by Kahn, Denise
Melina finally spoke. "How long does he have, Doctor?"
“It is difficult to say. Maybe days, weeks, or if the therapy is successful, perhaps several months."
Davina was not willing to take this death sentence. "But isn’t there a possibility of remission?"
“There is always a possibility," the doctor said.
Walters was in the hospital for three weeks. The once elegant, tall and handsome diplomat looked like a different man. He had lost all his hair, his cheekbones protruded from his face, giving him a skeletal look. His body seemed to have melted down to mere bones. His skin was gray and his once deep blue-gray eyes were now almost completely ashen.
Davina could hardly bear it. This was not the father she knew, the father who raced with her down the beach when she was little, and let her win every time. This was not the genius who had been sent to Greece during WWII as a young man with the U.S. State Department. Walters was a hero in Greece. He was respected by his fellow workers and by the Greek people. He brought food and supplies to the guerillas in the mountains in his jeep when no one else would or could. He got through, as the bullets flew by his face. And he fought with them on the battlefield. The Greeks dug a hole in the ground to protect the Amerikanos from the bullets coming their way. Walters joked later that the hole was never quite deep enough and his head always stuck out.
Melina’s parents had been one of the leading families of Athenian society. Her ancestors had been heroes and many streets were named after them. When the Germans invaded during the Second World War, they were stripped of their riches and lived on the grapes from their garden for the entire four years of the occupation. What little wealth and jewelry still existed was sold to buy an occasional loaf of bread or some olive oil.
Melina's father had been a prominent businessman and a hero of both world wars. The night the King of Greece held a gala in honor of the liberation his family was of course invited. Melina put on the only nice dress she possessed. She had sewn it herself from old scraps of silk. The family no longer had their live-in seamstress but Melina remembered a lot from watching her sew and made herself a lovely evening gown. Her matching silk pumps, which a local shoemaker had made in exchange for a handful of grapes, made her outfit stunning. But her main objective in going to the gala was the food at the buffets, and she dreamed of filling her stomach. It would take her a long time to convince her mind that her stomach was actually full.
Even in the midst of all the misery, nothing could mar the Mediterranean beauty of young Melina. Her jet-black hair was accented by her creamy white skin and her red lips. Her small waist and perfectly shaped bust made men look twice. What distinguished her from other beautiful women was her natural grace and elegance.
She was ushered into the ballroom. Her mind and eyes, as well as her stomach, searched for the buffet tables. To her joy she spotted them and almost ran, but quickly checked herself and proceeded toward the tables as slowly as she could. In her haste, she bumped into a young man, making him spill his drink on his tuxedo. His name was William Walters and looked like John Wayne’s brother.
“Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, a perfect gentleman even though this was her fault, not his.
“No, no, it was my mistake, I wasn't looking where I was going, I hope I haven't ruined your suit."
It was the beginning of a romance that would last more than forty years. After four decades they still walked hand in hand. But now, Melina realized, they never would again.
Even as Walters lay dying, his mind was sharp, but he suffered mercilessly. Davina could not understand this. Why would this man, someone who had given so much, be made to tolerate such pain? In the days before he died, he told her that he wanted a gun to blow his brains out. It was all he could think of to stop the pain.
Davina went into a rage. She was mad, mad at the world, mad at this cursed disease, mad at the medical profession for not knowing more; and mad at God because of what He was doing to her father. It was not the death so much as the pain he was forced to endure that she railed against.
When William Walters died, so did a part of his wife and his daughter. They had been a threesome for so long that neither woman could imagine life without him. It was as if he had taken a piece of their hearts with him.
♫
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 10
The funeral, held in Washington, D.C., was like a United Nations gathering. The president of the United States presented Melina Malandros Walters with the nation’s flag in grateful appreciation of her husband’s devotion in a brilliant career. Delegates representing several countries, politicians, and friends came. Adam Spencer, Eric Shannon, and Black Angel, not the DC-3 but the man, were there. They were joined later in the ceremony by Ruth Rosenblum.
Stefanos Koulouris, the Greek shipping magnate, was there with his children and his wife Eleni, who was Davina’s godmother. Eleni and Melina had been best friends since they were children. Koulouris’ daughter Penelope had gone to the same school in Switzerland as Monique and Davina. Although Penelope was older and had graduated before them, they remained in touch, trying to make the time in their busy schedules over the years to visit with one another and catch up. But time worked the deceit it was so well known for. It had been years since they had seen each other. The last time Penelope had seen Davina was at Monique’s wedding. Eleni had not seen her godchild in more than a year, and Stefanos Koulouris had not seen William Walters in a good five years. He regretted this because Walters had been instrumental in changing his life in ways he could not have dreamed possible.
Stefanos and Eleni stayed at Melina’s and Davina’s side throughout the long afternoon as they accepted condolences and hugs from strangers and friends who stood in the long reception line. Stefanos wore a black suit and, in his black tie, for the hope that any funeral, but especially this one, required, a diamond stud.
