The Goodtime Girl

by Tess Fragoulis

  “You know how we women are, my son. Laughter is always just one step away from tears and neither is to be taken too seriously.” She smiled at him pleasantly and got up, offering him her seat.

  “Is something wrong, Kivelli?” he asked casually, as if there were nothing unusual about her presence in his mother’s parlour. Kyria Eugenia busied herself picking up the glasses and plates. She took Kivelli’s away before she’d finished, depriving her of another mouthful of apricot, which would have at least given her time to choose her words.

  “I’ll be fine. A little melancholy seized me when I wasn’t looking, that’s all.” He nodded, but she wondered what he’d understood. “Can you meet me at the square, Diamantis?” she asked after Kyria Eugenia finally left the room, tossing one last scornful look her way. “Of course,” he replied, as if they’d arranged the rendezvous a week ago and he was simply confirming it. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed violently. Diamantis did not react. Nor did he permit Kivelli to kiss him in his mother’s parlour before he showed her out, even though Pavlos, watching with amusement from his corner shrine, would have certainly approved.

  36

  Grey clouds hung over the square, threatening and irascible. As Kivelli waited for Diamantis, several old customers from her days at Barba Yannis’s stopped by to greet her. Though she longed for company to pass the interminable time, she didn’t invite any of them to sit down. She wanted no more awkwardness or small talk when and if Diamantis showed up. He’d never given her reason to doubt his word, but this state of affairs didn’t feel like anything that had passed between them before. She thought of all the lovely nights they’d spent together, and the fights they’d had over nothing because one or the other was in bad spirits — it had always been easy to change a mind, a mood then. In the last three days, something had shifted, inexplicably but definitively, and Kivelli was ready to accept the blame. If only she’d been warmer or cooler, more open or less. For a moment she wasn’t sure whether this had to do with Diamantis or Marianthi.

  It felt as if she’d been waiting for hours when he finally appeared, freshly showered and shaven, smelling like fine tobacco. He sat across her, his fingernails drumming against the table. He had his mother’s hands, she noticed, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to take the rough fingertips into her mouth again. Diamantis leaned back in his chair and began to play with his behleri, counting the ivory beads, sliding them back and forth along their golden string. It had been a gift from her after their first recording, and the fact that he’d brought it along gave her hope, though she knew that other than his bouzouki objects held no meaning for him. “What’s this all about, Kivelli?” he finally said. “My mother seems to think you want to marry me.” He gave a sharp laugh that expressed both disbelief and refusal.

  She had no reply for that laugh. Nor was she sure where to begin, how much to reveal, or what she really wanted to say to him, the competing thoughts tying her tongue. Diamantis ordered a coffee and a narghile, then turned his gaze skywards, searching for something to occupy him other than Kivelli’s anxious stare. “Don’t look at me like that,” he warned in a tone that was uncharacteristically aggressive. “Are you going to spill it or not?”

  “Three days ago …” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Listen, I told you that I had some things to do with the boys, and they took on a life of their own, so don’t be complaining like a wife. Maybe Mama wasn’t far off, though I never expected it of you.” He spat on the ground by his chair. He’d never been so crude, so quickly annoyed, and she wondered how else his mother had maligned her after she’d left. “I know you were asking around for me, and then I find you in my mother’s parlour …” This was clearly an accusation, and she did not defend herself. In his position she might have said the same things. “You shouldn’t have gone there, Kivelli. You know how things are, but you insist on making trouble for both of us anyway.” A sigh hissed through his teeth. Whatever good humour he’d shown in front of his mother had evaporated on his walk to the square. Kivelli hardly recognized the man sitting across her with the icy glare, which assessed her and declared her his enemy.

  “I apologize for disturbing your mother, and I don’t need to know where you’ve been the past three days, Diamantis. I have other things on my mind.” He relaxed a little, especially after the waiter brought him the narghile. Kivelli wished she had one too, though the Smyrniot forbade smoking, which only made her defiant. She grabbed the mouthpiece from Diamantis’s hand and sucked in a mouthful of smoke, which she kept in her lungs until she was ready to speak. Each word that emerged was laced with the flavour of burnt apple. “The first time we met …” she began, but he cut her off.

