The Goodtime Girl

by Tess Fragoulis

  “Are you having a nice time?” she asked, trying to sound casual. She looked through her purse for nothing in particular, hoping to find something that might make the next few moments easier. A sliver of Bursa Black, perhaps, though Marianthi was already high enough.

  “It’s an absolutely marvellous night. The wine has made me all tingly, and you sang so beautifully, Kivelli. Even better than at Barba Yannis’s or Kyria Effie’s. Diamantis thought so too, especially when you sang my songs. We were both very, very moved. If only he knew …”

  Kivelli put her purse on the floor, folded her hands in her lap and tried to sit as still as possible. She hated to fidget; it made her even more nervous. Marianthi’s bracelet was choking her arm, cutting off the circulation in her fingertips. “You seemed a bit … distracted. I wasn’t sure you were listening.”

  “Oh, I was distracted. Who wouldn’t be with a beauty like Diamantis so close? It’s like sitting next to a volcano that’s about to explode, but you can’t convince yourself to run because the view and the heat are so spectacular. But I heard every word you sang, and I sang along with you on the inside.” Marianthi placed her hands over her heart and walked over to her friend. “You’re not feeling neglected, my dear.” She began caressing Kivelli’s hair and face. “You know I love you the best, but when Diamantis is around, I’m completely helpless. I don’t know what comes over me. You must think I’m ridiculous.” She laughed like a schoolgirl, and Kivelli felt a cramp in her chest again — not from jealousy this time, but from remorse. She took Marianthi’s hands, and with her heart beating in her throat, asked her to sit down.

  “You sound very serious all of a sudden, Kivelli,” she said, taking the seat across her. “Is there anything wrong? Are you not enjoying yourself? It’s going wonderfully, don’t worry. I even saw the Smyrniot smile at you, though he’d never admit it. It has nothing to do with you, you know. He treats you like that to spite me…”

  “Marianthi,” she began, her voice lowered as if she were talking to herself or praying. “I have something to confess. Something I should have told you earlier, and now I fear you’ll be upset with me.” Tears gurgled in her throat, and a few spilled onto her cheeks. Marianthi quickly wiped them away with her handkerchief and looked at Kivelli with sympathy and concern.

  “Upset with you? There is nothing you could do, my light, that I would not forgive you for the next minute. I love you better than my own sister. It would hurt me too much to stay angry with you. I don’t think I could bear it.” She kissed her cheek and held her hands tightly. The floor seemed to be rumbling and shifting beneath their chairs.

  “There is something going on between Diamantis and me.” Had she said this out loud or just thought it? She hadn’t intended to blurt it out like that, but she couldn’t hold back any longer. And there were no prettier words that might have softened the blow.

  Marianthi’s grip immediately loosened — she didn’t let go, just ceased holding on. Deep creases lined her forehead and all the colour drained from her cheeks. She stared at Kivelli, unblinking. “Between you and Diamantis?” she repeated slowly and nodded, as if the words and their implication were just sinking in. She then extracted her hands and went back to the mirror, fussing with her hair again, applying more rouge, more colour to her lips. “Of course there is. It’s exactly what I’d hoped for — you and Diamantis.” Her voice was too steady to be telling the truth. “I’m a married woman, after all. Since it can’t be me, it might as well be you.” She walked towards the door, refusing to look back.

  “I was going to tell you, Marianthi. In a better way than this. But then you showed up with him in a taxi. I’m sorry.” She stood up and caught a glance of herself in the mirror. She wished she looked as upset as she felt, but hiding her sadness was a habit that was hard to break. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated.

  Marianthi turned around, a stiff glee frozen onto her face. “There’s nothing to apologize for. I’m just a little embarrassed. Serves me right for introducing you in the square that day. I’ll see you out there.” She blew a limp kiss and left. Kivelli did not follow her. She needed a few minutes of silence before entering the fray again. Would Marianthi still be in the audience during the second set? Maybe she’d sit with the cabby, who’d settled for a table in the back, close to the exit. He might even offer to drive her home. They could talk about it tomorrow. Kivelli would definitely pay her a visit tomorrow.

