The Goodtime Girl

by Tess Fragoulis

  “Don’t be so bashful, my little wife,” the Smyrniot coaxed. “We’re all friends here. Come now, have some fun.”

  But she looked terrified, ready to burst into tears, so Kivelli took her hand. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of you.” She then requested “I Don’t Want You,” one of Marianthi’s most lively and irreverent songs. It was sure to lighten the mood the Smyrniot had succeeded in darkening. Kivelli had never heard Marianthi sing any of her songs and, in truth, felt almost as curious as protective of her. When the music began, she squeezed her hand and sang the first lines,

  I’m living it up and getting drunk

  in taverns every day

  Knocking back wine to forget my troubles

  and chase your rotten love away

  Kivelli danced around the blanket, pulling Marianthi along, singing to this man and that, winking at the girls as she passed them. Narella and a few others joined in, singing with great gusto, joining the line around the blanket while the men clapped and played. Only Marianthi was not singing, though her lips mouthed every one of the words. The reason behind her reluctance to sing them out loud became clear when she joined in on the chorus.

  I don’t want you, you’re no good

  I don’t care how much you cry

  And if you can’t live without me

  The only choice is suicide

  Marianthi’s voice was small and weak and warbly. If Kivelli had not been standing right next to her, she never would have heard it. None of her strength or charm came through the thin, windy sound that escaped from her throat. Even her speaking voice was more melodic. Her head was bowed and tears were dripping off her chin. Kivelli sang twice as loud to cover up her friend’s shame and threw dirty looks at the Smyrniot, who was smiling and tapping his foot along to the song, taking credit for his wife’s work in front of the whole world.

  When the instruments were finally put down and the plates and forks picked up, a different type of silence descended upon the party. They all ate lustily, their appetites opened up by the fresh air and lunatic music. There were a few more spontaneous outbursts of song and dance during the afternoon, as well as some earnest attempts to recreate the music that had acted as an appetizer. But it proved impossible to sort out the various threads, let alone their braids and tangles. Every attempt yielded new sound combinations that overlaid the memory of what had been created only a few hours earlier. The men were clearly enjoying themselves now, slapping each other’s backs and trading war stories from the front lines of the clubs and tavernas. A few took side trips into the shrubs with Kyria Effie’s girls, whose spirits got higher and lighter with every glass of wine, every compliment and caress. Marianthi, on the other hand, looked inconsolable. She sat at the edge of the blanket, barely touching the food on her plate, avoiding eye contact and swatting away any merriment that came her way. When Kivelli suggested a walk to the foot of the cliff to pick spring flowers, her friend shook her head and made a sour face. Even the necklace of daisies she brought back and hung around Marianthi’s neck could not cheer her up.

  On the ride back to Piraeus, Marianthi and the Smyrniot did not speak. Kivelli tried to fill up their heavy silence, complimenting Marianthi’s cake and repeating several times how lucky they’d been with the weather, as it only started to drizzle after they’d finished packing up the cars to leave. She also spoke of the collaboration between the Smyrniot’s band and the boys from Barba Yannis’s. She hoped they could do it again sometime, maybe even record it to see what would happen. Neither replied with anything more than a grunt or a disinterested nod. Before getting out of the car, Kivelli kissed Marianthi on the cheeks and told her she would drop by her house tomorrow.

  “I’ll be busy tomorrow,” Marianthi replied too quickly. Kivelli shut the door and watched the couple roll away in a thick, unhappy silence. She understood Marianthi’s embarrassment: she was the type of woman who needed to do everything well — it was what made her house spotless, her cakes perfect and her songs so delightful. But what did it matter that Marianthi could not sing? Kivelli didn’t write songs, and it was this very difference that bonded them. It had to be painful, however, having all that poetry inside with no way to release it into the world. The voice in her head was beautiful, she’d said. It was Kivelli’s voice.