  “It was here and I was stoned,” he said, stifling a yawn, unwilling to humour her as she retold what until three days ago had been one of his favourite stories. When Marianthi’s tale about the first time she’d stepped into Barba Yannis’s had ceased to move and amuse her, Kivelli knew they were approaching an unhappy end.

  “Yes it was, and you were,” she confirmed and tried a different point of entry. “If you were to have another lover, who would it be?” She flicked her fingers under the table, counting the seconds until he answered.

  His grin implied he already had one, and that this was the explanation for his scarcity the past three days. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” Kivelli’s cheeks lit up with embarrassment and she looked away. He was right, she didn’t want the answer, but there was no choice now that her hasty words had been uttered. She braced herself and looked him in the eye. Diamantis was still smiling at her. “What exactly are you after? Whether I’ve been unfaithful?”

  Kivelli shook her head, but there was a knot tightening in her stomach, and she could feel the colour leaving her cheeks, and with it her courage. “Something’s happened, Diamantis — has been happening — that affects us both,” she blurted. His smile disappeared and his face turned to stone again.

  “I know an old lady in Kokkinia who can take care of it,” he offered. Kivelli shook her head again and waved her hand to erase all that had been said so far.

  “It’s about Marianthi — you know, the Smyrniot’s wife? We’ve broken up.”

  “I didn’t know you were married,” he quipped, looking instantly relieved and uninterested.

  “Because of you,” she whispered, and now she had his full attention. What man didn’t like to be fought over? Diamantis was no exception.

  “What do I have to do with your little cat fights?” he asked in a tone that betrayed more amusement than boredom.

  “She loves you.” The statement was blunt, simple, but cut through her like Crazy Manos’s double-edged blade. Diamantis, on the other hand, didn’t react, so Kivelli slapped the tabletop and repeated it, loudly enough to be heard across the square. “She loves you, she’s in love with you, you fool.” He still seemed rather unmoved by this statement, not even flattered, while Kivelli’s whole being quaked with the realization that she was once again Marianthi’s messenger. Was this how she’d planned it from the start? She was certainly smart enough, a genius of secrets and sleight of hand. Kivelli had never told Diamantis she loved him, and now she wasn’t even sure it was true or if something else had driven her. He’d never said he loved her either; it was not his style. Men like Diamantis didn’t like to talk about matters of the heart. If they had something to say, they wrote a song. As far as Kivelli knew, there hadn’t been one written about her yet, and whenever she opened her mouth to sing, it was Marianthi’s intentions that came out.

  “I could never look at the wife of the Smyrniot in that way,” he stated, as if concluding a series of thoughts and calculations he had not shared with her. “That man hears the voices of the gods in his head. I owe him a lot. We both do.” This was not the answer she was hoping for. Part of her wanted him to laugh derisively and say he found Marianthi unattractive — too plain and prim for his taste. Or that she wore too much perfume and slouched
a little when she walked. Then Kivelli might have felt compelled to defend her from these charges like a true friend would. But Diamantis said no such thing, admitted nothing that later could not be denied, and she couldn’t bring herself to utter another word for fear of giving away what both she and the Smyrniot owed his wife. Diamantis might certainly look at Marianthi differently then.

  “Are we done now? Are you satisfied? Go patch things up with your compatriotissa, and I’ll make sure to be extra nice to her next time she comes to Argiropoulos’s.” That Marianthi might go to Argiropoulos’s on her own had never occurred to Kivelli, but since Diamantis said it, it must have happened, and more than once. She thought again of her letter and the last song and the star-shaped earring left behind on the stage. “The two of you are just like little lovebirds. You should hear the song one of the boys made up about it. But don’t you worry, my doll, it’s not the kind anyone would dare sing in public.” He smiled and caressed her chin and ears as if she were a cat. “Though I can sing it for you if you want.” She thought of Narella and Crazy Manos, and hoped the song wasn’t in the Smyrniot’s pocket.

  “Not now, Diamantis. Not here.” Kivelli slid her chair closer to his and allowed her hand to find his lap, to caress him under the table. She needed him to stop talking, to stop picturing Marianthi in bed, be it hers or his, and she certainly didn’t want to hear the dirty song. Her efforts did nothing to stop the flow of his words.