  When she took the stage again, Kivelli saw that Marianthi was still sitting with Diamantis, though she’d moved her chair to the other side of the table, as far from him as possible in such tight quarters. But now he was the one who seemed intent on holding her attention, leaning over the table so he could be heard over the music, waving his hands around as if he were telling her the story of the fork stabbing. At least that’s what it looked like from her perch.

  After the last song was sung and applauded, after bows were taken, plates passed and offered drinks drunk, Kivelli made her way back to their table to see where things stood. Marianthi immediately sprang out of her seat, announcing she’d be riding home with her husband. She thanked them for the lovely evening and said she hoped to see them both again soon.

  “Shall we share a ride back to Piraeus together, Miss Kivelli?” Diamantis gallantly proposed, still playing the coincidental and convenient acquaintance.

  “Why don’t you?” Marianthi replied before Kivelli had a chance to speak. “The two of you have so much in common. Take good care of my girl, Diamantis, or you’ll have me to answer to.” She leaned over and kissed Kivelli and then Diamantis on the cheek before sauntering off with as much dignity as she could muster, towards her scowling husband who was standing by the door looking nervous, as if he expected an ambush.

  Kivelli and Diamantis rode back to Piraeus without speaking, their hands resting on each other’s thighs, each lost in private thoughts. If he suspected a shift in her mood, he did not mention it, and she did not question his silence or the slight heaviness in the air between them. They didn’t make love that night, and Kivelli slept in fits, waking every hour, distraught, and almost wishing she was alone.

  29

  It was several days before Kivelli made the trip to Castella. This delay was in part a result of her being otherwise occupied with Diamantis, though she was also hoping that Marianthi would take it upon herself to seek her out and forgive her. She didn’t feel guilty about her new relationship, but she could not deny that her happiness was causing her friend pain. It was Marianthi’s own fault, of course, and Kivelli could easily blame her for pointing him out in the first place. “There’s your man,” she’d announced and pulled her towards him against her will. That afternoon in the square, it was clear Marianthi wanted Diamantis, but also that she could never have him. How foolish to think she could orchestrate their affair, live through it in the same way she put words in Kivelli’s mouth. But it was not her intention to make Marianthi feel worse by accusing her of being the mistress of her own suffering. What she wanted to tell her was that she loved her.

  When Kivelli knocked, she saw the white lace curtains ripple, but no one came to the door to let her in. After a few moments she tried again, and when there was still no answer, she reached for the door knob. It was cold to the touch and sent a shiver up her arm and into her heart. How many times had Marianthi walked in on her unannounced before they could even be properly considered friends? Under different circumstances Kivelli would not have taken such liberties, but she could not bear to let another day go by in this silence, which was louder than any curse or admonishment Marianthi might have thrown her way. The door was unlocked, so she stepped inside, shut it quietly behind her. The house was still and dark, every room closed off. She heard the faint shuffle of footsteps at the end of the hallway, so she took off her shoes and walked towards the kitchen. Marianthi’s servant, Leanna, had her arms plunged up to the elbows in a wash basin filled with steaming water. The girl, another refugee, survived by scrubbing people’s underc
lothes and floors. Her birdlike face was as red from the steam as her hands were from the hot water, and her caramel coloured hair hung limply over her forehead. She gave a little yelp when she saw Kivelli.

  “Where’s your mistress, Leanna?” she asked, but the girl wouldn’t answer or look at her, focusing all her attention on a stubborn stain beneath the suds. “Answer me, Leanna, or I’ll tell her you let me in.”

  She glanced at Kivelli and scrubbed even more vigourously. She had obviously been told to keep her out, but had forgotten to lock the door behind her when she came to work. “Kyria Marianthi doesn’t want to see anyone today. She’s not feeling too well.” She pulled one of Marianthi’s nightgowns from the washbasin — long and white, with lace around the hem and collar. It was almost completely transparent when wet, though still prim and wifely. Did she actually sleep in such a thing? It had probably been part of her dowry. Or someone else’s. Leanna transferred the gown to a second tub filled with clear water and began dunking it as if she were baptizing it. She began to sing an old Smyrnean song about a naughty girl who breaks all her mother’s dishes.

