All About Eva Page 5

  The soundproofed room offered a private entrance, along with a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower.

  It was the perfect place for relaxation and lovemaking, and I was looking forward to plenty of both.

  Upon our arrival in the city of light and lovers, I assumed that Donovan and I would be swinging from the chandeliers, getting our sex life back in proper order, but our suite was such a haven of quiet and serenity that Donovan slept the entire first two days away, and only awakened just in time for dinner.

  Not that I minded. Donovan was obviously sleep-deprived, so while he was at the hotel recharging his batteries, I went out and explored the city on my own.

  I had been to France several times before, and while I appreciate progressive cities, I also love that there are ancient places in the world like Rome, Athens, and Paris, where you could go away for one hundred years and return to find that not much has changed. There would still be the same narrow, cobbled streets and the architecture that dates back five to six hundred years.

  Our hotel was a stone’s throw away from the world-class Louvre museum, where there was so much to take in that I committed myself to spending at least one hour each day browsing the extensive collections.

  The Louvre houses many of the world’s greatest treasures, including the Venus de Milo statue and Leonardo da Vinci’s most famous masterpiece, Mona Lisa, hung behind a bulletproof glass barrier just in case some idiots got the idea that they wanted to actually touch the painting or, God forbid, steal it again like they did back in 1911.

  I studied Ms. Mona closely, wondering if it was true that the painting was actually of da Vinci himself and not some sixteenth-century Renaissance babe whose vamp appeal brought all the boys to the yard.

  I detected a faint resemblance. One thing was for sure, though. Ms. Mona Lisa wasn’t all that.

  I rented a bike for a few hours each day, dipped my toes in the pond at Trocadero Square, and sat in the warm sunshine of the Luxembourg Gardens, just watching the Parisian world go by.

  It was a beautiful place to be.

  Unlike back home, everyone at least seemed friendly. They were all carrying around long loaves of freshly baked baguettes, and smiling and saying Bonjour! all day long to everyone they passed on the streets.

  New York is the culinary capital of America, but Paris is the culinary capital of the world.

  For lunch, I did what Parisians do and steered clear of touristy spots like the Opera House and the Eiffel Tower.

  On our very first trip to France, Donovan had schooled me that “the best food in any city is always where you see more locals hanging out than you see tourists.”

  It made perfect sense. Tourists can be bullshitted in ways that locals can’t.

  Sometimes when traveling abroad, I have come across more than a few local business owners that love making a quick buck off of tourists without regard to giving them quality products and service. However, those same business owners dare not disrespect the locals in that way because it will be the local clientele who’ll keep them in business long after the tourists have gone back home.

  Armed with this knowledge, I went off the beaten path and enjoyed long lunches in quaint out-of-the-way restaurants that served provincial food, recipes passed down from many generations, complemented by crisp, delectable house wines that were not available anywhere else in the world.

  Paris’s haute couture week was in full effect, which caused the city to be even more electrified than usual. I was desperate to view the spring– summer collections, but try as I might, the shows were impossible to get in to with having called ahead.

  I packed a lot into those first few days in Paris, and when Donovan was finally well rested enough, he started rising early every morning to buy me fresh flowers at the nearby outdoor market. Afterward, we would have omelets, croissants, and coffee at one of the many cafes near our hotel, and at night we went out to jazz clubs where we ate steak frites and fresh oysters, and got drunk with the locals who treated us like long-lost cousins.

  Donovan looked good in Paris. His smile was broader, he laughed more easily, and the worry lines in his face had all but disappeared.

  Best of all, his sex drive had come back with a vengeance, and it was magnifique! Merci!

  Donovan was passionate and insatiable once again, and all without having to take any of those boner-inducing Cialis pills. The two of us would be out and about, and all it took would be one look at each other and we’d have to make a pit stop back at the hotel for a quickie.

  It all started one night when we were getting dressed to go out for dinner. I noticed that Donovan was watching me with a twinkle in his eye. He embraced me from behind and started nibbling on my ear. “You are without a doubt the most gorgeous woman from here to New York City,” he whispered, “and I am the luckiest man alive to have you.”

  I smiled at him through the mirror, and when I turned to face him, it was on and popping. We made love right then and there, and decided to stay in and order room service instead of going out.

  The saying that Paris equals romance, and is the best place to revive your love life if need be, is the gospel truth. Donovan was extra attentive, romantic, and so affectionate that I fell in love with him all over again.

  Those two weeks in Paris were magical.

  Donovan had always been generous, but was even more so on that trip.

  I ran through the Louboutin boutique like a kid in a candy store, scoring several pairs of limited edition Lobos that had personally been signed by Mr. L. himself, which transformed them from mere shoes to keepsakes.

  Some of my fellow fashionistas insist that Lou-bous are overrated, but to me, they are everything! Especially the pair of five-inch leopard print peep toes that practically glistened in their little red cubbyhole. It was the ultimate gag and swoon moment, and of course I had to have them.

  That is what life with Donovan had been like from the very beginning. You covet? You cop it! Simple as that.

