Authors: Denise Kahn
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 were 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.
“How long will you be in Paris?” François, who was from
Paris Match
, asked, walking quickly to stay at her side.
“Just a few days,” she said. “And then Madrid.”
Dozens of questions were shouted at her. Davina, remembering to smile, gave short answers and did not once let up on her pace until she reached the VIP Lounge. It wasn’t until then that she knew the woman in the hat was still with her. And so was the man in the black T-shirt, but the distance between them kept growing. He obviously was not used to fighting members of a hungry press.
Jacques was momentarily confused to see Davina with her arm around a woman wearing what he could have sworn was the hat he had given Davina to wear.
“
Merde
! Davina, who’s this? What’s going on?”
“Help me, Jacques. Her husband’s trying to kill her.”
“Ex-husband,” the woman breathlessly corrected her.
“Shit,” Jacques muttered again.
They helped her onto a couch.
“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” Jacques reminded her.
Davina took the hat off the woman’s head.
“Who is she?” Jacques demanded.
“I don’t know,” Davina said, and they both looked at the stranger. She was pretty but her beauty was eclipsed by her anxiety She was distraught and tense. Her almond-shaped eyes were a light hazel with specks of green. Her lips were small and perfectly shaped. She had a slightly upturned nose and her skin was smooth but very drawn.
“Jean. My name is Jean. Thank you. You saved my life.”
“Now, what are you going to do?” Davina asked her.
“I don’t know,” Jean said and began to cry.
“Davina,” Jacques pulled her away. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“We can’t just leave her here.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I saw her husband, ex-husband. She says he’s going to kill her.”
“
Ma chérie
…” Jacques began, but Davina had already made up her mind.
“Your passport?”
Jean handed Davina her purse. It was as if the simple task of searching in her own pocketbook was too much for her.
“I’m leaving on my own plane. I’m willing to get you on it to Europe, if that helps.”
“Yes, it will, thank you.”
“Davina!” Jacques said exasperated. He was a man who loved to plan everything meticulously, down to the last detail. Jean was no small detail.
Davina sat in the seat beside Jean on the airplane. As they taxied to the runway, the cockpit door was open. Davina asked their captain, Adam Spencer, to leave the door open on takeoffs and landings. These, to Davina, were the best parts of a flight.
Adam Spencer’s plane, the Black Angel, which had originally been chartered by Jacques for Monique, now flew for Davina. The lounge area doubled as a dining room with a kitchen attached to it. There were three tiny bedrooms. One for Davina, one for Jacques, which doubled as a communications room, and another for the occasional guest. They each had a set of bunk beds, a nightstand, a fold-down desk and a small closet. The plane also had a shower and two lavatories.
“We’ve been cleared for take-off,” Adam Spencer announced, pushing down on the throttles. “Assume positions!”
As the engines rumbled loudly, Jean groaned. Davina saw that she was hyperventilating. “Is this your first time on an airplane?” Yes, it was. “That’s just the sound of the engines,” Davina explained. “And we need those”
Jean closed her eyes trying to block out the unfamiliar sounds of the DC-3.
“Those are the wheels coming up,” Davina said, patting her hand. “It’s very normal. You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a pilot.”
Jean let out a scream practically making Davina jump in her seat.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Are...are...we...in the...air?” She asked hesitating on the last word.
“Yes,” Davina replied.
“Holy shit!”
“What is it, what’s wrong?” Davina asked again.
“This is just a little plane, right?”
Davina realized that Jean hadn’t opened her eyes since they lifted off.
“There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of,” Davina said, trying her best to convince Jean. “Oh, yes, you can open your eyes and take your seat belt off. Would you like a drink or a soda?” she added, pushing a button on her armrest.
The Black Angel’s only flight attendant answered her call.
“Bianca, we have a first-timer,” Davina said.
This was Bianca’s maiden voyage as crew member on the Black Angel. Adam and Eric met her on Malta. She was a seamstress and costume designer by trade, skills in great demand on the island for its grand festivals, especially Carnival, which was held on the four days before Ash Wednesday and Mnarja, a two-day harvest festival in June. Bianca, who was Maltese by birth, was eager to expand her horizons beyond the tiny island. While she made this known to her new friends Adam and Eric, she did not expect to be given an opportunity so soon. Adam hired her as an ‘assistant.’ He wasn’t exactly sure what this meant except that on the plane, she would be the flight attendant. The Black Angel was hauling people now, not cargo. And who knows, Adam thought, maybe Eric would fall in love with her. She was no Sally.