The Goodtime Girl

by Tess Fragoulis

  “Do you want me to come back and get you later, bring you back home?” There was a look of concern on his face, with nothing shifty lurking underneath. Kivelli squeezed his hand and thanked him, assured him she’d find her way back at the end of the night. “I’ll be in the square for a little while, having a drink and a bite to eat. Come find me if you change your mind, Miss Kivelli, if it doesn’t suit you in there.” He got into his car and drove off slowly, and she waved at him one last time as he disappeared around the corner.

  People jostled past her as she stood in front of the Bella Vista, gathering the courage to walk through the doors by herself with her head up, like it was something she had done a thousand times before. She studied the painted sign above the doors and the glassframed poster on the right side, the Smyrniot’s arrogant face glaring back at her. Except for a few faint, high-pitched notes when the doors were suddenly flung open by customers either coming or going, she heard no music from inside. It was the sounds of a laterna being cranked close by, mixed in with the laughter of passersby and with traffic and car horns, that impressed themselves onto the moment.

  Had she not been so nervous about walking in, past the welldressed men, the ladies of uncertain provenance, and into the Smyrniot’s territory, she might have felt more self-conscious about her clothing. It was so plain that groups of beggars and gypsies selling trinkets and bemoaning their plight passed her over for those who seemed more obviously well-off, though no one seemed to be giving them anything, despite the volume of their wails, the clamour of their tambourines. It was absolute madness to come all this way, invitation in hand, and not take the three short steps up to the doors. She didn’t have a dozen other options and engagements set up for herself in Piraeus. In fact, if something didn’t happen soon, she might find herself back at Kyria Effie’s doing more than just singing. Kivelli edged past the two musicians wrapped up in a whispered argument between puffs of their cigarettes, and a group of young men discussing where to go next, their colognes brash and combative as their voices.

  In the foyer her heels clicked against the red marble floor, their echo travelling up the wooden staircase and past portraits of famous singers and composers, some familiar to her, some unknown. She’d forgotten that Columbia’s offices were right above the club. Marianthi joked that if the Smyrniot moved his things from the house to the office, he would never have to go anywhere but up and down the three flights, from the musician’s union at the top, to the club a the bottom. It might indeed be a better place for him than the house, where he always looked uncomfortable. Kivelli ran her fingers along the dark polished wood of the walls. Someone had lived here once, and in this foyer guests had removed their hats and coats, and anxious suitors had waited. The smell of wood polish tickled her nostrils, as well as faint perfume from the flowers that sat in a large, golden vase on a table in the corner.

  This in-between room made her uneasy. Threads of music from inside escaped from under the door, and the indistinct sounds of the audience made her feel very lonely. There was something unsettling about a crowded room, a place she could disappear into but might not be able to escape. The fear of being trampled never left her, and she always felt suffocated by the press of bodies, the smells of sweat, alcohol and cologne. When the exterior doors opened again, a small draft made the overbearing chandelier tinkle prettily, and Kivelli began to move forward along with the people who had just walked in.

  A bald man wearing a bowtie and a red carnation in his lapel greeted her at the door. Kivelli thought he might be the owner, the Athenian version of Barba Yannis, though his smile was more condescending than friendly. “Are you alone, Miss, or are you expected?” His words rang like an accusation. Once upon a time, such a tone might have hurt her feelings. “The Smyrniot invited me. Is he here yet?” she answered blithely, and resisted showing him the note. He pointed towards the front of the long and packed room, at the elevated stage that took up its entire width. Among the lute players, accordions and zithers stood the Smyrniot, virtually unrecognizable. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed together in a grin that was almost sweet, and he was playing his violin with a sprightliness that erased his usual sullen demeanour. The piece was a lively instrumental, full of peaks and loops that expressed his spirit alone, divorced from Marianthi’s words. Kivelli could almost see how in a crazy moment her friend might have found him attractive, like an unusual insect you took a moment to admire before sweeping out the door. And she also saw clearly for the first time how damaging each was to the other.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be Kivelli Fotiathi,” the doorman asked in a tone only slightly less disdainful, though she was no longer paying attention to him. She was studying the room with its large round tables draped with blue tablecloths, glass vases of fresh flowers sitting in the centre. Dapper men and stylish women sat around them, laughing and talking above the music, clinking glasses and clapping to the songs while an army of waiters in black pants, vests and white collarless shirts carried immense trays overflowing with food from the kitchen. This room had nothing to hide and was well lit with dozens of white globe lights hanging like small perfect moons from the ceiling, illuminating the tables, the fine clothing of the customers, their happy faces. Piraeus seemed very far away, much farther than a taxi could take her. She would need a ship, or at least a limousine. And although a cloud of blue smoke hovered like a headache around the globe lights, she could not detect the slightest whiff of hashish.