  We dropped major coins at all the boutiques and design houses along Avenue Montaigne and rue François-Premier, avenue des Champs-Elysées, and rue du Faubourg St-Honoré, all except for Hermes, who I had been personally boycotting since they dissed Oprah by refusing to allow her in the boutique. I ended up coming away with so much stuff that we also had to buy a full set of Louis Vuitton luggage to take it all back home.

  One evening while Donovan and I were walking along the Seine River, I caught a chill because the temperature had dipped down into the 40s. He pulled me close to keep me warm, then quickly hailed a taxi. Speaking in perfect French, Donovan told the driver to take us to J. Mendel on rue St-Honoré where he bought me a chinchilla coat and one of those round, Russian-style hats to match.

  It was the most gorgeous coat ever, however, I experienced a bit of sticker shock when the salesclerk rung up the sale and announced that the total was $65,000.

  Donovan barely batted an eyelash. “That’s not bad,” he said, handing the clerk his company credit card.

  “Not bad?” I said. “That amount of money could pay off someone’s mortgage, send a kid to college, or buy some struggling single mother a nice, reliable car.”

  “You’re right, and it would probably feed an entire African village for the next ten years as well. Do you want to go ahead and do that instead?”

  The salesclerk smiled, and waited patiently while Donovan and I went back and forth debating the pros and cons of making such an extravagant purchase.

  “I don’t know, Donovan. . . .” I felt guilty and selfish, and it really was quite the moral dilemma for me.

  “We’ll take it,” Donovan said to the clerk, who went ahead and closed the sale so fast that it was comical. “Not only do you deserve this coat, Eva, but you’re also going to need it where we’re going next.”

  “But babe, it’s October. It’s not quite cold enough in New York for fur yet.”

  “I know, and that’s why we’re moving on to Switzerland,” he said, lovingly stro
king the pelt of my new coat. “Surprise!”

  I gave him the confused puppy look, and waited for the punch line that never came. Switzerland?

  Lost in Translation

  I was in a New York state of mind, and was beyond ready to return home. But Donovan seemed so thrilled about extending our trip abroad that I didn’t want to spoil his fun, so I kept my mouth shut and went along with part deux of Donovan and Eva’s European vacation.

  The very next morning after buying the chinchilla, we checked out of Le Meurice and traveled by train from Paris to Switzerland. I would have much preferred to take the private jet, but Donovan insisted that the Bonjour La France rail would be just as fast, and just as comfortable. It wasn’t, of course, but the scenic landscape was priceless, and well worth the inconvenience of schlepping all of our luggage along with us when it would have made perfect sense to store some of it on the Gulfstream, which was waiting for us at the airport back in France.

  Donovan had long since paid for the flight crew to return to the United States via commercial airline, and had arrangements to fly them back to Paris when we were finally ready to return to New York.

  Bern, Switzerland, was picture perfect, with green, wide-open pastures as far as the eye could see. The town was surrounded by high snowcapped mountains, and the clouds were so low that you could literally walk right through them.

  Donovan made at least two business trips per year to Switzerland, but this was my first time accompanying him to the country most known for their stellar cheese, chocolate, and ski destinations.

  Normally, I don’t feel comfortable in countries where you can count the number of black folks on one hand, but the Swiss were friendly, and seemed quite harmless even though they were all tragically unhip.

  I felt as if I were on the set of a Ricola commercial, with everyone running around wearing these colorful, elf-inspired costumes held up by suspenders. Hotdisaster.com!

  To further offend my sensibilities, the women wore their hair in braided plaits that hung down their backs like Heidi, or if they were feeling really sexy, they wrapped the plaits around their heads and wove fresh flowers into them.

  We stayed at a superluxurious private ski resort that had endless amenities, but like I said, I was in a New York state of mind and anxious to return home to the United States.

  Donovan, on the other hand, was an avid skier, and since the winter skiing season for Switzerland had just started to gear up, he was enjoying the best slopes in the world too much to leave so soon.

  France and Switzerland are neighbors, but the two countries are like night and day. Paris had been all glitzy and chic, while Bern was much more rural and laid-back. With “laid-back” being synonymous with boring as hell. The fashions were horrendous, so shopping for clothes was out of the question, and the hottest social activities for the few weeks we were there included: a yodeling concert, which had the town all abuzz; a cow-milking contest; a rock-throwing contest (I kid you not); and a much-anticipated Schwingen match, which was nothing more than two grown men grabbing each other by the seat of the pants in an effort to see who could throw the other to the ground first.

  Good times!

  However, the good times came abruptly to an end when Donovan left to go skiing one morning and didn’t make it back.

  I was asleep when he had left, so I assumed he had gone skiing just like he did every morning for the two weeks we had been there. I waited for Donovan to return from sunup to sundown, and when he didn’t, I took a cable car up to the slopes a little after nightfall and asked the instructors and other skiers if any of them had seen Donovan on the slopes that day.

  As the only black man in town, he would have been easy to spot and to remember, but one after one, the answers were no. Donovan had been there the day before, but no one had seen him up there at all that day.

  I got back to our rented bungalow hoping that we had somehow missed each other in passing, but the place was just as empty as it had been before I had left to go searching for him.