“You know, Melina,” Stefanos said, an arm around her shoulders, “I am with the woman I love thanks to William. I will always remember him with a saying from St. Francis de Salles: There is nothing stronger than a gentle man, and nothing more gentle than a strong man.”
Eleni wore a long black silk tunic. Her long black hair was pulled back into a bun. She was a chubby woman, but what spoke first and foremost about her was her beauty, the classic lines of her face, the strong jaw and full lips from her Russian mother, and the wide eyes from her Greek father. She was all class and, for certain fortunate people, all love. The bond between Eleni and Melina that held them as securely as a thick steel cable had long ago extended to Davina. Eleni, who had no children of her own, had always considered Davina her child, a child she happened to share with Melina. This never gave cause for jealousy. In fact, it only made the bond stronger.
Eleni waited for the day after the funeral to tell the two women she was devoted to what they now must do, for their own good. It did not take long to convince Melina to move to Athens. As for Davina, Eleni had something else in mind. She had always hoped her godchild would have a career in music, perhaps not opera, but some kind of music. Davina was gifted in music, as was her mother. Melina and Eleni had trained together at the conservatory under the phenomenal Elvira de Hidalgo, and they started their careers as opera singers together. If Melina had not met that wonderful handsome young man William Walters, she might have continued her singing. It was love at first sight. Eleni knew Melina had no regrets, but she could not shake her belief that her godchild should take the path her mother did not.
Davina was not at all talkative. She felt numb with the grief of her father’s departure, and when she thought of the pain he was made to undergo in his final weeks, she thought of Monique, and this only made Davina sadder and angrier. She was almost unapproachable. Eleni managed to convince her to take a walk with her on the Mall in the heart of Washington.
“You know, little one,” Eleni said to her godchild, “your father was very proud of you. He knew that when you set your mind to doing something, you acc
omplish it with perfection. But what he thought you would eventually do with your life is make a career out of your beautiful voice.”
Davina scrunched her eyebrows and she shook her head.
“He told me so himself!” Eleni insisted. “He said he knew you would follow in his footsteps as an ambassador. You would represent your country; but you would do it with music.”
Eleni had Davina’s full attention now. “He knew you had the talent but more importantly, you have that extra little something,” she said gently, squeezing her godchild’s hand. “He always believed in you and he would be very proud if you offered your amazing gift to the world.”
Davina began to cry softly. “Daddy thought I would sing? You mean professionally?”
“Yes, little one,” Eleni cooed, wiping Davina’s tears with a handkerchief. “Nothing would have made him prouder.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Of course I believe that!”
“But do you really think I could make it?”
“Ah! Davinaki mou, my little Davina, that is an understatement. Take it from me, if anyone knows a good voice, it’s me.” That was true. Eleni was an opera singer. In her native Greece, she was considered a national treasure. “I would never tell you that unless I meant it. Besides, you’re my godchild, I could never lie to you.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m serious! Thee mou! My God! I’ve never been more serious, little one. It would be such a waste if you didn’t sing. Besides, you promised Monique, remember? I know you’ve been thinking about it.”
Alejandro had told Eleni that he had brought the subject up and Davina seemed to consider it. Eleni was such a huge force in Davina’s life. She had been a part of her life since she was born, since Davina could remember. Her first memories were of her parents and Eleni.
♫
MIAMI
CHAPTER 11
Davina and Alejandro few to Miami on the next available flight. Alejandro was due at the embassy in Havana in one week and Jacques had already scheduled Davina's first performance in Paris on France's Antenne II television station in just four weeks. She would have to be back for rehearsals in less than ten days.
They descended into Miami's International Airport. The view was unique, the skyline over Miami seemed in an odd way broken but continuous, beginning on Brickell Avenue with it's geometric buildings to the tallest skyscraper in downtown Miami, and then following on through to the bridges and canals alongside the Miami Beach hotels.
Davina and Alejandro met their realtor at the airport. Together they went and looked at homes and villas along Miami's paradisal coast. They finally settled on a beautiful little villa on one of the islands off Miami Beach. The island was very exclusive and only a handful of wealthy and powerful people lived on it. It was guarded by its own police force. The house stood in the middle of the property surrounded by palm trees, tropical foliage and its own boat dock on the bay. The little villa included the usual amenities with swimming pool, jacuzzi and outdoor cabana. It was a comfortable and convenient pied-à-terre where Alejandro and Davina intended to share as much time as possible in the following two years of his appointment. It was their new abode, their little love nest.
At first, Davina approached a singing career for Jacques’ benefit. That is what she told herself and that is what she believed. Jacques was the impetus, and of course, what Eleni had said to her. But soon it became a part of her, a natural extension of her being.
The pastel sunsets of Miami come like caresses after the heat and the sultry air of the day. They are soothing like the giant palms and the rainbows of abundant tropical flowers, for which Florida was named by a Spanish conquistador. They greet the people, by the hundreds of thousands, who pass daily through Miami’s international airport, each of them en route somewhere, to London or Rio or L.A., or the travelers are coming home to Miami’s bougainvillea and the perfume of the frangipanis. Davina loved the international culture of the city, especially its Latin flavor, but after a year of residence there, she was eager to be on the European continent again. She walked quickly, with Jacques at her side.
