by Tamar Hodes
‘The floor of the pool becomes a dance floor,’ said Magda, ‘at the push of a button. There is a master suite and eighteen staterooms, and in the drinking area, known as Ari’s bar, the barstools are covered in material made from the foreskins of whales.’
Marianne shifted nervously: she felt horribly out of place and wished she was back in her simple house with Leonard and her baby.
‘Hello, you found us,’ said a voice and they turned to see Onassis coming towards them. Once again, he was dressed like a naval officer and his grey hair was swept back. ‘I am so happy to see you.’ He kissed each woman on both cheeks. ‘Please follow me.’ They saw the gold rings on his fingers catch the light.
He led them down a spiral staircase that resembled the polished inside of a shell to a dining room, laid with white linen tablecloths and napkins. Young pretty women in diamonds flirted with older, potbellied men at tables, and Onassis directed Magda and Marianne to one of those. Introductions were made but Marianne was so overwhelmed that she could not take in the names.
‘Look over there,’ Magda whispered, pointing to Onassis’ head table. ‘His ex-lover Maria Callas, and Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Aren’t they handsome?’
The meal included caviar, salmon and crab shaped into little towers, followed by lobster and oysters on beds of crushed ice with lemon wedges at their sides. The room was full of laughter and chatter.
Afterwards they were served toppling mounds of chocolate profiteroles and lemon mousse which melted on the tongue; then they went up on the deck and sat by the pool, dipping their toes in the water, drinking coffee from tiny cups.
‘You know,’ said Magda, conspiratorially, ‘they say that Onassis is seeing Jackie Kennedy. What a scandal – with her husband having been assassinated only two years ago and him being involved with her sister, Lee. So exciting! I love it!’
When it was time for the dream to end, the women thanked Onassis. He bowed graciously. ‘The pleasure has been all mine. Please come and see us again, here, or on Skorpios, my island.’
Walking back from the harbour to their homes, the women held hands and giggled.
‘How do we reciprocate?’ asked Marianne. ‘Do you think he would like to have beans and cold meats with my baby and me on the terrace?’
‘Probably,’ said Magda, ‘he would love it.’
And they laughed.
That evening, she tried to describe it all to Leonard. They were on the terrace on a warm summer’s evening, with a welcome breeze blowing in from the harbour.
‘Sometimes I find life so confusing.’
‘Why?’ He felt guilty for ignoring her for so long and so tried to focus on her words, even though his mind was still obsessed with the song he had been working on. Maybe he would leave out the last verse?
‘Because I can’t make sense of it. On the one hand, there is Mikalis weeping for his dead son. And then there is Onassis and his yacht and crab and lobsters.’
‘I think your mistake is seeing it all as different or as two contrasting events.’
‘Aren’t they?’
‘No. They are all part of the same. Life and death are not opposites to each other. They are the same as each other. It is all there: the darkness and light; death and birth; love and hate. They are one. The rose and the thorn tree grow from the same earth. The lion and the mouse are of the same matter. If you embrace the light, you also embrace the darkness.’
Marianne listened, amazed. She could not totally accept what he meant.
But when he took her hand, circled her palm with his thumb and then bent forward to kiss her, she thought: now I understand.
xix
Leonard did not really like the cables that sliced dark lines across the view from his study windows – and through his beloved almond blossom tree, as if dissecting it – but the new telephones connected the Hydra community to the world. True, Masha rang too often for his liking, as did his sister, but it also meant that publishers and editors could be more in touch. His work was being appreciated overseas, especially in America, and he was frequently phoned for interviews and comments. His novels were well received but didn’t make much money and he felt sure that the songs and poems were the way ahead.
One day, Marianne came back from Katsikas’ post office with a package for Leonard. He opened it and was thrilled to see the first edition of his new collection of poetry, Flowers for Hitler.
‘Look, my love,’ he said excitedly, showing her the title page. To her delight she saw the dedication: For Marianne. He turned to page 52 and the poem he had written for her. Marianne’s eyes filled with tears as she read the words about her and about Hydra.
