The Music Trilogy (28 page)

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?”

“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 room 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.

“Monique Ravel?” Jacques said.

“Yes.” They both answered simultaneously. They stared at each other for a moment and began laughing. The tension was gone, the pressure was off, and they both sensed that this was the beginning of something special.

Jacques was immediately impressed with her singing. He laid out a plan to bring her the stardom he knew she deserved. For the next two weeks he practically worked around the clock, sleeping and eating in his office, his energy fueled by new devotion. Every day Monique brought sandwiches or a home-cooked meal. She worried at his furious pace. “Jacques, you are going to kill yourself and then I will be all alone,” she teased. “That wouldn’t be fair.”

“
Non, ma petite
, never.” He looked up from his desk. “And anyway, I have plenty of energy. All I need is to see you and you fill me with such strength, I feel like Hercules!”

They fell in love. They were like teenagers. They were inseparable, made for each other, and they had known it from that very first gaze.

“Look,
chéri
,” Monique said. “I brought some cheese, a baguette and a bottle of Bordeaux. What do you say we take a little break?”

“Yes, you’re right,” he replied with a gleam in his eye, “I’m famished.” He stood up from his desk and went to her. He took the grocery bag out of her arms, deposited it on the desk, and turned back around to embrace her. “I love you, my sweet,” he said. He took her china doll face in his hands and tilted her chin towards him. Slowly he lowered his face until his lips met hers. He kissed her deeply and passionately. Her hand came up and touched his chest as he kissed her chin and her neck, where he lingered.

“Oh, Jacques,” she moaned, “you truly are famished.”

He put his hand in her blouse, cupped her breast. His loins were bulging. He pressed his body closer to hers and slowly moved his hips back and forth. She could feel his desire and how she wanted him.

Jacques lifted her in his arms and brought her to the couch.

“Oh, my love, what a marvelous man you are. I love you so much.”

His breath caught in his throat. And then they were together, their bodies melted into one. Their need for each other was plain. They were flooded with passion. Monique gasped for breath. She felt him absorbing her inch by inch, and when the entry of his manhood filled her, she was obsessed with giving all of her, her body, her love, her soul. She belonged to him. God had created her for him. Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, the waves of their passion rising higher and deeper, pushing them forward to their ultimate fulfillment of ecstasy or, as the French call it,
la petite mort.
The little death.

“Now you know why we Frenchmen are known as divine lovers.” Jacques said after they had finished.

“Jacques, your ego is bigger than your...” Monique caught herself and laughed. “But your heart is bigger than your body,” she continued quickly, “and that is made of gold.”

Jacques prepared everything perfectly, to the last detail. Monique appeared on television talk shows, opened for famous singers and cut her first album. The European continent fell in love with her. Jacques pushed harder. Soon, she was to begin a tour; she would perform throughout the Mediterranean. Her launching into the international market would be in Cairo, the first venue, a concert at the foot of the Pyramids.

But Monique’s greatest love was no longer music, what had obsessed her for so many years. Her greatest love was now her man, who happened to be her agent. Jacques saw and understood this, and on the night of her last show before her upcoming tour, two years to the day that they had met, he asked her to marry him.

They were married three months later in a chapel outside of Paris. The wedding was small. Monique and Jacques invited only their closest friends. Among them was Jacques’ best friend Alejandro del Valle, their best man. He was also the consular attaché to the Spanish Embassy in Paris. Jacques and Alejandro had met at the Sorbonne.

Alejandro drove Monique to her wedding in a white Rolls Royce decorated with flowers and banners. The Rolls turned the corner into the gardens of the chapel and stopped in front of the stairs. Alejandro rushed out to open the door for the beautiful bride. She looked dazzling. Her dress was made of silk, taffeta and lace with miniature pearls sewn on the upper bodice and sleeves. The effect was breathtaking. Melina Walters had designed the dress herself and had organized every detail of the wedding with her usual finesse.

Davina’s father hurriedly went to greet Monique. He looked dashing in his gray tails and top hat. He would be giving his second daughter away. He took her hand and carefully helped her out of the car. Gently he placed her arm on his and they proceeded to the chapel.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said.

“Thank you, Uncle William. Have I ever told you how much I love you? It’s thanks to you and Aunt Melina that I am so happy today. Thank you for everything. Through the good and sad times, you were always there for me. I will never forget that.”

