by Kahn, Denise
Soft orange spotlights illuminated the Parthenon and the stage. Slowly the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. The orange gels opened up and softly enveloped Davina who sat on a high round stool. She wore a white dress embroidered in gold, a replica of the ancient Greek toga, one shoulder covered and the other bare. She looked like a goddess. Bianca had designed this costume. It was her idea.
Athena was surely smiling down at Davina from her temple above the theater. Davina stood up slowly. She did not want the mood to change. The orchestra started playing a few soft notes to one of her new songs. The first verse, which was in Greek, was very familiar to much of the audience. Se gnorizo apo tin kopsi tou spathiou sou ti tromeri… I recognize you from the cut of your tremendous sword… who with force measures the Earth…
It was the first line of the Greek national anthem, which was known primarily for its length (one-hundred and twenty-eight verses). But it was also quite beautiful, which was why Davina incorporated the first line of it into her song. The Greeks loved it. They jumped to their feet applauding.
"Kalispera, good evening," Davina said.
The energy of the music, Davina and the audience, and even the ancient venue itself made the night magical. After an hour and a half of virtually non-stop singing, Davina finally stopped. She placed her microphone in its stand, bowed to her audience and walked over to her maestro seated at the piano. The conductor got up from his bench, took Davina’s hand and kissed it.
The crowd was on its feet again, clapping and cheering, but they feared that perhaps this was the end of the concert, and they did not want it to end.
“May I?” Davina’s eyes asked the conductor. This was not in their rehearsals. She was up to something, but he was not worried in the least. Davina was as sure of herself as any entertainer he knew. He went to the side of the backdrop where the audience couldn’t see him, but he was in place and ready for anything.
Davina sat at the piano and placed her hands over the keys. She closed her eyes and lowered her head slightly. The audience didn’t seem to breathe. Davina began to caress the keys. Her entire body swayed to the melody of Schubert’s Röslein (Little Rose). After a few bars she opened her eyes and smiled directly at Eleni. The audience suddenly understood. The diva could not refuse the invitation and they knew that what was about to happen would be very special.
The maestro picked up on this cue as well. He went to the edge of the stage and held out his arms toward Eleni who got up from the marble seat and took the conductor’s hands. As he escorted her onto the stage, the audience stood to applaud Eleni, who was arguably the biggest star in all of Greece.
At Davina’s side at the piano, Eleni touched her goddaughter’s cheek. No words passed between them. They weren’t necessary. In a moment, Eleni was singing. She had an enormous range. She was a soprano baritonale, which was an unusually deep low voice for a woman, but she could also sing the high notes of the coloratura. She was hailed around the world as the prima donna assoluta. A few other women could sing as well as Eleni, but no one had the extraordinary range and dynamic quality of her voice. She could sing any aria from any opera.
The orchestra seamlessly joined Davina’s accompaniment. Eleni’s deep, rich voice effortlessly carried across the Acropolis. It did not seem possible that such sounds could come from a single person, least of all a woman. She sang from her soul, from her heart, from some unknown depth of beauty and magic. She sang first in the original German and then switched to Greek. Now she turned to her beloved Davina. This was her cue, and Davina joined in the singing.
They sang to each other as they had sung when Davina was younger, when they sang duets. These were always special moments for them both. When they finished the song, they immediately started another, this one a local folk song with an entirely different rhythm and tone. The Greeks went wild; they were on the feet, singing with the divas. “Ti eine afto pou to lene agapi? Ti eine afto? What is this you call love? What is it? S’agapo, s’agapo, s’agapo. I love you, I love you, I love you…”
At the end of the song, the women embraced and Eleni went to center stage to bow. Davina stood next to the piano and clapped with the rest of Eleni’s admirers. The maestro once again escorted Eleni down to her seat. She turned to the crowd one last time and blew them a kiss.
The lights dimmed and the orange lighting spread over the stage as it had at the start of the concert.