  I needed to use a telephone, but the room had no means of contacting anyone, not even the concierge. On the day that we first checked into the resort, Donovan had requested that all the telephones be removed from the room so that we could spend quality time together and not be disturbed.

  Finally, there was no other alternative but to go over to the concierge’s office and have her call around to the local police station and hospital.

  “No, Mrs. Robinson, Mr. Robinson is not in the hospital, nor is he being detained by police,” she said politely, but I could still detect a hint of suspicion in her voice.

  In a sense I was relieved. Donovan wasn’t in trouble with the law or seriously wounded, but Mr. and Mrs. Robinson? I know Donovan wanted to get away from it all, but why the alias?

  I was so worried; I did not sleep at all that night. Instead, I sat in front of the log-burning fireplace drinking cup after cup of hot chocolate, wondering where the hell Donovan was, and what the hell could have happened to him.

  The scenarios that ran through my head were endless.

  Maybe he had been kidnapped and sold into the international sex slave trade—no, wait, that only happened to white women.

  Or, maybe he had decided to try out a different set of slopes where he crashed into a tree and was walking around with severe amnesia.

  Or, there had been an avalanche and he was now out there at the bottom of some mountain buried under miles of snow.

  Yes, that was it. Donovan had met an untimely death out on the Swiss Alps doing what he loved to do most in the world besides making and spending money.

  I felt such a profound sense of loss and grief that I started to cry. His mother would blame me, I was sure of it. And in a way, it really was entirely my fault. If only I had put my foot down and insisted that we go back to New York instead of continuing on to Switzerland, Donovan would be alive and everything would be fine.

  The knock on the door came early the next morning, which startled me even though I half expected it.

  I put on a brave front, and opened the door to find the female concierge standing there with a “regret to inform” look on her pale, pretty face. Standing next to the concierge was an older gentleman who wore a crisp navy blue uniform with a starched white collar and bronze name tag that said “Resort Manager” in black letters. He also looked gravely serious.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the manager said, looking grief stricken, “we are sorry to inform you that a serious problem has occurred.”

  I felt my emotions spiraling out of control. I gripped the doorknob, and leaned all of my weight on it for support.

  The concierge helped hold me up, and the manager began again. “Yes, well, as I was saying, Mr. Robinson’s credit card has been declined for the amount of eight-thousand four-hundred and thirty-six dollars, and fifty-two cents . . .”

  The manager handed me documents to prove that what he was saying was true, then went on to say that immediate additional payment was required if we, “the Robinsons,” intended to continue our stay at the resort.

  It was an outrageous amount of money for a hotel stay. I didn’t have any major credit cards in my name, and I only had five hundred dollars in my evening bag the night Donovan and I left for Paris, which was not nearly enough to even make a dent in that bill.

  Assumed names and rejected credit cards . . . none of it made a bit of sense.

  WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON HERE?

  What to do? I needed time to think, but had none.

  I followed the manager and concierge back to their office so that I could make a phone call. Before handing over the phone the resort manager asked with a raised eyebrow, “Will this be an international phone call?”

  What a dumb-ass question. Of course it was an international phone call.

  We were in Switzerland where no other black people were even visiting, let alone residing. Who the hell did he think I was calling, my cousin Peaches who lived around the corner?


  I didn’t have my cell phone with me, and the only people whose phone numbers that I knew by heart were Kyle, Zoë, and Tameka.

  I called Zoë first. After I told her it was me, she responded with:

  “What the fuck do you want?” There was a hard edge to her voice, and I thought she was joking around until she cut the conversation short and hung up on me.

  Next I called Kyle, who sounded panicked, yet relieved to hear my voice.

  “Eva, girl, where are you?”

  “I’m in Switzerland. Donovan’s been missing for almost an entire day, and things are just a mess right now. . . .”

  “Well, things are an even bigger mess back here. . . .” Kyle said, then went on to inform me that a scandal involving Donovan had broken a few short days after we had left the country over a month ago. The Manhattan District Attorney’s Office had indicted Donovan for an investment scheme that had swindled hundreds of investors out of $150 million dollars over the last five years—small potatoes in comparison to some of the bigger financial crooks out there, but a thief, whatever the amount, is still a thief.

  Donovan’s alleged list of victims was a veritable who’s who of black America; including John Crosby, Tameka’s soon to be ex-husband Jamal, and even my good friend Zoë Everett.

  After Kyle relayed all that information to me, I laughed. Among his other outstanding qualities, he had a wicked sense of humor. “Come on, Kyle. I am literally stranded halfway across the world right now, so this is not the time for you to be joking around.”

  “I wish I was joking,” he said grimly, “but I’m as serious as stage four cancer right now, Eva. Donovan is a wanted man. He’s on the run right now because the boy done went and got caught up in some serious shit.”

  When Kyle sniffled and blew his nose, I knew that he was crying, and that’s when I knew it was true.

  I had been bamboozled, hoodwinked, and led astray.

  Donovan, if that was even his real name, was a world-class fugitive, and he had taken me along for the ride.