by Kahn, Denise
Davina looked to her side. The orchestra was ready—China’s finest. The men dressed in their best tuxedos with red silk bowties, and the ladies wearing exquisite copies of ancient Chinese gowns. Davina nodded to the Maestro and blew him a kiss. He smiled back. He adored her. They had been together for many years and he knew what every look, gesture and movement meant. A wonderful musician and leader himself, he managed to make Davina shine even more. They had been through wonderful times together, performed in over eighty countries, innumerable stages and recorded their music with professionalism. They had also been through difficult and troubled times and were as close as brother and sister. Their bond was unwavering. He slightly nodded to her and then looked at the musician next to the first violin. A young Chinese woman smiled and nodded back. Her hands were placed on her qin, a seven-string zither. The instrument was adored by poets and painters and hailed as one of the oldest known instruments in China. The maestro lifted his arms. The orchestra had his full attention.
Soundlessly, the heavy curtain rose, the stage in complete darkness as the audience stared silently at the black void. No sound, not a whisper from anyone. A lone spot slowly opened on the qin; nothing else visible, as the sensual voice of the instrument slowly exuded its first notes. The audience was mesmerized by its music, classically oriental in its sweetness, which gently vibrated through their bodies and took them back in time hundreds of years, when the qin originated its charm to their ancestors. Davina, still in total darkness, softly entered on the piano. The lights, expertly on cue, enveloped her in a halo so that only her silhouette and the Chinese woman’s hands were visible. The rest of the lights, covered with warm red gels, slowly bathed the entire stage. The audience gasped at the magical, heart-stopping overture, perhaps feeling the talent of the musicians’ art, their own love for their ancestral heritage, or possibly the splendor of the music—a combination of classical and oriental, with a slightly modern twist. The maestro led the orchestra, making the entire ensemble flow. The stage was now completely lit by colored lights—except for one small solitary area on top of the piano. The members of the orchestra, including Davina, started to perspire. Small beads formed on their foreheads, bodies became clammy, and hearts beat wildly like athletes giving their utmost. At times they held their breath, playing delicate notes, then pushed themselves and their instruments to their limits, never wavering a moment, never faltering. Davina lifted her hands from the keys and took the microphone reposing patiently on the piano. She held it as if it were a delicate Lalique crystal filled with France’s most exquisite champagne, and brought it close to her lips. She opened her mouth, revealing lovely straight white teeth and formed a perfect circle with her lips. Her breath pushed out a powerful flawless note as the audience clapped thunderously. Davina stood up from the bench and gracefully walked to the front of the stage as her free hand made elegant patterns through the air. Her voice rang out, rich and vibrant, with the power and range of a classical opera singer, yet modern and sensual. Men immediately fell in love with her, women wanted to be her best friend.
The composition peaked to a crescendo, and then slowly, gently, it came back down, and ended with a solitary note from the qin. The audience exploded into applause. Davina gestured to her maestro and he bowed deeply. He turned to the orchestra and motioned first to the young qin player, who received great appreciation, and then to the rest of the musicians.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening,” Davina said to the spectators. “I am very honored to be here. Although I am American, I feel I am a citizen of the world. China has always made me feel welcome in that, I too, at least a little part of me, belong to this glorious nation.” More enthusiastic applause. Davina stood regally, like an adored empress among her subjects. “Tonight is very special,” she continued, “I see among us many prominent citizens from around the world—Ministers, Ambassadors, brilliant Nobel recipients and unique entertainers.” The audience clapped politely. “I would like to extend my gratitude and appreciation to his Excellency, the Prime Minister, Mr. Zheng Lee.” She raised her hand toward him. The minister stood and took a bow. The viewers clapped again. She smiled, a sly smile. “He and I have a secret… and we will divulge it… but a little later.” The crowd groaned and laughed. The Chinese loved a good riddle.
