The Music Trilogy

by Kahn, Denise

  Now in her teens, she sat cross-legged among a group of dark-skinned youngsters in a Brazilian rainforest, listening to them sing. They were singing to her of course. Not to her father William Walters, the distinguished American diplomat, and not to Carlos da Cunha, arguably the wealthiest and one of the most powerful men in Brazil, or to Carlos’ son Zeferino, who was Davina’s age, or even to Melina Malandros Walters, her elegant and sophisticated mother. No, they sang to her. It was she who had enchanted them, who had captured their hearts. In no time, she was humming along with the tune and clapping to their rhythm.

  “What do the words mean, Zeferino?” Davina asked.

  Zeferino, his blue eyes watching her intently, took this as an opportunity to get closer to her. He squatted beside her. “The song says they are proud of the beauty of our land. They say they are noble like our land.” He turned and saw his father and Mr. and Mrs. Walters walking together toward the Jeep that had brought them to this mountaintop village in the lush jungle. “I think it is time to go.”

  As Davina stood, a little girl with two missing front teeth pulled on Davina’s shirt and presented her with a flower the color of the sunset. “Obregada,” Davina said taking it from the girl. “Muito obregada, thank you very much,” she said, sounding as if the child had given her something much more precious than a wild flower from the jungle.

  “Daddy, what’s this flower?” Davina asked. They had a tacit understanding between them, as every father and only daughter must. It was simply this: that every father knew the answer to every question his daughter asked, no exceptions.

  “This,” he said, “is a very special flower. I’m sure Zeferino knows what it is.”

  Zeferino shrugged, wondering why this flower was so special. There were a million of them in the mountains. But he said, “Yes, a special flower.”

  Melina found a tiny vase from the da Cunha’s curio for Davina’s flower. “What about we put this on the piano, agapimou, my love.” She asked, using a Greek term of endearment. Melina always knew how to make her little girl happy. The vase was fine with Davina, and when she was asked by Senhor da Cunha to play a song after dinner, she could see the flower as she touched the keys of the baby grand.

  “Mozart!” Zeferino suggested.

  His father hushed him. “Don’t make her nervous,” he scolded him in Portuguese.

  Davina played at the keys, slowly humming the song she had heard in the village that morning. With one hand she delicately played a chord, and then another and another. When she brought her other hand to the keyboard, she had worked out the refrain, and now she sang the words of the rainforest people, adding a bit of samba here and there but keeping to the heart of the tune. She had pried the words out of Zeferino, made him teach her the words when he only wanted to kiss her.

  “Not now, Zeferino, you have to teach me the words,” she insisted. “We’re too young to fall in love. You don’t really know me. You know only what you see.”

  He was crazed with his new desire and helpless but to please her. So they went through the words of the song.

  Davina had the melody and this Senhor da Cunha appreciated. He almost stood at attention, transfixed, as she played and sang, mixing the melody of a folk song with the other heartbeats of Brazil. When her fingers finally came off the keyboard, a solitary tone of her voice lingered. And when there was silence finally, Davina opened her eyes to the applause, to the flower, to the glow on the faces of her father and mother and the da Cunhas.

  Before they boarded the private jet taking them back home to Washington D.C., Carlos da Cunha took Melina’s hands in his. “I must tell you Melina, ever since my wife died, we have been somewhat lonely, but you always bring this wonderful feminine energy with you. It makes us men appreciate beautiful ladies like you and your daughter. It brings the spark that makes life’s details so worthwhile.”

  Melina gracefully kissed Carlos on the cheek. “Obregada, Carlos. In our lifestyle, you know, constant, constant moving, good friends are very special. Thank you, be well.”

  Once boarded, the Walters took their seats and Davina asked her father if she could ride in the cockpit with the pilots. William Walters raised an eyebrow and smiled. She knew better. He made a fist, thumb out, and motioned upward. Only after takeoff could Davina sit with the pilots.

  Walters turned to his wife. “You know, the government thinks I’m a great diplomat. Do you know why?”

  Melina waited for what she knew would be an interesting answer.

  “Because I have a secret weapon.”

  “Is that right.”

  “You. I have you.”

  “I’m your great weapon?”

  “Yes, you’ve won the respect of Carlos da Cunha, and we’ve won the bid on his equipment. Mainly thanks to you, my darling.”

  “You may have a point, William, but I also think that your daughter may have had something to do with it this time.”

  William Walters looked into his wife’s warm dark eyes. “I am the luckiest man alive. I have the most beautiful and remarkable wife in the world, and a daughter who is just like her mother.”

  “And just like her father.”

  As expected, William Walters was promoted to become the U.S. Ambassador to France. He and his family left their home in Washington, D.C. for their new home in Paris.