  “She’s in her bedroom, then?” The girl’s head bobbed, more to the rhythm of her singing and dunking than in answer to the question. Kivelli was beginning to lose patience with this false drama that the lady of the house was undoubtedly directing from the other room. “Don’t bother, I’ll find her myself,” she said, raising her voice so she was sure to be heard, and so Marianthi could choose her next actions accordingly: slip under the covers and pretend to be sound asleep, hide in her armoire or behind her curtains. Kivelli had never been inside her bedroom; she was not even sure which of the closed doors led to it. She left the girl in the kitchen, wringing out the nightgown as if she were strangling a particularly tough chicken.

  One by one, she opened doors, a little wary about what she might find. The first room was the Smyrniot’s study, which contained a few instruments, some of his clothes draped over a chair, and a narrow divan where he spent his nights when he bothered to come home at all. Next to it was the dining room, empty and dusty, as if no one had been in it since the first time she’d visited and sang while the Smyrniot judged and Marianthi cried. The sitting room, with its plush, blue sofa, looked equally abandoned. What a shame, Kivelli thought, to have such a house and not know how to occupy it properly.

  She found Marianthi behind the last door, lying in the centre of a very large bed, on top of a bedspread made of white needlework. Her arms were crossed over her chest as if she were the guest of honour at a wake, and she was wearing her white and red flowered dress. She looked too stiff and uncomfortable to be asleep. Kivelli watched her from the doorway, waiting for an eyelid to twitch, an eyelash to flutter. Marianthi took a deep breath, but did not move or look at her or speak.

  “If I’d known, I would have brought some candles, a priest, and Pandelis the hat seller.” Kivelli went to the window and unlatched the wooden shutters, flooding the room with afternoon light. It was a pretty room, if somewhat devoid of character. It didn’t suit Marianthi, who had inherited it from some family whose character it had once expressed before they lost even that. She pulled the chair out from the vanity and sat next to the bed. “I was wondering why I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you all week. Even Kyra Xanthi came asking after you at my place. Her cups and cards didn’t provide an answer, and it’s much too far for her to walk all the way here, so I promised to come see what became of you. She counts on your visits to put beans in her pot, you know.”Marianthi’s lips parted, let out a breath, then sealed shut again. She placed a hand over her eyes and sighed though her nose.

  “If you’re never going to speak to me again, Marianthi, you should at least tell me so I can go throw my words down an empty well and have my echo for company.”

  Marianthi moved her hand over her mouth and yawned deeply, then opened her eyes and looked directly at Kivelli.

  “Did Leanna let you in? I told her not to.”

  “Then you should have locked the door yourself. But most suicides count on being found in time. So I’m here to save you.” She forced a smile, but her friend did not return it. When Marianthi propped a pillow against the elaborately carved headboard, Kivelli noticed the bas-relief of the garden of Eden, complete with an immense apple tree and a snake.

  “I’m no suicide, Miss Kivelli. You are a murderess,” she stated matter-of-factly, if somewhat dramatically. “Why couldn’t you just tell me about Diamantis before I made such a fool of myself? I could die of embarrassment.” She blushed as if to make the point.

  “Embarrassment or jealousy, my friend?” Kivelli reached for her hand, but Marianthi pulled it away, smoothing out her skirt and the bedspread around her.

  “Maybe both, but right now I’m so embarrassed that I haven’t had time to measure my jealousy. You could have just told me, in your room, in the taxi, in the dressing room before you got on stage, and probably a hundred other times. Then I would’ve had the luxury of feeling jealous, and I might have even enjoyed it a little. But now I just feel betrayed.” She looked away and reached into the night table for a handkerchief.

  “Betrayed by me or by him?” Kivelli asked gently.