  “You have nothing to worry about from other men’s wives. I have no use for married women, but they all fall for me. They come to Argiropoulos’s and have a few glasses of wine … You should see the letters they drop off at my mother’s house, claiming they’re from their husbands. Mama can’t read, but she can always tell what they are from their perfume. And what man would send a message in a pink or blue envelope?” He clasped Kivelli’s hand, forcing her to stop stroking him. “If I ever received one from the Smyrniot’s little woman, it’s completely slipped my mind.” She accepted his assurances, though she remembered Marianthi’s story about his married mistress, the dead Tatiana. Kivelli didn’t bring her up. Why spoil the mood with talk of yet another woman who, in some way, was still her rival?

  The rest of their afternoon in the square was light and pleasant, though the tension inside her refused to abate and made her watch every word, every gesture for fear that Diamantis might take something the wrong way. They discussed their trip to Egypt, which was now only a few days away, close enough to feel real. And although the Smyrniot came up several times in the conversation, neither mentioned Marianthi again, except by omission. “No wives allowed,” he informed her, “but a few of the guys are bringing their mistresses. I don’t know how they keep it up, trying to please two women at the same time. That’s why I’ll never marry — so no one will expect anything of me or be disappointed. But let Mama keep looking. It gives her something to live for.”

  They said many other things to each other, some of them sweet, others teasing and coy, none of them too serious. Anyone overhearing their conversation would have never guessed that a few hours earlier everything had been on the verge of ruin. Diamantis even forgave her for going to his mother’s house, and once forgiven Kivelli swore she would never go there again. For his part, he promised to come to the Bella Vista that night and to do whatever she desired afterwards. There was no question what that would be: they would go back to the Hotel Xenos, make love until neither could move, and she’d try to keep him there as long as possible, preferably for the rest of her life. She didn’t tell him the last part; she could barely admit it to herself. But after he returned to his mother’s house to eat, and she to her hotel room, all that remained of their conversation was Diamantis’s dismissive laughter and the words I’ll never marry. The compliments, the prospect of ten days together in Egypt, the small promises that would be fulfilled in the next day or two were all but forgotten.

  The sky over Athens finally opened up and rain fell steadily for hours, sending dogs and cats and boys and men scrambling for shelter. Kivelli closed her window and hid under the covers from the lightning and violent thunder. After the storm subsided, she sent the Smyrniot a message that said her throat was sore and she would not be coming to the Bella Vista.

  37

  Kivelli’s “illness” lasted for three days and three nights. When she was hungry at all, she took her meals in her room and informed Giorgos, the front desk clerk, that she was not to be disturbed by anyone. “Pretend I’m not even here, except when you bring me lunch.” Though Margarita and Aspasia never took her requests for solitude seriously, Giorgos did his best, which wasn’t that difficult since no one but the Smyrniot — on his way to the fourth floor studio — came looking for her. He knocked on her door emphatically, calling her the worst names he could think of. He rattled the knob and threatened to sack her if she didn’t open up “Right now!”

  When she heard him stomping down the hall and up the stairs, she got out of bed, sat by the dresser and tried to answer Marianthi’s letter, not in her head, as she’d been doing since she’d received it, but on paper. In Smyrna she’d taken great pleasure in writing out her most intimate thoughts, sealing them in an envelope, and walking to the post office on rue Franque to send them off. Now she struggled with her words, crossing them out and beginning on a new sheet of paper several times until she gave up in frustration. Not only was she unable to open her heart, to tell Marianthi that she loved and missed her and was sorry things had gotten so difficult between them, she had no idea where she might send such a declaration. She couldn’t just put her name on an envelope with New York written underneath and hope it would find her, like she’d done the first time she’d written to her cousin Amalia. Papa laughed when he saw the address and filled in the details himself, but she still wasn’t convinced. How could there have been more than one Amalia awaiting her letter in Constantinople? There was certainly only one Marianthi in New York as far as she was concerned — she just didn’t know where.