  The following Saturday Kivelli stopped by Marianthi’s house before their silence grew bigger than their friendship. Neither woman brought up the picnic, which was buried alongside their encounter with Diamantis. These things were in the past, and Marianthi had already stepped into the future. She’d written a new song called “Little Tramp.” The Smyrniot hadn’t seen it yet, so it was their secret for the time being. Kivelli improvised her own melody while Marianthi kept rhythm, drumming her fingers on the kitchen table — but she didn’t sing along, not a line, not a note. She didn’t even move her lips.

  That night Kivelli tried it out at Kyria Effie’s, and Narella pronounced it her new favourite song. Marianthi was delighted when she heard.

  23

  It was nearly noon, and Kivelli was still lying in bed, exhausted and reluctant to enter the day. Though she didn’t remember her dreams, there was no doubt they were having their way with her. Her arms were numb, her legs cramped as if she’d been tossed by seas brimming with corpses and battered by winds in an endless, futile journey. She pulled on her nightdress and sat for a moment with her bare feet on Aspasia’s handmade rug, then walked to the window to let in the light and the noise from the laneway below.

  Getting dressed was not the time-consuming task it had once been. There was no armoire full of fancy dresses, no vanity covered in ivory combs and perfume dispensers with long slender necks. Kivelli had only four outfits to choose from, as well as the linen jacket and black hat she’d rescued on the last night at Barba Yannis’s. But now that summer was here, what she really needed was a plain straw hat to which she might attach a cloth flower or a feather to make it look smart. She had not lost her vanity in the fire; it stared back at her, disgruntled, from the mirror every day.

  She put on the white cotton dress Aspasia had helped her sew. With its dropped waist and square neckline, it was simple but flattering. In truth, the girl had done most of the work, and if she could have, Kivelli would have given her a few coins for her efforts. She gave her a cake of lavender soap instead, which Aspasia deemed too pretty to use. The dress made Kivelli look carefree and fresh, despite the bags under her eyes. When Barba Yannis’s closed, she thought she might at least catch up on her sleep, but it was unwilling and she had given up the chase. She kept her old hours, staying up all night at Kyria Effie’s or at some club or in the company of a mangha in her room. Mostly she sat by her window until dawn, remembering things she’d seen, people she’d met, then tossing them out, one by one, like pebbles in a pond. With dampened hands she smoothed out the creases in the skirt, then fluffed her hair and powdered her face.

  Margarita and Aspasia were not downstairs. Kivelli assumed they were at the stoa bargaining for old carrots and lettuces as they did every Thursday, when the Monday crops had lost their firmness and the weekend bounty had yet to arrive. On her way out she noticed an envelope on a chair in the hallway, her name printed on the front in a hurried hand. It had no stamp or address, and there was dirt smudged across the back, as if it had been pushed under the front door. There was also a distinct slipper print over her name where Margarita had trod upon it, probably on purpose. Kivelli assumed it was a love note, already opened by her landlady looking for incriminating evidence or money, then devoured by the love-starved Aspasia. Both were left wanting. The envelope contained an invitation to the Bella Vista from the Smyrniot, though it read more like a ransom note, devoid as it was of “pleases” or “if you’d likes.”

  It was the first word Kivelli had heard from him since the recording. He’d avoided her at the picnic, had barely spoken to her on the ride home to Piraeus, and she hadn’t bumped into him at his house, which was a relief. Marianth
i rarely mentioned him unless she was complaining, preferring to talk about herself or hear stories about Kivelli’s men, passing judgment on them, sight unseen, falling in love with the idea of some of them, rejecting others outright as cads and scoundrels. Her own fantasies involved a mangha who was a perfect gentleman, could sing sweetly and was looking for a wife. She would leave the Smyrniot in a second for such a specimen, she said. Kivelli had never come across such a combination, but promised to send him Marianthi’s way if she did.

  There was a time when Kivelli spent her days and nights imagining, cooking up plots and lives she could step in and out of like new shoes. But even then she’d always been irresistibly drawn to the world, to life with all its small risks and surprises. Now all her imaginary landscapes were littered with death and disillusionment. They weren’t places anyone would want to visit, let alone live. It was much better to go out onto the streets of Piraeus and find whatever small enchantments they offered. Pick an orange from a tree and give it to a boy who looked hungry and sad, see him smile then run off with his skinny dog.