William Walters’ eyes filled. He knew Monique meant every word, and he knew she must be thinking about her parents. “My dear child,” he said, “your happiness is all that counts, and I know that Brigitte and Richard are with us today. They loved you so, and were very proud of you. They wouldn’t miss this special occasion. They are up there looking down at you. Be happy. They are.”

Davina poked her father in the ribs. “Come on, you two, or Jacques is going to change his mind.”

They all entered the church. At the altar, the silver-haired William Walters presented his second daughter to Jacques. The two men looked at each other. Words were not needed; their eyes spoke for them. We both love her, my friend, the older man’s eyes said, but now it’s your turn to take care of her. I will, the younger man’s eyes replied, rest assured. They smiled, their messages clear and understood.

As they emerged from the chapel, the bride and groom were showered with flower petals, an old Greek village custom. It gave the impression of a hailing rainbow.

Before Monique got into the car with her new groom, she threw her bouquet. Davina caught it. The two women looked at each other, a smile and glow spread over their radiant faces.

Alejandro led the procession in the white Rolls Royce, followed by the other cars, to a bistro for a reception before the newlyweds escaped on their honeymoon. The descending sun now bathed the horizon with peach and amber hues.

Inside the pub, the champagne was flowing. Davina tapped her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention. I would like to dedicate a song to Jacques and Monique.” Everyone applauded. Davina wondered if it was for the song she knew they would like to hear or for not giving a long teary speech. Davina was excited about singing now. She missed her music. Her life had changed so utterly since her days in Switzerland with Monique. After school in Geneva, she started translating professionally as a simultaneous interpreter. She was in demand because she was quick and reliable. Her memory for the right word never seemed to falter and she could handle the pressures of the job as well. Working under extreme pressure was essential in this line of work. Panic was the interpreter’s worst enemy. Davina knew several of her colleagues who were not able to endure the stress; they went to special clinics for ‘nerve therapies’. Davina seemed to thrive in the hectic environment of this profession. After six months in Geneva, she was transferred to the United Nations in New York City. Davina completely threw herself into her work, leaving little time for anything else, including her music.

Davina picked up the guitar she had brought and sang
Sunrise, Sunset
, a song from a well-known musical about a couple getting married. Davina changed the original names in the song and replaced them with the names of Jacques and Monique.

Monique had told Jacques of their singing together but he could not have imagined the effect Davina Walters had when she sang. It was not possible not to listen, he thought. He had just witnessed something astonishing, and as he looked around the room, he realized that the others had been just as hypnotized by her performance.

“Why the hell don’t you sing?” Jacques asked Davina.

“I did!”

“No, no, I mean professionally. You are incredible.” He meant it. She had something Monique did not have. She had something that few singers have. It was a charisma certainly but it wasn’t just the voice, which was beautiful enough. And it wasn’t just the sensuality in the vocal chords. Something. There was something else he couldn’t identify. With her looks, he thought, she could take the world by storm. “I’m serious,” Jacques persisted. “You must. Such waste, you should be ashamed of yourself,
Mademoiselle
!”

“Jacques, you are a love,” Davina replied. “I will think about it and if I ever decide to be a singer, it will be with one condition.”

“What would that be?”

“You must be my manager.”

“But of course, I would be insulted if I weren’t.” Jacques grinned but he knew she hadn’t taken him seriously.

Davina had been stealing glimpses at Alejandro all evening. He was devastatingly handsome and the most sensuous man she had ever set eyes on. He not only exuded power and strength, but also warmth and charisma. He was the kind of man she had read about in romantic paperbacks and fantasized about. He had that Spanish aristocratic face, dark hair, a quick smile and perfectly white teeth that seemed to light up his whole face, and the most astonishing violet-blue eyes. She moaned at the thought of his lean athletic body sculptured under his shirt. Every time he brushed her arm or touched her, she felt her heart thump. What has gotten into me? She wondered. She’d had several boyfriends, but none of them had ever made her feel like this. But then, she reminded herself, she had never known such a specimen. She knew from Monique that Alejandro was a diplomat for his native country of Spain. He was the consular attaché in Paris. Alejandro reminded Davina of her own father—tall and elegant, well mannered and distinguished. She also knew from Monique that Alejandro was followed by the most beautiful and affluent of women.

“Daydreaming are we?” The familiar voice came from behind her.

“What?” she said turning around.