  “Yes, I would happen to be Kivelli,” she responded absentmindedly, looking through the crowd to see if, by some chance, it contained anyone she knew.

  “The Smyrniot has reserved a seat for you, Miss Fotiathi.” He led her down the centre aisle towards the front and the stage. Three chairs to the right of the Smyrniot, where the singers should have been, sat empty. Her belly contracted. Were the regular singers on a break during this long instrumental number or was something else afoot?

  “Where are the singers?” she asked over the music. If the doorman detected the agitation in her voice, his reply did nothing to assuage it.

  “The singers aren’t here tonight.”

  Blood rushed to Kivelli’s temples, roiled between her eyes. The Smyrniot might have warned her if he wanted her to replace his singer — one more line in his note telling her to practise a few of his songs instead of throwing her into the middle of his sea to sink or swim. She took a few deep breaths in hopes of slowing her heartbeat, and she placed both hands beneath her navel to calm the cramp that was gathering strength as she approached the unknown stage. But as nervous and irritated as she felt, a part of her was tingling with anticipation, which increased with every step. This was the part that was disappointed when the doorman pointed at a table in the front, facing the row of singers’ chairs.

  The moment she was seated, a waiter rushed over with a carafe of red wine and three empty glasses, two of which he placed upside down on the table before pouring some wine into her glass. A second waiter brought a platter of mezzedes — olives, slices of salted cucumber, roasted peppers and various dips in pretty little mounds decorated with mint leaves. Kivelli could never eat when she was nervous or upset. Appetite left her immediately, came back grudgingly, sometimes days later.

  She picked up her glass of wine, sniffed it and hoped it was strong, then stared over its rim at the two empty glasses — one was no doubt for the Smyrniot, but who was his second guest? Was Marianthi going to turn up after all? This might make things easier, as long as she and her husband stayed on opposite ends of the room. But something told her that her friend was at home and had no idea where she was spending the evening. Otherwise Kivelli surely would have heard from her during the day, and they might have arranged to come together — Marianthi would have insisted. Her cheeks flushed and she suddenly felt devious, though she didn’t think she owed Marianthi any explanations. She wasn’t having an affair with the Smyrniot; she didn’t even like him. The club was overcrowded and she was nervous so far out of her element
and on her own, she decided. She placed a slice of cucumber on her tongue, held it there until its coolness was drained and the music came to an end. While everyone was clapping, she discreetly spat it into a white napkin, then joined in the applause. The moment the Smyrniot stopped playing, the pall of his cheerlessness returned and was cast upon her. In his quiet voice he told the audience that the orchestra would return after a short intermission, and he scurried off the stage as if it were the most unnatural place in the world for him to be.

  With no music to listen to, nothing to watch and no one to chat with, Kivelli felt self-conscious sitting by herself in the front row, where everyone could study her and pass judgment on who she’d become. The violet hat wasn’t doing much to hide her, quite the opposite; its ostentation called attention to her from all sides. The Smyrniot was nowhere to be seen. He had looked directly at her before he got off the stage, and Kivelli hated him all over again for leaving her alone, especially since it was his invitation that had brought her there. After emptying her glass, she asked a waiter to direct her to the powder room, where she’d ask the mirror what to do.