The orchestra, started up, perfectly on cue, and Davina began her next song. Not only was she a singer but also a composer who wrote all of her songs. Tonight she performed as she had never before, with the uniqueness of her voice and with her heart and soul. She was sure, or at the very least she thought she sensed, the great musicians of her past lovingly watching her from their garden in the sky.
The concert was coming to an end and Davina, now back at the piano, nodded to the Prime Minister. He went up onto the stage and stood next to her, respectfully watching her play. They bowed to each other and she continued to sing, and then to the spectators she said: “No, this is not our little surprise. Unfortunately the Minister did not want to do a duet with me tonight.” The audience laughed. “But now, as promised, it is time.” A big aahh came from the crowd; they were practically sitting at attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Davina continued, “our little secret is… right here.” She gestured to the dark spot on the piano and started humming another song; a melody with mystery in it, a combination of intrigue and enlightenment. The theater was once again bathed in complete darkness. Davina sung several notes to one syllable, a tune with lovely made-up sounds that resembled words. The aficionados heard the melisma, though they could not see her.
A solitary spotlight opened very slowly on the small, once dark area on the piano, and continued to grow brighter until the full zenith of the lights made everyone present gasp and stare.
They were blinded by Davina’s secret.
Davina Walters’ song came to an end. The audience, still blinded by the brilliance and exquisiteness of the vase, could only stare. The Prime Minister, Zheng Lee, came back on stage and extended his arm to her. She took it graciously and together they went and stood behind the vase on the piano. The audience was standing and clapping. The Minister took the microphone and together they proceeded to the front of the stage.
“The secret as you have now seen is this wonderful vase,” the Minister said. “We are immensely proud that this magnificent piece dating back to the Song dynasty is back in China. We, the people of China, owe a great deal of gratitude to Miss Walters. She has brought it here tonight and is gifting it to the country of its origin, to be placed in a museum so that the entire world may see it.” More applause from the crowd. “It has been in her family for generations. I do not have to tell you what an honor this is for us.” Turning to Davina he bowed deeply. She in turn put her hands together and bowed back. “I know how much this vase means to her and how much she will miss it. If we could reproduce an exact copy and give it to her it still would not do it justice. The only thing we can give her in return is the gratitude we have in our hearts, a lifetime visa to come to our country,” Davina and the audience laughed, “and one more little thing.” The Minister reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a red velvet box. “I am honored, Miss Walters, to bestow upon you, with my gratitude and the gratitude of the people of China, our highest merit, the medal of Good Citizenry.” The audience roared with enthusiasm and support and the orchestra stood and clapped. The Prime Minister opened the box, removed the medal and pinned it on her dress. Davina’s eyes were wet with tears. The Minister bowed again, as did Davina. He handed the microphone over to the singer.
“Oh, Mr. Prime Minister, the honor is truly mine. As you mentioned, this most exquisite piece of history has been in my family for more than a century. But it was only on loan. I do not know its exact origin other than dating back to the glorious Song Dynasty or the great Master artist, the See-Fu, that produced it, but I know for sure that it was made with great love and perhaps also with music—I would like to think so, since it is from the Song Dynasty.” The audience clapped, enjoying her p
lay on words. “All my compositions were made at my piano, sitting next to this great friend. It inspired me. And before my time, it was in the wonderful hands of my mother, Melina Malandros Walters, who was an opera singer and before her with my grandmother, Valentina Vidalis Malandros, also a great opera singer and as far back as my great grandmother, Sela Vidalis, who was a glorious and amazing concert pianist. We all have loved it, and of course it was always surrounded by music. Now, who inspired who, I am not sure. Was it the vase that moved us to be musicians? Or did we contribute to the legacy that the vase insist it be surrounded by music? Either way, it is an inspiration. Perhaps its soul has music, as I’m sure the great artist must have been listening to beautiful sounds when he made this, not to mention the great love for his daughter, since it was dedicated to her.
