged at the bullfighter who, on the bull's contact with the cloth, rotated the cape into one of the most revered and difficult maneuvers of the sport. The crowd cheered.

  Then the matadors, one by one, went out into the center of the arena with colorful banderillas. As the bull charged, the matadors skillfully inserted the banderillas into the animal’s heavy muscled neck. As the sharp points of the short spears penetrated under the skin, the bull jumped up and down, making the red and yellow banderillas twirl and swing around. Blood trickled down the animal’s shoulder and sides. Jean thought she was going to be sick. Rodrigo put an arm around her. Davina saw her bury her face in his shoulder.

  The bull had half a dozen banderillas of assorted colors flopping up and down from his shoulders when the picador made his entrance, circling the heavy beast. The rider, in black vest and hat, rode a horse clad in a padded coat as protection from the bull’s horns.