  ♫

  SWITZERLAND 1978

  CHAPTER 2

  In finishing school in Switzerland, Davina’s best friend was Monique Ravel. They were like sisters. They were both only children and did everything together. They studied together, they ate all their meals together, they roomed together, they raced each other down the alpine slopes that surrounded their school in the Swiss village of St. Gallen. They were both on their school’s ski team and on the weekends they competed at various resorts for the school colors. They knew well the slopes of St. Moritz, Cortina d’Ampezzo, Garmisch-Partenkirchen.

  They sang together, too. They spent hours together singing and composing songs. Their repertoire was international. They knew songs by John Denver and Barbara Streisand as well as Julio Iglesias and Nana Mouskouri. Monique was a gifted guitarist and Davina had a flair for composition and lyrics. They were well versed in their music, from classical opera to local folk ballads. Monique, who her friends lovingly called the French nightingale, never had any doubt that music would play an important role in her life. She wanted to be a singer after the greatest of them, especially the French chanteuse. She would be the next Edith Piaf. She would sing La Vie En Rose in every capital city of the world. It was a secret goal she shared with Davina, who didn’t doubt for a moment that her friend would not achieve it. Davina was happy enough to sing with her friend, to carry the harmony, but she was gifted in other ways as well and she felt that her path would lead to a career that let her use her talent for languages.

  Their days together in Switzerland passed with the happy innocence of eighteen-year-old girls reaping the benefits of a fine education. Davina was in her dormitory room doing homework when the announcement on the radio made her heart stop …Richard Ravel, the French politician, and his wife Brigitte were killed…

  Monique was in the shower and could not have heard. Davina loved Monique’s parents. They were like an aunt and an uncle to her. The two families had been very close. As she thought of her friend, she could feel the pain searing through her. But what could she do? She sprang up from her bed, scattering the books and papers in her lap onto the floor, and ran through the halls banging on the doors. The other girls came out of their rooms, some had already heard. News of the tragedy spread quickly in the small dormitory.

  “Monique does not know yet,” Davina cautioned them. “Turn off your radios until I can tell her.” The girls obeyed.

  Davina ran to the administratrice’s room and, trying to retain some composure, knocked on the door. “Madame Dupont! Please open quickly, this is an emergency!”

  The headmistress immediately opened the door. “What is the matter?”
<
br />   “A terrible thing has happened. Monique’s parents were just killed in a car crash. We just heard it on the radio. She doesn’t know yet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll call my father, he’ll know.”

  “Mon Dieu,” the woman said, “but of course, use my telephone.”

  Davina dialed. Busy. The world must be calling him. She redialed. It rang and then the receiver clicked.

  “Daddy, Monique’s parents?”

  Does Monique know yet?”

  “No. I heard it on the radio. Daddy, what should I say to her?”

  “Your mother and I will of course take care for her. You tell her, Davina, and be there for her. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

  “Okay, Daddy, I will.”

  Even at such a young age, Davina could take control of a situation and handle it well. But this was different. How do you handle death? It was her first encounter with this ultimate human pain.

  Davina turned finally to the headmistress, who saw the anguish on her face, such a young face for so much pain. She took Davina in her arms and kissed her forehead. “Go to Monique,” she said. “Only you can help her now.” She knew how close the two girls were.

  Davina walked slowly down the corridor to her room. Monique was sitting on the bed singing. She was so pretty and sweet, so kind and loving. Why did this have to happen to her?

  Monique could tell from Davina’s expression that something was not right. “What’s up?” She asked.

  Davina could not answer.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, I’m... Monique, there’s been an accident. A terrible accident.”

  Davina tried but failed to stop her tears. She sat on the bed and put an arm around Monique. “Your parents were driving home and a truck ran a red light.”

  “My parents…? No.” Monique covered her mouth with her hands.

  “Oh, Monique, they...Tante Brigitte, Oncle Richard...They were killed.”

  Monique did not speak. She began to cry, slowly at first, and then her cries built to heaving sobs. The two girls held each other.

  ♫

  CHAPTER 3

  William and Melina Walters took Monique in as if she were one of their own. The Walters were now her family. Davina was her real strength; she was like a glue that held Monique together, in those first months after the accident. The girls were already inseparable, but the bond that held them grew stronger. Now they were really sisters.

  They passed into adulthood together as they continued their studies at St. Gallen. Before their last weeks of school and final examinations, Davina and Monique decided to take some time off and go to their favorite resort, Zermatt, a village in the Swiss Alps below the Matterhorn. So small was the village that only horse-driven sleighs and bicycles were permitted. There were no cars and no pollution. Only clean alpine air, skiing, and the nightlife. By day they skied and they stopped for lunch at the chalet-restaurant on the slopes, and sometimes, passports in tow, they skied down the Italian side of the Matterhorn for a lunch of pasta. Their evenings were spent in the hotel pool and sauna until they felt refreshed from their day’s grueling workout. At night, the many dance clubs and pubs in the area were their favorite hangouts. They were beautiful young women, too beautiful not to attract more than the usual attention.