‘Leonard,’ she said, ‘I am so proud of you.’
‘I don’t know if this compensates for the misery I have brought you but maybe you realise that I have not been totally wasting my time.’
She held the book close to her chest and knew that she would treasure it. She had a mother of pearl box full of his gifts: the Yves San Laurent tortoiseshell mirror he had given her; a pair of tiny scissors shaped like a bird with the blades as its beak, opening and shutting; a collection of poems by Lorca; and an anemone flower that he had picked on a lovely walk and then pressed between books.
Usually when the phone rang it was for Leonard: his publisher, his agent, a radio presenter asking for an interview, but Marianne’s mother sometimes also called from Norway. One morning it rang and it was Magda.
‘Marianne, it’s me.’
‘Magda? You sound upset. What’s wrong?’
‘Just my idiot husband again. He’s run off with an Egyptian princess he fell in love with. He met her at the Hilton Hotel in Athens. I knew he was seeing other women.’
‘Oh god.’
‘That’s not the worst of it. He got in trouble with the police but they can’t find him, so I took the blame, was arrested and covered for him.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because I’m crazy, I suppose. I’m in Athens now and I have a court case looming.’
‘That is terrible. Do you want me to come, Magda?’
‘No, you’ve got the baby and Leonard to cope with. I’ll let you know what happens. Please tell everyone that Lagoudera is shut in the meantime.’
‘What will happen to little Alexander?’
‘Charmian and George have him at the moment: he loves their three children so he will be happy there, but we will have to see what happens. Pray for me, Marianne.’
She heard Magda’s voice crack. Marianne didn’t believe the Johnston household was the best place for a child, but she said nothing. Poor Alexander. Poor Magda.
‘Bye, Magda, my love. Be strong.’
Magda was special to her, warm and protective, and to think of her suffering when she had done nothing wrong made Marianne’s face burn.
Each time she dressed Axel Joachim and brushed his hair, she thought of Magda and what she must be enduring, and about that poor little child who had lost both his parents. Marianne prayed that the judge would see that she was innocent and release her.
All the way to Axel, steering the pushchair along the sandy track, Marianne thought: life, it is so unpredictable. Today had started with a dedication but had turned to bad news.
She never knew what mood Axel would be in, sometimes angry and moody, other times calm. She wondered why she took the little boy to see him when Axel showed little interest in his son, but she was still hankering after a perfect family unit, although she knew that she was deluded.
A happy, smiling Axel opened the door.
‘Come in,’ he said and ruffled his son’s hair.
On the terrace, Maria brought out white wine, and juice for the baby.
‘You look happy,’ said Marianne, bemused. She lifted her glass. ‘What are we celebrating?’
‘Line is going to be made into a film.’
‘That is amazing, Axel. Congratulations. When?’
‘They are casting it now and searching for the best actor
s.’
‘I have a suggestion,’ said Marianne coyly. ‘Maybe I could play Line?’
‘You?’ Axel downed his drink and laughed. ‘You are not an actress.’
‘I have not acted, that is true, but do you remember in Oslo when I worked on the film Tonny?’
‘That was production work, not acting, Marianne.’
‘I know but the director, Sver Gran, said that I had a real feeling for film. Also, remember I have done a lot of modelling for painters and magazines.’
‘Modelling is not the same as acting, Marianne. They are thinking of casting Margarete Robsahm as Line and Toralv Maurstad as Jacob.’
‘I see.’ Marianne put down her glass. One could not argue with Axel. All that proofreading she had done, and the fact that Line was so clearly based on her, obviously meant nothing to him.
She stayed a while longer. Axel hardly bothered with his son but talked about the film, his next novel which was going well, and his blossoming career.
On the walk home, Axel Joachim slept. Usually Marianne looked at the poppies and anemones growing randomly along the path but today she did not see them. Her heart was racing. It was flattering to have books dedicated to her and to be seen as a muse, but it made her wonder who she was. Was she there merely to inspire and help others or did she have any value of her own? Was she substantial, or merely a floating spirit entering the minds of talented writers while they slept?