I thank you all, wonderful people of China, for your kindness, your traditions and the refined beauty of your talented artisans.” Davina touched the vase one last time and looked at her audience. “Before we leave tonight I would like to dedicate this vase from the Song Dynasty to all musicians who produce music from Sound, the very first gift from the Universe. May each soul understand its power and use it to promote peace of every kind. Goodnight and thank you.”
Davina looked at the Steinway and saw the most beautiful Chinese woman sitting on the edge of the piano. She was absolutely stunning, elegant in her long white gown, which seemed translucent but really wasn’t. One could sense the power and wisdom of this being, yet also her gentleness and kindness, as well as the aura that encocooned her that emanated from her heart. She looked at Davina and smiled, the smile that said: “Thank you, I’m proud of you. You have touched many people this evening, here and around the world. You have given them great joy and you merged with the soul of the vase. When you composed, played and sang your music its energy was with you. You became one with it. Now you have brought it back to the country of its birth and it will continue to touch all of humanity, not just in China, but throughout the world, with the music and beauty of its soul.”
Tears gently ran down Davina’s face. She stared at the divine Goddess until the vision floated upward and disappeared. Her elderly mother, Melina, was in the audience and Davina was sure that William, Valentina, Nico, Sela, Ivan, Ali and even Simeon, were sitting on the rightest star in the sky watching the show with great enthusiasm and pride. Davina looked up, as See-Fu had so many centuries ago and said: “Thank you Quan Yin, thank you for this beautiful family and for this peace of music.”
♫♫♫
BOOK TWO
OBSESSION OF THE HEART
_____________
DENISE KAHN
DEDICATION
To true Friends
A true friend is the most precious of all possessions and the one we take least thought about acquiring.
La Rochefoucauld, Maxims, 1665
MIAMI BEACH 1985
PROLOGUE
The villa on the secluded Miami Beach island was peacefully quiet. The house was surrounded by elegant gardens of tropical flowers and palm trees militantly guarded the periphery of the manicured grounds. It was a typically warm Florida night, and the moon serenely bathed the small land mass off Biscayne Bay, but this tranquility was suddenly shattered when Davina Walters felt a harsh pounding in her head. She was trying to understand what it was, and then it stopped. And started again. She had given specific instructions not to be disturbed, but wait, she wasn’t in a hotel, she was at home in her own bed, and the pounding was the phone ringing. This was her first night off after returning from her world tour.
Exhausted after six months on the road, performing in twenty-five countries, for hundreds of thousands of spectators, she was regarded as one of the greatest singers of the century. Davina Walters was fluent in half a dozen languages and sang in at least as many more without the slightest trace of an accent. She was one of the very few in the world who had that wonderful inbred talent, in addition to the velvet and crystal vocal chords. That was her forte, her charm, and her success. She mesmerized her audiences with traditional songs in their native language, and with her original compositions. They were honored that an American was so well versed in their culture and history. Her repertoire was pure finesse. She wrote and composed many of her songs, and sang of love and friendship in a style all her own, and her audience worshipped her. No other entertainer had such a range of devotees and they always were part of the show—and it was their show. The men adored her and the women all wanted to be her friend. The audience never wanted to leave, and the encores were incessant. And that was her high, her natural high, her triumph, and her pride.
But the gongs were still going off in her head and she was still spinning from the last non-stop twenty-four hours.
She picked up the phone. “Yes?” She couldn’t hear a thing. This better not be a crank call, or a lucky fan who had found her number, she thought. “Hello?” She repeated. An uneasy feeling suddenly came over her. She looked at her Piaget. Three a.m. Something was very wrong. “Yes, hello,” she said again.
“Jes,” an agitated voice replied, “dees eez Conchita, Miss Jean’s neighbooor. Jou must come queeckly.” Oh God, Davina thought knowing immediately what was coming. “Very bad ‘appenigs next door, many shouts, many screams, much high voices.” Davina heard a thunderous clap in the background, like a firecracker. “Ay Señora, por favor, pleez queeckly, I think that monsterman, that hijo de puta, shoot poor Señora Jean, pleez, pleez...” Conchita started rattling off in Spanish knowing that Davina Walters spoke and understood her language fluently.