"Efharisto, thank you," Davina said. "I would like to dedicate this last song to the civilization that gave light to the western world, to the wonderful hospitable people of Greece, to my mother Melina Malandros Walters and to my godmother Eleni Kerzi, who are part of Greece’s beautiful and amazing history."
As was her trademark, Davina repeated her opening song as her last song. I recognize you from the cut… Hail, hail, O Freedom!
The audience was electrified. They were in love with the music, with Davina, with Eleni, with the evening, and they were proud of these women who honored them and reminded them of all they had to be proud of.
Jacques thought that Davina got better with every show. When she returned backstage after the last encore, he asked her for the third time if she was sure she wanted to leave for Paris tonight. Yes, of course she was sure.
The limousine took them to the Airport where the crew of the Black Angel was standing by. Only Adam Spencer was in uniform. Bianca was in her evening dress, and Eric wore the suit he had on at the concert.
“Double date?” Davina winked.
“Well, they are twins,” Eric said.
"Adam,” Davina said, “get us to Paris, and please break the sound barrier as you're doing it.”
♫
PARIS
CHAPTER 30
Monique looked frail and vulnerable in her hospital bed. Jacques wanted to run to her and hold her. The doctor, who had anticipated this, held him back. "She has to remember you first," he cautioned.
Dr. Charles Charpentier explained that the brain was like a computer that you could not enter until you had the correct password. Once they knew the password, Monique would start remembering. But how would they find that password? An old memory could be the password. But he warned them that it should be a happy memory. Were she to recall a trauma, this could perhaps cause permanent amnesia. He admitted that the brain was still mysterious even to him, and he specialized in this. "You must remember to talk about only good things because as she starts remembering, the bad memories will also come back and we don't want to speed that up."
"Bonjour, Monique," the doctor said. "I brought some friends to see you.”
Monique of course did not know them. She hadn’t the slightest idea of their shared pasts.
"Hello, Monique," Davina said, extending her hand, trying to keep calm amid the anxiety and happiness enveloping her.
Monique shook her hand. "How do you do."
"This is Jacques Laffitte."
"Enchanté, Monique," Jacques said and kissed her hand.
"Enchantée," she said, smiling.
"I seem to have seen you somewhere," Monique said to Davina. “I think I saw your picture in a magazine. You're a singer, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am, and Jacques is my manager."
"How fascinating. Please sit down.”
"If you'll excuse me," Charpentier said. "Monique, these people are your friends and they’re here to help you."
"Yes, that's right," Davina said. "As a matter of fact, we've been friends since we were very young."
It was like telling a five-year old that she would one day become the president of the United States or be the first to visit the planet Venus.
Every day for the next week, Jacques and Davina went to the hospital to talk to Monique, to tell her about the good memories they shared. One day, Monique asked Jacques why he kept staring at her.
"It is because I love you,” he said. “You are my wife.”
Monique laughed.
"What’s so funny?" Jacques asked.
"I'm sorry
, but for the past days I have been imagining things... well, you know what I mean. It feels like I’ve fallen in love. It seemed funny to me."
"La petite mort," he said. He hoped that maybe a hint of intimacy would jar her memory.
But suddenly Monique raised her hands, grabbed her head and started screaming. She thought her brain would explode.
"Oh, my God, what have I done?" Jacques jumped out of his chair. Before either he or Davina could get a nurse, the episode passed.
“It’s alright,” she said, "I just had a flashback. It's like a dream, you see. When I remember things, I see a lot of colors.”
Jacques and Davina were quiet, each of them trying to think of a good memory that would not set off Monique.
“Sometimes I see you,” she said to Jacques. “But you are not very clear. But I can tell you are wearing something gray.”
“Your wedding?” Davina suggested. “Jacques, you were wearing gray tails and a gray top hat.”
Perhaps Monique was making progress but it seemed almost trivial. Every time they thought she was close to remembering, it seemed that she was far indeed from it. Jacques was frustrated to the point of tears. Davina kept reassuring him. “She’s close, Jacques, I know it, I can feel it.”