As she walked distractedly back to the house, she saw Charmian in a long white kaftan, the bottom dirty as if she had been traipsing through mud, and a wide straw hat. She looked ashen and there were black lines beneath her eyes.
‘Darling.’ It was obvious that she had been drinking heavily even though it was only mid-afternoon. ‘Good news. My Mermaid Singing has had great reviews in America and Britain. One paper even said that I had changed the face of travel writing!’
‘That’s lovely, Charmian.’
‘Yes. Now I’m writing Peel Me a Lotus, moving the focus from Kalymnos to Hydra.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘But you look unhappy, Marianne. What is it?’
‘Oh, you know, Leonard, Axel, Magda. Isn’t it awful?’
‘Yes, it’s terrible. The poor woman has done nothing wrong. Fucking men. That’s all they’re good for and my poor husband can’t even manage that these days!’
‘How is George?’
‘Not great. Dr Benedictus says it is either tuberculosis or lung disease and he wants to refer him to the hospital in Athens, but George won’t go. He’s not in a good way. It would help if he could stop smoking or drinking but he won’t listen.’
‘That’s frustrating.’
‘It is. He’s lost so much weight, he looks scrawny, but he’s mad about his writing. He’s onto the next book in the trilogy and he’s obsessed with it. Thank heavens I have Anthony to satisfy my needs.’
By the time Charmian had staggered home, she could hardly see straight. In her house the noise was overwhelming. She could hear the children in the living room, screaming and laughing, but she was seeing double.
‘Hey everyone,’ she called.
‘Hi, Mum,’ called Shane. ‘You pissed again?’
‘Not at all,’ said Charmian. ‘How’s the baby?’
On Shane’s knee was little Alexander, overwhelmed, and on the verge of tears.
‘We’ve been trying to play with him and tell him stories,’ said Jason, ‘but he keeps crying.’
‘He’s missing his mummy.’ Charmian belched. ‘Pardon me.’
Shane looked up, parting her blonde hair: ‘Mummy, Martin’s come first in Classical and Modern Greek at school.’
‘Have you, darling? I’m not surprised. You are a genius. Maybe now the teacher will stop saying that the English are beasts and bloody butchers.’
‘Well, we’re not English,’ Martin corrected her. ‘We’re Australian.’
‘No, we’re not.’ Shane thumped him. ‘We’re British.’
‘No, we’re not, stupid. We’re Greek,’ said Jason bouncing the baby on his knee. Alexander started bawling.
‘We are not Greek,’ shouted Martin. ‘Imbecile!’ and the children started hitting each other.
Sevasty stormed into the room, picked up the baby, muttered something and took him to a quieter room.
Charmian walked out, tripped over a stray cat that had installed itself in the hallway and burst into George’s smoky study. She saw the ashtray full of fag ends, an empty bottle of gin on the table and piles of typed pages. ‘You just do your fucking writing, that’s it, and leave the house in chaos and the kids punching each other and the poor baby crying its eyes out. You just carry on.’
George leapt from his chair and shook her. ‘You’ve been drinking again, and you’re wasted, so don’t go making out that you’re the mother of the year.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that? I’m a brilliant mother to all my children.’
‘What? Including Jennifer who you only kept for two weeks before you gave her away?’
‘Don’t you drag her into this. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about her. You’re a hypocrite. What about Gae? You were happy to leave Elsie to bring her up on her own, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I left her for you. Biggest bloody mistake of my life!’
‘Oh, I thought Melbourne was too provincial for you? All those trams and grey skies and suburbia. What do you call it: antirrhinums?
‘Leaving Melbourne was the best thing I ever did. Marrying you was the worst.’