“Conchita, calm down…” But the line was dead. Davina’s mind was racing. She jumped out of bed, pulled a sweat suit out of the closet, picked up a Colt .45 from the top drawer of her dresser, hobbled into a pair of sneakers, and ran through the house grabbing her keys from the table next to the front door. She was a sight to behold. Wearing nothing but her shoes and her birthday suit—she always slept nude—she ran out of the house. Her superb athletic body was trying to break the hundred-meter dash in less than nine seconds, all while putting her sweats on. Her amber hair left a trail of luminous silk waves as it followed the firm body running down the driveway. Davina Walters was tall, with sensual curves and perfectly shaped opulent breasts that bobbed slightly as her long legs powerfully carried her to the parked car. With the gun still in her hand, she pressed the remote control on the key chain. The door to the Porsche automatically unlocked and opened. She inserted the key in the ignition and immediately the faithful concoction of engineering sprang to life. Thank God for German technology, she thought. The drive from the villa to her friend’s house usually took ten minutes. She pressed harder on the gas pedal. Already the speedometer indicated 85 mph. Four minutes, she calculated, would be all she needed. Where were the police when you needed an escort? She fumed, already putting a call through to the police station.
“Put me through to Sergeant Alfonso Martinez, this is Davina Walters, she told the police operator.
“The singer?” The operator asked incredulously, an obvious fan.
“Yes!” She answered irritated; “this is an emergency! Please patch me through...”
“Right away...”
“Thank you.”
The sergeant came on the line. “Davina?”
“Alfonso?” She said, hearing a sleepy voice through the cellular phone.
“Yes, what is it?”
“He’s at Jean’s house. I think he’s trying to kill her. I heard a shot. I’m in the car now on my way to her house, I’ll meet you there,” she said hanging up.
“Davina wait! Wait until we get there...Davina? Davina!” He shouted through the mouthpiece, but it was no use, she had already hung up. The sergeant cursed as he put his own call through to the station, and in turn ran out of his house.
Through the windshield Davina could see two things. The road and visions of her friend Jean, and the good times they had spent together. Was she still alive? Had that son-of-a-bitch finally ki
lled her this time? God knows he had tried numerous times before. Had he blown her brains out the way he had threatened so many times in the past? This was Davina’s constant nightmare: Simon holding a gun to Jean’s head and pulling the trigger, the insides splattering all over the wall behind her. Was this cauchemare now reality? She shuddered and pushed down harder on the accelerator. Just a few more seconds and I’ll be there, she thought. Please don’t let her be dead. Please. Through the five thousand dollar Alpine stereo system she faintly heard a familiar melody. She hadn’t realized it was on. Oh God, she prayed, please, let her be alive. Smokey Robinson was singing his heart out: “Just to see her…”
♫
BRAZILIAN RAINFOREST 1975
CHAPTER 1
She was only fifteen but you could not help but wonder where she was going once she made that inevitable secret slide into young womanhood. Davina Walters was beautiful, but still too young to know it. Such uncomplicated beauty, her father thought, if only it would last forever. She had her mother’s heart-shaped face, with distinct traces of every Athena William Walters had ever seen in his wife’s native Greece. Davina’s eyes were the color of shiny dark jade, and she had a mane of honey-amber hair that cascaded in waves over her shoulders and down her back. She was the only child her parents ever wanted, and they never missed an opportunity to shower her with love and gifts. Her father’s career in the U.S. diplomatic field gave her an entrée to horizons few Americans knew. She had traveled to most of the European countries and several others around the world by the time she was ten years old. By then she spoke five languages fluently. It all combined to make her charming, mature long before her years and altogether fearless and independent.