But how close? Would it take another day, another month, a year?
Davina held him as he cried. "I'm sorry,” he said, “I guess my nerves are just on end."
"No Jacques, you are wrong. You have finally become your old self again, trying harder than ever. You know now that Monique is out of danger and you’re impatient to have her back again, and crying is the best medicine for you, you big oaf."
"Merci, chérie, I could not survive without you."
"Nonsense. Now come on, we’ve got to keep trying."
Davina was determined, as determined as she had been about anything in her life. When it seemed that they were both out of ideas, she brought a guitar with her to the hospital. Monique was delighted. She had heard some of Davina’s songs and read about her in magazines.
Davina strummed a few chords and began to sing one of Monique’s favorite songs: Mademoiselle de Paris..."
To everyone’s surprise, Monique joined in and didn't stop until the song was finished. While she remembered the words and the tune, she could make no other connection. She was surprised to learn from Davina that they used to sing together, that, in fact, Monique was an accomplished guitarist.
Davina knew she was on the right track. She kept strumming and singing and Monique sang with her. The hospital staff enjoyed it. Nurses, interns, and doctors came by throughout the day to hear their impromptu concert. But none of the songs triggered that mysterious area in Monique’s brain.
Monique was tired. She closed her eyes. Davina put her head on Monique’s pillow and started to sing very softly, as she had sung to her in the helicopter leaving Egypt. Davina knew that what she was doing was dangerous, as the events leading up to the song were what put here in the predicament she was now in. “Bashana abaa…”
Monique’s eyes filled with tears and she slowly put her hand up. Davina stopped singing. So did her heart. Had she made things worse?. "Jacques, would you come here please."
He went to her.
"Please kiss me." She raised her arms and placed her fingers around his neck. "I've missed you, my darling husband."
Music had been the trigger that brought everything back for Monique.
Davina left the next day for Miami. Jacques wanted to go with her. “You need me,” he insisted.
"Of course I need you, but right now Monique needs you more than I do, and you need to be with her just as much. Besides, you’ve already set up everything in Miami.”
“I spoke to B.A. this morning. He’s not too happy that we’re going ahead with the Orange Bowl concert.”
“No matter what you say, I won’t change my mind. You are staying in Paris with Monique."
"But, Davina, this is your first concert in the United States and you are not familiar with the American public. And there is the danger with this Grady man. We don't know what that salaud is up to. I'm sorry, but I will not allow it."
"Jacques, don't be so damn French! I appreciate your gallantry but I’ll be perfectly alright. The FBI and the entire Miami police force are on the case.” Davina softened her tone. “She needs you.”
♫
MIAMI
CHAPTER 31
The sultry air of Miami felt oddly disquieting to Davina. She told herself it was because she had been away for so long in very different climates. She enjoyed the soothing sunsets of southern Florida, and the privacy of her home on the Bay.
There were fewer than a dozen homes on the island and these were surrounded by lush tropical foliage and individual security systems, both electronic and human. The island was guarded by its own police force. You had to go over a bridge that was guarded around the clock to get onto the island. As good as the security was, Miami police and the FBI had added their own touches. Two undercover Miami cops were assigned to the villa full-time.
Davina and Alejandro spent their first weekend together in a long time alone on the island. When Rodrigo and Jean joined them, they sailed their new yacht, the Enamorados, the Lovers, an engagement gift from Stefanos and Eleni. The boat was quite small compared to the Aphrodite, but it was sleek, modern and elegant, and Davina and Alejandro had no desire for a bigger boat.
They cruised off the Bahamas, enjoying the serenity of the ocean and each other’s company. They turned in early in the evenings, each couple retiring to the privacy of their own stateroom.
Jean had not entirely recovered from her treatment at the clinic in Athens. She seemed frail and easily tired, but she insisted on going out with the others on the yacht. She felt better every day, more renewed and refreshed. Life overflowed with promise and hope. Every time Rodrigo held her or kissed her or told her that she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, she could feel a healing energy stampeding through her. It made her stronger and stronger.