  It had been so long since Kivelli had thought about Amalia that her cousin had become as intangible as all her dreams and memories. How had she fared after those terrible days that destroyed everything they’d known? If she’d survived, she was surely married to a man her father had chosen and was raising a brood of wellbehaved, pretty children. She was the good girl and Kivelli was the adventuress, at least those were the roles they’d agreed upon. But Amalia not only enjoyed hearing about her cousin’s escapades, she encouraged them. In this she was not so different from Marianthi.

  If she wrote to Amalia now, how could she explain what she’d witnessed and who she’d become? Her cousin would never believe it, nor was she sure she’d have the heart to repeat it, even if there were words poignant and clear enough to do it justice. She might be tempted to turn it into a romance or a comedy with a happy ending, since a sheltered girl like Amalia would never understand the indignities of the Attikon Theatre, Kyria Effie’s and Barba Yannis’s, let alone the horrors of Smyrna’s final hours. When the fires finally died out because there was nothing left to consume, she’d probably braided black ribbons into her hair, lit a candle and burned all Kivelli’s letters, fulfilling a pact made in a fit of youthful melancholy and self-importance. Though her cousin’s address was still branded in her memory, receiving a letter from the dead would be enough to turn Amalia’s pretty brown hair white as marble. And Kivelli somehow doubted that she and her family had stayed in the City, accepting the changes, living in constant fear of expulsion, of retaliation.

  Perhaps Amalia had also gone to America, to New York, and was living in the same neighbourhood as Marianthi. Kivelli knew immigrants liked to create their own cities within cities, preserving their customs, speaking their own language — just like her compatriots who frequented the Bella Vista. Sooner or later they would meet in a dress shop or bakery that sold trays of rose pastries, and Marianthi would say, “Ah, you’re from Anatolia? I was from Aivali, but lived in Piraeus when all the troubles began.” And Ama
lia would respond, “I’m from the City, but had a cousin in Smyrna. Her name was Kivelli Fotiathi, and we used to write letters all the time, but she disappeared and I assume she perished in the fires.” “I knew a Kivelli Fotiathi in Piraeus,” Marianthi would exclaim, her hands and lips trembling, her eyes filling with tears. Two and two would be put together, and the women would laugh when the link was finally made: Amalia thrilled that her cousin had survived, Marianthi overjoyed to find a key to her friend’s past, to have her curiosities and suspicions finally satisfied. But as they continued to exchange stories, details and personal anecdotes, they would conclude they were not talking about the same person after all. This would disappoint them, but they would continue to be friendly, preserving their separate memories of Kivelli intact, and eventually replacing them with each other’s company and confidences.

  What surprised her most about this improbable scenario was how jealous she felt that her two greatest friends might give each other all the things she most cherished about them: their loyalty, their attention, their absolute devotion — things that were scarce in Piraeus and Athens. She tore up the pages of her letter to Marianthi with its crossed out words and half-finished sentences and began again, this time addressing Amalia, but with no greater success.

  By the second day the Smyrniot was threatening to get the key from the front desk “because I’m paying for that room.” Kivelli was quite confident that Giorgos would never permit such an intrusion, no matter how splenetic the Smyrniot became or how many guests he woke up with his shouting. There was a tinge of Spiros in his threats and curses, that mélange of desperation and entitlement. But what was he desperate about? There were half a dozen girls hanging around the Bella Vista every night now, eager to replace her. They came by themselves or in groups, young women who’d strayed far from home, claiming her records had inspired them to take the stage and sing. Might they come to her dressing room to look at her dresses? Could she talk to the Smyrniot for them? Did she have any advice? Kivelli was always friendly to these young women, so much like her in some ways, yet entirely different. They’d made a choice, no matter how wrong-headed. This was not the life she would have chosen for herself, she said. It found her and saved her, but that was not always the way. Fantasies were rarely fulfilled, and if they were, they lost their lustre. The only advice she could give them was to go home if they still had one. But these were tough girls, not easily dissuaded. If one of them was in the right place at the right time, the Smyrniot would surely take advantage of her eagerness. Kivelli suspected it would be Eva, the little blonde with the big brown eyes who flirted and fawned over him at the end of every night. With Marianthi out of the way, there was no reason for them not to exchange favours.