  One particular evening at the Golden Moose, they were joined by friends from the Austrian and Liechtenstein ski teams.

  “Hallo, liebchens, darlings, how are you?” Franz, the Austrian skier, said. “We heard you were in town and have been looking for you!”

  The two girls looked up from their glüwein, that wonderful mixture of warm red wine and cinnamon. They were thrilled to see their old friends.

  When the piano player stopped to take a break, Gerd, a member of the Liechtenstein ski team, went to the small platform that was the stage and grabbed a guitar. Friedrich, the burly jovial owner of the pub, saw him and nodded to the young man.

  Gerd asked Monique and Davina to sing for them. They demurred, but Gerd was insistent and Monique finally took the guitar from him. Excellent, the owner thought, it will be another profitable evening tonight—may these young ladies live a thousand years. He knew well their talent for music.

  “I think it would be appropriate if we started with a tribute to our wonderful Austrian friends who have gathered here tonight,” Monique announced into the microphone as she softly strummed the guitar. “What do you think, Davina?” she asked and winked.

  “But of course, you must be talking about that exquisite little wild flower that grows only in the beautiful Austrian mountains,” Davina answered. The Austrian ski team beamed, as did the pub owner who called for his wife. “The fraüleins are singing!” he yelled.

  The song Edelweiss was the first of many sung by Davina and Monique that night. The pub filled and many there joined in, their friends and passers-by alike. Friedrich told his wife what he had told her before. “I would bet my business that one day they will be very famous.”

  Graduation was the finality all the seniors longed for but did not exactly look forward to because it would mean a parting. Au revoirs and aufwiedersehens were said, addresses and telephone numbers exchanged. Kisses and tears intermixed as they embraced one another. And so it was with Monique and Davina. They went their separate ways. Davina, who spoke six languages fluently and could communicate fairly well in a few more, had decided to continue her studies in Geneva at the famous interpreter school. Some day, she thought, she might follow in her father’s footsteps as a diplomat for her country, the United States of America.

  Monique knew that Davina had a natural flair for languages, but she could not see her friend in a career as a simultaneous interpreter, sitting in a cubicle with a microphone and headphone, not Davina. She should be singing into microphones. Music was also her natural talent.

  “We can sing together,” Monique said. “We would be a terrific team, just like on the slopes. And you with all your languages, we could sing anywhere in the world in every language!”

  Davina only laughed.

  “Please, Davina.”

  Davina hated to say no to her. “I’ll make you a deal, Monique chérie, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll quit what I’m doing and I’ll sing.”

  “Promise!”

  “I promise.”

  “Shake on it,” Monique insisted.

  They did.

  ♫

  PARIS 1979

  CHAPTER 4

  Monique Ravel needed an agent and a good one, one she could trust, but also one who would trust her, a complete unknown in the world of professional music. A friend recommended a man who agreed to meet with her.

  Monique stood at his office door for long moments, reading the plaque on his door, over and over again:

  AGENCE JACQUES LAFFITTE

  REPRESENTATIONS ARTISTIQUES

  Monique knocked on the door and listened with increasing nervousness at the footsteps approaching from behind the door.

  “Entrez, s’il vous plait, please, come in,” the distinguished man with soft dark eyes and black hair said. He had an attractive inviting smile that made people comfortable.

  Jacques Laffitte had graduated from the Sorbonne with top honors. His specialties were entertainment law and public relations. He wanted desperately to be the best in the business and he would not quit until he had achieved that goal. He had worked nights after school as an usher in theaters, movie houses and at the Opera in Paris. He had seen the best entertainers in the business perform. He was a master at remembering details, especially the quirks and antics of the superstars. By the time he graduated, he had saved enough money from the playhouses to buy a desk, two chairs, a sofa, a file cabinet, a bookshelf, and the three months rent he needed to open up his studio office on the glamorous Champs Elysées.

  He had decorated the office himself. He hung mirrors on two walls of the small room to make it look bigger. He arranged the desk and chairs at the far end of the ro
om so they looked out onto the boulevard. The file cabinet and bookshelf were set against the wall facing the desk. On this wall were more than a hundred autographed photographs that Jacques had meticulously collected from the artists he had seen perform. In each corner of the office were large potted plants which gave the room a warm atmosphere. The office was complete. All he needed was a break.

  Jacques now stayed rooted before Monique. His hand seemed stuck to the door handle. He had never seen Monique Ravel before. She was petite and pretty, what the French called mignone. Her hair was black and short, and her skin reminded him of fresh cream. She was perfectly proportioned, from her rouge-colored lips and her small full breasts to her slim legs. She was like a china doll. For long moments Jacques could not move. His heart skipped a beat, his lungs wanted to burst, his throat became parched and dry. He wanted to embrace her, to make love to her right then and there. Never had a woman made him react in such a manner.

  Monique did not expect to see such a young man or such a good-looking one.

  They both spoke at the same time.

  “Jacques Laffitte?” she asked.