  Who knew what the Smyrniot had in mind, but there hadn’t been a lot of opportunities to sing since Barba Yannis’s closed. Kivelli’s belly was beginning to feel heavy and uncomfortable, as if it were filled with shifting rocks. She would think about whether to comply with his demands over breakfast.

  On her way to the square she ran into Narella, who informed her that Kyria Effie had suddenly taken ill. “The doctor said it’s her heart, which surprises me because I didn’t think she had one,” she laughed, then asked the Virgin Mary for forgiveness. “You know, Kivelli, the Virgin Mary takes extra special care of whores. She feels sorry for us.” Catfights were breaking out in the house over who would take care of the ailing madam, because someone was going to inherit the house for being the best “daughter.” “I’m going to bring her a bottle of whisky. Let the others empty her bedpans and rub her stinking feet.” Narella figured the whisky would cure her or kill her — either outcome was fine with her. She and Crazy Manos were going to set up house any day now, but she still wanted her independence. Kivelli’s eyebrows arched slightly. “Don’t look at me like that, little sister. He’s going to inherit his father’s butcher shop some day, and since I’m the only woman who can stand him for more than a night or two, I plan to spend the rest of my life getting fat on fresh red meat.” Kivelli kissed her friend’s cheek, sent wishes for a swift recovery to Kyria Effie and tried not to wonder what she would be doing the following Saturday.

  The call of Pandelis the hat seller travelled across the square, and Kivelli followed his tremulous voice until she saw him and his overflowing cart. He wore a different hat every day, sometimes even a lady’s hat if business was slow. Today it was an old straw boater, which made him look happy-go-lucky in spite of his ragged clothes and crooked back from dragging the heavy cart all over town. The hats he sold belonged to people who had died, and his manner of procurement involved an arrangement he’d made with altar boys from the various churches in the vicinity. As soon as the priest was called to the house of the nearly departed, a message was sent to the hat seller, and by the day of the funeral whatever hats the person had owned were parading around on someone else’s head. After all, there wasn’t much to do with the hats after the owner was dead — he couldn’t be buried in them. Pandelis had some new hats too, woven quickly out of cheap straw that would not withstand a querulous breeze, let alone a drop of rain, without bending out of shape. He sold them anyway, cheaply and without guilt, though he wouldn’t let Kivelli buy one, no matter how prettily it sat upon her head. He dug under the pile and pulled out a deep violet hat made of velvet, with a folded brim and red silk flower attached to a thick band. He punched in its centre, blew off some dust and presented it to Kivelli. She shook her head. Hats and shoes that belonged to other people — that could not be washed, scrubbed or soaked — carried too much of their previous owner’s life. But Pandelis insisted and placed it on her head, handing her a small mirror that barely reflected her eyes and nose, let alone the whole of her behatted head. Holding the mirror at arm’s length, Kivelli momentarily recognized someone she hadn’t encountered for quite a while.

  “Where did this hat come from,” she asked, taking it off and laying it on top of the pile on the cart. The hawker grabbed it and turned it over, pointing to the label inside.

  “I can’t read, but it looks to me like it came from some very fancy hat maker. I don’t know much, but I know my hats. Take it, Miss Kivelli. It was made for you. What do you care who wore it before? She can’t wear it anymore.”