  When she entered a room much bigger than the one she lived in, she felt a strong urge to flee, to run out to the square and look for that cabby, who could ferry her back to her neighbourhood, her room and her life before they disappeared and she’d have to start all over again, somewhere else, from scratch. He was right; she was from Piraeus now. She wet her hands, pressed them to her feverish cheeks, then blew her reflection a kiss goodbye. But upon leaving the powder room, she was confronted by the Smyrniot, who was standing near the door. He didn’t smile when he saw her, but nodded slightly. Kivelli didn’t smile either; he always managed to sap it out of her.

  “There you are,” he said, looking past her as if he were addressing someone behind her and she was merely an impediment.

  “Yes, here I am,” she replied, “But why?” He was still looking beyond her, smiling now. Kivelli glanced over her shoulder. What she saw froze her heart for a few seconds, though she did her best to remain composed.

  “Go back to your table, Kivelli. I’ll be by to talk to you before I go on again.” But she couldn’t move. Trapped between the Smyrniot’s disregard and the quickly approaching man, she had no choice but to face him. She braced herself, then swung around to take him by surprise. But he too was looking through her and at the Smyrniot, who was holding out his hand.

  “Diamantis, my friend, I’m so happy you could make it. I’ve reserved a table for you near the singers.” The Smyrniot was positively animated. Kivelli thought all this enthusiasm might break something, like an old man who suddenly decided to walk without his cane. He introduced them quickly, and she couldn’t tell whether Diamantis recognized her. She doubted it, since the condition he was in the first time they met could be best described as smashed.

  “Is that little witch Adriana on tonight?” he asked in good spirits. “She’s gone to the devil.” One corner of the Smyrniot’s mouth crooked towards his chin.

  “Another devil, you mean.” Diamantis laughed and the Smyrniot laughed too, though it sounded like it choked him a little. The men walked towards the table, their arms resting on each other’s shoulders. Kivelli thought this might be a good moment to escape, until Diamantis looked back at her and tossed out his bait. “Are you joining us, Miss?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of wine before sitting down.

  “I was already sitting there,” she replied, sounding more offended than she’d intended. “You are joining me.” She took her seat again and pushed her glass towards him. He filled it up halfway, but when she didn’t pull it back immediately, he topped it up.

  “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, then,” he said, turning his chair to face the stage.

  “Be my guest,” she replied, and turned her chair as well. “Or the Smyrniot’s.” She lifted her glass in a half-hearted toast. He responded in kind, then emptied it like a man dying of thirst. They sat in silence, strangers on a train forced to share a compartment, coincidental passengers unwilling to engage in small talk, which suited her just fine.

  Their host had disappeared again, rounding up his musicians from the various corners and tables where they had scattered during the intermission. They were slowly taking their places on stage, plucking a few strings, tuning their instruments and talking in lowered voices so as not to be heard by the audience. Kivelli knew these discussions were of no importance; they were as likely to be about what they would eat, or where they would go after they were done for the night, as they were about what songs came in what order. The oud player pointed to her table, said something to Kosmas, and they both nodded. Maybe they recognized her after all. Or maybe they were just talking about her ridiculous hat. She took it off and placed it on an empty chair. The Smyrniot wasn’t likely to sit with them, not until the end of the set anyway, and by then she would be gone. The musicians were all on stage now, sitting quietly and waiting for their leader, who stopped by the table before taking his place at the helm.

  “Would you be interested in singing a song or two,” he asked Diamantis, pressing his hands together in supplication.

  “You should have forewarned me, Panayotis. You know I don’t like to appear without my bouzouki. She gets jealous and then plays tricks on me.”

  Another bouzouki player — that figured. Kivelli refrained from making a bored face, but was unable to stifle the yawn that took its place.

  “Please, Diamantis. Do it as a favour to me. My singers abandoned me tonight, and the people want to hear a song. Nikos the oud player brought his bouzouki. He said you could use it.”

  Diamantis looked towards Nikos and waved two fingers at him in acknowledgement and thanks. He then clasped the Smyrniot’s hands. “How can I refuse, my friend. You’ve done me enough favours already. But next time, give us a warning.”