Davina basked in the leisure of these days before her final concert of the tour, and she thrilled to the caresses of the pastel sunsets and the man she loved. She would know those powerful gentle hands anywhere, those wonderful hands that made her body writhe with pleasure. They played with the thin material of her bathing suit. Her nipples grew firm. Alejandro kissed her deeply, holding her very close. They could feel each other’s heartbeats. He caressed her back and the lovely firm skin awaiting his warm lips. Davina arched slightly backwards as his mouth made contact. He removed her bathing suit to taste every inch of her. Davina, her own hunger growing, kneaded the muscles of his back. He brushed his lips against her flat stomach, sending shivers through her entire being. Nothing else on earth mattered. How could anything else matter?
Simon Grady had grown a full beard, which he kept neatly trimmed and his hair had been cut very short. The metamorphosis was very effective. He told people to call him Sy. On his application for work at the Orange Bowl, he wrote “Sy Goodman.” With a pass, Grady came and went as he pleased without drawing attention. He managed to get the C4 plastic explosive past security into the stadium, and little by little, he put a small package of explosive under each of the four floodlights at the corners of the stage. Now, he had only to connect the charges with det cord. He figured the explosion would take place about half an hour after the concert started when the lights would exude enough heat to detonate the charges and blow up the stage.
The head electrician had words with Grady after he caught him under the stage, an area the police had marked as off limits. The chief electrician warned Grady that if he were caught in that area again, he would be fired on the spot. And he was, the day before the concert. It put him in an ugly mood.
The afternoon of the concert Davina got into a police helicopter in her front yard. The police insisted on taking her to the stadium. They were just being careful.
It felt strange to Davina without Jacques at her side. Sh
e tried to dismiss Jean’s warning, that Simon Grady would be stalking them, no matter where they went in Miami. Maybe she should have cancelled the concert. Davina grew impatient with herself. It was just nerves, she told herself. This would be the first time she would be singing in front of an American audience. She forced herself to contemplate the sunset painting the city into a canvas of colors. Sun, sky and sea were a blend of persimmon and tangerine, lilac and lemon, and blue. The effect was dazzling.
As was her custom, she arrived extra early, with several hours to spare. She wore a simple white shirt, jeans, and athletic shoes. She headed for the backdrop of the stage. Clinton Benton and Sergeant Ernesto Martinez met her halfway there. As Davina went to hug B.A., he lifted her into the air.
“How are you, little monkey?”
Davina had not heard that name in a long time. “Put me down, you big gorilla!”
“Okay, okay,” he said, giving her a gentle landing. He introduced Martinez. They said they intended to remain glued to her side.
Plainclothes agents and police officers were already stationed at each entrance, in each corridor, and in each bleacher section.
Davina met with her own people. She warmly greeted her maestro, the orchestra, the sound and light crew, the stagehands and the stadium personnel. One by one she thanked them. Davina was one of them and she wanted to make sure they understood this. They were a team.
By now everything was ready, perfected to the last detail. The stage, the lights, the instruments. They were all there, machines and humans alike, all waiting with the usual before-the-show excitement.
Simon Grady squatted in the bushes just outside the stadium. He wore a pair of faded jeans and what looked like a batik shirt that had been dyed with different shades of red. He reached into his pocket for a tiny package of white powder. He took a crisp new one hundred dollar bill from his wallet and neatly folded it into a thin tube. He then made two symmetric lines of the powder on the back of his hand. Finally he took the paper tube, closed his nostril with one finger and inhaled deeply. The cocaine exploded into what he thought were millions of minuscule stars. He did the same with the other line in the other nostril and again felt the explosion followed by a numbness. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and then started laughing uncontrollably. “Yeah man,” he said aloud. “Fourth of July in September!” He kept repeating himself, as if he were a small boy about to see a fabulous pyrotechnic display.