  The label said Moutafi’s in elaborate, embroidered script. Smyrna in smaller letters underneath. Heat rushed into her cheeks and blood pounded in her ears. The hawker was pushing the hat towards her, but she didn’t want to touch it again. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadied herself and found her voice. “Yes, Pandelis, it’s a very fine hat, but I am not going to take it. Even if I wanted it, I can’t afford it. But I will take the straw one …”

  “Then we have a problem, Miss Kivelli, because I can’t permit myself to sell such a fine lady such a cheap hat. If money is the issue, I am willing to let it go for as little as you have to offer me for the pleasure of seeing you walk through the square in it.” He gave her the satisfied smile of someone who knew he had won. Kivelli began rummaging through the other hats on the cart until it was clear that if she wanted a hat, the violet one from Moutafi’s would have to do. Perhaps today was not a hat day after all, though everyone knew that if you approached Pandelis’s cart you did not leave bareheaded. So she offered him so little for it that he would have to refuse. He could make five times the money from someone like Marianthi. But Pandelis happily accepted her coins and placed the hat on her head again, adjusting it like a master milliner who had found the perfect model for his creation. “Don’t worry who died for you to get that hat, Miss Kivelli. Death is just part of life. From nothing, to nothing, but we all need a hat in between.” And with that he tipped his straw boater and dragged his cart through the square, resuming his cry: “Hats for the hatless. One is enough, but a hundred is better. New hats, old hats, ladies and gentlemen’s hats for the hatless. Come try my hats, trying costs nothing, buying next to nothing.” Kivelli laughed. Where Pandelis was concerned, trying and buying were the same transaction.

  She sat at Rovertakis’s café, laid the hat on the table and stared at it, troubled by the bright red flower. It might be best just to throw it away, she thought, bury it somewhere, or trade it with some farm girl in the market. Maybe Aspasia knew how to weave hats too — she had made the rug and those embroidered pillows. That girl had delicate hands, despite the size of them. A small part of her was tickled by it, however, even though it was far too fancy for her white dress, and all her other clothes for that matter. The contrast would make everything ugly. If she didn’t toss it into the sea, she might indeed give it to Marianthi as a replacement for the one with the pompoms she’d lost to Margarita. Her friend coveted such foofaraw with a gusto Kivelli no longer had. Now even the thought of collecting depressed her.

  She put it on and took it off again when the waiter came to take her order. He smiled and bowed and brought back the best cup of coffee in all of Piraeus. Its sweet thickness soothed her nerves, and if Kyra Xanthi had been there, Kivelli might have asked her to read the grounds, though perhaps it was better not to know the future and decide what was best when the time came. Tonight she would go to the Bella Vista, ready for anything life might throw her. She’d wear a white blouse and blue skirt with a pair of red shoes that were slightly too big despite the rags stuffed in the toes. And the violet hat for protection. At least it was something she could hide under, though she refused to put it on again, despite the fierceness of the midday sun beating down on her head.

  “Ridiculous, simply ridiculous,” declared an old woman’s voice, and even though the statement wasn’t directed at Kivelli, she had to agree. Was she going to be afraid of her past fore
ver? What was the past anyway? It was gone and would never return, like Smyrna, like Spiros, like Aspasia’s Baba. And there was nothing anyone could do about it but move on. The admonishing voice belonged to Kyra Xanthi, who was arguing with her cousin at his cobbler stand. Kivelli walked over to her, hat in hand.

  The grizzled Alekos blushed when he saw her, and Kyra Xanthi looked at him and laughed. “You see, Miss Kivelli, how you turn this old man into a five-year-old boy simply by appearing? If we could pour you into a bottle, we could sell you as an elixir of youth.” She was pleased to see the old fortune-teller, though the trouble their first meeting conjured came back to her in detail.

  “Too bad you didn’t walk through the square five minutes ago, Kyra Xanthi. I had an excellent cup of coffee and wished you would appear to read it. You’re a little late.”

  “You need to wish harder next time, my girl. And out loud maybe. Tell a bird to come get me. Put a ladybug in its mouth.”

  “That’s a beautiful hat, Miss Kivelli,” the cobbler ventured, blushing harder than a sunburn under his whiskers.

  “Thank you, Alekos. I just bought it from Pandelis.”

  “Yes, pretty, very pretty,” the fortune-teller added. “I have a pair of shoes that would be perfect with it. If they fit you, you can have them very cheap. And I’ll throw in a fortune for free, since your wish didn’t reach me on time.”