  “Marvellous, Diamantis. And we’re squared up now.” He then turned to Kivelli, his tone somewhat less flattering. “And how about you — can you sing ‘The Goodtime Girl’?” The Smyrniot’s eyes demanded her compliance, and she was aware that she now had Diamantis’s full attention.

  “Why not,” she began, “but only if …”

  “Fine then. I’ll call you when it’s time. And don’t drink too much of that wine. I need you to remember all the words. This isn’t Barba Yannis’s.” And with that he bounded up the two steps to the stage, introduced himself and the orchestra, and underwent the transformation that changed him into someone she didn’t want to kill — not while he was playing, anyway.

  “You spent some time at Barba Yannis’s? Nice guy, but not too lucky. I hear he’s learning to play the baglama in jail.” He reached over and grabbed an olive from her selection of mezzedes, popped it into his mouth and spat the pit into his palm. Kivelli pushed the platter towards him, trying to decide whether a lie or the truth would be more efficient in ending the conversation.

  “I know the place.” She fixed her gaze on the stage, on the three empty seats. Where had to singers gone, she wondered, and why? If the Smyrniot treated them the way he treated her, she could well imagine that they’d walked out on him without looking back. It had probably happened last night, which would explain the sudden invitation. Diamantis’s too, she guessed. In this the Smyrniot was no different than Barba Yannis.

  “Don’t remember seeing you there.” He spat another olive pit into his hand, then dropped both into the ashtray where they lay like the plucked, sightless eyes of a small, dead animal. He filled his glass again and studied her as if she were a species he was encountering for the first time, his eyes grazing her skin like hands with uncut nails. “But you do look a little familiar. Do you live in Piraeus?”

  There were a hundred responses at the tip of her tongue, none of them polite. Kivelli didn’t know which was the bigger insult. That the Smyrniot had insinuated she might forget a lyric in front of this infuriating bouzouki player, or that Diamantis did not recognize her at all.

  “We’ve met before,
Mr. Skarlatos. At the square in Drapetsona. I was with the Smyrniot’s wife, and you were communing with the gods of hashish, which is why I suppose you don’t remember me from Barba Yannis’s. You’ll forgive me if I don’t remember ever seeing you there either. You’ve seen one bouzouki player, you’ve seen them all.”

  “I could say the same about women singers.”

  “Not if you’d actually heard me sing.” She crossed her arms over her chest to stop herself from throwing something at him — the knife, the fork, the empty carafe of wine. But another part of her was on the verge of tears. The men at Barba Yannis’s loved her; here, she was nobody. “Please don’t talk to me anymore. You’re upsetting me,” she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat like slivers of glass, and all that came out was an exasperated gasp. She turned her face towards the stage again. If Diamantis had anything else to say or laugh at, he could do it by himself, like the madmen in the square whom everyone pitied but avoided. When she peeked at him out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he too was watching the orchestra, listening intently and keeping rhythm with his fingers on his thigh.

  The Smyrniot’s introduction was kinder, more complimentary, than she’d expected. Until he actually said her name and called her a compatriotissa, she hadn’t been certain he was talking about her. As Kivelli left her seat, she made sure not to cast a glance or bat an eyelash in Diamantis’s direction. He was the stranger in the compartment again, and she had thankfully reached her stop. There was no need to say goodbye. It was time to forget everyone and everything except for the music, to reach deep down into herself and retrieve her voice and Marianthi’s words, with which she was determined to slay everyone. Diamantis especially, but also the Smyrniot. Whoever else got wounded in the crossfire was not her concern. They were ghosts from a time and place that no longer existed, no matter how hard they tried to recreate it. What of Smyrna could survive here, where there was nothing but misery and pettiness? There could be no Smyrneans without Smyrna, plain and simple. They were all Misereans now. Since her arrival in Piraeus, she had tried as much as possible to avoid her compatriots because she found no comfort in comparing tribulations or wallowing in her losses. The Bella Vista was not her future but some corrupted version of her past. Tomorrow she would take the train to Thessaloniki.