Davina wore a pair of blue jeans and a plain T-shirt. She could have passed for any American tourist, except for the dark sunglasses and a large Australian bush hat that hid much of her face. She was a star now and that required attention to certain details. Unless she wanted to talk to the reporters and the photographers who always seemed to be wherever she went, even in the public rest rooms, she had to disguise herself. It was simply a fact of life, as Jacques repeatedly explained to her. It was not exactly that she did not want to talk to some of the reporters. But a polite discussion with any kind of decorum was impossible when a horde of grown men and women were shouting questions at her or chasing her or cornering her or clawing at anyone and anything between them and her. Davina was still learning the art of dealing with the press. She was learning many things about her new career as a singer.
Jacques devoted himself to it. It was, they both knew, exactly what he needed. She had saved his life and in a way, she was doing it again. She had given him hope when there was none. She was giving him the chance to fight once again for himself, for Monique and for Davina. It was what Davina needed too. Alejandro was certain of that. And when Davina sang at her first engagement, on French television, no one doubted that this was what she should be doing.
Jacques set up performances on the most televised programs, arranged interviews with the most popular commentators and magazines, organized press conferences and of course the concert venues. In eight months, Davina Walters was ready to start her first tour. She would be singing in London, Paris, Madrid, Monte Carlo, Rome, Athens and, for the final engagement, Miami’s Orange Bowl.
The elevator took Davina and Jacques to the VIP Lounge where they would be protected from the paparazzi. They had to wait an hour before they could take off. Davina was bored and she felt isolated.
“I’m going for a stroll,” she said.
“But, ma chérie, you can’t,” Jacques said. “There’s a TV crew here, I saw it. You’ll be mobbed.”
“Don’t worry, Jacques, I’ll be careful,” she said, putting the hat back on.
“Merde, you never listen to me.”
She was already out the door. She straightened the hat. Walking past the duty free shops, she noticed several photographers coming her way. She hurried into a café but there was not a single empty table. Davina spotted a young woman sitting alone at a corner table. She went over to her. “Excuse me, may I please sit down for a moment?”
The woman looked her over, trying to see through Davina’s hat and the dark glasses. This is a trick, she thought.
“Please, it’s an emergency,” Davina tried again.
“Why are you hiding your face?”
“No, really, I’m not,” Davina replied, inching herself onto the empty seat. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“Are the police after you?”
“No, worse,” Davina answered, wondering why this woman was so tense. She seemed truly frightened. “I’m trying to get away from the press, those photographers.
“My God,” the woman whimpered, cowering in her seat. “Please, do me a favor. Get in front of me. Hide me.”
Davina sat motionless, trying to understand.
“Please, do it! He’ll kill me if he sees me.” The woman was trembling.
“Who?”
“Please! My ex-husband.”
Davina turned, looking for the man this woman was trying to hide from. At the entrance to the café, she saw a man who was obviously looking for someone. He wore a black T-shirt and sunglasses. “That one? With the sun glasses?”
“Yes!”
Davina moved her chair across from the woman but it did not calm her. She seemed on the edge of hysteria.
“He’s coming our way. He’ll kill me!”
The woman scrunched up in the seat, trying to make herself invisible, but her eyes w
ere like beacons. Her eyes told a story of sheer terror. For a moment, Davina forgot where she was. She wasn’t seeing those eyes for the first time. They were Monique’s eyes in the desert.
“Do you have a passport with you?” Davina asked.
“Yes,” the woman said almost inaudibly.
“Where are you headed?”
“Don’t know. Anywhere. As far as I can get.”
“Do you have a ticket?”
“No. Not yet. I was too tired, had to sit down.”
“Listen carefully,” Davina said, “I’m going to stand up with my back to you. You take my hat and put it on your head.” After that, she was not exactly sure. “Just stay close to me. Stick to me like glue even if you have to hold onto my belt.” She looked at the panic stricken woman. “Do you understand?” It was more a statement that a question.
“Yes, I think so,” the woman whispered.
Davina slowly stood up, turned her back to the woman and waited for the hat to come off. She bit her lip and turned slightly. The woman, she realized, would not last long. She might go into some kind of emotional shock. She would probably faint right there. “Now,” Davina commanded, “the hat.”
It came off Davina’s head. The photographers and a Miami television news crew were just outside the café entrance. So was the man in the black T-shirt. He was just inside the café. He took off his sunglasses. He kept a hand in his blazer pocket. Why? Could it be a gun? Was he really out to kill this woman? His eyes were hard, menacing. Davina shuddered. She was now the only thing between him and this terrified woman.
The woman who now wore the bush hat began to cry softly.
“Now, we move,” Davina said, keeping her eyes on the man with the black T-shirt. “Come on.” Davina took a step. “François!” she shouted to one of the reporters she recognized. She wanted to make sure they had all heard her. She waved and walked directly toward the reporters and a television camera outside the café.