  “He’s not my sister. And he can’t be blamed. Of course he’d fall for you — what man wouldn’t?” Marianthi dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “When you never mentioned him after that first meeting, I thought you’d forgotten him, disposed of him like all the other men who’ve crossed your path. But now I see there was something else going on all along, behind my back. How the two of you must have laughed at me.”

  “It’s not like that at all, Marianthi. I had forgotten, and I never saw him again until last week. At the Bella Vista. You might as well blame your husband for our meeting.” Kivelli could have told her that Diamantis hadn’t remembered her at all, which would have certainly pleased her sulking friend, but her pride wouldn’t permit it. “I wasn’t keeping it from you. I told you as soon as possible, under the circumstances. You’re my sister and I love you. I owe you so much …”

  Marianthi was silent for a moment, then locked her eyes onto Kivelli’s. “Even him?”

  “Even him,” she lied, and took her friend’s hand.

  MARIANTHI WANTED TO KNOW EVERYTHING: how it felt to sleep in Diamantis’s arms, the texture of his lips on Kivelli’s neck, the bouquet of his breath in the morning. When a detail or two was provided, she got flustered, though she pretended it was excitement that made her cheeks red, her mouth so tight. If Kivelli refused to discuss her nights with him, she became testy. “It would only embarrass you,” became the standard reply, after which she would try to change the subject. This, however, did not stop Marianthi’s questioning, her masochistic need for details.

  In return Marianthi taunted Kivelli with stories about other women Diamantis had been involved with — how they met and, more importantly, how it had ended in tears or worse. Her favourite tale featured a singer named Tatiana, a married woman who was shot by her husband when he found out about the affair. The husband was, in turn, shot by another of Tatiana’s admirers, and it took a long time for it to come out that Diamantis had anything to do with her death. No one would have put it together had he not written a song about it, expressing less regret about her demise than resentment at having been a slave to her whims. “Liar, you got what you deserved” was the song’s overwhelming sentiment. Kivelli pointed out that this did not bode well for Marianthi’s aspirations, whereas Marianthi was certain that it had implications for Kivelli.

  Soon tired of the snippy interrogations, Kivelli declared she would have to be allowed her privacy, and that Marianthi needed to accept how things had turned out. “I am Diamantis’s lover and you are married to the Smyrniot, for better or for worse.” If she could have given up Diamantis for her friend, she would have, but she couldn’t. She was addicted, and he was a sweeter addiction than hashish or wine or honey candy. Perhaps it would have been easier had Kivelli met him on her own, introduced him to Mar
ianthi as if he were her discovery. How could she feel betrayed then? But it might have been worse. At least this way it was as if Marianthi had given her the type of gift she longed to receive, beautifully wrapped and sealed with a kiss. It hurt her to part with it, but she was also very proud of her taste, of the appropriateness of her selection. Her magnanimity took a bit of the sting out of her jealousy, and she might have even convinced herself that by giving Diamantis to Kivelli she could borrow him occasionally, like a sweater or a crystal bowl for a party. That’s what her questions were: her attempts to use him, just for a while, with her friend’s consent. But Kivelli couldn’t spare him, not even for a minute. She was too busy using him. Even when they were not together, she was still using him. Even when she was asleep, he was being used. When she tired of him, whoever wanted him could have him — Marianthi, Narella, Kiki, whoever. But Kivelli warned that it might take a very long while; until then, the subject was closed.

  Diamantis quickly became a deep hole in their relationship, which the women were forced to tiptoe around because falling in would be fatal. Every interaction was now fraught with tension, which made the hole wider, driving them farther apart. They continued to see each other regularly, as if nothing were amiss, hoping perhaps that things would smooth themselves out. If the Smyrniot was there, so much the better. He covered the hole with a sheet of glass that temporarily bridged it but did not conceal it. Not so long ago, they would arrange to meet only when they were sure he would not be home so they wouldn’t have to censor themselves. Now they were freer when he sat between them. They spoke exclusively about her work at the Bella Vista, but it felt like real communication compared to the monosyllabic exchanges they had when they were alone that added up to nothing but discomfort and mistrust.