And she lunged at him, punching him in the face, trying to grab at his hair; he tried to stop her, her breath foul from drink, his stale with nicotine, and he shouted and coughed at the same time: ‘Control yourself, Charmian, you’re out of your head,’ but she wouldn’t stop. She bit at his cheek; he slapped her so hard that her face instantly burned and stung, but she laughed and tried to grab his genitals, shouting mockingly, ‘Is it working yet? Can you get it up or do I need someone else to fuck me?’
‘You’re a little shit, did you know that, Charm? I don’t know what I ever saw in you, but you are hard and cruel.’
George swiped her so hard that she fell instantly to the floor. She was crying and wailing, he was coughing and shouting when Martin ran in.
‘Mum, Dad, what the hell are you doing? We’ve got the baby distressed in the other room. What is wrong with you both?’
Shane started crying when she saw her mother on the floor with a swollen face and screaming. Jason came in too, his lovely blue eyes welling up in dismay.
‘Stop it!’ shouted Martin. ‘Stop it, both of you. You’re upsetting us all. It’s not fair. We are children. Why should we have to deal with this over and over again? You should be looking after us. We should not be caring for you,’ and he dragged the two younger ones away, both sobbing.
Sevasty walked in, fuming, picked Charmian up, took her away from George, and bathed her swollen face with warm water and cream. Then she led her to the bedroom where Charmian could rest. George closed the door of the study and wasn’t seen again that day.
In the living room, Martin looked after his younger siblings. He wiped Shane and Jason’s eyes – the latter held the now-calmer Alexander, with a cup of milk, on his lap – and sat between them on the sofa. On his lap was a copy of Homer’s Odyssey.
‘Now where did we get up to?’ he asked the younger ones, trying to quell the quiver in his voice and hide the fact that all he could see in his mind was his mother lying bleeding on the floor.
‘Oh yes. We’re going to read the ending tonight. Here we go:
‘On this, pale fear seized everyone; they were so frightened that their arms dropped from their hands and fell upon the ground at the sound of the goddess’s voice, and they fled back to the city for their lives. But Ulysses gave a great cry, and gathering himself together swooped down like a soaring eagle. Then the son of Saturn sent a thunderbolt of fire that fell just in front of Minerva, so she said to Ulysse
s, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, stop this warful strife, or Jove will be angry with you.”
‘Thus spoke Minerva, and Ulysses obeyed her gladly. Then Minerva assumed the form and voice of Mentor, and presently made a covenant of peace between the two contending parties.’
xx
Autumn brought the terrible Sirocco wind, carrying dust from the Sahara, which crept in everywhere: through the windows, under the door, between the slats of the shutters and any gap it could find. The walls in Leonard’s white house turned pink and everything was covered in a film of dust. Marianne had to sweep her step each day like she’d seen the Greek women do.
Having finished Beautiful Losers and posted it to his publishers, Leonard was in a state of total exhaustion. For several weeks he stayed in bed, sweating, calling out when his dreams disturbed him. He refused to see Dr Benedictus or let his publisher know how ill he was, so when the telephone rang, Marianne had to carry it to him and listen while he feigned a strong voice. She didn’t like it when magazine editors, interviewers and publishers called. Then she would prop Leonard up on pillows, pass him the phone and leave the room.
‘Yes, that is true to some extent but that was meant more symbolically than literally. The whole point about language is that…’
The greens and herbs that Kyria Sophia picked made Leonard warming soup, which was all that he would eat. As well as looking after Axel Joachim, Marianne tended to Leonard, holding a wet flannel on his head when he had a fever, warming the room when he was cold. When it rained, Marianne closed the shutters and tried to keep the bad weather at bay, but the old house and its hole-filled walls did not withstand the fierce winds well.
Kyria Sophia showed her how to heap hot coals on silver trays to keep the rooms warm and Marianne borrowed a gas heater from Charmian. It had wheels and was covered in chicken wire, but it provided some warmth. The friends were good at sharing and giving. Some of the children’s clothes were passed down: from Jason to Gideon, to Esther to Axel Joachim, anyone spotting a hole, happily darning it along the way.